Making room for others in what we have

A Reflection for Tuesday of the Thirtieth Week in Ordinary Time

Find today’s readings here.

When we moved into our home last December, one of the things I was most excited about was the garden. I knew there was a good foundation of flowers, plants and even a raised garden bed, and also knew I had to be patient through the seasons to see what was flourishing, what may need some help and what may have to go. I wanted to plant a native garden to welcome the bees and the birds, find space for another raised garden bed and make sure there was still room for my boys to play. Our yard isn’t particularly large, so I am always thinking (and talking and driving my husband nuts) about how to make the most of the space we have. 

There is one large burning bush in particular that has been on my mind. It turns a beautiful, fiery red in the fall and holds its color for quite a while. It is beautiful, but even with regular pruning, it takes up so much space (and casts a shadow on my beloved garden bed!). Every time I look at it, I find myself imagining what else could be planted there, what we could do with that space. All winter and spring, I told myself that come fall, it would have to go. But over the summer, I found myself reconsidering. 

One of my 4-year-old son’s favorite things to do is fill the bird feeders in our yard and watch the birds. What started as an attempt to get him to sit and be quiet for 10 minutes with me one weekend morning turned into one of my favorite rituals. He will often ask if we can sit together, just the two of us, and watch the birds. And where do we sit in this holy quiet? Near the feeders, beside that very burning bush. 

We’ve spent many mornings watching birds dart between the feeders and the branches, resting in the shade on hot summer days, finding shelter and, dare I say, community among the leaves. My son gets so excited when we spot one (last summer’s favorite was the gray catbird and its meow-like song) and we have learned that if we sit still enough, and stay quiet enough, we can spend quite a bit of time watching the birds come and go from their resting place. 

Now, as fall arrives and I’ve been out in the garden removing and pruning plants, I keep avoiding the question of the burning bush removal. I keep hearing my son’s voice telling me it’s time to go sit and bird watch. I think about his excitement as he watches the birds fly in and out and I wonder if my want for more space, another garden bed, might be less important than I have been thinking. 

In the Gospel, Jesus compares the Kingdom of God to a mustard seed that grows into a large plant, where birds come and make their homes in its branches. I have always thought about the mustard seed as a story about growth, how something small can become something much greater than we imagined. But now I find myself drawn to thinking about it in a slightly different way. 

The plant doesn’t simply grow. It grows in a way that makes room for others, that invites them in and serves as a resting place. And maybe that is how we can think about our own growth in faith. We spend a lot of time thinking about how we can improve, accomplish more, become the people we hope to be. We make plans for our lives, our families, even our gardens. We look at our spaces and instead of seeing what is there, we often skip ahead to what they could become. But what if growth isn’t always about making room for something new? What if it is recognizing the good that is already happening in ways we’ve overlooked? 

The burning bush isn’t a native plant, and, in fact, it is prohibited to plant new burning bushes in Massachusetts. It may not be the best choice for the kind of garden I want to cultivate. But it has also provided shelter for the birds, a place for my son to connect with nature and an excuse for the two of us to notice and wonder about things beyond ourselves. Before I decide what the space should become, I want to recognize what it has already made possible. 

In our own lives, what have we overlooked because it doesn’t look the way we imagined or serve a very specific purpose that we intended it to? The Gospel invites us to consider another question: What is already finding shelter in the lives we have built? The Kingdom of God grows not simply to become bigger, not simply to have more members in our parishes or more money in the collection plates. It grows to become a place where others can flourish, where they can be loved, find community and experience peace and the Good News. Perhaps one measure of growth in faith is not simply how much we have accomplished or how far we have come, but whether our lives have become places where others can find shelter. 

This fall, I still find myself looking at that burning bush and imagining what else I could plant there. But now, instead of being overly eager to cut it down, I will also remember the birds tucked into its branches and my son’s voice asking me to come watch with him. Maybe I’ll be a little slower to decide that something needs to go, more willing to notice what is already growing and more attentive to the ways God might be asking me to make room for others. 

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