This year seems to have more unpredictable weather than usual. Years ago, days with thunder and lightning were rare, but now we see them often with the rain. When thunder crashes—boom, rumble—I feel as though every living creature shares the same emotion: fear. Even our dog, who usually stays in the basement, runs upstairs with wide eyes and leaps into our arms the moment he hears it. It is the instinctive desire to cling to someone.

I used to feel fear whenever thunder struck, but at some point I began to associate the sound with piano music. Many CDs now include piano sonatas or hymns accompanied by natural sounds—rain, thunder, wind. My favorites are the ones with rain and thunder in the background. So now, when a storm rolls in, I feel as though I’m listening to a live performance, as if nature itself has invited me to a grand concert.

After a night of rain and thunder, stepping into the garden the next morning is pure delight. Anyone who keeps a small garden knows this joy. Ours is modest—just a few cucumber plants, perilla that reseeded itself from last year, chives planted years ago, and lettuce my mother scattered. Along the driveway, where there is a bit of space, I planted pepper seedlings, and now tiny peppers are appearing. A few tomato plants hang heavy with fruit, their thin stems bearing the weight with admirable patience.

Though the soil is not rich—mostly yellow sand—the vegetables take root and grow faithfully. They say plants grow better when they hear footsteps, yet even without much attention from me, they grow in their own quiet way. Sometimes I feel ashamed watching them.

On hot days when I struggle to prepare meals, I shamelessly turn to the garden for help. And it always gives generously—lettuce overflowing in the basket, cucumbers crisp and cool. Sometimes, while picking lettuce leaves, I feel a pang of awe. How can such a tiny seed hold such a wide, generous heart? How can it be so diligent?

People complain when it rains, complain when it’s hot, complain when it’s cold—destroying the ecosystem in countless ways. Yet lettuce, chives, cucumbers, and peppers take all of it—the rain, the heat, the cold—and turn it into life, leaves, and fruit. Even when weeds invade without warning, stealing space and nutrients, the vegetables continue to grow with a generous spirit. Watching them, I suddenly thought of Jesus’ Beatitudes.

Let me share with you the Beatitudes found in the garden.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

When people desire more, they become blind with greed, feeling empty even when surrounded by abundance. But the seeds that yield their space—even to uninvited weeds—show that the kingdom of heaven already belongs to the humble.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

A simple vegetable, sprouting and growing as expected, makes me mourn my own blemished life. Am I growing as God intended, or have I become diseased by my own willfulness? Yet even in my wounded places, I see the Lord grieving with me. Like morning dew washing the leaves, tears cleanse the soul—and comfort follows.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

Vegetables stay rooted where they are planted, doing their best. The unruly weeds that invade will eventually be pulled out by the gardener, but the seeds planted by the master remain until the end. The land the Master gives is ours—our inheritance is heaven.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.”

When the garden goes a few days without rain, the vegetables droop helplessly, thirsting for water. I drop everything to give them a deep drink, and soon they stand tall again. Physical satisfaction can corrupt the soul, but spiritual hunger for God makes us truly human. God delights in our longing and pours out grace freely.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.”

Soil gives life, absorbs what is unnecessary, purifies, and restores. God trusted this humble earth enough to form humanity from it. As Christians—salt and light—we must show mercy, restoring what is broken. This is our calling.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

A pure heart is single-minded, faithful, and honest. If one plants cucumbers but pumpkins grow instead, the gardener will be disappointed. Every seed must bear its own fruit. To do so, it must endure storms, scorching sun, and dark nights. Trusting the Creator frees us from greed and unfaithfulness—and gives us eyes to see God.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

Beneath the soil, roots intertwine like subway lines. Worms and insects—some helpful, some harmful—live together, supporting the ecosystem. Nothing resembles God more than making peace. Jesus gave His life to bring peace between God and humanity. When our presence brings peace to homes, churches, workplaces, and communities, we are recognized as God’s children.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

When pumpkin vines reach toward the fence, I gently guide them so they can bear more fruit. Likewise, we sometimes suffer loss for Christ’s sake—yielding, forgiving, obeying. In some countries, believers still risk their lives for their faith. Yet God promises them the crown of life. Their suffering becomes a priceless inheritance for future generations.

Dear listeners, this summer is full of God’s voice—if we quiet ourselves enough to hear it. The songs of birds, the rustling leaves, the whispering stream, the footsteps of deer and rabbits—these are God’s words for us. In them, our weary hearts can be washed and healed.

The world’s greatest treasures—music, fragrance, beauty, healing—are waiting for us in the simplest corners of nature.

This week, I must go out to the garden and look for the snails eating the lettuce, just as my mother told me. I’m still not sure how I’ll catch them.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, July 22, 1998