When we bought our house, my husband and I inherited well-tended front and back yards, complete with bushes, flowers and established fruit trees, not to mention two gardening beds. Neither I nor my husband are particularly interested in gardening. And Houston gardening brings challenges that surprised and dismayed this West Coast native. After two seasons of sweating my way through weeding and planting and fighting aphids and fire ants, I gave up. Since then, our tending of our yards has been less than stellar. Sure, we harvest the lemons that continue to grow on our lemon trees, and I occasionally prune the trees — but beyond that, our yard receives little TLC.
Several years ago, one of our shrubs in the front looked as if it had died. One Christmas, as my dad surveyed the state of the yard, he recommended that we remove the bush and plant something new. But being procrastinators, my husband and I did nothing. We let the bush lay fallow. Amazingly, the following spring, we saw some new leaves growing on the bush. It still looked mostly lifeless, and I suspect it was more laziness than hope that caused us to continue to leave the bush alone. Nevertheless, several years later, the bush has filled out, with new branches and leaves. My dad recently pruned the bush, giving it the attention it deserves. It is no longer the eyesore it once was.
I feel like there’s a metaphor somewhere in this bush. What appeared dead came back to life when allowed time to lay fallow. Of course, if we had properly tended the bush to begin with, it probably would not have needed to lay fallow. Still, it is a grace that in spite of me, the natural world in my front and back yards continue to grow. It is as if they are defiantly choosing life in the face of death, just like wildflowers and weeds blooming through cracks in the sidewalk.
Death lurks, no matter what. We are all one day going to die. But I feel death lurking more acutely these days, in this season of pandemic, social unrest and political vitriol. On the one hand, this has provoked me and the people I love to action on behalf of the marginalized. On the other hand, my soul is growing weary; sometimes it feels a bit lifeless. I’ve found that constant action and activity does not bring restoration to my weariness. Rather I must balance action with contemplation, with mindful meditation, with putting my trust in God’s work of justice and grace in our world. I must have moments of rest – of letting the ground lay fallow – in order for the work of justice to blossom in my life.
What within us feels dead, of which we need to let lay fallow? What new life might arise in us, if we would only give ourselves time to bloom?
RACHEL YOUNG is the associate pastor of spiritual formation at Clear Lake Presbyterian Church, in Houston, Texas. She is married to Josh, who also serves on staff at Clear Lake Presbyterian as the director of contemporary worship and media.