 or the past several years, my spouse and I have planted garlic cloves in the fall, and harvested some pretty amazing garlic bulbs (if I do say so myself) in the summer. Though my family of origin grew many things, we never grew garlic, so the process has been full of wonder and intrigue since we started growing it here.
In the fall, before it freezes, we till up some space in our garden, then place garlic cloves, root side down, into the soil. While we bought the first year’s garlic from an heirloom seed company, we have saved some of our best cloves every year since so that we can plant them again the next fall. Then we take a bunch of the leaves that fall in our yard that I have mulched up and bagged in the lawn mower, and dump them over top of the planted garlic to protect them from harsh winter weather. Then, we wait. What we don’t see–that is pretty awesome to think about–is that right away the garlic gets to work growing. Not above ground, but below it. The garlic roots must get established in the soil before the ground freezes entirely, otherwise, despite our best, above-ground efforts, come spring the garlic will be D.O.A.–Dead On Arrival. Just the other day, we were working in the backyard, and I looked over and saw beautiful, green shoots of garlic poking up from the thick layer of mulched leaves spread on top of it. The green was stark against the still very brown and dark landscape, so it caught my attention immediately. It was a beautiful sight and, as it is so often with nature and me, a beautiful reminder. Perhaps most poignantly, it was a reminder of the importance of establishing roots so that, when the harsh winds, rains, snows, and freezes of life happen–and they will–we are grounded enough to sustain them. For this grounding–this rootedness–to be effective in sustaining us, it must happen BEFORE the freeze. BEFORE the grief settles in. BEFORE the winds of change blow so hard that it feels like it’s blowing straight through us. BEFORE the next bad news story, and BEFORE the heartbreak, the diagnosis, the legislation. BEFORE whatever threatens to freeze us in our tracks happens, our roots must be well-established. Which means that whatever we’re doing today to get rooted in our hearts, minds, and spirits, is what will determine how we withstand tomorrow’s weather. So, my dear readers, I wonder, what is it that you are doing to get rooted today? Personally, I’m concentrating on getting enough sleep to feel rested. I’m studying scripture and I’m reading and I’m showing up to groups to discuss with others what I’m studying and reading. I’m getting regular exercise, and am trying to be more conscious about what I’m putting into my body to fuel it. I’m learning to hand off what I can, to put down what no longer serves me, and to carry the rest, although, admittedly, this remains an ultimate challenge to me. I’m working on balance at home and balance at work, and balancing my need to know what’s happening in the world with what my heart can handle listening to on any given day. I’m checking in with my spouse and my dogs, my family and my friends. And I’m spending time in nature–whether in my backyard, or in Mother Nature’s backyard. And I’m letting it all be prayer. I’m letting it all ground me in the truth of who I am and who I am not. I’m letting it all still my soul and stir me toward action all together and all at once. Our faith offers us such beautiful practices to help us get and stay rooted: Prayer, song, community, connection, rituals, sacraments, and silence. In our community of faith, we have opportunities to serve and learn and discuss and grow. It’s all just built in here for us–if we so choose. But we have to choose it, and choose it over and over and over again. Rooting is not a one and done exercise. For garlic, it happens every day, under the surface of the earth, little by little, pushing down deep before the deep freezes and growth is paused. For us, it happens much the same way. Day by day, doing the inner work that often no one sees, but, little by little, pushes our roots ever deeper into a more constant communion with one another, our truest selves, and the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. Being able to withstand the harshness of life’s storms begins with being firmly rooted. What is it that you are doing to get rooted today? On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  Over the past several weeks, I have been getting up earlier than usual and–on three mornings during the week–going to the gym to workout. My workouts begin with 20 minutes on the treadmill at varied speeds and inclines, followed by a full body weightlifting session. I’m not trying to get “ripped” or “buff” or “shredded” or “diced,” I’m simply trying to set my body up to better weather the storms of aging. Plus, my mental health is much better when I move heavy things and sweat.
The other morning I was on the treadmill–my favorite one right by the front windows of the gym–and in one moment, I was huffing and puffing along as I stared out into a dark and grey morning. By the time I looked up again, the sun had emerged over both the horizon and the layer of clouds that was just above it. In an instant I was squinting and smiling as I struggled to take a picture of the scene without falling off the treadmill. Later, when I got home, I wondered about why on earth I felt it so necessary to snap a photo of the sunrise. According to ChatGPT, I have seen 16,660 sunrises since the day I was born (gotta love AI). So why, as I was sweating in my gym socks, did I feel the need to risk life and limb–or, at the very least, my pride–all so that I could get a picture of something I had seen SO MANY TIMES before? The answer I landed on was AWE. In his book, “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder,” author Dacher Keltner says that “Awe is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your current understanding of the world.” If I’m being perfectly transparent, my current understanding of the world has been pretty dark. It has been filled with feelings of overwhelm and fatigue, and just a generalized kind of doom that seems to have taken up residence on my chest, making it hard to get in those deep, centering breaths. And that morning on the treadmill, somehow, something that I had seen 16,660 times before found me in all of that darkness and heaviness, and it was able to transcend it all. That statistically unremarkable sunrise did something remarkable for me: It reminded me that there is SO MUCH MORE. There is more than the little worlds we so often create for ourselves. There is more than our work, there is more than the current fire we are putting out, there is more than the doom scrolling on our phones lets us believe that there is. There is more than our grief, and more than our uncertainty. There is more than our illnesses, and more than our worries and anxieties. There is a presence SO VAST and filled with SO MUCH beauty, that we cannot help but feel different just from witnessing it–even if nothing around us is different. Even if we aren’t different either. 16,659–that’s how many times I’ve likely missed the opportunity to get out of my own little world. 16,659–that’s how many times I’ve settled for nothing more than what was on my phone, or on the news, or waiting in my inbox at work, or even where my calendar told me I had to be. 16,659–that’s how many times my current understanding of the world could have been changed, blown up, or reformed if only I had looked up. If only I had let that presence–the presence I call God–wash over me in whatever moment it found me. If only I had let myself be dwarfed–even if just for a moment–by its vastness. But it only took one time–ONE TIME–to show me the myriad ways I have allowed my world to grow too small. And one time–ONE TIME–to remind me that God’s invitation to more is always available to us. No matter what is happening in the world. No matter how our hearts are hardened. No matter how heavy our chests may be feeling. The presence of God is constantly beckoning us toward lives that are bigger and deeper and wider than those that exist in the little worlds we have created for ourselves. So this week, friends, I pray you pay attention and let the vastness of God find you right where you are, but not leave you there. May you soften into the awe of some moment–any moment–a dog’s sigh, a child’s laugh, the sweetness of silence in a world that seems like it can’t quit talking–something–anything. And then, let it expand your world. Blowing up our little worlds with you, Pr. Melissa |
Pastor Melissa enjoying time on her hammock.
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen was called as the pastor of St. Paul Congregational UCC in June of 2020. Prior to her call to St. Paul, Pr. Melissa worked as a hospice chaplain in the Ames, IA area, following pastorates at rural churches in Central Iowa and Southern Illinois. Pr. Melissa is a second-career pastor with a background in agribusiness and production & supply operations. She received her M.Div. from Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis, MO, and holds a MA Ed. in Adult Education and Training, and a BA in Organizational Communications. Archives
April 2025
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