|
I’ve spent a good bit of time in the yard this week.
Pulling weeds.
Cutting back plants that got completely out of hand last year.
Digging into places that looked, at first glance, like nothing but a mess.
And as I’ve worked, I’ve had Rich Mullins playing in my headphones.
There’s something about his music that fits that kind of work—honest, a little rough around the edges, full of both longing and hope.
At one point, his song What Susan Said came on, and I found myself stopping for a minute, leaning on the shovel, just listening.
Especially this:
“And we both feel lost
But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we’ve given up
More than in the things that we have kept…”
There’s a kind of truth there that doesn’t shout—it just settles in.
Because if you’ve ever worked in the dirt, you know something:
the ground is full of both death and life at the same time.
You dig down and you smell it—that rich, earthy smell.
It’s not clean. It’s not sterile.
It’s the scent of things that have died… and are becoming the soil for something new.
And sure enough, as I started cutting things back—things that looked completely overgrown, even dead in places—I began to notice it:
New shoots.
Small. Easy to miss.
But unmistakably alive.
And it struck me how often that’s where we find ourselves this time of year.
We’re coming off a big Sunday—Confirmation, mission team commissioning, a full sanctuary, a lot of energy and joy.
And then… this week.
A little quieter.
A little more scattered.
Spring Break plans.
Prom preparations.
Schedules that feel full and lives that feel a little worn down.
It’s that in-between moment.
And if we’re honest, some of us feel a little like those words from Ezekiel:
“Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost…”
Or like Mullins puts it:
“We both feel lost…”
And maybe even deeper than that… there’s that line that just gets you when you’re not expecting it:
“If your home is just another place where you’re a stranger,
and far away is just somewhere you’ve never been…”
There’s an ache in that.
The feeling of not quite belonging…
Not quite being settled…
Not quite knowing where “home” even is right now.
But here’s what I kept thinking about out there in the yard:
The miracle of resurrection doesn’t wait for Easter.
It’s already happening.
In the middle of the dirt.
In the middle of what looks overgrown or worn out.
In the middle of seasons that feel like a lull or even a loss.
God is already at work, bringing life where we might not expect it.
New shoots are already pushing up through the soil.
So here’s my invitation to you:
Come to church this Sunday.
Not because everything is neat and put together.
Not because it’s the “big” Sunday.
But precisely because it isn’t.
Because this is the last Sunday of Lent before we step into Holy Week.
Because this is the moment where many of us feel tired, distracted, or just a little lost.
And that is exactly where God loves to meet us.
We’re going to open Ezekiel 37—the valley of dry bones—and hear again the promise that God is not finished with what looks finished.
If your life feels a little dry…
If your hope feels a little thin…
If this season has left you more exhausted than inspired…
This Sunday is for you.
Come and let God breathe life where you need it most.
Grace and peace,
Tom
| 
