What's the Point?

On going to the moon and planting seeds

“What’s the point of going to the moon?” my youngest asks.

“We’re planting seeds for the future, “ I say, more confident than I feel.

We’re looking at photos from Artemis II. A woman, like me, braid floating around her head, is staring out a too-small window at the spinning earth below.

“Maybe,” I go on, “it gives us a different perspective. Maybe it helps us see how connected we are, how small we are in this great big universe.”

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Later, another child asks if we have to go church tomorrow.

“Yes,” I say, more confident than I feel. There is a question behind his question. What’s the point of going to church?

“It gives me a different perspective,” I try to explain, “and reminds me that I’m small in a good way. It helps me to see other people wondering and wandering, wrestling with the thing that’s bigger than them. It reminds me I’m not alone, that we’re loved, that someone is Love.”

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After church, I go out to my small raised garden bed. I drag my finger through the dirt, carving a path through the vast, dark galaxy of soil. I fill my hands with the teensy seeds of arugula, snap peas, radish, and scallions, then drop them gently along the path.

What’s the point of planting seeds? I wonder. These seeds are three years old. They might not sprout or be strong enough to survive the curious squirrels. It would be easier, cheaper even, to buy my greens from the grocery store.

But here I am, with nothing but stubborness and dirty fingernails, plunging seeds into the dark. The smallest hope for the future. Faith, perhaps, in what cannot be seen.

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I bend down to pick a few weeds. They’re already five inches tall, tearing their way through the protective shield and the rocks on top. I know they’ll be back by next week. I pluck them anyway.

What’s the point of pulling weeds? I wonder. To make space for something good to grow.