I carried the compost bowl to the tumbler in the dark tonight. These days my time is limited.
Some nights it’s doable. Some nights the moon is shining brightly, and I can discern objects and know where to step and what to avoid on my trek to the back corner of the yard.
Some nights the neighbor’s automatic security light snaps on, and I have a few precious seconds of light before it snaps off, and I lose sight, feeling more in the dark than before as I grope my way to the latches that will open and allow me to feed waste to the tumbler.
I wince as thick brown matter drips from the opening onto my foot. Plant poop.
Life. And Death.
So much of life is like composting in the dark. Not seeing clearly. Stepping gingerly on semi-familiar terrain before realizing that it is not as familiar as you thought. Handing over the scraps and waste to something….someone…greater and trusting that something good will come of it.
When all you can feel is the poop dripping onto your foot.
Last night at worship practice, while reading the call to worship from Psalm 139:7-12, I began to weep.
Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, You are there.
If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, you are there.
If I take the wings of the dawn,
If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,
Even there your hand will lead me,
And your right hand will lay hold of me.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,”
Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to you.
That is why I can compost in the dark.