Earth to Earth

South Florida in 1967, the year I was born at Broward General Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, was already beginning to see the seeds of environmental change.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas' book The Everglades: River of Grass was 20 years old. What I would know as my childhood home in the Lauderdale Lakes subdivision of suburban Pembroke Pines, a one-story house of concrete-block stucco, was in a new neighborhood southwest of Fort Lauderdale and northwest of Miami, part of new residential and retail development moving toward the state's interior.

By 1977, my parents had made the difficult decision to uproot the household, and we resettled in a university town in central North Carolina. One of the factors prompting the move was the development, seemingly unchecked, of what now feels and looks like the paving over of a noticeable portion of South Florida.

Do you remember the television ad? The man in Native dress, a single tear coursing slowly down his cheek, a statement against pollution. And "Woodsy Owl," who proclaimed: "Give a hoot! Don't pollute!"

Turns out, they were right. And not only because it's in our own interests as part of humankind to protect the planet.

M., the hubs, is the son of a man who found great solace in yard work and gardening. I came to our marriage a few years after having finished my undergraduate education at a small college in the western part of NC whose leaders were way ahead of the curve when it came to living with a smaller footprint on the Earth that God has given us so that we might be good stewards.

Six years ago, we moved into a house built in 1957 (hey! Older than I am!) with an addition from about 1990 (okay, so part of the house is younger). The previous owners, a young couple with a growing family, had made a start at transforming the partly-shady back yard for family and neighborhood gatherings. Lately, the hubs and I find that our hearts are inviting us to keep trimmed what grass grows while protecting the wild strawberries in a sunny portion of the yard.

To stack fallen branches and limbs in a corner near the fence so the tree parts can decay naturally and return to the soil. We're talking about planting wildflowers native to North Carolina that will encourage the bee population, such as purple coneflower and blue lobelia. M. favors rhododendrons for a particularly shady corner.

In short (too late?), the Creator of the Universe has inclined our hands and thoughts and hearts toward being gentle stewards of all that is in our little patch. Will it save the planet? Not by itself. Will it get us a crown in heaven? Not our motivation. Will it invite us toward intentionality and reflection about how very brief is our time here, and how many other people, animals, plants, and elements are in this time and space with us? That's what we want to see grow and flourish.

A voice says, “Cry!” And I said, “What shall I cry?” All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it;     surely the people are grass.The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand for ever (Isaiah 40:6-8, RSV). 

But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you (Matthew 6:30)?

We garden because it reinforces our narrative connections with Eden, which strengthens the constant reminder of the One who placed us there. We shape our back yard mindfully because it nourishes our God-created selves so that we might flourish - and be enriched to spread the love of the Creator as we walk on this Earth.