There are a surprising number of chores involved in sitting around watching a puddle.
The bird feeders need filling.
The suet feeders need replacing.
The fountain occasionally needs attention, especially when a frog decides the pump looks like a perfectly reasonable place to visit.
There is cracked corn to put out, plants to water, things to clean up, and the constant temptation to make one more little improvement somewhere in the yard.
Somewhere along the way, these small routines stopped feeling quite so much like chores.
They became part of caring for this place.
But the longer I sit behind the puddle, the more I realize that caring for something and controlling it are not the same thing.
That’s probably an important distinction for me.
Because I am very good at loving something and immediately deciding I should help.
Feed it.
Fix it.
Protect it.
Improve it.
Make things easier for it.
Sometimes that’s exactly what care requires.
And sometimes it isn’t.
The puddle has existed long before my patio did.
The geese know where to find food without my cracked corn.
The birds will survive an empty feeder.
Pinecone certainly seems capable of locating snacks without my assistance, although Pinecone may disagree with that assessment.
The herons don’t need me to find their fish.
Shelly doesn’t need directions across the puddle.
And the plants I lovingly attempt to keep alive have repeatedly reminded me that love and successful horticulture are not necessarily the same skill.
I can participate in this little ecosystem.
But I am not in charge of it.
Maybe stewardship begins there.
Not with believing something belongs to us, but recognizing that for some period of time, we have been given the opportunity to care for it.
A place.
A relationship.
An animal.
A garden.
A community.
A family.
Even another person’s story.
Some things entrusted to our care need our hands.
Others need our attention.
Some need protection.
Some need tending.
And some need enough respect from us that we know when to leave them alone.
I think love can make us want to hold tightly.
Stewardship asks something slightly different.
It asks us to care deeply while remembering that what we love has a life beyond our wishes for it.
The puddle doesn’t belong to me.
Neither do the birds, the geese, the squirrels, the turtles, the herons, or anything else that wanders through this yard.
I just get to share this place with them for a while.
And maybe that is why filling a feeder or putting out a pan of cracked corn can feel like more than another task on the list.
It is a small way of saying:
I’m glad you’re here.
I’ll care for what I can.
And I’ll try to remember that loving you doesn’t require me to own what happens next.
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