Go to the ant...

Have you ever noticed that just as the trials and tribulations of one season are behind us, fresh ones belonging to the new season suddenly appear?! Here in Canada this means that, just as winter’s harshness is being forgotten, the pleasant summer air becomes filled with the buzz of stinging insects, and the lush new growth of grass with biting red ants! In our garden anyway…

Well, those blasted ants reminded me today of something that happened to me when I had known my now-husband Jeremy for a few months and we were co-leading a team of young people on a two-month trip to South Africa and Namibia. Next to a vlei, in the heady balm of a summer evening in the Cape, we had finally confessed to each other that we were interested in more than just friendship. But the next morning, instead of feeling excited, I found myself overcome with fear about the future, about the potential for 'making a mistake', and about the pain and struggle I knew marriage would inevitably bring. (The romance of this story just took a nosedive, didn’t it?!) As I sat outside thinking and praying about this, my eye was caught by two tiny ants on the African earth, trying to move something many times their size. I watched them for what seemed like hours as they persevered in their task together, pushing and tugging to get their prize over obstacles and out of the dips into which they often fell. A number of times the wind would blow one of the ants away, but the remaining ant would struggle on alone, still committed to the task, until – when I had begun to think the second ant would never return – it would suddenly reappear and carry on exactly where it left off. At other times, the pair got truly stuck in some crevice far too deep for them, but incredibly they never gave up. A few times they were joined by a third ant, who would help them just until they were unstuck, and then go on its way.

As I watched, this ‘ant’s tale’ became a parable, a lesson, and a promise for me. I received it as a promise that, yes, there would be struggle and hard work, but that this did not mean the task would ever need to be abandoned. I saw it almost as a preview of what Jeremy and I would experience if we chose to spend our lives together: that sometimes it would feel as if one of us was abandoned and struggling on alone; that at others the task would seem impossible; but that we would in fact never be deserted or alone, and so the task was achievable. And I took it, too, both as a promise that the help we needed would always be there at just the right time, and also as a lesson to look for, expect, and ask for that help – from God and from others. Of course, to give a balanced perspective on marriage – and to better reflect what has been my experience – it would have been nice if those ants had frolicked blithely in a grassy meadow for a while; or casually tossed the object they were carrying back and forth to each other like a beach ball; or put it down and used it as a table to chat and eat around with their beloved, tiny ant-children! But ants only do those things when they’re not being watched, so I suppose this was exactly the experience I needed at the time to give me the courage to take the plunge into the unknown. It also became for me a picture that has helped me to re-envision myself, Jeremy, marriage, and the role of others in our lives, in a way that has been extremely valuable over the years. The famous proverb tells us sluggards (there’s that darned sloth again!) to go to the ant and consider her ways – her diligence and foresight, perseverance and discipline – and be wise. Because in every significant relationship or endeavour there are seasons of hard work, and then seasons to enjoy the fruit of our labour; there are winter seasons and there are summer ones. Though, even in the summer seasons, you just can’t avoid those flaming ants!

Confessions of a Plant-killer: Part Three (Getting Personal)

If I assert that I am born neither with green fingers nor a black thumb, why might it be that I have chosen to be someone who does not keep plants alive? This is indeed a very troubling question, as I truly don’t wish to be a killer of anything or anyone, and have in fact made many an effort not to be one! I don’t pretend to have the definitive answer to this question – just ponderings that make some sense to me – but I notice something as I rinse the broccoli sprouts morning and evening, and ‘harvest’ some of them to the fridge today; as I take the time every rainless evening, whatever my other pressing plans and commitments, to water the tomato plants thanks to two extra lengths of hose that I finally got around to purchasing last week; and as I keep an eye on the sourdough starter, choosing when to feed it and when to bake with it. What I cannot help but notice is that these actions, which I have found so difficult to maintain in the past, are incredibly small, simple gestures. They take hardly any time, are remarkably uninvolved, and require no labour-intensive procedures. But, for all their simplicity, they demand to be done regularly and with straightforward precision. Perhaps, then, to tend living things, and keep them alive, is to choose a discipline of love supported by routines of care.

This week I came across an interesting discussion of the traditional ‘Seven Deadly Sins’ and the way in which Jesus’ ‘Beatitudes’ confront each of these (it seems that this discussion originally appeared in Back to Virtue by Peter Kreeft). The idea that caught my eye was that Sloth (which I have known since working with the Enneagram to be my habitual trap or ‘sin of choice’!) can be defined as a ‘refusal to exert the will towards the good’. Ouch! That’s me in more area than one! For so many years I have excused my serial plant-killing with the avowal that “I didn’t mean to!”, and it’s true that I didn’t try to murder the poor things! But I think I am finally ready to see that my choice not to water or feed or tend still reflects some level of refusal to exert my will towards good and towards life. In other words, it’s not just what I do that matters and that defines me, it is also what I don’t do. Or, expressed in the positive, the little things I do really are significant – for my plants, but also for my relationships and for myself. It is not enough to ‘not kill’ (…or abandon or disparage) these things and these people; love demands that I cast off my tendency towards ease and consequent neglect, and instead exert my will towards the good, by intentionally choosing habitual actions that nurture and bring life.

As I write this, I have one more new thought. This past year I have been coming to know and experience that the Great Love that fuels the universe is not passively benevolent but rather actively loving. There is no sloth in God. Perhaps, then, as I am changed by this Great Love, I will more closely resemble it myself. And hopefully that will mean, among other things, no more dead plants…