… the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter song, as if it said: “This is reality, whether you like it or not. All those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.” It was as if we were being punished for loving the loveliness of summer.
― Willa Cather,  My Antonia

As I scooped up several brown leaves that had fallen into the pool, I said–aloud and with enough volume to startle the finches on the bird feeder–Oh no! It’s coming! Fall, that is. It’s coming whether I like it or not. Granted, it’s supposed to be nearly 100 today. For days, my phone has been alerting me of this heat advisory, and the heat has been brutal, even for August in Iowa. But it’s still pool weather. It’s still shorts and flip flop weather. It’s still summer with its living mask of green that trembles over everything. For me, even as I sweat through days of heat advisory, a handful of brown leaves brings on seasonal melancholy, an acute sadness for loving the loveliness of summer.

It’s not that I don’t love fall with all it’s changing colors and brisk mornings. And it’s not that I don’t understand and appreciate the seasonal cycle of death and rebirth, brown to green. But the older I get, the more I view the coming of autumn as a kind of bitter song, for as Cather writes, the passing of summer with all its light and shadow is a seasonal truth I’d rather not face until I absolutely have to.

In these particularly beautiful lines, poet Pablo Neruda expresses my own sentiments:

We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

Throughout my life, I’ve often felt as though it’s been my destiny to love and say goodbye. If I’m being honest, it’s not just the challenge of saying goodbye to summer that plagues me, it’s saying goodbye to almost anything and everyone. When I was in elementary school, I remember helping my mom retrieve an ironing board from our basement on the day that one of her friends was leaving town. For whatever reason, my mom was gifting her this ironing board. And for whatever reason, the memory of this day hangs on. I was a child, and this wasn’t even my friend. But the solemnity of this day, the official parting with all its hugs and best wishes, the buds of tears I saw in the corners of my mom’s eyes–I felt all of this profoundly. Saying goodbye was serious stuff, and I carried the weight of these moments for quite some time. Perhaps I carry them still.

In J.D. Salinger’s coming-of-age novel, The Catcher in the Rye, the protagonist Holden Caufield feels this same solemnity. He confesses:

I was trying to feel some kind of good-bye. I mean I’ve left schools and places I didn’t even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it. If you don’t you feel even worse.

Like Holden, when I leave a place–or person–I like to know I’m leaving. That is, I I like a formal leave-taking, an intentional goodbye. I can still see my mom and dad standing on the terrace of our family home, waving as I pulled away to travel the 400 miles back to Iowa, waving until they could see me no more. This is the kind of intentional goodbye that sustained me even as I often cried for the first 30 miles, missing my parents already. I admit that I watch my own children drive down our gravel drive until I can no longer see them. There’s something necessary about fixing my eyes on them for as long as possible, prolonging the passing.

As I write, I sit on my screen porch, the weather having cooled, and the breeze quite lovely. An oriole returns to finish off the last bits of grape jelly in our feeder. He’ll be gone soon, and goldenrod will vanquish the remaining Queen Anne’s lace that grows at the edge of the timber. Time will burnish the world, as it always has. As it must. But I take heart, remembering the words of A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh:

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

Men rush towards complexity, but they yearn towards simplicity. They try to be kings; but they dream of being shepherds.

–G. K. Chesterton

It’s a ridiculously glorious sight: a chevron of a couple hundred sunfish parting the water as they move towards the pond dam. They’re coming en masse because they see me. Or they see my shadow. Or they see my car making its way across the pond dam towards the highway. I’ve been their shepherd for about 20 years, throwing out handfuls of food, treating the pond for all sorts of invasive weeds, and generally caring for them. I’m a fish shepherd.

It’s not long before they’re joined by the big boys of the pond: five 8 lb. catfish who simply open their mouths and vacuum the surface of the water, taking in pellets by the mouthfuls. And then the koi come, flashing their colors like banners. My grandson and I have named them all: Camo, Diesel, Angel, Sparkle, Pumpkin, and (Griff’s proud contribution!) Money Maker. They’re the jewels of the pond, and we shepherd them seriously. Each night as we stand at the pond’s edge flinging handfuls of pellets across the water, we ooh and ahh at how they’ve grown and how they look pretty magnificent when the sun hits them just so. And the bass? They’re shy, and we rarely see them. But we know they’re happily trolling the deeper water of the east end. We’re our fishes’ biggest fans, and we rue the day when the pond freezes over, and we can’t see them anymore.

Shepherding is a humble role fraught with the desire to protect and preserve. We’ve had our share of fish-kills after particularly rough winters. To see a 12 lb. grass carp floating on the surface in early spring is a sorry sight, indeed. But it’s a part of shepherding. In spite of your best efforts, you lose some. You may leave the 99 to go after a stray sheep–or fish–but it may not be enough. Still, a good shepherd makes the effort, always.

Turkish playwright, Mehmet Murat Ildan, writes: Shepherds know many mysterious languages; they speak the language of sheep and dogs, language of stars and skies, flowers and herbs. It’s a unique relationship between the shepherd and whatever or whomever is being shepherded, and good shepherds learn to speak the language of their charges. Griff and I may not literally speak “fish,” but we know where and when our fish like to be fed. We know how to ensure that that big fish don’t hog all the food. We know which koi travel together as partners and which travel solo. We like to think that we speak the language of our pond’s fish.

In the whole scheme of life, a pondful of sunfish, catfish, and koi may not seem all that important, just as a pasture full of sheep or a neighborhood full of people may seem small and relatively unimportant in the whole scheme of world affairs. But shepherding is an intimate venture, particularly local and often small. It’s true that good shepherds see the bigger picture: how their flock is but one of many flocks that make up the world. Still, their eyes are fixed firmly on their flock, whose well-being is their first and foremost concern. Above all, shepherding is an act of loving the singular and the particular, for each member of the flock is infinitely valuable.

As writer and philosopher, G. K. Chesterton contends, we often rush towards complexity and try to be kings. Humans are like that. We prioritize leadership and power. We think more is more, and complexity is progress. But at some point, there are always those who turn from the world and begin to dream smaller. Overwhelmed and saddened by power and complexity, they gather their flocks and begin to tend seriously to those about whom they care most: families, friends, neighbors, colleagues. This is shepherding at its finest, the type of shepherding upon which the world depends.

We read a lot about tribalism today, a term which has come to be associated with division, an “us vs. them” mentality, a group that closes ranks and excludes those not welcomed into particular political, religious, social, educational, or cultural tribes. Shepherding must not be confused with tribalism. That is, good shepherds generally care for a motley assortment of members. There are rebel sheep among their flocks, and they love and care for them just as they care for the other sheep. Griff and I may love the pond koi best, but we care for the other fish just the same. Jesus uses the parable of the lost sheep to tell us that the Kingdom of God is accessible to all, even those who stray and become lost. In this parable, the good shepherd risks all to go after one stray sheep. At the heart of shepherding is this type of devotion and conviction that each member of the flock–however wayward and rebellious–is worthy of rescue and love.

Every organization I’ve been a part of has held leadership training of some sort. Clearly, we need good leaders, individuals of integrity and wisdom who lead with clarity and compassion. But we need more shepherds. And we need good ones, individuals with humility and perseverance, empathy and love. This may not be a flashy position, nor does it often come with bonuses and stock options. It’s a vital position, though. I am a fish shepherd, but I hope to be an even better people shepherd. I’m aware that I can please my fish easily with a handful of pellets thrown strategically by the dock. Shepherding the people in my life is a more serious venture, one that deserves the very best I have to offer.

If you journey to Fishlake National Forest in Utah, you’ll be surrounded by a high-elevation-behemoth. It’s one of the largest life forms on the planet: a quaking aspen so colossal it has a name—Pando, which is Latin for “I spread.” –Ari Danieal, NPR “Listen to one of the largest trees in the world” (May 10, 2023)

After recently returning from a family vacation to Glacier National Park in Montana, I find myself continuing to marvel at the root system of the Quaking Aspen. As we traveled up the Going to the Sun Road one morning, our tour guide and bus driver, Rick, offered a running narrative of park flora and fauna, historical facts and personal observations. It was his short lesson on the Quaking Aspen, however, that astonished me–so much so, that I’ve wondered how it is that I’ve never heard this before.

In central Utah in the Fishlake National Forest lies an aspen stand that originated from a single seed. This aspen “clone,” Pando, is considered the largest organism in the world, spreading over 106 acres of 40,000 individual trees. These aspens spread by sending up new shoots from an ever-expanding root system below. Not only is this the largest living organism, but it’s also likely the oldest. Although its exact age is difficult to determine, it’s estimated to have begun at the end of the last ice age, which makes the Quaking Aspen older than the Sequoia and the Bristlecone Pine. This is one old, tough tree, thanks to an amazing root system.

Even when conditions are hostile–fire, flood, wind, drought–the aspens persevere. Their root system thrives until conditions are favorable enough to once again send new shoots into the air. So, even when it appears that the aspens have been destroyed, they lie dormant below ground, waiting. This stand of aspens is so amazing that the U. S. Postal Service honored Pando as one the “40 Wonders of America” with a commemorative stamp in 2006.

We often talk about roots metaphorically:

• Give your children roots and wings.
• When the roots are deep, there’s no reason to fear the wind.
• Change your opinions, keep to your principles; change your leaves, keep intact your roots.
• It is because my roots are so strong that I can fly.

We say things like Stay rooted in the truth/in family/in goodness (you can fill in your virtue of choice here). When life’s conditions are particularly challenging, we often cling to the root system that’s sustained us, counting on the fact that it–like the Quaking Aspen–is alive, thriving underground and waiting patiently to send new shoots into the world. There’s much solace and strength to be found in such a root system. Even if there’s little evidence of its fruit in the world around us, we take heart in what can’t be seen. Yet.

Undoubtedly, there are those today who find their root systems lying in wait underground. Some may lament that more people aren’t rooted in family, or that more aren’t rooted in truth. Some may look at a world in conflict and deplore that we aren’t rooted in humility and grace. Some may regard the speed at which the world is changing and bemoan that we aren’t rooted enough in tradition. The list could certainly go on and on. And though many may argue that some of these root systems need to die out, that the fruit of their systems is no longer beneficial, others stand firm on the foundations of these systems, systems they contend are always beneficial if tended well.

Roots are the key ingredients in many proverbs and aphorisms. They work themselves naturally into song lyrics and find themselves graphically presented on posters. Perhaps, this may be why we often take them for granted. Perhaps, they’ve become cliched and too saccharine for our contemporary tastes. Perhaps, we’re too busy looking at what is seen to consider the realm of the unseen. And perhaps, we’re not patient enough to embrace a root system that’s waiting for favorable enough conditions to flourish.

The most serious challenge to a root system, however, is the fact that there are competing systems that infringe upon and, in some cases, destroy it. We live in such a world, a world with competing systems and truth claims. The firm foundation of one is an anathema to another. The root system of one is an abomination to another. You won’t find any posters or greeting cards that offer this reality. Still, it rears its head into our lives in many ways. It divides families, communities, and nations. It often leaves us wringing our hands, saying: How should we live?

People much wiser than me have always explored–and continue to explore–this question. And just as there are many competing root systems, there are many answers to a question of this magnitude. I think it’s safe to say, however, that the rallying cry of unity is troublesome. Logically speaking, to unify competing systems means one system must prevail. That is, one system must become THE system, and the other systems must accommodate themselves accordingly. Historically, people unify because they subscribe to a common set of principles and practices. They may come from different walks of life, different ethnicities, different ages and genders, but they come together in principle. When principles compete, however, unity struggles. When root systems differ radically, each contends for dominance. This is the way of things–in nature and human nature.

As miraculous as the Quaking Aspen root system is, we must acknowledge that its strength and longevity have come from its dominance, its ability to hang on, flourishing under and above ground as circumstances dictate. As social, political, religious, and philosophical root systems compete today, we might do well to look to the aspens for guidance. If we’re convicted that the root system to which we subscribe is good and true, if it’s the right root system for our time and all times, then we might need to be realistically prepared for periods of dormancy. American poet Theodore Roethke writes, “Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.” We may need to have faith in the light deep within our root systems.

And surely, we must be prepared for periods of conflict as other systems compete to maintain a cultural stronghold. Above all, we must be prepared to stand firmly on this foundation in love. Contrary to what many believe, this doesn’t mean abandoning or altering the root system at all. It does mean that we hold fast to what we believe as we treat others with whom we disagree with respect and grace. We bend our trunks in love but live confidently in the roots which remain fixed below.