Tend What You Can

Jane Kelly is holding onto hope in the face of despair, one small mustard-seed-sized act at a time.

I’ve been thinking lately about finitude—how small and limited I am. Like many, I long to contribute to God’s healing of the world, but so often I feel stretched, tired, even disheartened. I’ve spent my adult life caring about justice, creation, and the common good. But recently, I’ve found myself tempted to retreat. The news is relentless. The wounds of the world feel deep. The signs of renewal seem faint and far between.

And yet, there’s a deeper story I keep returning to.

I started high school in 1989. That year the Berlin Wall fell. Apartheid began to crumble in South Africa. People gathered in Tiananmen Square, crying out for freedom. My teenage years were shaped by a powerful sense that change was possible. That history could bend. That injustice didn’t have the final word.

I still believe that.

Not because I have faith in the inevitability of progress or human endeavour, but because I trust in the God who promises to make all things new (Revelation 21:5). The brokenness of creation is undeniable, but so is God’s renewing power. Revelation doesn’t offer escape; it offers hope: a vision of heaven and earth restored, every tear wiped away, and every creature caught up in praise.

As Christians, we know that the story of God’s redemptive work isn’t limited to the decades of our own lives. It stretches across generations, continents, and even galaxies. What God is doing cannot be contained by the limits of our lifetimes. And so, when I feel overwhelmed, I hold onto Jesus’ words about faith the size of a mustard seed (Matthew 17:20). Tiny beginnings. Hidden roots. A slow, mysterious growth into something far greater.

Even my garden preaches this truth to me. I’m not a particularly good gardener, and over time I’ve stopped trying to control it. Through my poor gardening habits, I’ve embraced the concept of rewilding. And even in this limited, almost accidental, involvement, I see it: life bursts from creation. New life pops up in unintended and untended places. I pull back a creeping vine and see the creatures in my front garden scurrying about—millions of my closest neighbours, faithfully carrying on. The sheer abundance of life around me draws me into deeper worship of my Creator.

And this worship must not, it cannot, remain individual. The most joyous moments come when I join with others who dare to keep loving, lamenting, and longing in the face of so much despair. Together, our voices rise in hope, not denial; our prayers mingling with birdcalls and the wind and the groans of a world waiting to be made whole.

Christian hope is not naive optimism. It is grounded, patient, and courageous. It calls us to live as if God’s promised future is already breaking in, which, in Jesus, it is. So I keep showing up. I write letters and meet with politicians. I (sometimes) water my plants. I walk and talk with others. I try to live and act and worship in ways that say: ”Healing is possible. Restoration is real. God is at work.”

Don’t give up. Celebrate the glimpses. Tend what you can. Praise with every creature. The story ends in the restoration of all of God’s creation and that changes everything about how we live now.

This reflection is from week five of our Season of Creation Bible Study Series, 'All Things New – Faith, Creation, and the Wider Story of God'. This five-week series explores how God’s work of renewal embraces all of creation. From Genesis to Revelation, discover how our faith calls us to both personal transformation and collective, hope-filled action. Download our study here -www.commongrace.org.au/season_of_creation_bible_study