Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Home
Catholic
Food and Religion
A Complicated Joy

A Complicated Joy

Last updated on: September 1, 2026 at 10:35 pm by Mary Pezzulo

0 Comments

A Complicated Joy 2026-09-01T22:35:42-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

If you don’t find Christ among the pots and pans, you’ll never find Him anywhere else.

If you don’t find Christ right where you are, in the people you meet and the places you go and the chores you do in your day-to-day life, Christ will be invisible to you forever.

I don’t know if I should come out and brag that I’ve found Christ, but I’ve certainly found tomatoes. I have found so many tomatoes it’s turning into a joke. When the seed advertisement said that the San Marzano paste and the chocolate cherry cherry tomato are “prolific,” it’s a bit like saying Nero was bossy. The other breeds are doing fine. They give me a lot of fruit for my effort. I harvest and eat a delicious ripe slicing tomato or two every day. But the San Marzano and the Chocolate Cherry are outbreeding them by the score. Every time I go outside, I end up stuffing my pockets with deep purplish-red spheres the size of a gumball and bright scarlet ellipses the size of an egg. I put them all in my largest salad bowl in the fridge, another pile of tomatoes every day, and then I distribute them. A bag for Ms. B, whose baby is now old enough to sit at the table with her and eat tomatoes with her fingers. A bag for Jimmy’s boy’s grandmother, who liked them so much she asked to buy seedlings from me to grow herself next year. A bag for the Friendship Room every so often. And they just keep coming.

Just a few days ago, Jimmy’s boy and I were picking tomatoes together when we found a single watermelon in the vine that got entangled with that wilderness of tomato plants. The plant was a “sugar bush baby” variety, which is supposed to give fruit about the size of a football, and I didn’t have much hope because I never have luck with watermelons. This one was the size of a baseball. It was hidden under a cascade of Chocolate Cherry tomato vines. The stem was all dried out, which meant it was ripe. We cut it open in my kitchen, laughing as we did because it looked more like a large forest green apple than a small melon. The flesh inside was pink and juicy. We each got about three bites, I set the seeds out to dry for next year, and the guinea pig ate the rind. That was our entire watermelon crop: one hundred percent better than last year.

The next day was Sunday. After church, I came home exhausted and ready for a nap, but Jimmy’s boy was already there excited to garden again. I got a plastic bag for tomatoes, and gave him one to check on those potato plants I planted in a container near the edge of the yard. I didn’t hold out much hope for them because a potato bug had made lace out of the leaves this year, and I never have any luck with potatoes anyway. But it turns out, this was my year for potatoes as well.

“I found a potato!” said Jimmy’s boy almost immediately.

“That’s a sunburned one,” I said. “See the green skin? When a potato turns green it means it was too close to the surface and got the sun. Those will make you sick. Look for ones that look like the kind you get at the store.”

Jimmy’s boy dug through the potting mix with his hands. “Look what I found!” he cried, holding up a spud the size of a restaurant baked potato with another small spud growing out the side. “It looks like an alien submarine!”

“Wow, that’s a good one!” I said. “Keep digging. They’re layered up in there.”

As I grabbed fruit after fruit from the tomato vines, Jimmy’s boy harvested potato after potato, stuffing his bag to the top. I had to run in and get him another, because my bag was full as well. Then I sat on the grass in my good Sunday trousers, zealously digging for potatoes with my bare hands, while Charlie the cat watched me in astonishment. I found several more potatoes. We have enough for a stew and more to share.

“Can we see if the carrots are ready?”

I’d forgotten all about those carrots we planted. I had never successfully grown a carrot longer than about two inches like a strange orange radish, but the carrots Jimmy’s boy yanked out of the planter were actual carrots, longer than my hand. He added them to the bag. I went in and started washing the day’s harvest: the salad bowl in the fridge was now overflowing so I couldn’t even put the lid on. I decided to make sauce.

Jimmy’s boy ran off to play with Adrienne as I boiled the whole tomatoes and shocked them in cold water. Jimmy’s boy got out the Legos and built houses while chatting with Adrienne about what high school is like. I peeled the shocked tomatoes and threw them in a pot with oil, garlic, and basil from the garden. Finally I set the pot to simmer for more than an hour, and went upstairs to take that nap.

When I came back down, Adrienne was reading one of those old Hardy Boys books to Jimmy’s boy.

I felt something: something more complicated than just happiness.

Have you ever been unhappy for so long, that you were surprised and a little apprehensive when one day you realized you were happy again?

Did you ever lose everything you ever had, ruin your life, and end up in a painful place that felt like God’s punishment, and then one day become happy in spite of everything? And then, in that moment, the happiness felt wrong, as if you were cheating somehow?

I wonder if anybody ever wanted anything as much as I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, a homeschooling grandmultipara in a quiet middle class neighborhood, in a brick house on a double lot with a prosperous doting husband and no frightening adventures. I wanted to be a smug pillar of my community at a Catholic parish where nothing strange ever happened, where the pastor would say smarmy things about my children and thank me for my witness to the Culture of Life. I never wanted to be a chronically ill woman with only one nightmare childbirth and a mountain of student debt, living in a rental with a messy backyard garden in a poor neighborhood on a terrible bend of the Ohio river, eking out a living by my writing, sneaking into the backs of churches and not daring to talk to anyone because the religious trauma is so severe. I wanted to be somebody else: someone who was happy, without all the complication. But I no longer think “happy, without all the complication” is a condition that exists on Earth.

I suppose I wanted God to be small. I wanted God to be about the size of a gumball machine, so I could feed my rule-following and good behavior into him and he’d spit out a small, pleasant, comprehensible blessing every time. Dress modestly and keep yourself pure for your wedding night, and the gumball machine will give you a blissful marriage in a nice suburban house. Don’t touch birth control, and the gumball machine will give you seven healthy, obedient children who march behind you in a line into church on Sundays. Stand up boldly for what’s right and the gumball machine will shield you from any consequences for opening your big fat mouth. Pray your Rosary and the gumball machine will ensure that you only have ordinary problems which are solved quickly. Wear your scapular and the gumball machine will jump in front of you to shield you from catastrophe, and everything will be all right.

It turns out that God is much larger and stranger than a gumball machine. God– or, at least, God’s kingdom, the walk with God– is more like a garden. God places you in a vast and wondrous garden watered by four rivers, and sends you other creatures like cats and guinea pigs and humans to see what names you will call them. Whether you call them “trespasser” or “neighbor” is up to you. God bids you to work the soil and eat the fruit, and you do your best, but there’s no telling what will come out of the ground. The seeds you plant will spring up in odd and mysterious ways, creeping all over the garden in a manner you can’t predict. Things will go horribly, and horribly, and horribly, and then one day you just might bear more fruit than you ever thought possible, and you’ll be happy. But not without complication. Not without suffering. Not without life being life.

Those who sow in tears will reap in joy. A complicated joy.

I was so happy, just then.

I am so happy now.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo

Food and Religion

Home and Religion

Previous Post

August 26, 2026

Dolly Parton Was a Saint. She Lived the Gospel

Next Post

September 2, 2026 I'm Not Sorry for Milo Yiannopoulos. But this is Wrong

Recent Comments

0 | Leave a Comment

"I'm still considering it myself. I don't know what the answer is. I respect where ..."

Mary

On Traditionalist Bullies, and the Death ..."

"Thank you for bringing so much goodness into the lives of so many children.Ran across ..."

alwayspuzzled

The Passion of the Red Oak

"This current administration has had me reflecting on the Nuremberg trials and the like, for ..."

axelbeingcivil

On Traditionalist Bullies, and the Death ..."

"You're talking about supercessionism, the idea that Christians "replace" the covenant that the Jewish people ..."

Alex

Yes, the Old Testament is About ..."

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category abortion Abuse Advent America American Christianity angel angels Annunciation Appalachia apparition apparition chaser apparition chasers apparition culture art art review babies baby baby Jesus Bad Lip Reading bad statue contest bath beauty Bible story blog blogkeeping blood book review Brandon Sanderson breastfeeding bus Catholic catholic conspiracy alarmism Catholic Oppositional Disorder Charismatic Renewal Charlie the Cat chastity Christ Christian idenitity Christianity and Judaism Chronic Illness clean clothing COD piece comedy compassion conscience conspiracy theory conversion cop-on-black violence Crucifixion cry of the poor culture Daesh Daily Saints death death penalty devotional diaconate diaper diapers dirty disability Donald Trump Dorothy Day dream drugs Eastern Catholicism Eastern Christianity education election election update Elsewhere on Patheos empathy environment Fear feminism film review fish flashback fluffy buns food Franciscan University of Steubenville Friendship Room fun Gabriel gardening gospel hair-splitting Heaven hell heresy Hillary Clinton history Holly the Witch Holy Spirit holy war Homeschooling homosexuality horror human dignity humor Icon idol immigrants infection inter-religious dialogue Interpretation of Scripture Islam Jesus Jihad Joseph joy laity and lay vocations lamb dinner laundry lent lgbtq literature love manners Mary Medicine and Science Meditation mercy mess milk misogyny Missouri monasticism monster motherhood mourn with those mourn movies movis music mystery nature neurodiversity New Pro-Life Movement news nonsense nostalgia O antiphons obituary objectification Ohio Valley Ordinary Time ordination Ordo Amoris parable paradox Passover peanut butter personal beliefs pets philosophy Planet Charismatic poetry politics polls poop Pope Francis Pope Leo power in the Church prayer prayer request prayers preferential option for non-violence president presidential election priest primary private revelation pro-life prophecy Public face of Catholicism Pure Flix Q and A race racism random rape rape. sexuality reader's request Reckoners refugee religious trauma ressurrection Right to life Saints saints and celebrations same-sex same-sex marriage satire scandal secular feasts seder Seven Joys Seven Last Words sex sexual ethics sexuality silencing six months skid row slavery social justice Speculative fiction spiritual abuse spoon stain story suffering suffrage suffragette Sunday Gospel temple Tenebrae Responsories Terror the exorcist The Friendship Room The New Pro-Life Movement Things I Learned on the Internet tin cup traffic true story tv review Uncategorized USCCB vice and temptation violence Virtue virtue and vice war Way of the Cross whimsy whole life women's ordination work of mercy Year A

Select a Month October 2026 September 2026 August 2026 July 2026 June 2026 May 2026 April 2026 March 2026 February 2026 January 2026 December 2025 November 2025 October 2025 September 2025 August 2025 July 2025 June 2025 May 2025 April 2025 March 2025 February 2025 January 2025 December 2024 November 2024 October 2024 September 2024 August 2024 July 2024 June 2024 May 2024 April 2024 March 2024 February 2024 January 2024 December 2023 November 2023 October 2023 September 2023 August 2023 July 2023 June 2023 May 2023 April 2023 March 2023 February 2023 January 2023 December 2022 November 2022 October 2022 September 2022 August 2022 July 2022 June 2022 May 2022 April 2022 March 2022 February 2022 January 2022 December 2021 November 2021 October 2021 September 2021 August 2021 July 2021 June 2021 May 2021 April 2021 March 2021 February 2021 January 2021 December 2020 November 2020 October 2020 September 2020 August 2020 July 2020 June 2020 May 2020 April 2020 March 2020 February 2020 January 2020 December 2019 November 2019 October 2019 September 2019 August 2019 July 2019 June 2019 May 2019 April 2019 March 2019 February 2019 January 2019 December 2018 November 2018 October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

True or False: Mark records Jesus' birth narrative in Bethlehem.

Select your answer to see how you score.

TRUE FALSE