The other day, I came inside with dirt on my hands and grass seed stuck to my shoes after one more attempt to fix the dead spots in our lawn before winter.
Jocelyn and I had been away most of the summer, and when we returned, our yard told the story of our absence: a patchwork of healthy green mixed with deathly grey. And of course, my perfection seeking eyes went straight to the grey.
On the bright side, the lawn is weed-free—thanks to the lawn company I hired. But the grass itself? Not so lucky. Earlier in the season, I’d patched and seeded with new growth, but weeks of drought while we were gone undid all that progress.
Jocelyn insists it doesn’t look as bad as I think. Maybe she’s right. But when I see the grey patches, all I can think about is fixing them.
The Secret
So, one more time, I dig, remove some old earth, spread fresh topsoil, scatter seed, sprinkle fertilizer, cover it gently with more topsoil, water, pray, and water again. The secret to new grass isn’t complicated: keep the soil moist.
And somewhere between watering the ground and brushing the dirt from my hands, it hit me: my writing life in 2025 looks a lot like my lawn.
There are spots of vibrant growth—moments I’m proud of. And there are patches that look deathly and barren. And just like grass needs water, my writing needs reading.
A Watered Soul
Reading other writers waters my soul. I soak up your subjects, your styles, and your sticky phrases.
And I reflect on God’s promise in the prompt:
Jocelyn and I had been away most of the summer, and when we returned, our yard told the story of our absence: a patchwork of healthy green mixed with deathly grey. And of course, my perfection seeking eyes went straight to the grey.
On the bright side, the lawn is weed-free—thanks to the lawn company I hired. But the grass itself? Not so lucky. Earlier in the season, I’d patched and seeded with new growth, but weeks of drought while we were gone undid all that progress.
Jocelyn insists it doesn’t look as bad as I think. Maybe she’s right. But when I see the grey patches, all I can think about is fixing them.
The Secret
So, one more time, I dig, remove some old earth, spread fresh topsoil, scatter seed, sprinkle fertilizer, cover it gently with more topsoil, water, pray, and water again. The secret to new grass isn’t complicated: keep the soil moist.
And somewhere between watering the ground and brushing the dirt from my hands, it hit me: my writing life in 2025 looks a lot like my lawn.
There are spots of vibrant growth—moments I’m proud of. And there are patches that look deathly and barren. And just like grass needs water, my writing needs reading.
A Watered Soul
Reading other writers waters my soul. I soak up your subjects, your styles, and your sticky phrases.
· Brenda, your phrase about memoir writing as "a lifetime in a timeline" gave me writers envy.
· Susan, your poetic confession, "I am being reduced" carried surprising strength in its surrender.
· Sharon, your description of a favourite author’s ability to "wake up my gray cells." made me grin.
Encouraged
The prompt asked whether I feel encouraged to keep writing. Without a doubt. I'll keep working on my lawn and my writing because I want to be proud of what is produced.And I reflect on God’s promise in the prompt:
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions
never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
—Lamentations 3:22-23
A daily grace that waters a writer's soul.
Lawns and writing are two things I would not have connected. Thank you for this great metaphor, Bob. I am so glad, along with you, that "God loves us - even when we're our own worst critics." Blessings on you as you continue to feed and water your writing.
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