The Parable of the Corn OR Pride Cometh Before the Hail

Two years ago someone suggested I grow corn in the garden. I wasn't thrilled with the idea at first; after all, corn takes up a lot of space for a relatively small yield. But the more I told people I was thinking of growing corn, the more they told me it couldn't be done. So, of course, the more determined I became to do it. And it was a raging success, if I do say so myself. Oh, it took work: monitoring the state of the leaves to determine if the plants had enough water, fertilizing with organic compost tea and grounds from Starbucks at just the right time, and even going out one July day to hand fertilize the ears (which felt almost as dirty as it sounds). But my effort paid off. We enjoyed about a dozen plump gorgeous ears of corn that summer and the stalks stayed upright to dry in the garden and provide a little fall ambiance.

This year I decided to grow corn again. In fact, I was going to grow the "three sisters," of Native American tradition. Green beans were to grow up the tall corn stalks and squash between the rows. I was confident this would work. Some might say overconfident. The day I had to introduce myself to a group and chose to say, "I'm Jennie. I grow corn," I should have known trouble was afoot.

It was a summer of storms. Early in June we had a thunderstorm that produced huge hail. As I listened to it batter the roof and threaten the windows, my first thought was "My corn!" The next day I found the young leaves shredded. But fortunately it was early enough in the season, new growth soon came in. But then came another storm with high winds. "My corn!" The next morning I found all the stalks leaning a bit to the south. Then finally one day after another torrential downpour, I went outside and found this:

I was heartbroken. But that afternoon I rolled up my sleeves and took out some twine and started an elaborate corn re-staking procedure. It was unscientific and ugly. The stalks were tied to each other and to the fence. Any concept of rows was gone, as was any thought of tall, sturdy stalks. But still, they grew. Once again I went out to hand pollinate, but with little hope. And then one day, I pulled an ear off a stalk and found this:

And there were many more where that came from. Sure there's a lesson in here about pride. But there's another lesson to be taken from the corn. And that's the simple truth that even though we might be beaten down by the storms and often feel like we are being held together by a string, we can still produce beautiful fruit that gives life to the world.

Or is that too corny?