Moving Day
Some fragmented thoughts on the scattering of a garden, a shattering story, a rousing chorus, and a new adventure
Thursday, June 2
Grand Rapids, Michigan
Hello, friendly reader.
Yesterday morning, I was taking Fozzie for his third or fourth walk of the day—our neighbors have commented on how often we’re out with him—and I saw some folks with shovels on the sidewalk outside the house behind ours.
Sally used to live in that house. Her gardens were the envy and the glory of our neighborhood. From early spring until late fall, every inch of her yard as well as the verges between street and sidewalk rioted with color, shape, and texture: tulips in hues from the palest cream to deep purple-black, irises bearded and not, forget-me-not, sedum, peonies, phlox, hibiscus blossoms bigger than my face, so many other species that I can’t name. Humans weren’t the only admirers of this abundance. Bees and butterflies were constants, and, to Fozzie’s fury, chipmunks made Sally’s little slice of Eden their home.
All this beauty was hard-won. Sometimes we’d peer out a window and see Sally out weeding, pruning, and tending after 10 p.m. It’s tempting to say that she and her diligence put the rest of us half-hearted gardeners to shame. But awe, along with my need to be in bed by that hour, has its way of silencing that. Still, I always felt a flash of guilt whenever Fozzie peed on Sally’s plants. It seemed wrong.
During election season, Sally would plant signage for her preferred candidates amidst all the flowers and foliage. It was always such an interesting juxtaposition, especially amidst the country’s partisan polarization. I don’t know that she meant to offer us any metaphors, but I found them anyway: hopes of different kinds, possibilities that burst forth for a bit and then faded away.
In the spring of 2021, Sally sold the house and resettled in an apartment near Lake Michigan. A young couple moved in. Last summer and this spring, the gardens were still gorgeous. But without Sally’s attentiveness, weeds began popping up, and the plantings took on a more haphazard look. I confess I might have muttered a judgmental critique a time or two—or ten—as we walked Fozzie.
Yesterday, Fozzie and I went up to one of the shovel-wielding people, and as the Fozz sniffed around—he occasionally likes to eat dirt—I asked what was going on. Megan from around the corner told me that the young couple had decided to turn the verges back to lawn. They had invited neighbors to take whatever they wanted before they razed the rest and replaced it with grass. She asked if I wanted anything, so I grabbed a trowel and started uprooting some irises and peonies as gently as I could.
Word got around the neighborhood quickly, and several more longtime admirers of Sally’s gardens soon showed up. Those with extra shovels shared with anyone who had arrived empty-handed. Most of us could recognize a few things here and there, but we also relied on our gardening apps to help us identify things we didn’t know at first glance or second or third: Spanish broom, butterfly weed, stonecrop, wild geranium, cornflower. Some yellow blossoms—bright little trumpets—grabbed my attention; my app informed me that this was columbine that might do just fine in partial shade, so I pulled that one for our side yard. A man scanning the beds for butterfly weed had just dug up several clusters of coneflower, and he asked if I wanted one.
A chorus of sorrow grew: Where would the pollinators go? How unfortunate that this would become just another stretch of grass. Couldn’t the new residents at least have tried, just a little bit? Look, they’ve already decimated the strip where those parrot tulips once were.
“This is so sad,” someone said. “What would Sally think?”
“I think she’d be glad we’re rescuing so many plants,” I replied.
“Rescue,” a woman said. “That’s a good word for it. Rescue.”
Mary Ellen, who lives a couple streets over, was trying to identify as many native plants as possible; she plans to rehome them in the neighborhood community garden. The man who shared the coneflower—I’ve forgotten his name already, because my brain is mush—mentioned that he wanted the butterfly weed because he’s turning his yard into a monarch-butterfly nursery. Megan had called around to some other neighbors who were at work; she was gathering plants for their gardens.
This is obviously not the ideal time to uproot and replant many, if not most, of these species. The peonies I transplanted are already budding, and the Interwebs told me that autumn is really the better season to move them. Apparently, moving sucks for plants much as it does for humans. But sometimes you don’t get to choose moving day. We make do the best way we know how, with memory and technology, effort and hope. There’s something worthy in that.
I’m struck by the fact that the diligent work of Sally’s hands—so much of the garden she grew!—will now bless so many different homes around our neighborhood. A botanical diaspora. An unexpected grace. There’s something lovely in that too.
Tempted as I was to critique the couple, it also now occurs to me that they did a good and wise thing: They admitted their limitations, and they invited others to help. There’s something noble in that as well.
The columbine has now been replanted along our side fence, where I’ve pulled out tons of ground ivy and tried to beat back the mint. The irises, peonies, and coneflower are on the sunnier side of the house, and I’m hoping they’ll make it through.
We’ve still got a couple of days to harvest whatever else we want, so I might head back down the block to see what remains. Especially amid the many sorrows of these days and weeks, I’m so grateful for this unexpected gift from Sally—not least the reminder that wonder and beauty are always best when shared.
What I’m Reading: Years ago, when I worked in Time’s London office, I occasionally edited the work of Alex Perry, then a South Africa-based correspondent. He has since authored four books and won awards and accolades for his long-form journalism. Alex’s latest is a heart-wrenchingly detailed piece for Outside about an Al Shabab attack on northern Mozambique. It’s a tremendous work of reporting. More than that, it’s an indictment of the insatiable global appetite for fossil fuels, the fecklessness and immorality of corporate interests, and the excruciating human toll.
What Else I’m Reading: I’ve said before that I don’t really get most poetry, but once in a while, something sneaks up on me and wallops me with its truth. Maggie Smith’s poem “Good Bones” is one such work, and I have found myself returning to it in the days since Uvalde. “The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate…” it says. A conservative estimate indeed. You can read the entire poem here. (You will also be able to find Maggie among the speakers for Evolving Faith 2022. I am delighted that she will be with us, and if you would like to be with us too, you can register here.)
What I’m Listening to: From childhood, I’ve loved film soundtracks, even though I rarely got to go to the movies as a kid. (“Beware of the devil!” my grandmother would say, whenever I told her I wanted to go see a movie.) I’ve actually never seen Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 film Henry V, but I have long adored Patrick Doyle’s score, which was performed by the City of Birmingham Symphony, conducted by Sir Simon Rattle.
One track has always been a go-to in times of confusion and consternation: the choral piece Non Nobis, Domine. This is Doyle’s setting of an ancient Latin hymn, which draws on the opening lines of Psalm 115: “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.” Praise is not my default setting. But there’s something in the rumble of the timpani that summons me to humility, to acknowledgment of all that I can’t do or control that I find grounding. And as the strings soar, urged on by the brass, and the chorus swells, I’m moved toward the hope that there really is One who is greater than the suffering of this world and who will redeem all things.
Some personal news: A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from South Africa. It confirmed that I’ve been accepted as a Ph.D. student at the University of Stellenbosch.
My research project will be entitled “Bring Some of the Fish: Toward a Theology of the Kitchen.” The title is inspired by the story in John’s Gospel of Jesus cooking breakfast on the beach with his friends; though he has bread and fish on the fire, he invites the disciples to bring some of the fish that they have caught.
That the kitchen and its significance should be central should surprise nobody who knows me. I love to cook, and I love to eat. My time as a farmhand at seminary changed my life and my perspective, as has my understanding of the sacred table. But I’ve wondered for a while now about the meaning of what’s in-between—the place where the transformation happens, the space where the raw ingredients submit to fire and water, the alchemy of cooking and a chef’s love.
The letter informed me that my admission to Stellenbosch was retroactive to February, so apparently that is when I started 21st Grade. I totally missed my first day of school! Anyway, we are not moving to South Africa. Grand Rapids will remain our home, and we expect to make occasional trips across the ocean during the next several years. Nor am I quitting my other jobs. When will I finish? How is it all going to work? I have no idea. I think I’m going to have to learn to say “no” more often. And I guess “free time” is going to become even more of an aspiration. But I am glad to have a new excuse to buy too many books.
If you are the praying type, please pray for me (and for us) as I embark on my research. If you prefer to send good vibes, those are eagerly accepted as well, as are all forms of encouragement as well as snacks.
What’s going on with you? In a world that is at least fifty percent terrible, I hope you are growing and/or cooking and/or eating something beautiful. What can I be remembering in my prayers?
That’s all I’ve got this week. As always, I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.
All warmest wishes,
Jeff
Your words about the garden and transplanting are very comforting to me today. My mother passed away last Friday. It was not unexpected and it was peaceful and I was there. I know many don’t receive those mercies and I see them. Her memorial service is this coming Monday and I am delivering her eulogy. I have never done it before, I’m terrified of speaking in public and I know there is a good chance that my normally stoic demeanor will dissolve on that day. But I want to honor her appropriately and due to several factors, there’s no one else available that I trust to do that. She was a lover of all things green. Plants that looked dead would revive almost immediately for her. She loved to “piddle” with plants and after becoming too weak to do it herself, she continued to direct the rest of us. Thank you for these words and perspective today. They give me another way to think about my mother’s influence. Pray for me on Monday at 11. ❤️
That’s wonderful to hear, congratulations on your acceptance! And happy belated first day of school! :) I look forward to hearing more about your research project! Sending you good vibes.
I recently made an African red pepper sauce for burgers and dipping, and a Haitian spiced pineapple upside down cake - both from Everyone’s Table by Gregory Gourdet.
I also recently acquired a cypress tree from an event with the city’s parks & rec department. I love your gardening stories. They are insightful and helpful. I am a few steps behind you in my skills, but I’m taking care of my plants as best I can. Thank you always for your words.