“I planted two dozen broccoli plants yesterday,” my mother said, “and five of them disappeared last night.” My petite, then seventy-three-year-old mother was visibly discouraged. “I guess the rabbits ate them.”

Hours later, after a trip to the local nursery, she telephoned. “They suggested I buy fox urine. The odor of the urine is supposed to scare away the rabbits.”

“The mere thought would scare me away!” I said. “How much does fox urine cost?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“Fifteen dollars? You’re kidding! Why would you pay fifteen dollars for urine when you can buy broccoli at the grocery store for about a dollar or two?”

“Because I like my vegetables garden-fresh,” she said.

The next morning, my mother stopped by to drop off some fresh red raspberries she’d picked. “I put the urine out last night,” she reported. “And this morning I discovered that six more plants had been eaten. I told our neighbor about it, and he suggested that I put a wire fence around the plants. . . . I’m heading to the hardware store now. Do you need anything?”

“No,” I shook my head, biting my tongue.

Later that night with eighteen dollars of wire fence, my mother built an enclosure around the thirteen remaining plants. She worked hard, making it secure so that no opening would allow rodents to crawl under.

The next morning I got another call. “Guess what? There are only five broccoli plants left. Those rabbits must have jumped over the fence.”

“It sounds like you have an offspring of Peter Rabbit in your garden,” I said.

“I just called another garden center and they suggested I get a live trap and try to catch them.”

“I really hate to ask . . . but what does a live trap cost?”

“Forty-five dollars.”

“Mom! You could buy loads of broccoli for forty-five dollars.”

My mother decided not to buy a live trap, but she didn’t give up. Each night she covered her broccoli plants with inverted bushel baskets she already had in her barn, and each morning she uncovered the remaining plants.

About two weeks later, I realized I’d heard nothing about the broccoli plants. I asked, “Mom, how’s your broccoli doing?”

“The baskets work,” she said with a smile.

Later that season, Japanese beetles arrived like an army to attack her red raspberries. So my mother went to a local nursery that advertised itself as the “Beetle Battle Station.”

Whoever liked her broccoli apparently thought beetles were also tasty. One morning she found her beetle trap bags chewed open.

“Mother, don’t you find gardening frustrating?” I asked. “You’re constantly battling the insects, the weeds, and the animals. Don’t you ever want to give up?”

“There are pleasant surprises too, Georgia.” My mother was always one to focus on the positive. “Remember those five-year-old pumpkin seeds I found in the closet and planted? You should see how large and plentiful those pumpkins are. Besides,” she added, “I like being outside in the fresh air. And at my age, the exercise is good for me. I enjoy having my own fresh produce!”

Vegetables aren’t my thing; my passion is flowers. Only a few days after that conversation with my mother, I headed out to my garden to pick a few roses. No luck. The beetles had eaten the heart out of every bloom in my garden. As I turned to walk up the steps to my back door, I noticed the beetles had also nibbled the leaves of my morning glories.

The question I’d asked my mother echoed in my head. Why bother? Suddenly it clicked. It was like God gently tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “Georgia, here’s your answer. When we truly love and cherish something, we’re willing to nurture it and protect it-no matter what the cost. Jesus dying for our sins is a perfect example of that love.”

I headed to the telephone. “Mother, where’s that beetle battle station?”

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