One little pepper and how it grew

Like the child who planted it, our pepper plant has moments of glorious triumph.

It rises from unconventional roots, stretched surprisingly deep against a cement floor.

Peppers are meant to be seasonal fruit, but this one weathers all kinds of storms with a stubbornness that both impresses and confounds.

Last year, we thought it had run its course. I felt a little nostalgic as we pulled out the dry leaves, roots and stems. Over that ground, we planted herbs — basil, oregano and thyme.

Pepper plants have champions we can’t always see, though. And this one, against all odds, grew back. I noticed a few of its scraggly shoots take hold against the annual influx of greenhouse guests. The Gerber daisies, cherry tomatoes and new basil I’d planted looked obnoxiously fresh next to that stalwart plant, but I didn’t have the heart to pull it out again.

Yesterday, I spotted a tiny red pepper dangling off the edge of one of those skinny branches.

Here’s what I have to say about that:

Peppers, like the children who plant them, will surprise you in all kinds of ways. They’ll make your heart swell with pride, your throat close in fear, your eyes water with compassion, your arms ache with effort.

And they’ll grow.

With God’s blessing, those little pepper plants will grow.