Life Lessons in the Garden

My garden holds countless life lessons; I’m sure of it. We first saw our house in February. New England in February is beautiful, actually, but it’s beautiful in a shades-of-gray-brown kind of way. The only thing I knew about my garden was its pruned-back landscape that I considered while holding an out-of-season real estate picture. When we moved into the house in early July, the garden had unfurled in all its splendor, and we were surprised by joy.

Then I quickly learned that you cannot leave an acre of cottage garden perennials to fend for themselves for a month in the summertime while you negotiate real estate transactions and moving logistics. The month it lingered here alone was one of rapid growth. Once I arrived, I was a necessarily quick study. The tasks were to discriminate between intentional plants and weeds, and to ruthlessly pull the latter. I pulled plants from the dirt, but I also weeded so much from my life that summer; so much changed and so much was suddenly still. Gone was the constant activity of a home full of kids and their friends. In its place, there were three bereft girls trying to make sense of life in a different house with far fewer siblings under roof.

At a friend’s insistence and with the gift of her tulip selections, we planted intentionally, sinking bulbs into the autumn ground, staking a claim on hope that spring would be beautiful. In the winter we started seeds. Together, we learned more than I ever imagined about perennial gardens and about annual cutting gardens. We also learned to chat over the backyard fence and across the strip of asphalt between houses. Roots began to spread into the ground ever so slowly, even in the winter.

But not much of what we learned in books made sense until we had our hands in the dirt and we saw how the light lands on our little piece of earth. The bulbs burst forth more stunning than I ever imagined. My heart leapt to see all the daffodils the previous owner had left for us — happy, cheerful faces turned to the soft northern spring sun. What a gift those blooms were. Maybe I could find genuine joy in a place long cultivated by someone else. Soon, our tulips took their places alongside, and I was feeling like gardens were my jam.

We put all sorts of plants into the ground last spring. Some did stunningly well. Others went the way of the sunflower: sturdy little starts that died once, twice, all three times we planted them. The garden beds are stages to well-orchestrated dances of many acts. The daffodils and tulips give way to the irises and peonies and roses. The Shasta daisies pop up as the ranunculus wanes. We are snipping buckets full of zinnias right now, and dahlias are beginning to burst into the light.

And I’m finding that I’m not at all who I thought I was. I thought peonies were my favorite, but the double tulips were actually the ones I loved best in the spring. I’ve never been a huge fan of zinnias. But I’m astonished by my zinnia bed every day. We are growing very loyal to one another. Despite the fact that every floor in this house is slanted so we have no flat surfaces for our seed starter trays, they adapted and thrived. Now, even under the apple tree that is throwing far too much shade, they have bloomed prolifically. They have long, strong, sturdy stems and last forever in a vase. The more we delight in them — and cut them to enjoy and give away — the more they bloom. It’s a lot like love, actually.

It’s been a year in the garden. We know just a little more than we did last year, and there is so much more to learn. But the zinnias and their buddies? They make me want to get up in the morning and run barefoot out the back door just to see what the day’s lessons will be. We’re just getting started in the school that is my cottage garden.

Rest in Christ

My friend Mrs. Berry used to say that a change is as good as a rest. In hindsight, I think this was her way of convincing herself that a vacation was restful despite the fact that every mother knows that family vacations (let’s just call them “family trips” instead) are usually a whole lot of the same work as at home, only in a different location with a bunch of people who are disoriented by changes in schedule and environment. A change is rarely anything like a rest.

My family has had a whole year of change. Like most of the world, our work and school rhythms changed. Our social patterns changed. And, for us, our entire home was packed up and shipped out to another state where we found ourselves feeling very much like we’d landed in Oz, bewildered by the strange newness of it all. 

It was a lot of things. A rest it wasn’t.

Whether your challenge is a move, or a new season of parenting, or an unexpected job change, or a “vacation” that is full of challenges and disappointments, maybe you’re finding it difficult to be loving and patient — and holy — right now. Maybe you’re discouraged because you recognize your sin even as it’s happening, but you’ve reached the end of yourself and you just can’t seem to love people the way you truly want to love them.

Here’s the thing: you don’t have to conjure love up all on your own. You are not the creator of love. When you reach the end of yourself and you whisper the faintest of prayers heavenward, they are heard by the God who is love himself. You don’t have to try harder to love better. You don’t have to make loving your family a project to be mastered. You don’t — you can’t — manufacture love.

Try to remember that. The next time you’re feeling intense shame because you fell short of the glory of God, try to remember that you have never been charged with creating love. You can reject those feelings of failure and shame. You can repent and know that you are forgiven. And then you can take action based on God’s truth. God tells us he loves us enough to lay down his life for us. God says we are heirs to his kingdom, reflections of his glory and his dearly beloved children. We are cherished and chosen.

It is up to us to accept that love. It’s up to us to recognize that shame is a lie and the father of lies often whispers into our doubts and our failures and blows them up larger than life. But we can reject the shame and ask the Holy Spirit to shed light on dark places and to let holy love heal. We don’t have to strive for love. God loved us first. We don’t have to be lovely to be loved by him. He’ll willingly come into the dark places and light them with love that purifies and sanctifies.

To love well, we need to have a true relationship with Christ — not a “try harder” relationship: an “I surrender” relationship. When we abide in the God who loved us first and we let the Holy Spirit teach us how to love as he does, love flows from there. We don’t have the innate ability to love well, but he always will, and we can love through him. We can access the power, and love, and sound mind that is Christ’s.

The real rest we need? It’s the rest of surrender, the rest of abiding in the God who loved us first. No matter how much change swirls around you, there is rest in Christ, and then there is love in rest.  

The power of apologies

Have you ever stopped to wonder in awe at the power of an apology? So many supernatural things have to happen for an apology to be everything it has the potential to be. Apologies are kind of here-now miracles that can happen to everyday people every day. If only we cooperate.

First, there’s the part that seems to happen all too easily. There is an angry outburst, a betrayal of trust, an unkindness, an injury. We wound someone. Sometimes there are angry words on both sides. Sometimes we wound each other. And then, there is retreat. 

Time passes. It might be only a few minutes. It might be a long, sleepless night. Sometimes, it’s days that become weeks that become months and years. But in our here-now miracle scenario, only a short time passes. Grace moves in. Your head begins to speak sense to your heart. It tells you that somewhere along the way you inflicted pain — you sinned. And an apology is in order. 

This is where the battle is won. Not the battle with the person you hurt; this is where you win the battle with Satan. Our human interpersonal relationships are frequently confused because of our lack of understanding and/or underestimation of the very real demons who are determined to win our souls. And so, the demons step into our human interactions with distinct power and purpose. 

Christ defeated the devil on the cross, but Satan still prowls about the world seeking the ruin of souls. A favorite weapon in his battle is deception. He loves to get inside your head and fuel your anger and your self-righteousness. He loves to entice you to ignore the promptings of grace. He loves to confuse you so effectively that you refuse to make the repair attempt.

So, swallow your pride and pray for that glorious grace. Pray that your heart softens to the wisdom of your head. Pray for sincere regret and remorse. The miracle follows.

Repentance is put in motion. An apology is offered. With all your heart, you render a regretful acknowledgment of the offense or failure. Perhaps you offer restitution. You definitely resolve to amend your ways.

And then, against all impulses of the flesh, in an act of mercy, you are forgiven. Here too, supernatural power is exerted over the enemy. To forgive requires surrender to the impulse of tenderness. To forgive requires a refusal to listen to the lies of the one who would continue to stoke the fires of hurt and resentment. The demon is cast out when apology is received with mercy and grace. 

“What I have forgiven, if I have forgiven anything, has been for your sake in the presence of Christ, to keep Satan from gaining the advantage over us; for we are not ignorant of his designs” (2 Cor 2:10-11).

There is reconciliation. There is reunification. 

And the devil is defeated. Again.

It’s straight-up miraculous. Apology and forgiveness defy Satan and claim victory for Christ. Mercy is no small thing. It’s big, and grand, and glorious. 

Learning together this summer

There’s something crazy happening out there in summer camp world. It’s as if everyone is making up for lost time. Camps are filled to overflowing with waiting lists for the waiting list. And parents are worried. How are we going to keep kids occupied this summer? After more than a year of being cooped up together at home, moms in particular seem to have fallen into despair. Never mind magical or manageable or meaningful, they are asking how will summer be mine? How will I navigate having all this time with my kids without losing my mind or my sense of self or my sanity? 

Maybe it’s time to reframe the question. Maybe instead of asking how we can keep them occupied and out of our hair, we need to ask what we can learn together this summer. Maybe instead of buying (literally) into the culture’s insistence that we have to go to great lengths to orchestrate a summer apart, we surrender to the idea that we are going to be together, whether it’s because camp is full or because we see a better vision than long afternoons playing Minecraft. What if instead of pushing them out of the way so we can pursue our own agendas, we ask ourselves what we can learn together this summer?

Have you always wanted to learn to make pasta? Maybe instead of hiring a sitter so you can go off to a class, you buy a simple pasta machine and you and your children watch YouTube videos and then practice together until you have something edible with which to celebrate? Setting a personal goal to run a 5K in the fall? Why not do that alongside your preteen daughter? Run together, working your way through each step on a training app. Kids too little to run alongside? Let them ride a scooter or bike or push them in the stroller. Take them along. You won’t lose your sense of self, and you won’t forgo the endorphins that come with exercise and fresh air. You’ll gain some things, though. And so will they.

The Lord sets us down in families so we can grow together in virtue. It’s up to us to seize the opportunities family life presents. Sure, we can acquiesce to the entirely secular assurance that screens make great babysitters and there’s no shame in the Blippi game. But let’s do that with our eyes wide open. For a moment, let’s not worry about what that screen time is doing for (or against) the child. Let’s just look at how it’s limiting you.

We are here for holiness. We are here to grow closer to Our Lord and to become more like him every day until we are reunited in heaven. Don’t let anyone distract you from that truth. Your whole purpose here on earth is to love the Lord, serve your people and get ready for heaven. Everything else is a distraction from that purpose. Our families are vehicles for growth — not just a child’s growth, but a parent’s growth, too. Maybe parents grow the most. 

The very thing God provided to teach you patience might be a loquacious 4-year-old who never stops asking questions and telling very long stories. The mom-coddlers are here to tell you that you matter most — not your soul: your temporal satisfaction. No need to delay your own gratification or stretch your ability to be compassionate, empathetic or attentive to another. The advice is to go plug in her iPad instead of patiently answering all her questions and listening to her story without picking up your phone to distract you.

Before you take that advice, ask yourself how it will help either of you become holier. Ask yourself how focusing on your wants (because truly, I’m not talking about "needs" here) will teach you to lay down your life. Ask yourself if you are missing the thing that is most needful for your salvation.

How can this summer be a beautiful, productive, glorious one for growth in virtue? By recognizing all the many opportunities life at home with children offers to become more virtuous. I know that sounds old-fashioned. What about a woman’s right to time and space and personal enjoyment and enrichment? Go for it. Spend as much time as you like by yourself. Just be sure you hold it up to this test: is this a good way to redeem this time on my way to eternity? Sometimes alone time is exactly what you need for holiness. But often, what you need is to lay down your life and pick up a child. 

Maybe that simple test question will yield more messes in the kitchen, walks in the park and fabulously long little girl stories.

Self-help and the Holy Spirit

I noticed it first in the bookstore. A brightly colored table full of self-help books interspersed with flip flops and beach blankets promised readers that this would be the summer they’d finally become the best version of themselves. If only they’d crack open the books and do the right things and change the wrong thoughts, all would be well. Later that day, as if to beat me over the head with the message, I saw it as a meme on social media. 

"Your self-image is the force that changes your life."

Our relativistic culture encourages us to decide for ourselves what our best self is. The quote above is a lie. It shuts out the Holy Spirit. It glorifies and magnifies the absolute power of self. It boldly asserts that you have to stop measuring yourself by external standards in order to heal, tempting us to make ourselves the measure of what is good. It tells us to rewrite the script in our heads so that we give ourselves unconditional positive praise and positive self-talk. If only we do that, the hype promises, we will be healed of those things that keep us from being the best version of ourselves. But that’s not true. It’s a lie that’s often cloaked in "church talk."

What we need to be the best version of ourselves is to see ourselves the way our Creator sees us and then become — through the power of the Holy Spirit — what God intended us to be all along. 

In Acts 2, St. Peter clearly delineates what we need. He tells the early church in Jerusalem, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit." 

The sacrament of baptism instituted by Christ and conferred here by his apostles forgives our sins and brings us into the shared life of Christ by infusing us with sanctifying grace. Further, we receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit. That’s what we need.

Yet, certain temporal consequences of sin remain in the baptized, such as suffering, illness, death and such frailties inherent in life as weaknesses of character, and so on, as well as an inclination to sin that tradition calls concupiscence, or metaphorically, "the tinder for sin" ("fomes peccati"). Since concupiscence "is left for us to wrestle with, it cannot harm those who do not consent but manfully resist it by the grace of Jesus Christ." Indeed, "an athlete is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules" (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1264).

So, there we have it — precisely why we aren’t the best versions of ourselves. What to do to become our best selves? Well, simple positive self-talk isn’t really going to get it done. 

There is a root wound that makes us easily susceptible to the psychobabble that tells us that we are the force to change our lives. That wound is likely different for each of us. Hunker down in prayer; bring your Bible.  And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. (Eph 6:17). Armed with the knowledge of Scripture and the understanding of what God has been trying to convey for generations, ask the Holy Spirit to use the word of God to slice you open to see your root wound. No matter what the wound, Peter’s wisdom is for all of us.

If we buy into the culture’s notion, we miss the beauty of the glory of God's grace in forgiveness. Take care not to confuse relativism with graciousness. It sounds magnanimous to say that God simply wants to affirm our best visions of ourselves without commandments or expectations for holiness on his terms. But if that were so, there’d be no need for forgiveness. 

And we need forgiveness. We need the law and the standard of holiness that God clearly set forth in Scripture, and then we need that Scripture to slice us open and show us where to repent, to root out what festers in the wound and keeps us from being healthy. Then we need the healing power of grace poured over all those wounds. That is the force that changes our lives. 

We have crucified Christ. We are out of step with his character. We are living according to our own constructs of reality. And thank God, St. Peter didn’t simply affirm us for doing our best and loving ourselves well. We have offended God and we need to cry out for forgiveness, not talk hype to ourselves. Now, it’s not all up to us. What a relief.