Good Soil

The rain fell blue but quickly ran red as it inflicted wound-like paths across our barren backyard. Rivulets turned to ruts as water coursed in fury over red-dirt clay and gravel. Save for a few chunks of quartz, little else was left in the aftermath of this relentless theft of nature. The topsoil, fallen leaves, even the weeds, all washed away by the momentary tempest that is an Australian summer storm.

Would anything ever grow here?

Yes, came the answer, as we defiantly ploughed and planted, eventually establishing beautiful gardens at our new home. By our fourth summer, this sunburnt land of dust and ghost gums had become a feast for the senses. Lavender on the breeze. Evergreens against an autumn amber pallet. The spongy crunch of kikuyu underfoot. The sound of running pond water as children splashed by day and frogs sang by night. And with the arrival of some of our most beautiful native birds, our garden became a living illustration recounting daily stories of grace, blessing, and perseverance.

Of course, summer storms still came. They always rolled in like clockwork post-Christmas, but we lamented not their arrival, for the patchwork of blooms and buds above ground held steady because of  roots, sewn like tapestry below.

There was a storm, though, that nearly destroyed it all. It erupted on a cloudless day. No warning. Then again, even the best weather-measurement tools could not have forecast the destruction to come.

Because this was a human hurricane.

A screamer of thunder.

Violent as lightning with no place to ground.

Blowing a gale as she roared how much she hated life.

But there was no rain. Not yet. That deluge would not come until later. Not until the storm had passed and the dam of sadness, filled to capacity, would be relieved by grace, permitting her to let that floodgate open.

This hurricane was Katie.* She was 12. She is autistic.

And now, emerging from her father’s shed, she held an axe.

Katie has always struggled with anger. Responding to enforced boundaries, embarrassment, or having her rigid thinking corrected, her anger, by virtue of intensity, is only matched by her determination to see something done.

Unfortunately, the storm of this particular day saw anger and determination develop such a supercell that within fifteen minutes the main garden was struck to splinters. Blossoms stripped bare, apricots slashed till sap bled with flesh of ripening fruit. The succulents were an easy target for a child looking to satisfy a sensory need to slay something squelchy until it lay dismembered.

Initially, I watched pragmatically, ensuring our other children’s safety. Then with every blow Katie inflicted upon my hard work and joy, something inside me grew. Disbelief, anger, resentment. Creeping vines of sin, no doubt grown from a seed of bitterness that has, at times, been difficult to poison in the struggle of raising a special-needs child.

Eventually, her arms, exhausted by the weight of her weapon, hung limp as she breathlessly surveyed what she’d done. Catching her eye through the kitchen window, we both knew the storm had passed as her trembling tears pleaded for the grace to let the flood begin. I confess, had it not been for the Spirit’s prompt toward compassion, I could’ve selfishly cared more about my (no longer) flourishing garden than the fragile soul of my daughter. Indeed, the flower fades and the grass withers and now here stood a little girl, wilting.

I’m in a Luke 8 moment.

Here Jesus tells the Parable of the Sower, teaching what happens to gospel seeds depending on where they’re sown. And as a parent I’m reminded to sow not only gospel seeds, but also with grace plough the ground of my child’s experiences to help cultivate a soil conducive to healthy growth when the time for spiritual germination comes. Like good seed goes with good soil, so the gospel goes with godliness.

Grace, forgiveness, patience—these are aspects of sowing and cultivating gospel faith in my children that often compete with my fleshly desire to otherwise cement over the opportunity in frustration. Where ultimately the thought to bitumen in bitterness is eliminated only as I remember Christ’s cross planted in the ground amongst thorns and thistles for my sake. Where his blood dropped like seeds into the hearts of men, germinating the hope of new life for all who acknowledge that their spiritual ground is otherwise barren of goodness.

So, let my hands be calloused by ploughing soil and sowing seeds in Christ’s name, that wilting flowers may in time grow to flourish as they’re gently staked to the cross. Let us not grow weary in doing this good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

*Not her real name.

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Laura Blyth, her husband, and four of their children live in Victoria, Australia. After working in media, Laura undertook biblical studies at Moore Theological College, Sydney. With a passion for storytelling and a love for the greatest author, Jesus, Laura delights in exploring the powerful interconnection between the unchanging gospel and our personal testimonies, as life brings the addition of new chapters. Laura also has a particular heart of compassion toward others who have endured the loss of a child.