A few weeks ago, we talked about the grim reveal that comes when the snow melts; the "shi(r)t" left behind, literally and figuratively. That image stuck with me. But lately, I’ve been thinking about what happens after the mess is revealed.
You see, now that the snow is gone, it’s lawn season. Grass is getting cut, soil is being turned, and people are out here trying to make things beautiful again. Including my husband—bless him—who recently gave our lawn what I can only describe as a scalping.
It’s dried up, dried up in multiple places. Crispy. Balding. Just rough.
Apparently though, it’s “part of the process.” But, I wasn’t convinced. Especially when our neighbor across the way cut their lawn at a nice medium length. Their grass is lush, green, and thick—the Beyoncé of lawns. Ours? A little more like George Costanza.
But here’s what I’m learning: the process to beauty doesn’t always look beautiful. In fact, sometimes it looks like you’ve ruined something. Like you’ve taken a step backward. Like nothing good could possibly grow from what you just hacked away.
And yet… growth is happening.
Today, I noticed something else: a tree in our backyard is shedding its bark. It does this every year—right on time. And every year I’m reminded that what looks like decay is actually renewal. Underneath what’s flaking off is fresh life. That’s nature’s way of saying: this might look ugly now, but trust me—it’s necessary.
Isn’t that just like God?
We want everything to look good while it’s becoming good. But transformation is messy. Sometimes growth looks like a patchy lawn or a cracked surface. Sometimes it looks like a public failure or private burnout. It doesn’t mean something’s wrong. It just means something’s real.
One day soon, I’ll look out and the lawn will be green again—maybe even more vibrant than it’s ever been. Or maybe it won’t be. And if it’s not, I’ll still learn something valuable about the process.
Because sometimes the process requires you to observe and pivot. That’s not failure—it’s wisdom. A natural, God-given course correction that keeps you aligned with where growth is actually happening. Adapting doesn’t mean something’s wrong; it means you’re paying attention.
And here’s the thing: the grass isn’t greener on the other side—it’s greener where you water it.
It’s tempting to look across the street—or across LinkedIn—or across the office—and assume someone else’s lawn (or life) is better maintained, more vibrant, more together. But we don’t always see the hidden work behind it. Maybe they’ve got a different method. Maybe they’ve got more shade. Maybe they’re just in a different season.
Whatever the case, comparison will distract us from cultivation. Our job is to tend to our own soil, show up consistently, and trust the ugly middle. Water what’s yours—faithfully, even when it looks like nothing is happening. Especially when it looks like nothing is happening.
Because growth doesn’t just happen. It’s made—through watering, waiting, and a whole lot of faith.
Remember: You are God’s greatest creation. And like the earth He formed, your growth has seasons. Your bark may shed. Your surface may crack. But you are not falling apart. You are becoming.
Reflection
What’s revealing itself in your life right now that looks a little dried up? Can you trust that even that is part of the process?
Take heart in nature. Take heart in your Creator. The end will be magnificent.
Media Recommendation: The Biggest Little Farm
This inspiring documentary follows a couple who leave city life behind to build a sustainable farm on 200 acres of barren land. The film vividly illustrates that growth often comes through trials and that trusting the process, even when it's messy, can lead to remarkable outcomes. Watch the trailer:
From my pile of dirt to yours: until next time,
Carrie
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit godmadedirt.substack.com
