Where is the new life here?

(*Pulled for the archives for a repost. Circa 2017, revisited today.)

A couple weeks ago, I snuck away with a couple girlfriends for the first time in a long time. We rented a little cottage on Orcas Island and spent a couple days combing the beaches and hiking and mostly talking.

Each morning, Amanda was so excited to get to walk the beach. Honestly, in theory, this didn't even really sound that fun to me. But I'm game...and I wanted to be with them so I put my boots and my best attitude on.

Left to myself, I would begin walking and think, "This looks like a bunch of grey rocks and seaweed and some dead crab carcasses. This is not a productive or efficient use of our little time. Let's go back now."

But I wasn't left to myself on this trip, so that meant we did it Amanda's way (we generally do what she says). That meant slowly, VERY slowly walking and lifting the rocks and peaking beneath the driftwood. It meant stopping and staring until you found the treasure.

She was right on this one. We saw purple starfish that clung to the bottom of the rocks when we peered underneath. We saw these green, plant-like creatures...that were alive...and would open and close to the touch. We saw vibrant, red jellyfish. There really were endless surprises. I would of walked right by most of them.

I learned her way and then started to actually look forward to our morning walks. It ended up being my favorite part.

Now, when I left...I thought that was the lesson. Slow down, Jody. Learn to appreciate the beauty. Don't walk right past it.

But..today. This little story has new meaning.

I was listening to a podcast with Jeff Chu. He told the story of doing some manual labor on a farm in college. His instructor stopping them as they were shoveling pile after pile of compost and said, "Where do you see new life here?"

And I cried.

Because yes.

I generally step out onto the beach. I step out my front door. And I see grey rocks. I see some dead dreams. I see regret. I see fear. I see seaweed. I see composting trash.

But what happens when I step outside that same door, step onto that same beach, look at that same pile of composted realities and say, "Where do I see new life here?"

What if I focused less on what might of been and more on what is now? Believing that dreams do die...but they are replaced with new ones. Can I look at each of each of my kids, with their own hurt and fear and disappointments and say, "Where do I see new life here?" Can we see that landscape today and say, "Where is new life here?" And then linger there. Cultivate that. Stop and marvel at the new life that's breaking through.

It's there. I saw it on the beach. I hear you can find it in compost. I am believing it to be there for the Landers too.

"Here are your fears—your fears of loss, of abandonment, of being wrong, of bad parenting, of humiliation, of rejection, of failure, of not being enough, of being too much, of disappointing God, of so many other ungodly things. They are in this compost pile...amidst the rotting spaghetti squash and coffee grounds, eggshells and wood chips.They are dying now, to be redeemed as good soil and new life, with the help of the worms. And you and I will keep on with the hard work of spiritual and emotional composting in our own lives, remembering that this is the story of God, who turns fear to courage, sorrow to joy, death to life." (Jeff Chu)