My Father, the Gardener

 

It's been a while, but I felt like I needed to share this here.

My father, who was my hero, passed away on December 4, 2020, just a week and a half ago. It came, if not suddenly, then quickly and unexpectedly. We fortunately all did get the opportunity to tell him how much we loved and appreciated him before he passed, but it still came far too quickly.

I was honored with the opportunity to speak at his funeral this weekend, and I wanted to share the tribute I gave to my dad, Reid Giles.

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About 10 years ago, when I was preparing to buy my current home, my dad was in town and walked through the house with me. One of the features that stood out to both of us was the large garden plot in the backyard. It was raised up from the rest of the yard and surrounded by concrete stones—and I loved it. I was excited to grow my own garden. And while it took me years to actually get that garden planted, I eventually did, with my dad’s encouragement.

When I told people that I was planting a garden, they always asked me the same questions. They’re the same questions that everyone gets asked when they tell people they’ve got a garden:

“What’s in your garden? What are you raising?”

Many of you may not be aware that my dad, Reid Giles, was a gardener.

For my entire life, I remember him always having a gardening project. He loved to take a living thing and cultivate it, giving it the water and sunlight it needed to help it grow. It didn’t need to be perfect. He wasn’t meticulous about every single leaf or petal being just right. He just wanted his garden to be healthy, and he wanted it to grow. Sometimes, he had to dig in and pull out some weeds so they wouldn’t choke the plants he was tending. I remember helping him pull weeds a few times and getting called out for pulling too hastily and accidently pulling up a vegetable or flower whose roots had grown tangled with the weed. He showed me how to pull gently, untangling the roots before finally getting the weed out.

As far back as I can remember, Dad would grow tomatoes in pots in the backyard or on the back porch. I remember putting up metal cages with him around the plants so that they’d have something to support them as they grew, something to hold onto when the weight was just too much for them. And when they were ripe, he’d pluck them off the plant and bring a bunch of cherry tomatoes in to make a tomato sandwich to share with my mom.

He would plant pansies in the front yard, because he knew my mother loved them. 

When Betsy moved into a house a few miles away from Mom and Dad’s house with Katherine, Ashley, and Jeffrey, he helped them plant a garden at the end of their driveway. Even though the garden was over at Betsy’s house, in my head, it was always “Dad’s garden.” He would go over there regularly to check on the plants, to pull the weeds, to run water down the trenches between the rows they had planted. And he loved enjoying the fruits of his hard work. They planted a variety of vegetables, but I specifically remember him growing radishes. Radishes aren’t the most popular vegetable, and I know people who make a face when talking about them, but Dad loved them. He would pull them out of the ground, wash them off, and eat them plain, like most people eat strawberries

I remember going with him over to Muddie’s house to pick up trays of seedlings that she had started, then we’d bring them back to our house and plant them in pots or in our front garden.

And when I finally planted my own garden at my own home in 2013, my dad flew out from Alabama to help me. He helped me decide which plants and fertilizer to buy, he helped me to plot out where everything would go, and when it came time to till the garden before planting, my 76-year-old father pushed the rototiller that we’d rented around the entire garden because I wasn’t strong enough, but he was.

He was a strong man.

And later that same year, after I got laid off from my job and was feeling pretty lousy about myself, I could go out to that garden and pull a few snow peas or an ear of corn and feel better about myself—because my father cared enough about me to fly across the country and help me plant my garden.

Many of you are probably very much aware that my dad, Reid Giles, was a gardener. He loved to talk to people and cultivate them, giving them the love and appreciation they need to help them grow.

Over the past week, I can’t count all the different posts and comments I’ve read from people referring to him and my mom as their “other parents.” And Dad welcomed every last one into his garden. He didn’t start all of them from a seed himself, but just like those trays of seedlings we picked up from Muddie, he carefully and lovingly planted them in his heart. I wasn’t able to be there myself, but I’ve even heard stories from the time he was in the hospital about how he made sure to speak to each nurse and doctor who came in, look them in the eyes, and get to know them. He’d ask about their jobs and their lives and just how they were doing. And in just those few days, those nurses came to love him.

Sometimes, growing up, I felt like he was a little rough on me personally, calling me to repentance and pulling a weed or two that got a little bit too deeply tangled up with the roots, but it was always done with care and unmistakable love. And like the flowers and vegetables he planted, he didn’t need me to be perfect. He knew I was going to make mistakes, and he was willing to forgive me for them and to give me the same support that those wire cages provided for his tomatoes. He just wanted me to be healthy, and he wanted me to grow.

When I was 12, I had the privilege of becoming my dad’s Home Teaching companion---a privilege I didn’t appreciate anywhere near enough at the time. I would always find myself growing annoyed, because when we went to visit, we would always be there for at least an hour, talking about people I had never met. And somehow, my dad always ended up visiting people I didn’t know—widows and people who I’d never met because they didn’t come to church that often. I often envied my friends who were assigned to visit my other friends from church—people who I felt like I could relate to.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized he was visiting the people who needed him most. They were the people for whom my father’s special capacity to love was a welcome reprieve from loneliness. They were people whom my father loved—and they loved him.

“What’s in your garden?”

My dad was a gardener, and in his garden, there was a multitude of people from every single walk of life imaginable. It didn’t matter where you came from; he was happy to do anything he could to help you grow, and even more, he wanted you to flourish. Every single person here and and every person watching remotely was a part of that garden.

“What are you raising?” It’s the question everyone who has ever started a garden is asked.

Yes, my dad loved to plant tomatoes, radishes, and other vegetables. But then I look at every one of my brothers and sisters—Cathy, Johnny, Julie, Bobby, Betsy, Debbie. I look at their spouses and children. I look at the work each of them puts into helping those around them. Their willingness to drop everything and go find a way to lift someone else’s burden or to show others that they’re not alone. To help someone move or clean their house or bring them cookies or just spend time with them. To offer the love and appreciation they need to help them grow. Every single one of them has done the same for me at various points in my life.

And so much of that comes from my dad’s example. It comes from his willingness to drop everything and go to someone who needed him, whether it was for a shoulder to cry on, a word of counsel, physical aid, or a priesthood blessing. That willingness to serve, to love, and to build others up was important to him.

My dad, Reid Giles—alongside my wonderful mother, DeAnn—was raising gardeners.

I love you, Dad.