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Posted: May 30th, 2007 at 1:39am By: Rev. Rebecca Schlatter
As a new homeowner in Reno, I am learning what it takes to keep plants alive in the Nevada soil and weather. One longtime resident shared his practice of caring for a lawn here: regular watering. That, I probably could have guessed. But I didn't get the whole picture until he explained about the clay soil. If you don't water regularly, he said, the soil hardens, and then any future nourishment can't sink in; it just runs off.
This mirrors my experience with spiritual disciplines like prayer and meditation, which water my soul, spirit, heart — whatever it is in human beings that seeks and recognizes God's grace. I don't always "enjoy" these disciplines. Sometimes they are simply a delivery system, like drinking the requisite eight glasses of water a day. Other times, they are thirst-quenching, like a cool drink on a hot day.
At all times, they are the best hope I have of remaining "grounded" through the day's chores, joys, challenges and surprises. They are also the best hope I have of bearing any fruit that day — showing love, experiencing joy, contributing to the smallest bit of peace.
In contrast, if I don't "water" regularly, to use a biblical metaphor, my heart "hardens." I become less and less sensitive to God's communications through the people and circumstances I encounter, and less and less sure that God communicates at all.
These days, my disciplines of prayer and watering my plants are becoming one, and not just metaphorically. Every other day, I'm outside in the early morning with a hose, trying to keep alive the plants that came with the house. As a spiritual discipline, it's teaching me things like stewardship, compassion and tradition.
Take stewardship, for example. Stewardship is based on the recognition that all we have comes from God; whatever fruit grows from our lives, it is first and foremost a gift. After just moving in, my plants too feel like a mysterious gift; it feels like I am taking care of someone else's plants. (Paul's words to the Corinthians ring in my ears: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth" (1 Corinthians 3:6). I did not choose them; many of them I can't even name. But they are beautiful, and I want them to flourish — not just for me, but as a small contribution to the neighborhood. In that context, the time spent watering can be delightful rather than dutiful: It's one way I belong to the neighborhood.
I may not have chosen these particular plants, but they are my responsibility now. I have a choice: care for them as best I can, or let them die. "Compassion" might be a strong word for plants, but this too is a relationship that needs maintaining with care. No one else is going to take care of the caterpillars on the mini-roses or the white powdery substance on the large rosebush. (Is it mildew? Is it aphids? There's a lot to learn here.) I have considered alternative water delivery systems, which would be less work — i.e., a drip system — but I would miss watering by hand. That regular, close-up contact is the only reason I even noticed the caterpillars and the white powder. In the body of Christ, too, "close-up" fellowship is a spiritual discipline that "waters" us and attunes us to one another's needs.
For the most part, I inherited healthy plants, but it remains to be seen whether I can keep them that way. A large part of this "compassion" is discerning what they need, and figuring out what I can give. In this drought-prone climate, a plant that needs watering more than three times a week is asking for more than I'm willing to give. I've known people like that, too.
Finally, watering makes me aware of tradition, and the generations before me who practiced the same discipline I am trying to sustain. I think especially of my grandmother, who loved and maintained a wonderful garden. I wonder whether one can inherit that aptitude, but I suspect that it's something you just have to practice yourself. It reminds me of Alice Walker's book title "In Search of Our Mother's Gardens": I'm in search of my grandmother's gardening. In my spiritual life, too, I'm inspired by those who have gone before, and I long to know what they knew about God — which, I suspect, comes mainly with practice.
One thing they knew was a major difference between water in a dry climate and God's "living water" of grace. Water is so precious here in Nevada, largely because it is so scarce. Grace, however, is preciously abundant. It always exceeds our capacity, even when the soil of our hearts is receptive.
— — —
Rev. Rebecca Schlatter is an ordained minister in the Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Reno, Nevada. You can contact her at {email newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com}newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Rebecca Schlatter
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As a new homeowner in Reno, I am learning what it takes to keep plants alive in the Nevada soil and weather. One longtime resident shared his practice of caring for a lawn here: regular watering. That, I probably could have guessed. But I didn't get the whole picture until he explained about the clay soil. If you don't water regularly, he said, the soil hardens, and then any future nourishment can't sink in; it just runs off.
This mirrors my experience with spiritual disciplines like prayer and meditation, which water my soul, spirit, heart — whatever it is in human beings that seeks and recognizes God's grace. I don't always "enjoy" these disciplines. Sometimes they are simply a delivery system, like drinking the requisite eight glasses of water a day. Other times, they are thirst-quenching, like a cool drink on a hot day.
At all times, they are the best hope I have of remaining "grounded" through the day's chores, joys, challenges and surprises. They are also the best hope I have of bearing any fruit that day — showing love, experiencing joy, contributing to the smallest bit of peace.
In contrast, if I don't "water" regularly, to use a biblical metaphor, my heart "hardens." I become less and less sensitive to God's communications through the people and circumstances I encounter, and less and less sure that God communicates at all.
These days, my disciplines of prayer and watering my plants are becoming one, and not just metaphorically. Every other day, I'm outside in the early morning with a hose, trying to keep alive the plants that came with the house. As a spiritual discipline, it's teaching me things like stewardship, compassion and tradition.
Take stewardship, for example. Stewardship is based on the recognition that all we have comes from God; whatever fruit grows from our lives, it is first and foremost a gift. After just moving in, my plants too feel like a mysterious gift; it feels like I am taking care of someone else's plants. (Paul's words to the Corinthians ring in my ears: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth" (1 Corinthians 3:6). I did not choose them; many of them I can't even name. But they are beautiful, and I want them to flourish — not just for me, but as a small contribution to the neighborhood. In that context, the time spent watering can be delightful rather than dutiful: It's one way I belong to the neighborhood.
I may not have chosen these particular plants, but they are my responsibility now. I have a choice: care for them as best I can, or let them die. "Compassion" might be a strong word for plants, but this too is a relationship that needs maintaining with care. No one else is going to take care of the caterpillars on the mini-roses or the white powdery substance on the large rosebush. (Is it mildew? Is it aphids? There's a lot to learn here.) I have considered alternative water delivery systems, which would be less work — i.e., a drip system — but I would miss watering by hand. That regular, close-up contact is the only reason I even noticed the caterpillars and the white powder. In the body of Christ, too, "close-up" fellowship is a spiritual discipline that "waters" us and attunes us to one another's needs.
For the most part, I inherited healthy plants, but it remains to be seen whether I can keep them that way. A large part of this "compassion" is discerning what they need, and figuring out what I can give. In this drought-prone climate, a plant that needs watering more than three times a week is asking for more than I'm willing to give. I've known people like that, too.
Finally, watering makes me aware of tradition, and the generations before me who practiced the same discipline I am trying to sustain. I think especially of my grandmother, who loved and maintained a wonderful garden. I wonder whether one can inherit that aptitude, but I suspect that it's something you just have to practice yourself. It reminds me of Alice Walker's book title "In Search of Our Mother's Gardens": I'm in search of my grandmother's gardening. In my spiritual life, too, I'm inspired by those who have gone before, and I long to know what they knew about God — which, I suspect, comes mainly with practice.
One thing they knew was a major difference between water in a dry climate and God's "living water" of grace. Water is so precious here in Nevada, largely because it is so scarce. Grace, however, is preciously abundant. It always exceeds our capacity, even when the soil of our hearts is receptive.
— — —
Rev. Rebecca Schlatter is an ordained minister in the Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Reno, Nevada. You can contact her at {email newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com}newhousesfromoldbricks@hotmail.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Rebecca Schlatter
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