Tending the Edges

The other morning on my walk, I saw an elderly man with his dog. They weren’t hurrying anywhere—just meandering down the sidewalk in that slow, familiar rhythm of people who’ve learned there’s no need to rush.

As I passed by, I noticed the man had paused—his dog waiting beside him—so he could pull a handful of weeds from the edge of a flower bed. It was one of those beds that borders a building, the kind that–after a while–blends into the general landscape so much so that no one really notices it anymore. This flower bed in particular happened to belong to one of the local funeral homes.

“Such quiet care,” I thought, “for something that isn’t even his.” I couldn’t help but stare as my dogs and I walked by on the opposite side of the street. Maybe it was the way he gave attention to a place most of us pass by without a second glance. Maybe this is just part of his daily routine–perhaps he pulls a few weeds every morning someplace? I’m not sure, all I know is that there was something so simple and tender and holy, even, about the scene. So much so that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I saw it all unfold.

In the Gospel of Matthew (5:5) Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” That  word “meek” gets misunderstood a lot. It’s not meant to be synonymous with weakness. It’s meant to indicate gentleness. Steadiness. Strength restrained. Like the quiet power of people who make the world better in ways no one’s applauding.

Outside of this very local blog post, I doubt that man will ever make the news for pulling weeds outside a funeral home. And yet, even without accolades, this simple act was one of stewardship. Of quiet dignity. Of tending the edges of life that others forget.

It reminds me of something theologian and author Barbara Brown Taylor once wrote:

“The hardest spiritual work in the world is to love the neighbor as the self—to encounter another human being not as someone you can use, change, fix, help, save, enroll, convince, or control, but simply as someone who can spring you from the prison of yourself, if you will allow it.”

That man and his dog didn’t say a word to me–and, truthfully, they didn’t have to. Because their presence—his small act of tending, the dog’s patient loyalty—sprung something open in me. It reminded me that holiness often shows up not in pulpits or pageantry, but in people quietly choosing to care for what’s right in front of them. People just like us.

It means something to tend the edges. To love the unnoticed. To pull weeds from flower beds that aren’t ours. What it means? Well, that might be as individual as each person reading this today. All I know is that it’s moments like these that the Divine gives us just a glimpse of what’s possible–both in us and outside us–and reminds us that the work of the Spirit is less about changing the whole world in one sweeping gesture. The work of the Spirit was, is, and will forever be about the quiet ways we choose to help make things just a little more beautiful, right where we are, just as we are. 

So this week, Beloved, I’m going to do my best to make things just a little more beautiful–in my own quiet way. And I pray you might join me through quiet ways of your own.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

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