If you walked out the backdoor of our home, and veered slightly right, you’d notice it. The outline where the new sod meets the old grass. Take it in. It’s a massive patch. About one fourth of our large lawn. That’s all you’ll see. It’s not really much to look at.
What you don’t see is what happened underneath that patch.
What you don’t see is all that happened underground.
You don’t see the prominent pine deck that stood over nearly half that spot, its nine anchor studs buried in huge and heavy holes of concrete.
You don’t see the day-long efforts it took a crew of three to dismantle that deck and carry it to the front of the house and a parked truck and haul it off trip after trip after trip.
You don’t see the hours of labor it took me to dig out those nine anchor studs with their concrete and to fill those holes back in.
You don’t see the expansive above ground pool that sat in the rest of that sod-patched spot. The hole that was carved into the lawn by a construction bobcat. The tons of dirt hauled off to make space for that pool.
You don’t see the weeks it took for me to dismantle that pool, bolt by bolt, piece by piece. Many of the pieces welded together by rust. You don’t see the sweat pouring down me as I cut those pieces with tin snips.
You don’t see the weeks I stood in the hole that remained once the pool was gone, digging up the tons of decorative rock that surrounded the pool. Many of those rocks now cemented into the dense clay soil, letting loose only after repeated hits with a hoe or a metal rake.
You don’t see the ten hours a crew of three spent yesterday hauling tons of dirt back into that hole and laying sod over it and rolling that sod flat.
Standing there this morning, you’d never guess the five and a half months of intense labor that happened underground. All you’d see is that new green sod and the slight outline of where all that once took place.
But I feel it. I see it. I know it. My bones and muscles and heart and soul bear witness to the toil that took place out of sight. Physically. And emotionally. The manual labor I endured for months in that hole often unlocked my heart and my tears. I’ve soaked that ground with my own grief. There was a lot happening in the underground of my heart while I was toiling in the underground of my lawn.
This, my friends, is what God does in times of suffering. To you. To others. There’s massive work happening in everyone’s spiritual and emotional and mental underground. Toil and striving by the Holy Spirit. Renovation. Demolition. Tearing down. Building up. Sometimes God uses others–consecrated crews who contribute to his internal project. Sometimes it’s just you and him. It’s painful. It’s unbearable. It’s daunting. And it’s necessary.
Most won’t know it’s happening in you. But they will see the result of it.
Remember this about yourself. Attend to that internal work. Let it happen. Give yourself some grace as it happens.
Remember this about others too. There’s so much more to them than you can see. Give them some grace too.
We’re a culture that worships the external. We measure and applaud and appreciate mostly just the external. But God’s work, the best work, is internal.
What’s happening today in your underground?
