Compost and Canned Goods: Learning to Serve
This week I was influenced to dig through mud by a spiritual scholar.
I’ve been reading Grounded: Finding God in the World by Diana Butler Bass for my quiet mornings, and her chapter on dirt stirred something in me. She traces our theological tension with soil, the fact that cleanliness, washing away of sins, and avoiding being soiled have turned us away from the land, the earth, its care and its wisdom.
She calls for a return for caring for physical dirt and also learning from Jesus who used parables of good soil to indicate our receptiveness to God’s love and ways and the resulting fruitfulness.
Bass says, “A friend of mine who is a pastor and a gardener insists, ‘God loves dirt more than plants, soil more than what it yields. God is a dirt farmer, not a vegetable gardener.”
Enamored by her descriptions, I decided to spend an afternoon turning our neglected compost pile.
It was not as poetic as I had imagined.
Nor was there the amazing rich ecosystem she had described, loamy, fluffy soil as a result of our noble effort.
There were piles of dry leaves that had never started to decompose, tangles of branches, several lost small toys, stinky peels, chicken poo, and two rotting rats. Gag. Blech. Ugh.
I was dismayed and sweaty and grossed out, confused why we didn’t have good dirt yet after several seasons of sitting.
Apparently, we had been doing a method called cold composting vs hot, the difference between compost we could use in weeks to months vs material that could take several years to be ready.
Both are good methods of building dirt, both have their pros and cons, both are better for some people at different seasons, but basically, without us working our soil, we weren’t getting the oxygen and water and transformation we had been hoping for.
Yesterday, I brought my kids along with me for my normal volunteer service at the Backpack Program packing. During the school year, packing happens during the days my husband works from home, so I can blissfully zone out putting together canned good food bags for area families who need food on the weekends (It’s an amazing program in our city schools, you can check it out here). During the summer, however, packing happens less frequently and on a day when I’m parenting solo.
I imagined my kids, who’ve received tons of instruction about being helpers and the needs of our community and working hard, to be star packers, the other volunteers amazed by our crew.
It was not as poetic as I had imagined.
Now, I’ve volunteered with my kids before and they’ve been a part of neighborhood friendships and service for years. But yesterday, it felt chaotic, embarrassing at points, sweaty and frustrating. I wanted to swear under my breath. I let out several angry hisses of stop that right this instant; we’re supposed to be ACTUALLY helping. I felt the eyes of the other volunteers and cringed at my children’s moans that they were practically dying from the work and wanted to go home. Hadn’t I added enough over the years to the pile of instructions on loving your neighbor and being like Jesus and Mr. Rogers thrown in, too?
Something happened in my heart while we were working. I remembered that service is a skill that’s taught over time. I reminded the kids that we were building our helping muscles, practicing giving to others even when it’s uncomfortable. I thought of myself the first time I did a burpee or other exercise I’d never tried. It wasn’t pretty or poetic. It took time but also some messy, frustrating repetition.
Building a sense of purpose and mission with our kids, a sense of belonging in the kingdom-coming of Jesus is a lot like my compost pile. Yes, there are some seasons when we can add bits and pieces of wisdom to their lives, verses and songs and stories and living examples that will enrich their faith and lives.
God is gracious enough that no matter what, soil will eventually get richer, though it might take years.
What speeds formation up, deepens our families’ value of loving our neighbor as ourselves is messy movement.
It’s trying to put canned goods in bags when together, the four of you somehow equal .75 of a volunteer. It’s dropping off dinner to a new mom down the street with ugly cookies made by your preschooler. It’s answering complex questions about homelessness and addiction when you’d rather not, explaining history that’s pretty rotten, and getting sweaty and worn as we get knee-deep in the muck with our kids and loved ones. It’s light and oxygen and heat in a stinking pile of new and uncomfortable experiences that can help turn our kids’ (and our) hearts into receptive ground.
At the bottom of my muck pile was the brown gold I’d been searching for. Soft and rich and ready to help our plants and flowers thrive.
We can be co-cultivators with God in the literal and metaphorical dirt in our lives. May we dig deep, get messy, make mistakes, push past the smells and whining and disappointing behaviors. May we eagerly expect the good soil to come if we’re faithful to till it and receive “the wind and the rain and God’s good will.”
We celebrated our morning of hard work at the food truck court near our house. Did they work hard enough to deserve it? Heavens, no. Do I want them to be spurred on toward love and good deeds by celebrating progress and purpose, absolutely yes.
My blood pressure may still be coming down, and we’ll surely bring our messy bunch to other situations near you, but for now, I’ll watch our pile grow and turn and change.
Good soil is worth the work and wait.
