
The Language of Drought and Duty
Sometimes, God does not simply give or withhold. Sometimes He rearranges who belongs where.
Place. Limits. Liberty
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Sometimes, God does not simply give or withhold. Sometimes He rearranges who belongs where.

The hardware store’s customers aren’t just customers. They aren’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. They are its neighbors.

There are problems that we do not have the luxury of waiting for lab-grown burgers to solve.

For humility, there is nothing like gardening.

We should remind ourselves of our eternal home by making an image of it, not as an idol but as an icon.

You can’t have a farm divorced from community, and you can’t have community without people. A farm isn’t a farm without a farmer.

Lamentations 5:4 bewails, “We must buy the water we drink; our wood comes at a price.” In exile, Israel mourned the loss of free access to the land’s gifts.

Wading in a river and lumberjacking in the woods are at once work and play, play and work, and in this they resemble anything we might do for instrumental ends and yet, at the same time, take a great deal of pleasure in.

In the ultimate form of mimesis, the well-seasoned mower who comes to know every inch of the property he maintains, also comes, in the end, to know the contours and corners of his own mind, given sufficient time.

He who has a piece of ground to call his own is not truly bereft, no matter what else is lost.