Gifts

“You’re going to turn me into a vegetarian,” says Yvette, the security guard who works at the front desk of the medical school building, when I first come through the door in the morning. She tells me about the sautéed kale and broccoli she made for her family last night, both of which I picked and gave to her the day before.

Derek, who works in the medical school’s library, holds out his hand to high five me as I walk past on my way to the garden. He tells me how he added the fresh garlic I brought him to his salad dressing last night, and it made all the difference (after harvesting sixty heads of garlic this week, there’s plenty to go around).

The best parts of my days in the garden are always when I can give gifts that we’ve grown to the people around me. I drop off boxes of food to the staff working in med school café and hand out fresh basil and mint to the people walking past on Venango Street. But perhaps the best place to bring food from the garden is the Zion Baptist Church across the street.

The Zion Baptist Church is an unassuming, grey brick building. From its faded anterior you can see the outlines of blue stained glass and the dome shape of the sanctuary. I’ve walked past this church for months, barely noticing it. What you can’t tell from the outside is that the church is a historic landmark, over a hundred years old with ties to Jessie Jackson and Nelson Mandela through former minister Leon Sullivan, a civil rights leader and anti-Apartheid activist. You can’t tell the magnificence of the church organ, whose pipes take up the entire back wall of the sanctuary or the glow from the inside of the original stained glass panels. You can’t tell how welcoming and warm the people inside are when you show up uninvited with a basket full of vegetables.

Last week was the third Monday we brought vegetables over to Zion Baptist for them to distribute at their weekly food pantry. Deacon Jones, who greets us at the front desk, calls over Mr. George, who is starting to be able to recognize the different types of greens in order to explain how to use them to others. When Evelyn, a member of the church, sees the fresh basil we’ve brought, we talk briefly about pesto recipes and she tells us she thinks it would be a great thing to can in jars.

                                   

The next day, working back in the garden, I talk to Joan, who lives down the street. She tells me how she gardened in the city for 35 years, but now the medical school building blocks out most of her sunlight. My heart breaks a little, but because I can’t tear down the building on the spot (I want to), I pull a whole kale plant out of the ground and offer it to her. I tell her to replant it in her garden- it is such a hearty plant that it will grow in almost any conditions.

An hour later, Clay, who I also know from the church, stops over to joke around with me. We laugh about the idea of putting chickens in the garden, and I tell him I am trying to follow at least some rules so I don’t get kicked out of school. As we are chatting, he sees the parking authority start to write a ticket to a car whose meter has run out. Clay reaches into his pocket and rushes over to the car, which isn’t his. “I have it,” he says, and puts enough coins in to hold the meter over another hour.

I go back to weeding the pumpkins, thinking about selflessness. It’s not long after that Evelyn walks by with a plastic bag and hands it to me through the fence. I open it up and inside is a box of mason jars. “For your pesto,” she smiles. And an hour later, when I think my heart is most likely going to burst, Joan shows up with green beans that she grew. “I brought them for you.”

If you are trying to find kindness in a place where you aren’t sure it exists, plant food there. Daily I become more and more convinced that it’s a recipe for bringing out the best in people. Stay tuned.