Fallow, That A Few More Words Might Yet Grow

To quote the pop group America, from one of their hit songs of the early '70's, "I've been one poor correspondent."  Indeed.  It has been months since I have opened this site and applied, figuratively speaking, pen to paper.  A few people have noticed.  Gently, one recent Sunday morning, Jane mentioned that she missed reading.  Others have been more cajoling.  Mark recently wrote a tentative note, concerned, I think, that I had died.  Perhaps, in a way, I had. 

Some of the silence I don't really understand.  There has been much worth writing about these past two months; much that has been wonderful and good and even provocative -- perhaps enough goodness, coming quickly enough, that I did not have the skill or the spiritual pacing to process it all faithfully and commendably.  There was the trip to Stratford to pick out a new puppy; there were Advent preparations and observances.  There was our joint thankfulness that this year's Christmas celebration didn't revolve around the hospital, coupled with the reflective and enduring gratitude for all that last year's hospitalization accomplished.  There were eggrolls with the kids, and a floor covered with torn wrappings.  There was the blessed closure to Christmas Eve -- locking the church doors after the 11 o'clock service and waiting in the car in the empty parking lot those few extra minutes and hearing the renovated tower chimes ring out Joy to the World followed by Silent Night as welcome to Christmas morning.  There was the comic goodness of participating in the Practical Farmer's of Iowa annual meeting, and the happy laughter we enjoyed trying to discern if we even qualified for the "beginning farmer's luncheon"; ultimately concluding that our status was too premature to even be considered "beginning."There were the giddy evenings spent paging through seed catalogs, looking forward to the new adventures anticipated for spring.  There have been nourishing meals playfully prepared and plans, with some trembling and much conversation, collaboratively made.  And did I mention the puppy...and puppy kindergarten...and puppy whimpers in the middle of the night...and...

But there was, though I'm only beginning to comprehend and to name it, an intensifying need to rotate some inner crop, for the soil from which I had been drawing was depleting.  I have seen the literal equivalent -- earthen powder become so gray and denatured that nothing can grow there absent those artificial steroids we spray over the acres and forcibly disc below the surface.  The soil, in such a condition, is reduced to an empty matrix from which a few things can be forcibly extracted, but compared with its black and loamy counterpart teaming with organic matter, it can hardly be considered "alive."  Such, I am recognizing, were whole hectares of my inner landscape, all the while so many good things were blossoming above the surface and taking root in other parts of my soul. 

I don't mean this to sound like a sad story, and it is hardly an exceptional one; in truth it is a deeply rich and joyful one.  Depleted soil is not the same thing as dead soil; it simply needs the time and the space and a little composted manure to revive.  Manure, of course, is never hard to come by, never in short supply -- especially in church work -- but time and space can be elusive...until the soul simply takes matters into its own hand and asserts some fallow time.  I have missed telling some good stories along the way, but maybe those untold stories have become some part of the organic matter ordained to make this space fecund again. 

We'll see what all might grow along the way.

On the off-chance that you have been, thanks for waiting.  I'm humbled by the patience, and eager to see what sprouts.  Blessings.