This morning the light comes cloaked by clouds. Since the time change, I’ve been waiting for spring to settle in. Last night, when Jeff and I turned back down our street after a long walk—night falling all around us—the neighbor children ran bare-armed through their yard. In their fast-churning legs I found a memory of younger springs, the cool scent of night settling into skin and dew soaked grass between naked toes.
I am thinking about planting. My raised beds sleep, dream of wrapping arms around leafy greens and plump fruit. The heart swells with love at the thought. Isn’t every act of hospitality an act of love? When I feed the earth with seeds I feel the gratitude of the soil. What better way to give than to cultivate the earth? This week at the dinner table, I told my boys of my dreams of hospitality—to welcome strangers in our home and set the table with love and good conversation. They stared at me wide-eyed, for we’ve always been an insular family. It’s a hard thing, to shift the gaze outward after so many years of thinking about the next need. But more and more I hear God calling me to this. Shift your eyes, Laura, he says. Plant the seeds. I don’t mind the planting so much as the time it takes to nurture; the tending takes a gentle discipline.
But I have always learned best by doing, so I offer up my heart like soft clay. I don’t know what the kiln will yield. But this surrender feels like running through the liquid air of a soft spring evening, bare-armed and shoeless.
Wild and full of hope.