Kari Tyree

I am rushing to the end of something that’s been part of my life for nearly five years now: my job as a college instructor. It feels more accurate to say that I am being rushed to the end of it, since the semester is going to stop, with or without my consent. This job has also been my first and only (aside from odds and ends or retail jobs here and there), which I started just after finishing grad school. You might say that my entire life has involved “doing school” in one way or another, in fact. The awareness that I’m encountering a series of “lasts” has pressed on my mind for a while now, and it certainly adds a bitterness to the sweet expectation of starting a new and exciting chapter of life when the baby is born this summer. Any kind of change is always difficult for me, and coming to the end of a thing can be particularly challenging.

In Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry often provides insightful comments along with lovely imagery through the narrator/protagonist, Jayber. The most recent such observation to strike my fancy was this:

Making the garden completed my departure from Port William. At that season I had naturally regretted giving up my garden in town. I had mourned over it, remembering the way the fresh young plants had looked in the long rows behind the shop. They had been art and music to me. But now I had planted another garden in another place in a different kind of ground, and expectation pulled my mind away.

Jayber has experienced the end of one long and meaningful portion of his life and is transitioning to a new space and a new role. I admire the attitude, represented in this passage, that recognizes the validity of both mourning a loss and celebrating a new beginning with eager anticipation, but it sure is a tough attitude to maintain!

I had read that passage last week, and then just this past Sunday, our pastor at church discussed the verses in John 4 where Jesus tells His disciples that the fields are ready for harvest (a spiritual harvest in the kingdom of God). One of the points the pastor made was that wherever God has placed us, whether it’s a job or a neighborhood or a new country, is the field that we’ve been assigned. Rather than jealously looking at someone else’s field or regretting the loss of a field we were in once before, we should focus on what God is doing in the current field around us.

Both of these “lessons,” which arrived in such close succession, together strike me as God’s gentle reminder that even though my upcoming transition may be a challenge, it is also a good thing. He will not keep me in the same field my entire life; there will be changes throughout, and my role no matter what is to trust that He places me with deliberate care and to serve within that placement. If my field suddenly seems smaller (a change from the sphere of the working world into the sphere of one little apartment with one little family), that does not make it less important. Rather than regret the end of my old position, I should let myself be wrapped up in the joy of my new field, whatever it looks like. A few little potted plants on a balcony can hold as much beauty and require as much careful attention as many acres planted with a crop of wheat.

Coleus on My Balcony