Yes we have no tomatoes: a gardener learned a lesson about sabbath rest when she didn't plant her usual crop.

We did not plant our garden this year. There is a myriad of reasons why: I was delayed in starting seeds, there was too much rain, the weekends were hectic. By the time we got around to it, the garden center no longer had vegetables in stock. So I put some flowers in the center, laid out a few stepping stones, and sheepishly told friends we wouldn't have the usual wealth of tomatoes and zucchinis to share with them this year. I felt a little guilty.

About a week into June, I stumbled across a scripture passage that caught my eye: "Six years you shall sow your field, and six years you shall prune your vineyard, and gather in their yield; but in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of complete rest for the land, a sabbath for the Lord: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard" (Lev. 25: 3-4).

I smiled. Here was justification for why our garden stood still and dark. We have lived in our house for eight years, so we are only a year behind in giving the land a sabbath rest. Of course it wasn't premeditated, but it sure sounded better than my poor excuses.

As the summer progressed, each time I passed the dark soil or purchased tomatoes and snap peas from the farmers' market I reflected on what it meant to give the land a sabbath rest. Sure, environmentally it allowed nutrients to build again in the soil and left the earthworms largely undisturbed to do their important magic underground. But spiritually it left me with a huge crop of thoughts, prayers, and journal reflections.

I wrestled with the question of why I should let this little plot of land rest. On the one hand, it doesn't hurt to allow rest and renewal if necessary, but I realized we observe sabbath out of a sense of respect. There is something about the sweet tenderness of a snap pea that makes me acutely aware that the harvest is much more than what I put into it. Sure, I planted, watered, and weeded, but there is so much more that takes place without me, so much more to respect than simply my own efforts. There is a sacredness to the soil, the seeds, and the life they take on, the whole hope-filled process that deserves respect and rest.

Even my children delighted in conversations about the land and its need for rest. It helped us focus on our own needs for rest and family time. In the cool early evenings, instead of my past routine of weeding and pruning as they played, we found ourselves sitting together talking about our favorite vegetables to grow. They loved learning about the different crops and the types of soil or nutrients each one needs.

One thing that fascinated them--and, upon reflection, fascinated me as well--was how planting different crops together benefits both. We not only plant tomatoes next to basil because we love to eat the two together, but also because the bugs that are drawn to tomatoes hate the taste and scent of basil. Garlic, which likes warm tops and cool soil, grows better alongside something like lettuce, which can provide a little shade for the soil.

Planting certain things together can improve the taste and even the yield of both plants. In the simple language of my children, "differences are good." It was a lesson for us on how different cultures and races benefit each other more when their differences are acknowledged and cherished as gifts from God.

Our resting garden also taught me lessons of ownership. As I watched the birds flit around the dark soil, I realized they, along with other animals and insects, "owned" this land more concretely than I could. I wondered about who really owns any land and what responsibility we have to share its resources.

In Luke 12:16-21 Jesus tells the parable of the wealthy harvester who builds bigger barns to store his harvest, though none of what he had stored up mattered when he died. If I admit that the harvest is much more than what I put into it, then I also have no right to claim the harvest as my own. We are really more stewards of the land than owners, and as stewards we see each harvest not as a deserved payment for our efforts but as a gift.

All summer I turned my apology of late effort into a confession focused on a covenant with the Lord and the land. Although I started the summer with no time and a list of excuses for not getting the garden planted, I refocused by taking the time to reflect, pray, and be peaceful. I probably spent more time reflecting on the garden than I would have spent working in it! In a few months I felt the conversion from the garden being a task on my "to do" list to the realization that I was longing for the chance to plant again, for a chance to work hand in hand with God and the earth.

Leviticus goes on, "You may eat what the land yields during its sabbath--you, your male and female slaves, your hired and your bound laborers who live with you; for your livestock also, and for the wild animals in your land all its yield shall be for food" (Lev. 25:6-7).

As the summer went on we were treated to unexpected gifts from our resting garden. The herbs returned in their own untamed way. Three tomato plants crept up along the garden fence, yielding a sweet crop of roma and cherry tomatoes. And cosmos, which had not been planted since our first summer in the house, popped up in a dozen places and bloomed bright pinks, purples, and whites to fill the vases of many neighbors. Even a pair of mums that had been discarded behind a hosta plant last year when they refused to bloom came alive with bright orange and yellow blossoms.

It was not a booming crop year, but it was enough to thrive on. Each tomato tasted right from the vine and each flower cut for a friend's table reminded us of our gifts from God, of the need for a sabbath to call us back to the priorities in our faith. They reminded us that however imperfect we are, God still wants us to delight in the tastes and colors and sounds and smells of the world around us. God still wants us to touch the earth and know we are standing on sacred ground.

CHRISTINA ZAKER, who writes from Chicago.