And let the brothers who know how to work, labor and exercise themselves in that art they may understand, if it be not contrary to the salvation of their soul, and they can exercise it becomingly.

Saint Francis

I was not an “outdoorsy” child. I liked creative indoor pursuits, making and thinking activities. Then, one summer in college, out of necessity, I worked at a Christian summer camp where I hoped to lead safe “indoorsy” activities like newspaper, crafts and drama. Yet, for some reason, I, the least likely candidate, was put in charge of the “nature” enrichment activity. That summer, the “Nature Hut” consisted of a few goats, some turtles, a dilapidated shack and a lonely old pony. There was no curriculum or program to follow: just me, a handful of campers and the Hut, all left to find our way together. So, we did. I turned to the work and labor I knew: imaginary play, crafting, storytelling and party-throwing. I asked the campers for input and ideas, and together, despite our motley origins, we all thrived with the help of the Holy Spirit.

The Hut is where I learned that we and our gifts are all linked: the soil, the turtles, the campers, the goats, me, the trees and God. I experienced firsthand how, without the care of humans, the goats, turtles and the pony languished. And how, without them, the campers and I—humans who didn’t fit in at sports ball, horseback riding or ropes courses—also languished. It turned out that we needed each other. We needed to care for and share our talents and beings with one another. We needed to love each other with the love of God, the kind that gives unselfishly, that is patient and kind, that is honest and true, the kind of love that values every living thing as Christ. In that love, we all found belonging: the turtles and goats, me and the campers, the trees and the Spirit.

For Reflection
Is there a ministry in your faith community that is languishing? Is it time to let it die, or is it time to re-imagine it according to the gifts present in your community?

Whoever can weep over himself for one hour is greater than the one who is able to teach the whole world; whoever recognizes the death of his own frailty is greater than the one who sees visions of angels.

Isaac of Nineveh

I ran away once. I don’t remember the reason or the point I was trying to make, but I do remember that I packed a knapsack and hiked into the small stretch of forest that separated our house from a nursing home. Once there, I sat on a large tree stump, with God next to me, for maybe an hour. Then, hungry and bored, I gave up and went home.

I don’t think anyone missed me, even though I had tried to time my demonstrative act as close to dinner as possible, thinking someone might notice if I didn’t show up for a meal. But I didn’t last that long; my family didn’t notice, and whatever point I was trying to make that day died along with my frailty in the forest.

I didn’t know it then, but what I practiced there on that stump was a kind of spiritual self-reflection. I, God with me, came to the end of myself, to the end of my twelve-year-old will. I recognized at that moment that I was not the center of anyone’s world but my own, and therefore, the only attention I would garner at that moment was also my own, which seemed pointless. So, I went home, back into the fray of community and family, back to being a part of a greater whole.

Learning to be honest with ourselves about ourselves is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves and those we love. When we, with God’s help, through God’s presence, reach a place where we can admit without rancor that we are not, in fact, the center of anyone’s universe but our own (nor should we be), our place within the larger community becomes a shared gift instead of demand, an honor instead of a right, a joy instead of a burden.

For Reflection
Have you ever experienced the death of your own frailty? What did that look like or feel like? How did it change your participation in your community?

One cannot simply open his eyes and see. The work of understanding involves not only dialectic, but a long labor of acceptance, obedience, liberty and love.

Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

There is nothing quite like farm living to teach you about the true essence of each liturgical season, including, or maybe especially, Lent.

Lent is a season for introspection. For repentance. For remembering the wilderness of the soul, for pondering a life without hope. It is a season for simplicity, waiting and preparing. It isn’t a 40-day diet, exercise plan, or a chance to become more organized or organic (at last!). Instead, it’s a time to peel away the layers of distraction that blur our ability to see the intersection of the holy and the common. On the farm, in this season of Lent, we are keenly at the mercy of Mother Nature and Father Time. It may rain. It may snow. It may freeze. The sun may shine hot and bright. The bulbs might break free from the earth too soon, a snowstorm may shut down all work, the earth may remain hard, and the mud might be hip-deep. The transition from winter to spring is full of false starts and delayed plans.

During this time, I begin to haunt the garden stores for succulents. Over the past few years, these funny rubber plants have become my Lenten icons, a way to bridge the yet-not-yet gap between Epiphany and Easter. These succulents provide little bursts of green scattered throughout the house, and their steady and low-drama existence provides reminders that good things come out of patience and contentment. If I can let my plans and my timing be laid low, setting aside the distractions of what could be and cultivating gratitude and love for what is instead, I might see and understand the goodness of God’s timing that much more.

For Reflection
This Lent, consider the upcoming or desired transitions in your life or your faith community’s life. How can you cultivate gratitude for what is instead of focusing on what could be?

For what is greater than such a vision, to see the invisible God in a visible human being, his temple?

Life of Pachomius

But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.

Jeremiah 29:7

My friend Rachel’s Instagram account was called Mixtapes from Babylon, which was also the title of the book she was writing when she passed away unexpectedly. Rachel was not only a dear friend but also a colleague, and she started every new project we worked on by creating a playlist—a modern-day “mixtape”—to inspire us for the work ahead. Rachel, maybe more than anyone, understood that until we as a society learned to be Beloved Community, we would remain in a modern-day Babylon, held captive by the same practices the Bible describes in ancient Babylon, injustices such as hatred, poverty, violence, hunger and bigotry.

Beloved Community, a term popularized by Martin Luther King Jr., refers to the “engine of reconciliation” that will eradicate our captivity, an engine that, for Dr. King, Rachel and hopefully for us, was fueled by the love of Jesus. Rachel’s playlists, like her life, were mixtures of hope, joy, righteous anger and calls to action. Like Dr. King, she knew that the only way out of Babylon was by loving Babylon—seeing and responding to the invisible God within each visible human being, caring for the brokenhearted on both sides of the street and fighting against every prejudice and assumption that pits neighbor against neighbor. Rachel knew that the present state of the world does not fulfill the dream God intends for us. She reminded us time and time again—through her words, her mixtapes and her life—that we are each other’s keepers, not just because it is the right thing to do but because it is our mandate as Christians, our mandate as the beloved to love as we are loved, in word and action.

For Reflection
What or who is the “Babylon” you have difficulty loving? What word or action can you take this week to practice loving them as you have been loved?

Order your soul; reduce your wants; live in charity; associate in Christian community; obey the laws; trust in Providence.

Saint Augustine

Back in the cave-drawing, hunter-gatherer decade of Mommy-blogging, my friend Shannan was known as Flower Patch Farmgirl, and I was known as My Little Life. In those days of yore, Shannan was happy fixing up her farmhouse, and I was happy fixing up my city cottage. And then, we weren’t.

God began to whisper strange somethings into the hearts of Shannan and her husband, Cory, about moving into town and over the wrong side of the tracks; at the same time, God began to nudge Nathan and me toward farm life. Eventually, after mountain and valley moments for both families, the Martins moved to the city, certain God had a calling for them there, and the Greers moved to the country, certain God had a calling for them there. And then, after the flurry of moving and building (them) and remodeling (us) and digging in and fervent hopes of seeing God at work and earnest desires for transformation … crickets. No big revelation. As Shannan later wrote in her book, Ministry of Ordinary Places, “We were no longer new. We were just here. The headline had faded. The sparkle dimmed. Our earlier questions—Where are we going? Why are we going? And will we ever fit were replaced with just one: Now what? Surely God did not lead us here to live.”

Surely, God did not lead us here to live…those were the same words I whispered under my breath that first year on our farm. Surely, God had a new plan of action for us that would be equally sparkly and important. But instead of sparkles and headlines, what God showed Shannan and me in that season was something akin to what Saint Augustine articulated centuries ago: live a faithful, common life. That is enough.

For Reflection
Sometimes, when seeking God’s will—as an individual, household, or faith community—we look for grand plans or fiery bushes. What would it look like to embrace the words of Saint Augustine as “the plan:” Order your soul; reduce your wants; live in charity; associate in Christian community; obey the laws; trust in Providence. How might this view change our common life together?

It feels good to rest after working.

Peter of Celle, On Affliction and Reading

Each day during our diocesan summer camp, we have an all-camp “FOB” hour. FOB stands for “flat on bunk,” “flat on the bed,” or “flat on the back,” depending on who you ask. But no matter how you break it down, FOB means naptime, which is not always the most popular camp practice.

“Can’t we just play games as long as we stay in the cabin?” or “Why can’t we go for a walk? That’s relaxing” are just a couple of the “helpful” suggestions that campers offer when complaining about FOB. The most challenging concept to grasp—one the counselors themselves have to learn and then communicate to the campers—is that “FOB isn’t just for you. It’s for the entire community.” FOB is for the camper who is extremely tired but embarrassed to admit it because it isn’t cool. It’s for the camper who has such a strong fear of missing out on the fun that they will run ragged, trying to keep up and then dissolve into tears over a minor misunderstanding. It’s for the leaders who are working harder than they have ever worked and who need a bit of peace and quiet to recalibrate. It’s for the plants in the fields, the chickens in the gardens, the fish in the lake, and the staff in the office who all need a moment to exhale from the wonderful frenetic activity of camp life.

FOB is important for the good of the everyday life of camp; it is important for the entire ecosystem. When we obey God’s command to rest, whether through fasting, naps, silence, solitude or play, we contribute to the rest of the whole. This rest allows God to refill and restore what has been emptied and worn out in all of us.

For Reflection
How do you practice rest in ways that help others in your ecosystem to rest as well?