The Slow Way: This Day The Lord Has Made
We are living things, like the soil, and our spiritual lives are intertwined with the reality of now.
I’ve been moving dirt this week, clearing out a weedy patch of my side yard, a spot of garden where literally no one but my next door neighbor and (possibly) members of my family will ever see. There’s no real reason to walk back there to the two foot wide patch that runs along the entire side of my house, all thirty feet of it, and except for the fifty-year-old rose bushes that grow along an ancient metal fence. These are rose bushes that my neighbor, who has lived in her house as long as the roses have lived in theirs, cares for with the tenderness of a memory-holder. No doubt, those roses carry her back to her babies, her friendships, her rooted commitment to this street.
I don’t have that kind of commitment, but I have tried to do my best to be tender with the space between our houses. This past weekend I finally paused the rest of life long enough to harvest the compost of the summer, hoe the weeds in that side yard, haul the excess dirt, and dig down to work the compost into the sandy soil. I planted bulbs from my mother in law’s garden, and let Ace help me sort the weeds and pour the excess dirt into the back corner of my bigger garden.
I’ve been thinking about what it may look like when the daffodil bulbs erupt in that side garden, how no one will know but me, my neighbor, and perhaps Richmond the dog if he ventures around the corner. But I think the soil will be grateful. Not that the soil actually feels gratitude. Though perhaps mycelium—the fungal system that runs through soil, connecting roots to one another and forming a kind of soil brain—feels something? If, as Isaiah wrote, the trees of the field will clap their hands, then surely the soil can rumble its gratitude. And surely building a beautiful garden for my elderly next door neighbor to notice through her kitchen window is worthy of my time and joy.
I was surprised and delighted to get my hands on a new prayer book from Padriag O’Tuama this week. Being Here won’t be released until January, so my praise is coming a little early. But I can’t help it. The book is a collection of daily prayers he wrote for the Church of the Heavenly Rest in Manhattan, where he was Artist in Residence in 2020. Each day begins with the same prayer, then leads the reader into a passage of literature, a passage of scripture, a time of silence, an original collect in response, and a closing prayer.
It’s the repeated first prayer of each day that has clanged around in my mind all week: “This is the day the Lord has made,” it begins, “and a day we’ll have to make our way through.” There’s so much in this one line. The acknowledgement of God’s hand in this day, and an acknowledgement of our circumstances, every hard thing that may wait for us on the other side of our morning prayer.
I moved piles and piles of dirt out of the weedy side garden. The dirt had a sandy quality, different from the other garden beds, where hands before me have worked to mix in nutrients over the years. This soil had been left on its own. It was piled higher than the sidewalk, and the more I moved the weeds, the more it became clear that there was more dirt there than I needed. Maybe this is silly, but as I moved the dirt, I thought about how prayer is a little like moving soil, and digging down to restore its original goodness. (I know, I know, the classic garden metaphor.) But sometimes prayer is the act of moving things around, recognizing what in our lives needs removing, and what in our lives needs transforming. The intricate system of our inner soil can be rich, or it can be lacking. And it can survive on its own for a while. But eventually, if we neglect it, the weeds spring up, the soil loses nutrients. Our lifeforce slumps.
When I was younger, prayer was often presented as a task I needed to do to make God happy, to maintain a relationship that always seemed a little needy on the side of the divine. Anyone out there hear the “Jesus is waiting for you every morning and when you don’t show up he’s sad” metaphor? That doesn’t work for me. Prayer is not a breakfast date that Jesus needs me to keep so we can stay good friends. Prayer is nourishment. Prayer is connection to a God who loves me and is already here, already close. In fact, in the metaphor of the soil, I can be nourished without prayer. There are plenty of ways that God shows up in the day the Lord has made, working divine hands into our lives. But if I’m open to the work of the Spirit in me, even my willingness to show up in the Presence allows for the good nutrients to be worked in. There is something about wanting to be made healthy that allows for the very thing.
So prayer is opening ourselves up to being stirred, moved, transformed via compost and top soil. Even as Ace and I dropped bulb after bulb six inches down into the darkness, and then covered it, knowing that the soil will have to sit through months of freeze and the appearance of barrenness before the bulbs will find a way to push through toward the light this coming April. And even that barrenness is the work of prayer, the season that looks and feels like nothing is happening. Because the prayer as soil metaphor can’t be complete without winter.
“This is the day the Lord has made / and a day we’ll have to make our way through.” Whether today is a day for the working of our soil, the planting of something new, the long season of nothingness and freeze, or the gradual warming of the soil that allows for roots to take up space. We are living things, like the soil, and our spiritual lives are intertwined with the reality of now. The question is not, What does today feel like? The question is, Will I be open to whatever the work of the Spirit is doing in me right now? Will I allow myself to be nourished?
A Slow Practice
If I had to write down my top five themes for this little space, one would be: Prayer is simpler than we like to think. Let’s keep it simple today.
Y’all know I love imaginative prayer. So I’m inviting you to spend some time imagining your inner soil. Take a deep breath with me to begin.
Breathe in: Here I am, Lord.
Breathe out: Help me know that you’re here.
You may spend a lot of time with your hands in soil, or no time at all. But I think we all understand what rich soil looks like and what sandy soil looks like. Let’s begin by closing our eyes and imagining our own hands in the dirt. Imagine the dirt is loose and easy to put your hands into. (If that grosses you out—I hate the feeling of dirt in my fingernails!—feel free to imagine gloves on your hands.)
Take some time to picture what you imagine when you think of weak soil. What does it feel like? How does it move through your hands? What is growing naturally out of the soil?
Now imagine with me how compost or nutrients are added to the soil. What goes on in the darkness, below the surface? How is the soil transformed by good things? What does it look like as creatures make pathways through the soil, as nutrients and worm castings break down?
Now imagine your life right now—the challenges you’re facing, the relationships you’re pursuing or that are pursuing you, the doubts, griefs, or delights you’re carrying with you, the stresses that are playing out in your daily life, the never ending tasks you need to complete each day. If these things are in the soil of your inner life, what are they adding or taking away from your spiritual health? What do you need? More tender nutrients? General upkeep? Time and a good barren winter to rest? Sunshine?
Take some time to clarify this question in your mind and then offer it to God, asking for what you need. Remind yourself that the spiritual life is a long-game, a process of continual care and transformation. And it's also about today: this day the Lord has made. What do you need to make your way through?
Spend time letting these questions and responses settle into you. Ask for help being open to the work of the Spirit in your inner soil.
Close with this prayer: Here I am, Lord, asking for transformation, upkeep, tender care. Help me to receive your work in my life. Amen.
What a great way to start my day! I really appreciate how the ending prayer starts with “here I am”. I’m in the Old Testament right now and that is how everyone has been answering when the Lord calls their name. It stood out to me in the Word and now here, where we answer His call and open the door to His knock.
So good. Going to be sitting with the image of soil throughout the week. Can’t wait for that book!