The Slow Way: Worm Is Kin

What if the natural world around you is also your neighbor? Are you loving your neighbor?

for the frantic strivers, serial doers, and weary achievers

It’s really only been one week that we’ve had consistent sunshine—instead of weeks of fifty degrees and rain. Which means it’s really only been one week since I moved my coffee and prayer time in the morning out to the porch, where all coffee and prayer time actually belongs. Yes, there’s a place for prayer in front of the fireplace. But the in-between, where it’s not cold enough for a fire, and not warm enough to sit on the porch? I don’t believe in that. So I’m grateful. The blooming trees here have mostly given way to leaves. Especially Little Mikey, my weeping redbud I planted last year in memory of my dad. His bright purple buds slowly faded this week and turned into big fat green leaves. 

We’re all in a state of waking up around here. I guess I mean that figuratively. There’s something about the intensity of shifting from hardcore winter into spring that scrubs the fog from our eyes, rouses us to the natural alertness of the world around us. And the creatures all wake up too. Where do they all come from?! Of course, I know the answer. The hibernators came back to life just as their bodies tell them to. The migrators arrive just in time for the shift in weather. The worms find their movement in the ground again making dirt out of our leftovers, and eventually becoming food for the robins. (Btw, thank you to my dear, slimy compost worms. Seriously, I’m a little in love with them.) And the squirrels and rabbits in our backyard? They come from somewhere just to torment Richmond the dog. 

In my friend Jennifer Grant’s book of prayer practices for children Sing, Wrestle, Spin: Prayers for Active Kids, one of many ways she invites kids to pay attention to the natural world around them is by considering the Native American idea of seeing nature—plants and trees in particular—as beings, not cold inanimate objects. She quotes the brilliant Robin Kimmerer, a member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, whose book Braiding Sweetgrass you should all read, if you haven’t yet. Kimmerer invites all of us to use a different pronoun than “it” — the same pronoun we’d use for a machine or a pair of scissors — when we speak about plant life. Instead, with the understanding that living things deserve a level of respect above our human-made tools and machines, Kimmerer offers the pronouns “ki” or “kin” for beings in the natural world. 

The prayer practice Jennifer Grant provides her readers is one of wondering:

“Psalm 77:16 says,

When the waters saw you, they were afraid; the very deep trembled.

Can you imagine the ocean being afraid?

What would frighten the depths of the sea? 

She quotes from Psalm 19:1-2 (CEB):

“Heaven is declaring God’s glory;

The sky is proclaiming his handiwork.

One day gushes the news to the next,

And one night informs another what needs to be known.”

How does the sky talk?, she asks. How do clouds make announcements?

I shared some of these things with my crew of beloved, and frankly mysteriously smelly, middle school boys last weekend at our youth retreat, hoping they might find in themselves a smidge of curiosity about a God who might love the world enough to call plants “kin.” Or that they might gain some sort of tenderness toward the earth they live in, to imagine one night informing the next night what needs to be done. 

I told them that we who believe God loves the world God made ought to be the ones most passionate about seeing the earth cared for, nourished and returned to what’s right. And that starts with our own hearts, and seeing the natural world as God sees it. What if God calls the trees “ki” and “kin” and not “it”? 

I have the privilege of being part of a church with immensely talented songwriters, who recently wrote and recorded, “Sycamore, Sparrow,” a song about creation groaning, which asks the question: “Who is my neighbor? What is their name? Sycamore, Sparrow, the river and plain.” 

What if our neighbor is not only the human next door, but the living beings all around us? Kin. 

So thanks to Jennifer Grant and her prayer practices for children, I’ve had my hands deep in compost this week, prayerfully removing the endless slimy worms and their always-new babies. And carting that compost gratefully over to the other side of the garden where I’ll plant my vegetable garden. Kin, kin, kin. 

The worms declare God’s handiwork. One day gushes news to the next. 

A Slow Practice

As Jennifer Grant reminds us and her younger readers, wondering can be its own kind of prayer. Today I invite you to head outside for a walk or a sit, whatever works best for you. If you live near a garden, go there. A forest? Walk there. A body of water? By all means, get your body to that body! Just go with curiosity. 

And go with these passages from the Psalms in mind. How do you imagine the “heavens” or the skies speaking? How does one day gossip to the next? How does one night give information to the next night? 

Think about how the Psalmist imagines the ocean having feelings of fear. What comes up for you when you imagine the ocean, or the land, the forest, or the plain, feeling fear, or joy, or anxiety, or lightness? 

There are plenty of other Psalms that give human “feelings” to the natural world: Psalm 96 speaks of the trees of the forest singing out of joy. In Psalm 98, the rivers clap their hands in delight. In Psalm 65, the meadows clothe themselves with joy.

Choose a Psalm, perhaps one of these I just listed, or the ones I quoted above, to read quietly to yourself, and spend some time imagining what it might mean if this were true. If the trees of the forest were kin to you in such a way that they might sing out in joy. If the river could feel joy and clap their hands, if the sky could actually declare God to you. 

If the natural world around you is declaring the nearness, love and beauty of the Divine, are you paying attention? 

What if the natural world around you is also your neighbor, are you loving your neighbor? If you have a little extra time, spend time listening to and contemplating Good Shepherd Collective’s song “Sycamore, Sparrow” found here. 

Close with this prayer:

Spirit who moves through space, through sky, through sea. Spirit who moves through the trees, through the soil, and through the lives and hearts of the people I love and those I struggle to love—reveal to me your nearness, your goodness, and your beauty. Help me to see you in my neighbor, in whatever form that takes. Amen.