A Parish Story From Chamberlain | Goshen, IN
Today’s Parish Story is from our dear friend Shannan Martin, written to share live at Inhabit 2023. Shannan is an inspiring parish practitioner, author, and a member of our Parish Collective Fellowship. Grab a copy of her latest book, Start with Hello.
Eleven years ago, my family moved from our farmhouse into the neighborhood one city over because we were desperate to know what we did not know. Our (much smaller) house was situated across from Walnut Park.
For the year leading up to our move, we dodged skeptics, including the hairdresser, the convenience store clerk, most of our extended family, and a host of well-meaning friends who united in a chorus of, “You’re making a big mistake.”
We traded their doubts for better questions. Why does loving our neighbors matter to God? Who is our neighbor? What does it mean to care for each other without an agenda? How exactly do we do this?
Sunday school always said God is everywhere. But we did not know it in our bones, like an ache in our molars, a stiffness in our knee before the rain. No one had shown us how to carry this goodness with us in our bodies.
God did not send a pastor to our door to teach us, or a well-timed Bible verse to convince us. God sent a walnut tree - over 200 years before our feet touched this particular Potawatomi land, at the corner of 5th St. and Oakridge.
Under its canopy I watched my children invent chaotic games with neighbor friends. When shots rang out and we woke up to crime scene tape, marched under its eaves, against gang violence, tossing roses to the weary.
We met Jasmine, a wary middle schooler who became our kids’ favorite babysitter. We stayed close through a cascade of catastrophe. And when the pregnancy test was positive, she fell sobbing into our arms. Nine months later, she was a capable, loving mother and we were godparents.
The leaves burned gold when I spotted Mack on the swings after being unjustly expelled from 7th grade. With his mom’s blessing, a few neighbors patched together a wobbly home-school to fill the gaps while we fought for him. Five years later, I was there when he turned his tassel.
It took me years to notice it hiding in plain sight, disguised as “just a tree.” Shading. Sheltering. Healing. Sleeping and steadying. Bearing fruit. Collapsing into color, then doing it all again. It was there all along, and that meant something.
I fell into the practice of holy fascination and spent time staring at the tree every day.
Leaves like feathers. Branches like kept promises. Right here, in a place most of my city would rather not think about, two of the oldest trees stand vigil, loving us equally - even when we don’t love them back.
For the first 65 days of quarantine I took a photo and watched in time-lapse as the snow at its base melted into green and its inky skeleton sprouted wings. “Things change and stay the same,” it breathed. I discovered trees pray.
My babies grew slowly, like live oaks. They got glasses, middle school IDs, and driver’s licenses. Their voices and bodies changed and they would always be mine. We had not thrown them to the wolves. We had entrusted them to the forest wisdom of infinite belonging.
I made dinner, went to church, planted backyard gardens, and watched my hair turn gray. I changed my mind and grew more comfortable with not knowing. I studied the tree and learned to behold and abide.
Every neighborhood sits at the intersection of beauty and justice. This is a well-kept secret. It’s easier to focus on the pain; to fixate on the fracture or become consumed by the work. If we’re not paying attention, we’ll wonder if the skeptics were right.
To live our identity of neighbor is to rely on wonder and beauty. Of course, there are the people. But there are also roses bowing through chain-linked fences. The front door painted the perfect shade of pink. The Walnut Centurians overlooking this kingdom.
It turns out, God is not as predictable and safe (or boring) as I believed. God is a solar eclipse. A ripe cherry tomato growing from a raspberry cane. A maverick. Loud and funny. Gentle. Dizzying. Never boring, but often ordinary.
“There is no division between where we live and what we are,” writes Scott Russell Sanders. I am Indiana clay the scream of a train. I’m a Midwestern flood plain. Potlucks and carne asadas. Relapse and recovery. I am a student of the sky and a daughter of the trees. Who are you?
I know less than I did eleven years go, but I now believe God didn’t send us or call us to the Chamberlain neighborhood to do something or be something or bring something. The work, wherever we are, is to witness God’s goodness in our midst.
“For I am sure I will see the Lord’s goodness while I am here in the land of the living.” Psalm 27:13 says. Beauty begets gratitude, begets belonging, begets actual love. The math checks out. Here’s to finding an ecological elder to love like a neighbor.
