We dug in the dirt yesterday.  It was magnificent.  

We live in the suburbs and grow a garden for novelty rather than necessity.  My kids are beginning to understand that our cherry blossom tree won’t actually produce ice cream sundae toppers and that we can’t grow corn in the window like their preschool grew pinto beans.  Their confusion is a product of living in a homeowners association (HOA) rather than a cooperative (Co-op).  

We tilled the ground with an actual motorized roto-tiller and used tools like post-hole diggers and trowels.  The kids found it all very exotic.  

Then my son asked if he could take his shoes off and walk in the dirt. He is a safety-minded, rule-following child, so I appreciate his diligence and forethought, recognizing that it’s probably not wise to do so while using the tiller, but otherwise fine.  After rolling up his pant legs, he stood in the cold dirt, eyes closed, giggling.  He was fully present, connecting to something real.  His presence shifted from the exhaust of the tiller to the coldness of the fresh dirt.  His focused moved from minding his rows to watching for worms and grubs and all things that creep and crawl.  He stared at his hands, proud of the dirt under his fingernails.  

Years ago, I heard a story of a death row inmate.  The podcaster or radio journalist talked in depth about his story, which likely had overtones of justice or injustice.  I don’t remember.  What I do remember, vividly, was his last wish — the one and only thing that he would do before being put to death.  His ask was to ‘walk in the grass in my bare feet.  I’ve been in this concrete building so long, I’ve forgotten the feeling of the grass between my toes.’  That struck me and stuck with me all these years.  I grew up mowing lawns as a kid, spending a lot of time in the grass.  I also grew up playing a lot of baseball where the grass is an active participant in the outcome of the game. 

As an adult, I take my shoes off after mowing my lawn and shuffle my feet in no particular pattern, working to emblazon that feeling of fresh cut grass between my toes. My bride used to think me odd for doing this, but now…well, she probably still thinks it’s odd, but appreciates that I appreciate doing so.  

Yesterday, my son did the same thing: connected with something deep and instinctual.  He connected his humanness (“human” from “hummus,” meaning “dirt”) with his history and the gifts of the Father.  He, in a moment, connected with Adam, the father of us all (one meaning for ‘Adam’ in Hebrew is ‘earth’).  My son didn’t know this (and perhaps I’m projecting a bit), but he knew that standing in the dirt was right and felt really good.  

…so as we gathered the days tools, I took my shoes off and walked through the grass in my bare feet.