Sunday night we returned from a visit with my parents in Ohio, and for the first time since May, I didn’t run right out to check the garden.
“I think I’m finally over it,” I told Cory.
Now, to be fair, I think I may have just been tired. Because it wasn’t long before I got my second wind and wandered out, spending a solid thirty minutes deadheading the Cosmos (possible title for my next book? HA!) and picking the abundant Sungolds for Monday’s pasta.
What surprises me is that my garden fervor lasted this long. I usually bump up against “over it” at least a month earlier, when it has become blindingly clear that I’ve once again over-promised and under-delivered.
Usually, by August, I’m ready for a fresh start.
Usually, by August, I have a fresh start.
I’m beginning to realize there is no “usually” anymore. “Usually” is broken. Now, all we have is now. Today. We have this slice of life, waiting on the plate. The big question is, can it satisfy?
Cory and I recently escaped to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, “the UP,” as good Midwesterners say, to stay with our beloved friends, Rich and Neal. It was our first visit to the UP, which doesn’t at all excuse my geographical bewilderment. As we were plotting our route I was shocked to learn that “the UP” does not refer to the fingertips of the mittenous state of Michigan, but is an actual peninsula (so literal!) connected by land to Wisconsin. (Sidenote: we also experienced a grave dose of temporal bewilderment that almost led to us arriving one week early to the personal residence of a complete stranger. Rich: “My cousin Brendan is there right now so he would have been the most surprised.”)
The eight-hour trip included miles of interstate highway where every exit was barricaded by State Troopers whose seas parted only for the military-grade, armored police vehicles that rolled through. Four days after Jacob Blake was shot by police, two days after a child carried a semi-automatic weapon into a crowd of protesters and shot three of them, we had no idea how close we would come to Kenosha.
We drove in silence along that stretch of pavement, swallowing hard while the pounding rain refracted the red and blue lights into a thousand unanswered questions. Where is justice right here? Right now? How on earth do we join God in the immediate, ongoing plan to restore this mess that we refuse to keep making?
One hour later, we masked up and devoured our anniversary dinner of swanky fondue (“When in Wisconsin!” the waitress had chirped,) coffee-rubbed ribs, and the strangest, most delicious salad I have ever encountered. (Shards of house-smoked ham! Puckery gherkins! Briny capers!)
Walking back to the van, I took a picture of the Van Goh sky - bombastic and stark, relief spackled over longing. A broad stroke of undeserved grace. For this moment.
It was a quick visit, long on driving and too-short on brunching in sweatpants and traipsing through the woods.
But I got low to the ground and breathed in the first loamy scents of autumn. I bore witness to wild tendrils of stubborn growth. I stared out to sea, not minding at all that it was only a lake. I ate chilaquiles with sauce so hot, my eyes watered. I sat in someone else’s chair and finished a beautiful book, refusing to blink back the tears, knowing they were shed for all of this, and trusting the guys wouldn’t notice. (They didn’t.)
If 2020 is teaching us anything, I pray it’s the ability to hold grief and goodness in the same trembling hands. This sadness is not going away, not completely. This tension is not receding. These fractured relationships, this chronic disorientation, the pervading sense that nothing really works anymore, all of it will hang on.
But so will the rest of it. The better half.
We might be “over” the garden that languishes too close to foot-traffic and trash trucks, but it hasn’t forgotten us. This is the soil we have. This is the moment’s mercy. It will eke out sunshine orbs and cherried zinnias for a few more weeks. It will sing back to the conditions of the day; following the sun, craning its neck to soak up the last of the evening light, letting the cool rain wash over it.
Praying while it sleeps.
“There is no death here in the ruins. This is the land of the breathing.”
- Audrey Assad, Evergreen
This & That
:: Kicking it into Middle Gear
Is it just me, or does September hit like a reset button? My interest in the garden might be fading, but I’m drawn back inside, and holy heck, is it a wreck in here. Three months of bare feet and dinners on the porch were well worth the price of admission, but WE ARE IN DISARRAY. My nesting urges are ramping up, which makes it all the more demoralizing that in the past two days I spaced Calvin’s dentist appointment, double-booked our Saturday, and still haven’t found the will to scrub the soup pot.
Because none of this surprises me about my September self - at all - I jumped at the chance to be part of this year’s Get Organized HQ. I’m leading a session on building our faith as we walk against the wind to the fresh start we so desperately need. There are over 70 additional experts leading sessions on everything from home storage and organization, decorating, finances, fashion, meal planning, and more. This is an entirely virtual event, so you can join us WITHOUT leaving your house, hiring a babysitter, or changing out of your yoga pants!
Best part: It’s totally free to sign up. No strings attached. With your free ticket you can watch each session as it airs, beginning Monday, Sept. 14th and ending on the 18th. Click here to get your free ticket!
You can also grab an All Access Pass for $39 (price goes up Sunday night!) and watch the sessions whenever you want to, as many times as you want to.
Now is the time to get our acts at least medium-together, pals!
:: Pandemic’s Parting (Dare we hope?) Gifts
Last September was the busiest month of my career. I traveled from the Mexico border, to Ohio, to Indianapolis, to the moutains of Colorado in a matter of 27 days. This September, I put on real pants maybe twice a week. I look foward to traveling and speaking live again one day - it’s one of my favorite parts of the work I do. But the geography of now includes more stretchy knits and fewer suitcases, charms that I’m embracing in the moment.
As disappointed as I was for my trip to Pennsylvania (one of my favorite states of all time!) to be canceled, I am always grateful for the chance to work with Bridge of Hope, an organization geared at mobilizing the church to live as neighbors in order to impact homelessness. (Completely my jam!)
You can watch my virtual keynote for their annual gala here. I spoke about the gifts from *right now* we’ll take with us into the future. And I’ll say without hesitation, watch the whole thing! It’s only an hour and the videos they shared were beautiful.
:: This Month’s Notable New Releases
Waging Peace: One Soldier’s Story of Putting Love First by Diana Oestreich
Rally: Communal Prayers for Lovers of Jesus and Justice, edited by Briney Winn Lee
:: Food for the Journey
Kielbasa-Cabbage Stir-Fry - Equal parts waning-garden and cozy comfort.
I’ll be back next week (!!!!) to share a book I’m reading that I know you’ll love.
And for all of my paid subscribers (What’s up, Pot-Stirrers?!) I have a legit meal plan on deck for you and a debrief on my living room shake-down, along with the scoop on anything noteworthy or ridiculous that happen here in the Martin abode between now and then.
If you want to join us, sign up here!
And if you enjoyed this email, share the love!
Enjoy your weekend, homies,
Shannan