About six years ago, a good friend recommended I watch a movie called Jenny’s Wedding. Jenny is a young woman with a successful career and a kind heart. Her family is made up of lifelong Catholics. Both of her younger siblings are already married, and her mother dreams of the day Jenny will follow in their footsteps. The film centers on the family’s efforts to find Jenny a suitable husband.
One scene stuck with me. Jenny’s younger sister—a married woman with two kids—has a husband who is emotionally absent, both as a partner and a father. Frustrated with her own life, she spends a lot of time gossiping about others, especially her sister. One day, after a moment of reckoning, she begins to reflect on her own situation. She notices that the grass in her front yard is dead while her neighbors’ lawns are green and well-kept. She confronts her husband’s absence with a quiet, pointed observation: “Happy couples don’t have dead grass.”
Four years ago, when my partner and I finally moved from an apartment to a house, that phrase resurfaced in my mind. Our priority was to have a good-sized backyard where our dogs could run to their hearts’ content. We found a home, but the grass wasn’t quite established. The previous owner had tried planting some, but it never stuck.
Fully aware that I don’t have a green thumb, in 2021 I bought grass seeds, soil, fertilizer, and tools and, for the first time, planted grass. I witnessed the first few shoots sprout, but the sprinkler system turned out to be broken. I watered the grass every evening for six months, but in the heat of summer, even that wasn’t enough. The grass didn’t survive.
In 2022, I tried again. This time we bought sod and hired gardeners to install it and repair part of the sprinkler system. The grass looked beautiful for about a month—until another section of the sprinkler system broke. I kept watering it manually. But while I was away on a seven-day retreat, the grass began to wither. Its roots were too shallow. I tried to revive it, but most of it died again.
The third attempt, in 2023, mostly failed too, even though I had controlled all the variables I could. Finally, in 2024, I let go. I gave up trying to control the outcome. I told myself: Even if the grass only lives during the summer, that’s OK. We will enjoy it while it lasts.
The next year, I planted two varieties of grass I thought were best for our area. I had learned some techniques along the way, but I stopped trying to prove anything, even to myself. I no longer needed the grass to be a symbol of success or domestic bliss. I chose instead to enjoy the beauty of the present moment for however long it might last.
Now, in 2025, the yard is finally covered with a lush, vibrant carpet of grass—a mix of seeds that seems to thrive in changing weather. My dogs love it. And I’m simply grateful to watch them enjoy it, as I had always hoped.
In my ministry work, I’ve planted many seeds in people’s hearts—seeds of inclusion, of unconditional love. Sometimes they sprout quickly. Other times they lie dormant for years. I’ve learned to release my desire to control the outcome.
I’ve come to understand that the soil is not always ready. The season is not always right. Our job in ministry is not to guarantee a harvest: It is to plant faithfully.
To master the art of planting seeds means learning to be present: to know the person, understand their context, recognize their needs, listen to their heart, respect their timing. It means trusting that what we plant in love and hope may one day flourish, perhaps even long after we’re gone.
Whether in grass or in grace, we are called to sow. And to rejoice in the planting.
This article also appears in the October 2025 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 90, No. 10, page 9). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
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