When Nothing Goes Right – Add Fertilizer
Have you ever had one of those days when nothing goes right?
A tech glitch eats half your document, a bill arrives that you know you already paid, and to top it off, the cookies burn just as the phone rings.
It’s the kind of day that leaves you wondering if the universe got up on the wrong side of the bed.
Can anything good possibly come out of all this mess?
Years ago—decades now, if I’m honest—I had a garden behind my house. Nine raised beds, arranged neatly like a checkerboard.
My cousin, who was a dairy farmer, used to bring a wagon full of manure each spring and dump it in the corner for me.
My two sons, shovels in hand, would go to work turning most of that steaming pile into one of the beds.
A smaller mound always remained, off to the side, quietly reminding us of its existence with a rather memorable fragrance.
That spring, after tossing a few shovelfuls of dirt over the top (mostly to keep the smell down), I planted pumpkin seeds there.
I didn’t expect much—just thought it might be a good use of the space. But by fall, those pumpkins were something to behold.
Big, round, orange globes spilling over the edge of the bed like they owned the place.
It turned out that little pile of manure had been the richest soil in the garden.
I didn’t realize it then, but that was the best lesson I ever got in the value of the “shitty” things that happen in life.
What We’d Rather Avoid
Most of us prefer our lives like tidy gardens—everything weeded, mulched, and sweet-smelling. We shovel away what’s unpleasant as fast as we can, hoping to hide the odor and move on.
Yet, just like manure, the parts of life we most want to avoid are often the very ones that bring growth.
Illness, loss, disappointment—they all smell bad when they first arrive. I’ve had my share of them, and I doubt you’ve escaped either.
No one welcomes hardship with open arms. But over time, those same experiences have enriched my soil.
They’ve softened what was hard in me, and made space for compassion I didn’t know I was missing.
It’s taken me a long time to see that the messes I tried to bury weren’t meant to be erased—they were meant to be transformed.
The Slow Work Beneath the Surface
Of course, manure doesn’t turn into pumpkins overnight.
The magic happens slowly, beneath the surface, where the work is quiet and unseen.
Life is like that too. We don’t always recognize our growth while it’s happening.
During one particularly difficult season—a health setback that limited nearly everything I could do—I remember feeling stuck, useless, even angry.
It took years before I understood that something invisible was taking root.
I was learning patience. Learning how to live from stillness instead of motion.
Learning to ask for help without shame.
The roots were doing their work down in the dark.
If you’ve ever waited for healing, for forgiveness, or even for hope to return, you know that unseen work well.
It’s humbling to admit that growth often requires decomposition—that something in us must first break down before new life can take hold.
Gratitude Without Gloss
It’s tempting to rush to gratitude—to find a silver lining before the rain has stopped.
But true gratitude doesn’t require us to pretend the manure smells good. It simply asks that we trust what it can become.
Gratitude, for me, has become less about being cheerful and more about being honest.
I can be thankful for what something might teach me, even before I’m pleased with it.
There’s a quiet relief in that. It loosens the grip of resistance.
When my days go wrong now—when I burn the cookies, lose a file, or hear disappointing news—I try (not always successfully) to pause before labeling it bad.
Maybe it’s just fertilizer in disguise.
The truth is, some of the richest blessings I’ve known grew from what I once thought would ruin me.
I can’t say I enjoyed the smell of those seasons, but the harvest that followed was worth every shovelful.
Lessons from the Pumpkins
By the time those pumpkins ripened, I’d almost forgotten where I planted them.
The vines had wandered far beyond their bed, curling around the fence, climbing over other plants, unapologetically claiming their space.
When I first saw the size of them, I laughed out loud. Who could have guessed that such beauty and abundance could spring from a pile I’d wanted to cover up?
Isn’t that how life surprises us?
The very places we’d rather not look often hide the beginnings of something extraordinary.
No one stood around admiring that manure pile in April, but everyone admired the pumpkins come October.
Sometimes I think gratitude matures in the same way pumpkins do—quietly, out of sight, swelling under leaves until one day it can’t help but show itself.
And when it does, it reminds us that nothing—no experience, no pain, no failure—is wasted.
It’s not that we need more blessings.
It’s that we need better eyesight.
The Compost of a Life
Looking back, I see how every disappointment, every detour, every loss has become part of my compost heap—layer upon layer of experience breaking down into something fertile and alive.
There’s a strange kind of grace in that.
The very things that once made me wince are now feeding the roots of my joy.
So these days, when life dumps another load of trouble in the corner, I try to remember the pumpkins.
I toss a little dirt over it, take a breath, and whisper to myself, “This, too, may grow something.”
If gratitude has a smell, I think it’s a bit earthy. A mix of rain, soil, and the faint scent of what was once unpleasant but now sustains us.
So when the next pile shows up in your life—and it will—don’t rush to haul it away.
Maybe just plant something there.
Then wait, and see what grows.
Reflection
What experience in your life once felt like manure, but later revealed unexpected fruit?
If you’re tending your own garden of gratitude this season, I’d love to hear what’s growing—or what’s still composting.
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