The Farm Walk

Every spring our county hosted what they called a Learning Farm Walk. Farmers opened their gates and invited neighbors to wander through their fields, gardens, barns, and workshops. The purpose was simple: share what you had learned. Not what you had mastered. Not what you had perfected. Just what you had learned.

One year, I decided to show my compost pile.

Now before you laugh, you should know I was rather proud of that compost pile. It sat near the end of my garden, built from weathered wooden boards with spaces between the slats so air could move through. Over the years I had learned what belonged in it and what didn't. I had learned the difference between green material and brown material. I had learned why turning mattered. I had learned that too much moisture created one problem and too little created another. I had learned that some things broke down quickly while others took their sweet time. Most importantly, I had learned that things which looked useless could become something valuable.

The morning of the farm walk, I swept the garden path. My broom whispered across the dirt. I straightened the tools, running my hand along the handles polished smooth by seasons of use. I tidied the area around the pile. The sun was warm on my shoulders. And if I'm being honest, I hoped people would notice how much I had learned.

By midmorning, a group of neighbors had gathered around. Their shadows fell across the pile. I pointed to the spaces between the boards. I explained airflow. I talked about moisture—how a sudden rain could drown the pile if you weren't careful, but a dry spell could slow the whole process. I talked about turning schedules. I shared mistakes I had made and lessons I had learned, the ones that cost me time and effort to understand. Some listened carefully. Some asked thoughtful questions. Some took notes. Those conversations filled my heart. I could feel myself standing a little taller.

Then came the other comments.

"Those boards should be farther apart."

"You've still got weeds in there."

"That section isn't breaking down evenly."

"You should have turned it sooner."

"You're doing that differently than I would."

At first I smiled politely. But with every comment, my shoulders tightened. My attention shifted. I stopped hearing the questions. I stopped noticing the people who were learning. I stopped thinking about what the compost had become. Instead, I started seeing only the flaws. The uneven breakdown. The section I hadn't gotten to. The way this pile wasn't perfect.

By the time everyone left, I wasn't looking at the garden anymore. I was staring at the pile. Every mistake. Every unfinished section. Every thing I still needed to learn. The joy had disappeared.

That evening the Shepherd came over to stand by the compost as I was working. He often seemed to appear when I was arguing with myself.

"How did the farm walk go?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"It was fine."

The Shepherd smiled.

"It doesn't sound fine."

I looked at the compost pile, the then gazed at the garden still visible in the lengthening light.

"They pointed out everything I haven't figured out yet."

The Shepherd followed my gaze.

"And are they wrong?"

I sighed. 

"No."

He nodded slowly.

"There are things you still need to learn?"

"There are."

"Things you haven't done well enough?"

"Yes."

"Things you could probably improve?"

"Many things."

That wasn't helping. I folded my arms.

"I thought people would notice how much I had learned."

The Shepherd was quiet for a long moment. The evening air moved through the garden, carrying the smell of growing things and turned soil.

Then he asked, "Willow, why did you build the compost pile?"

"To turn waste into soil."

"And why did you want soil?"

I looked toward the garden. The rows were heavy with growth—tomatoes swelling on their vines, bean plants climbing their strings, pepper plants standing sturdy and full.

"For the garden."

"Not for the pile itself?"

"No."

"Not so people would admire how it looks?"

"No."

"Not so people would talk about it and praise your technique?"

"No."

I felt a little foolish saying it out loud.

The Shepherd smiled gently.

"Then why are you measuring the success of the garden by what people think about the pile?"

The question settled over me like evening dew on the grass.

Because that was exactly what I had been doing.

For several minutes neither of us spoke. The sun slipped lower. A bird called from somewhere beyond the pasture.

Finally I said, "I suppose I wanted some credit."

The words were uncomfortable to admit.

The Shepherd nodded, not with judgment but with understanding.

"Credit for what?"

"For learning. For growing. For trying. For all the things I've worked through to get here."

The Shepherd leaned on his staff.

"Willow, did you believe the purpose of turning the compost pile was to prove you no longer had anything left to compost?"

I laughed despite myself.

"When you say it that way, it sounds ridiculous."

"Does it?"

I looked at the pile. He was right. It did.

Maybe somewhere along the way I had started believing that growth meant eventually having no more growth left to do. That healing meant eventually having nothing left to heal. That learning meant eventually having nothing left to learn.

The Shepherd picked up a handful of rich dark compost. It crumbled through his fingers like earth returning to earth.

"Every living farm produces material that must be worked with."

He pointed toward the garden.

"The harvest leaves stalks."

"The tomatoes leave vines."

"The weeds leave roots."

"The storms leave branches."

"The kitchen leaves scraps."

He turned to look at me.

"Does that mean the farm is failing?"

"No."

"What does it mean?"

"It means the farm is alive. It means something is growing."

"Exactly."

I stared at the compost pile. For years I had viewed its existence as evidence of unfinished work. As proof that I wasn't done yet, wasn't good enough yet, hadn't figured it out yet.

Now I wondered if it was evidence that life was still happening.

The Shepherd seemed to read my thoughts.

"The pile isn't proof you've failed."

He paused.

"It's proof you're still growing."

Then he pointed toward the rows of vegetables stretching across the garden. Tomatoes heavy on their vines. Beans climbing faithfully. Peppers standing upright. Squash sprawling across the ground. All growing because compost had become soil. All thriving because I had kept turning, kept learning, and kept using the compost so I could keep bringing things to be transformed again.

"The compost pile was never meant to stand alone. It was never a separate task to master or finish. It's part of the cycle—woven into the garden itself. What the garden produces becomes what feeds the garden. That's the rhythm. Not the pile by itself, but the pile and the garden working together, turning and feeding each other, endlessly."

He paused, letting that settle.

"But the cycle only works if both are tended. If the garden is not kept—if you don't separate what's useful from what's excess, what nourishes from what doesn't—the pile fills with things that shouldn't be there. And if the compost is never turned, never cared for, it rots and smells and breaks down wrong. The cycle doesn't work through neglect. It only works through faithfulness. To both."

Something shifted inside me. I thought about the neighbors who had gathered around the pile. Some had focused on what was wrong, what I could do better. Others had focused on what could be learned, what I might try next. And I realized I had done the same thing to myself. I had spent the entire afternoon staring at the pile instead of looking at the garden.

The Shepherd looked at me kindly.

"I was never measuring your progress by the size of your pile. Or how perfect it is. Or how much you've mastered."

I looked up.

"No?"

He shook his head.

"I was looking at the fruit. The way you keep asking me to teach you. The way year after year you keep bringing me another basket. Another fear. Another disappointment. Another question. And every time, I teach you something about what to do with it."

The words settled deep. Not because I had mastered composting. Not because I had eliminated the pile. Not because I had learned everything. But because I had kept showing up. I had kept learning. I had kept trusting that the Shepherd could turn what seemed useless into something that fed the garden.

The sun was slipping behind the hill. I picked up the basket I had carried from the house that morning. Inside were vegetable scraps from supper, wilted leaves, and a handful of weeds I had pulled from the garden earlier that day.

I looked down and smiled.

Life had done it again. Another lesson. Another disappointment. Another question. Another opportunity to learn.

I looked toward the Shepherd.

"Well, Shepherd," I said with a grin, "it looks like my basket is full of more composting material that I need your help with."

He smiled. Not because the basket was full. But because I had finally stopped being surprised by it.

Then he picked up the pitchfork.

"All right, Willow," he said. "Let's see what we can transform from this one, too."

Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

~ Philippians 3:13-14