Earlier this month, Henry and I drove across the wide-open spaces of New Mexico and Arizona. During that drive, I found myself thinking about the many yucca plants that grow here. They sink their roots deep and send stalks full of blossoms toward the sky. Yucca moths pollinate their flowers, setting the stage for a new generation of yuccas, which will grow at the feet of their parents.
Across the span of their lives, yuccas never move from where they are planted. They know nothing of big cities, tight spaces, or towering trees. They are the tallest plants in their territory. Trains chug by and an endless variety of vehicles stream along the nearby tarmac, but yuccas stay put.
In stark contrast, we are mobile beings. In planes and trains, balloons and automobiles, we traverse the land and sky at our convenience. To rephrase that old Forest Service adage, we take nothing but memories and leave nothing but exhaust.
Yet the yuccas are our sisters. They are part of the web of life that spans the globe. As we were driving, the news was rightly focused on the devastation wrought by hurricanes along the east coast of the US. Towering trees were falling, and animals were drowning. In fact, I thought and even spoke gratefully to Henry about living in such dry desert lands.
But all are intimately related—the rooted trees and their crawling neighbors, the yuccas and their pollinating moths, and we humans whizzing by. We are called to care for all those creatures that cannot move at the speed of our vehicles. This means we must take notice of them and consider their needs as well as our own.
Next time you take a drive, notice the rooted plants in your area. What cannot move about? What needs your attention, your advocacy, your memory? Where is God nudging you to care for creation?
