If you’ve ever stood in a garden early in the morning, you’ll know what I mean when I say plants have presence.
The air feels different. The colours are somehow more alive. And when you brush your hand over a rosemary bush or crush a peppermint leaf between your fingers, the scent carries something more than just a nice smell — it carries memory, comfort, and a sense of being grounded.
I think that’s why I fell in love with herbs in the first place.
Why Plants?
Because they remind us we’re part of something bigger.
Plants don’t rush. They grow in seasons, they respond to light and rain, they adapt.
When I’m in a garden, I can’t help but notice how patient God must be with us, the way He is with His creation. A seed doesn’t sprout overnight, but in the quiet underground, work is happening. Roots are finding their way, unseen but essential. That truth has carried me through so many seasons of my own — when nothing seemed to be happening on the surface, but underneath, God was anchoring me.
Why Herbs?
Because they carry the kind of healing that’s been with us since the beginning.
Before we had pharmacies and supplements, God gave us plants “for food” and “for healing” (Genesis 1:29, Ezekiel 47:12). Herbs are concentrated reminders of His provision.
Chamomile for calming. Peppermint for digestion. Lemon balm for the restless mind.
When I hold a jar of dried herbs or smell a fresh sprig in my hand, I’m reminded that He didn’t just make the earth beautiful — He made it functional. He wove medicine into the very leaves and roots around us.
And while modern medicine absolutely has its place, there’s something deeply grounding about making a simple tea or salve and knowing it’s made from something God Himself created.
Why in Community?
Because healing doesn’t just happen in our bodies — it happens in the way we connect.
I can read all the herb books in the world, but it’s when I share that knowledge over a cuppa with someone else that it truly comes alive. I’ve seen women’s faces light up when they blend their first tea. I’ve watched strangers bond over the smell of lavender. And I’ve felt that quiet, holy stillness when a group sits together, hands busy with herbs, hearts slowly opening.
In community, we remind each other we’re not alone.
We share stories — about our grandmothers using eucalyptus, about the first time we tried to grow basil and failed, about the moments herbs have soothed us when nothing else seemed to work.
Those stories become part of the medicine too.
The Three Together
When plants, herbs, and community come together, something shifts.
It’s not just about learning “how to make” something — it’s about slowing down long enough to notice. To notice the smell of fresh lemon myrtle. To notice the warmth of someone else’s laugh. To notice that the world doesn’t fall apart when we take a few hours to be still and present.
I think God designed it that way. He could have made healing purely transactional — swallow this, fix that — but instead, He made it relational. He gave us plants that invite us to linger, and people to share them with.
So when I run a retreat day or a workshop, I’m not just teaching about herbs. I’m holding space for connection — with creation, with each other, and with the God who dreamed it all up in the first place.
And honestly? That’s where I’ve seen the most beautiful healing happen.
