What
do we do with manure…?
We watch with wonder as the
farmer spreads it on the fields, and lo…wonderful things grow. But what about
the manure of our own lives…our foolish choices, the abuse piled upon us by the
judgments of others, the dreaded diagnosis, the broken marriages, the betrayals,
the cutting remarks, the sense of aloneness, the car accident, the outright
sinfulness? It does no good to whitewash these things…they still smell…as does
manure.
So what are we to do as we
plunge into this ordinary time, this time of intense growth from the marvels of
the paschal mystery? Maybe we can take a clue again from the farmer. He plants,
he covers the field with manure so the rains can soak it into the ground and
surrounds and feeds the little seed with its nutrients, and then he goes home
and takes a nap. He sleeps and waits.
So must we. We offer our
little bit. God for some reason mysteriously surrounds it with suffering. Then
we need to go home to the depths of our soul where the Mystery holds us safe in
its arms. There we sleep the sleep on trust. We wait. The gorgeous flowers and
delicious fruit will come, for God is a master gardener. What is so hard is the
wait.
Sweet sun of my life
Why do the clouds come?
Why must I water my own field with my own tears?
Why do you hide?
Where are you when my heart breaks with sorrow?
Are you holding me close to your heart until the
storm of my life is over?
What can I do but trust you?
You who have bent down so low to be with me…
You who have taken on my misery…
You who have gone before me in my dying…
You who have shown me what comes after dying.
I grasp your wounded hand
And the squeeze I feel gives me peace.
