We know that all creation is groaning in labor pains even until now; and not only that, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, we also groan within ourselves as we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.
My son hopped off the bus and ski -ran toward me, clutching the corn plant to his chest, a big smile on his face.
“Look! We got to bring our plants home! We can grow POPCORN!”
I cringed. I love my son. I love teachers. I love plants. I even love popcorn. But, as he is my fifth child and 14 years younger than the oldest, I have seen this play out too many times.
The corn was part of a unit on how plants grow. The children put seeds down the side of a clear plastic cup full of soil, and kept them well-watered on a sunny windowsill for a few weeks. Each day the children eagerly checked the progress of their seeds as the seedcoat slowly split, then sent a shoot up and roots down and around. By the time the observations were over and the children were allowed to take them home, the plant was about 4 inches tall above the soil, and the roots were visibly wound and tangled all around the cup on the inside. The technical term for a plant in a container too small for its roots is root-bound; it tries desperately to stretch out, to find soil that is not already depleted of nutrients. A plant may deform or even break a fragile container. And if it can’t stretch out, reach and dig and grow and eat, it will die.
As an experiment, it was a huge success.
As a fruitful plant start, it was doomed.
Isaiah’s prophecy is fulfilled in them, which says: You shall indeed hear but not understand,
you shall indeed look but never see.
Gross is the heart of this people,
they will hardly hear with their ears,
they have closed their eyes…
“But blessed are your eyes, because they see,
and your ears, because they hear….
“…Hear then the parable of the sower.
The seed sown on the path is the one
who hears the word of the kingdom without understanding it,
and the evil one comes and steals away
what was sown in his heart.
The seed sown on rocky ground
is the one who hears the word and receives it at once with joy.
But he has no root and lasts only for a time.
When some tribulation or persecution comes because of the word,
he immediately falls away.
The seed sown among thorns is the one who hears the word,
but then worldly anxiety and the lure of riches choke the word
and it bears no fruit.
But the seed sown on rich soil
is the one who hears the word and understands it,
who indeed bears fruit and yields a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.”
Seeds fall. They are scattered. They do not have legs. The seeds? They hope to be buried and drowned and kept in the dark, nourished by the surrounding decay and squirm and scuttle. They bear fruit they do not see. They groan in labor.
During a particularly difficult stretch with one of our daughters who has special needs, I threw myself fervently at God. I attempted to bring her closer to God, but only seemed to be making things worse. So as I continued going to Bible study, I began studying the Bible more intensely at home. I scrutinized it. I read every footnote and said my rosaries and novenas.
Had it been an experiment, I’d have gotten an A+ with extra credit. Teacher’s Pet was in the bag.
I planted my seed in a clear plastic cup. I wrestled with my faith, observed and observed and observed it, expecting it to burst forth and show me things, and then to grow and give me things. Feed me. Fill my belly and make me feel full and happy and content and pleased, maybe even a little sleepy. Let me chart my progress with pride, to prove I’ve Done It Right.
But I failed miserably. My roots were growing in tight, twisted circles, pressing against unyielding walls and attempting to feed off of soil that was already sucked dry. Instead of being fed and protected, the cup was suffocating, drowning, and starving me all at once.
Finally, frustrated and angry at God, I turned to a trusted priest in Reconciliation. He told me to go home, find the bleakest, angriest psalm I could, and pray it out loud. I thought he was crazy, but I needed some grace, so I did it. When I found the time alone, I leafed through until I got to psalm 88. It was nearly dark, and there was no one there to help me analyze the meaning and “unpack” it, but with great inner turmoil I ignored the footnotes and started to recite it out loud. The tears began to flow, until by the end I was screaming the words toward the ceiling of an empty house. And at the end of my angry outburst, I was flooded with peace. My daughter was unchanged. I had no sudden insight or understanding of the meaning of our shared suffering. But I was able to walk into God’s house the following Sunday without anger seething through my heart for the first time in months.
Seed work is work for the dark. It is growth to be entrusted to soil that I did not make; enriched by the work—the lives, the words, the acts, the deaths—of others who came before, broken down and blended into a rich dark compost; watered from clouds I cannot form; floating in Heavens I cannot reach.
We are all groaning in labor pains, along with the entire earth.
Our hearts are gross.
But when we wait in silence, in stillness, in darkness, the water will slowly seep down and touch our shell, softening it. And the nutrients within the filth seep in through the newly softened shell. We need to let the seeds do their thing, to split open and turn themselves inside out, spewing their guts to go on living larger and farther and more fruitful than one would think possible by looking at the small, hard, smooth, dry thing that was buried.
In the meantime we tend the soil. Good soil is deep. Dark. It smells at once rotten and enticing. It is alive with decay. It is our job to be alive with decay, to hold these things deep in our gross hearts. It is our job to provide the dark and quiet inside, to water with tears and sacraments and grace, and allow things to settle and decompose and be loosened and de-clumped. It is our job to groan with labor pains.
It is not our job to watch the seed.
My youngest and I planted the seedling in the side yard, where we’d grown corn the year before. It was a sunny spot with good soil. A few days later he came in and told me that the plant was dead. He groaned indeed, the pain and heartbreak of fruitless labor. After a brief period of mourning, we talked about planting milkweed for the butterflies. This time we will give the seeds the deep-dark they need, to turn themselves inside out and thrust a shoot up into the light.
Sick Pilgrim
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