A kind sun washes everything in pale yellow, and the scent of wet earth rises. The heat of the day has yet to settle, and as I tend to my small patch of paradise in these early hours, I am struck by how deeply the divine is sown into the surrounding foliage.

Despite shedding many leaves in the weeks prior, the same plants are now abundant with new life, pushing out fresh green leaves and vivid blooms almost overnight. My earlier despondence at the sight of bare, brittle twigs has given way to a deep sense of joy each time I look out onto the terrace.

The Qur’an returns to this cycle of life often, and in striking detail. From the desolation of the earth before it is stirred to life and begins to grow (41:39), to the splitting of the seed and the fruit stone (6:95), and the rain sent down to bring forth shoots and every kind of fruit (6:99), we are constantly reminded that growth and harvest unfold by divine decree. Though we may sow, water, prune, and plough, the fruit of our labour is, quite literally, decided by God.

And while crops may fail, fruits spoil, and flowers never come to bloom, the act of tending remains rich with instruction. As we are absorbed into its labour, gardening teaches us the divine disciplines of patience and perseverance. We learn to repeatedly show up despite lacking certainty of outcome. In placing trust in God and an unwavering commitment to the process, we learn to find solace in the practice itself, grounding ourselves in the present. And when we eventually reap what we have sown, it is with a deepened sense of gratitude.

I wonder, then, if it is any surprise that our final reward is the promise of eternal Paradise?