Still We Plant

A hacked account, new boots, and a growing garden

Monday night, I wandered through my front yard gardens, which sounds much more storybook than it really is, though I do love every square inch of the three vegetable beds and one flower patch, checking on things before dark. The sunflowers are the stars at the moment. Each day they look a little taller, a little more confident. Some of the tomatoes are really taking off. Others seem to be easing into the season. The cucumbers look shocked from their move from cups to ground, followed almost immediately by last weekend’s hailstorm. Patrick built the prettiest bamboo trellis for them to climb, so hopefully they’ll start reaching for it soon.

I clipped a few peach colored roses from a bush and carried them inside to arrange in a pretty vase that had been given to me as a gift. They looked lovely sitting there on the table, so I decided I would post a picture on Facebook and tag the sweet giver.

That is when I realized I had been logged out.

At first, it seemed annoying. Then concerning. Then suddenly very bad.

I started the “forgot password” process, but when Facebook offered to send me a recovery email, the address listed was not mine. I knew immediately I was in trouble.

I searched instructions. Read forums. Tried every recommended recovery path. I even found an email from Facebook sent a couple of hours earlier informing me that my email had been changed with a helpful little line saying, “If this wasn’t you, click here.”

Unfortunately, clicking there led directly to a page requiring me to log into the account I no longer controlled. Which was not helpful.

It turns out Facebook is a faceless machine. There are no people. There is no customer service. There is no clear reporting path for victims who no longer have access to their accounts. There are only loops. Endless loops.

The hacker had apparently removed my trusted devices too, so even my own phone was no longer recognized. I could not verify old passwords. I could not file a complaint. I could not explain that my name and face were about to be used to scam people.

All I could do was wait.

Tuesday around noon, I got a text.

“Hey… I’m sorry about your uncle.”

My uncle?

I called Patrick immediately and asked him to look at my Facebook page.

“You’ve definitely been hacked.”

Apparently, there was now an AI generated image of me leaning over a hospital bed beside a sickly uncle who simply does not exist. The post claimed I was selling his personal belongings to help him pay for treatment.

And what belongings they were.

Rolexes.
Espresso machines.
Vehicles.
Dump trailers.

I did learn this week that many of you are apparently in the market for dump trailers.

One man called to say he had sent $1,500 before realizing it was a scam. Several others told me or Patrick they had nearly sent money but paused at the last second.

I felt sick.
Violated.
Embarrassed.
And honestly, confused. How did this happen?

I have taken so many internet safety courses. In fact, I had just completed my annual work compliance training the week before. I know the rules. I know not to click suspicious links. I know to look for clues.

Maybe my password “tomatolady” was too obvious.

That is a joke, by the way.

A tomato lady in tomato pants at a tomato plant sale

A few Sundays before all of this, I sat in church listening to the story of the Good Samaritan, and I mentally cast myself in the role of the compassionate one. Of course I would stop and help. Of course I would be forgiving. Of course I would be merciful.

It is remarkably easy to forgive hypothetical offenders from the comfort of a padded church pew.

But let somebody steal my Facebook account and suddenly I become Liam Neeson standing in my garden whispering, “I will find you.”

I have a very particular set of skills. (mostly tomatoes)

This tiny little pinprick of pain revealed how quickly I want justice when hurt becomes personal.

And then I found myself spiraling into that strange human math where every hardship becomes punishment and every blessing becomes approval.

Maybe God was trying to tell me something. Maybe I spend too much time online. Maybe I focus too much on my tomatoes and silly little videos and social media. Maybe this was correction.

Even though I know better, there is a part of me that tries to interpret life this way. Hardship means God is displeased. Blessing means God approves.

Get hacked? Conviction.
Find favor? Reward.

Which is why it is funny that later this week, feeling sorry for myself, I stopped by Goodwill for a little consolation outing and found the cutest pair of Merry People boots for seven dollars.

Seven dollars!

They retail for around $140, and while they are technically more Emaline’s size than mine, that feels irrelevant because I fully intend to wear them next week when we go to Scotland together.

“Well,” I thought, “maybe God is pleased with me after all. He gave me expensive boots at a really good price.”

You are favored among women.

I wiped them down and they were as good as new!

On Tuesday morning, before I knew the full extent of the scam but after realizing my account had been stolen, I opened my Bible to the familiar verse in Matthew:

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal…”

It has bounced around in my head for the last few days.

What can’t be stolen?

Family can be taken.
Friends leave.
Health fails.
Abilities slow.
Even our own minds can betray us eventually.

So what do we do with that?

Do we stop loving things because they are vulnerable?

Do we stop planting because hail comes?

Listen, I realize what was taken from me was wee potatoes in the grand scheme of life.

A Facebook page.
Some pictures.
Some videos.
A digital gathering place.

And yet it felt deeply personal because many of the people there are woven through the actual fabric of my life. Family. Friends. Former classmates. Church people. Neighbors. Acquaintances from decades and seasons now gone by.

It wasn’t just technology.
It was relationship.

There is risk in loving anything at all.

Tomatoes split.
Cucumbers struggle.
Storms come.
Accounts get hacked.
People disappoint us.
Bodies fail.

But the rest of the passage reminds me these things were never meant to hold the full weight of our hearts.

And I found encouragement in the knowledge that love, mercy, faith, hope, joy, the eternal things woven through ordinary life, are not so easily stolen.

So we plant.

We buy the boots.
We take the trip.
We put the roses in the pretty vase.
We do whatever one does with a dump trailer.
We make things and share them and laugh with one another while we can.

This morning, I walked through the garden like I do every day.

The cucumbers still look a little shocked from the hailstorm.

But they are growing.

Still planting and sharing,
Martha

P.S. I’ll be on Instagram and Substack now.

How about we end with a poem about hope.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.