Not Everything Blooms All Year: What My Garden Taught Me About Seasons, Stillness, and the Faithfulness of God

I was in the middle of weeding the squash patch—sweat on my brow, dirt under my fingernails, and hope tucked somewhere between the vine borers and the compost. I stood back to take it all in and felt it hit me: this will all be lush and full for maybe eight weeks.

All the soil amending. All the planting. All the babying of seedlings, the watering, the mulching, the hand-picking of squash bug eggs. Two months of bloom—for half a year of labor.

And just like that, I felt it in my spirit: You weren’t made to bloom all year either.

The Garden Reflects Something Truer Than Productivity

As a homesteader, herbalist, and mother, I’ve learned to carry a thousand things at once. A basket of herbs. A camera full of footage I haven’t edited. A duck sitting on eggs and a fox that got too close. A vision for what I’m building here—for my family, my customers, my land. The pressure to grow can be relentless. Especially when you feel called to build something beautiful from scratch.

But the garden doesn’t bloom all year. Some seasons are for breaking ground. Some are for waiting in the dark. Some are for pushing through slowly and quietly. And only sometimes—briefly—do we get to explode into bloom.

“To Everything There Is a Season…”

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

This verse isn’t poetic fluff. It’s reality. God built it into the soil. Into our bodies. Into the rhythms of healing, growth, creativity, and parenting. We love the August garden. But even the most abundant season comes only after tilling, tending, and trusting. The fruit is sweet, but the hidden months matter just as much.

Why the Fading Doesn’t Mean You Failed

“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever.”

—Isaiah 40:8

Sometimes, when the first frost hits the pumpkins or the calendula closes for the season, it feels like a loss. Like all the beauty we built is being stripped away too soon. But the truth is—the fading is part of the faithfulness.

The roots remain. The seeds scatter. The soil rests. And not one ounce of effort was wasted.

The Lord has taught me this over and over again—not just in the garden, but in the slow, painful seasons of infertility… in the years where healing felt impossible… in the moments when I wondered if I was doing enough as a mom, as a woman, as someone trying to live in obedience instead of hustle.

Growth was still happening. Even when it looked like nothing was blooming.

Weary but Still Becoming

“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

—Galatians 6:9

I don’t know what season you’re in right now. Maybe your garden is bursting and you’re reaping joy. Maybe you’re stuck in what feels like endless weeding—tedious, quiet, unseen.

But I want to tell you this: you’re not behind. You’re becoming. And becoming isn’t loud. It’s not always visible. Sometimes it’s sitting in the stillness, choosing faith over fear, and continuing to show up with a watering can and a mustard seed of hope.

Even the Fruitful Get Pruned

“He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

—John 15:2

Pruning feels like loss, but it’s preparation. Sometimes God allows the cutting back so that more can come later. Sometimes the dreams we plant don’t thrive because we tried to bloom in a season meant for rooting. I’ve learned this the hard way—rushing into projects, planting before I had peace, losing an entire orchard because I acted before it was time.

But God is gracious. Even when we get ahead of Him, He brings us back into rhythm.

The Quiet Work Is Still Sacred

This year, I’m tending the soil with more gratitude and less rush. I’m protecting what’s mine, and releasing what isn’t. I’m learning that God doesn’t measure growth the way the world does. He sees the heart behind the work. He honors the quiet yes. He’s faithful in the middle—not just the mountaintop.

So when August comes, I’ll breathe in the beauty. I’ll take the pictures. I’ll celebrate what grew. And when fall creeps in and the vines die back, I’ll remember: Not everything blooms all year. And that’s okay. Because the becoming is just as holy as the bloom.

A Quiet Invitation

If this post met you in a season of stillness or stretching—of unseen growth—I want to invite you deeper into our story. You can read How a Sunny Garden, a Sourdough Starter, and a Whole Lot of Faith Brought Us Here for the behind-the-scenes of Wild Faith Acres: the prayers, the failures, the small beginnings.

And if you’re craving a tangible way to slow down and savor the season, you’re always welcome to browse our handcrafted herbal teas and apothecary goods. Every product is made with intention—from the garden and the quiet place—just like this.

Take a breath. Let the roots grow deep. Not everything blooms all year. And that’s a gift, not a flaw.