I heard an expert in biomimicry talk about the healing that happens in nature. As she described it, when there is trauma to land — for instance, through a landslide or when land is clear cut — the first wave of species that comes in are “weed species.” These are plants whose job it is to quickly come in and cover the land. Their roots don’t go deep, they simply cover the ground to soften the soil and put nutrients into the ground.

These species easily give way to the heartier shrubs and berries that follow them. These second phase plants stay a while. They “facilitate” healing by shading tender seedlings and buttressing them against the wind. They add their own nutrients to the soil. Then the next phase of plants comes in, providing yet more shelter and sharing of nutrients, until the land and plant life thrives once again. It’s a progression of making way, providing protection, and creating more fertility in the soil for the next phase of plants to come.

It strikes me as a beautiful illustration of the way Christians are called to enact healing in the world. We play a part in “covering the ground” where the wound is, to shade those who are more tender, to add nutrients into the soil, and to make way when it is time for the next phase of healing to come.

There are so many people and places who are hurting. I think of refugees who face dire circumstances and choices. I think of people living in war zones. I think of the LGBTQ community, whose dignity and personhood are threatened in big and small ways. I think of women who are trying to do it all. I think of boys and men who are shamed for their feelings. So much hurt. So much wounding.

I am hopeful, though, noticing ways I can put nutrients into the soil. I am hopeful thinking of ways the congregation I serve creates shade to provide protection. I am hopeful thinking of those small acts as part of a larger progression of healing phases provided by a larger network of community.

Of course, we are also, at particular times, the ones who are tender and in need of healing.

There are times we need others to cover the ground, to buttress us against the wind, and provide shade and nutrients as we revive and gain strength. What a holy gift to receive such healing from others.

Two years ago, my neighbors lost their house and all their possessions to a house fire. Telling me about the days immediately following, she said to me, “what broke me was not watching our house burn to ash or losing all our stuff. What brought me to tears was the kindness of friends and strangers — the new pillows from neighbors we didn’t yet know and the hand-me-down bags of clothes for the girls that showed up that very night and the toothbrushes and toothpaste someone thought to go to the store to get for us.”

The house is still under repair — I can hear the power tools as I write — but something broke and was broken open on our block in the tragedy and the healing phases that followed.

In the season of Lent, as we remember we are dust, this earthy metaphor seems just right. We are reminded that we are mortal creatures with soft underbellies. The season is perhaps an invitation to each of us to unearth what needs healing within us and let the people and communities around us participate in our healing.

This season, as we seek to grow and deepen our faith through simple practices, perhaps that takes shape as people of healing. To look and see who around us could use some shelter from the wind or encouragement to enrich them or simply our presence to help “cover the ground.”

Perhaps in these acts of letting others provide healing for us and participating in the healing of others, we join in the dying and rising pattern that is the defining metaphor of our preparation for Easter.

And thanks be to God that at all times we trust in the One who healed the sick and bound up the brokenhearted, who stood with the suffering and brought forth new life. A God who enacts this healing pattern over and over again so that we might have life.

Thanks be to God.