The Failings of Those Other Folks

Underneath our bedroom window is a large weed bed. For five years I have alternately sprayed and weeded this large area of nicely edged dirt. Prior to us living here, it was where my little nephews were invited to play with excavators and dump trucks. But let me be honest and say I’m not too thrilled about having my grandsons do the same and then drag all of that dirt into the house. Plus, the water spigot is only one foot away from the dirt, and little boys cannot say no to a water spigot.

After a burst of gardening fever two summers ago, I’ve decided I must grow something in this space of dirt–something to eat. At first, I thought strawberries should make a home here, but it gets more shade than sun. So, in my wooden, Ferry Morse Seed Co. box, I have waiting seed packets for radishes, lettuce, carrots, beets, and spinach. These plants are like me and prefer to stay out of the sun more than in it.

This future garden, bed, however, is full of rocks. Some were dumped there by myself a few years ago, when I was trying to get them out of another spot. Not my best decision. Some of the rocks have come up from below, to remind us that we’re only two houses and one large berm away from a massive gravel pit.

I have now spent several hours on my hands and needs, digging up one shovel full at a time and painstakingly removing rocks. I worked hard this afternoon and have one square foot left to go through, but my body informed me we were done for the day. After I tackle that remaining square foot, then I’m bringing in Matt, to do deeper shovel work, so I can clear more rocks, because I don’t want to end up with funky-looking carrots that have had to take a detour on their way down.

All that to say, I have held ever so much dirt in my minds, as I sift out every single rock I can find. This task has had me thinking about the soil of my own soul.

How many rocks are left?

There have been a profusion of lateral temptations over the last few years, to judge with angry eyes the soil of others who have failed me. But with my back bent and my fingers deep in my very own dirt, always finding yet one more rock no matter how much sifting I do, seems like I have plenty to think about with my own sinful self. Doesn’t mean those other things don’t hurt. But there are so many rocks on my own piece of real estate.

Just when I think I’ve got ‘em all cleared, the shovel hits another one. Trying to keep my head down over my own dirt.

Sure do want something to grow here.