Behind the Puddle

Caring for something is much more enjoyable when the weather is nice. This is probably not a profound observation.

Filling bird feeders on a beautiful morning while everything behind the puddle is active feels almost like part of the entertainment. There are birds everywhere. Pinecone may appear to inspect our work. The geese wander through. The sun is shining. I can sit back in my chair afterward and enjoy the results. It feels rewarding.

But seasons change. Soon there will be cooler mornings. Rain. Wind. Eventually cold. Days when going outside to fill a feeder won’t feel nearly as charming as it did in July. And the birds will still need to eat. The yard will still need attention. Things will still need tending.

Maybe that’s where stewardship becomes something more than enthusiasm.

It is easy to care when caring feels good. When someone appreciates what we do. When we can see the difference we’re making. When we have enough energy. When the work fits comfortably into our lives. But much of caring doesn’t happen under ideal conditions.

Sometimes we care when we’re tired. We show up when it would be easier not to. We make the phone call. Refill the prescription. Take someone to the appointment. Feed the animals. Check on the neighbor. Water the plant. Listen to the story again.

Do the ordinary thing that needs doing. Not because anyone is going to notice. Because it matters.

I think stewardship can sound like a big word for small acts. We use it when we talk about protecting land, caring for resources, or leaving something better for the people who come after us. All of that matters.

But maybe stewardship also lives in kitchens and backyards and text messages.

It lives wherever we have decided: This matters enough for me to care for it. A relationship, a place, a person, a community, a tradition, an animal, our own body, even our own energy. 

And perhaps stewardship also means recognizing that care has to be sustainable. I cannot care faithfully for everything. None of us can. There are limits to time, money, energy, attention, and ability.

Sometimes caring well means doing more. Sometimes it means asking someone else to help. Sometimes it means changing how we have always done something. Sometimes it means admitting that what worked in one season no longer works in another.

The birds don’t need me to prove my devotion by exhausting myself. Neither do the people I love.

Care that destroys the caregiver isn’t necessarily better care. Maybe consistency doesn’t mean doing the exact same thing forever. It means continuing to ask: What does care look like now?

September will require something different from this yard than July did. Winter will require something different again. The needs change. The conditions change. Our ability changes. But the intention can remain.

Behind the puddle, caring has become part of the rhythm. Not because I can control what happens here. Not because everything depends on me. And certainly not because I always feel like doing every little task involved.

I care because this place has become important to me. Maybe stewardship is simply love willing to become practical. Not just: I care about you. But: What does caring for you require in this season? And then, as faithfully as we can, doing that.