A Natural Grace

by Dee Wade

Every significant thing happening out there begins here, Samford Turner explained. “Out there” refers to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic beyond. “Here” is Weeks Bay, an estuary of 1700 acres emptying into the much larger Mobile Bay. Specifically, the sweet spot here and in other such places lies within the vegetation, the reeds and other grasses that grow in and around the water, which is mostly fresh most of the time, but shares an open border with the sea.

An estuary is fertility in motion, a boiling mixture of land and water, of wind and gravity, of genetic material afloat and ashore, of sunlight and matter, of ocean tides flooding to meet the flow of the river. In the small spaces defined by the grasses, things huge in number but tiny in mass — like shrimp — find refuge from predators and sustenance in abundantly available food. From here they grow up and swim out to feed the sea before a few survivors return to produce the next generation. In Weeks Bay, Eden revisited, life explodes.

The work of creation, like love, never ends. Mobile Bay drains two-thirds of Alabama along with portions of Mississippi and Tennessee, even reaching over into Georgia. The Mississippi River drains all but a tiny chunk of the rest of our Synod. If it is wet or soluble, it passes through the relatively narrow swatch of real estate between Foley, Alabama, and Lafayette, Louisiana. Like a sponge, the land soaks it up and lets it go: industrial effluent, agricultural runoff, suburban yard chemicals, human and animal waste. Sooner or later, it all heads South, not for the winter but for redemption, whether through filtering, diluting, or processing the polluted and deadly into the purified and nutritious.

Samford explained it so well, in the respectful manner of a man who has known this part of the world all his life. He even knows how much he doesn’t know, which is the telling mark of wisdom. To spend time with him is to visit a living library of the land and life of Baldwin County, complete with audio-visuals.

If the water flowing through the Magnolia and Fish Rivers is pure enough yet full enough of the right molecules and microbes, then the life in the grasses of the Weeks Bay estuary drinks salvation. It teems with the promise of an endless summer, life begetting life. If, however, the rivers become open sewers, then the grasses and the animals among them die.

Our planet is massively patient. We humans trash it with increasing disregard, and it faithfully does the hard work of regeneration. But while the Earth is definitely forgiving, it can not forgive indefinitely. Only God forgives and keeps on forgiving until the shrimp — every last one of them — come home. Only God’s love is unconditional. Everything and everyone else has limits.

God made the Earth. Therefore the Earth is not God. If God decides the ultimate fate of our species by trumping the strict demands of justice with the loving mercy of Jesus Christ, then the Lord be praised. But we should expect no such leniency from the Earth. It did very well without us in the misty past, and can do so again. Homo sapiens, Homo toxicus, take note.

All rivers run to the sea, but the sea is not full (Ecclesiastes). Before rivers make it this far, however, their run slows to a crawl. Living water becomes still water. In the soft tones that belong only to South Alabama, our gracious guide has also explained this. Now, on this perfect May morning, he leads us down a tributary of the Fish River, in kayaks. The water is dark brown between banks lush with every shade of green. Overhead, Tupelo, Live Oak, Cypress, and more weave an intricate canopy. Blink and you catch a glimpse of the primeval wetland forest of the Gulf coast.

Samford points toward a sudden commotion of wings to our left. From low off the water an osprey flies, its talons grasping either a record bluegill (Samford’s call) or a quite respectable largemouth bass (my opinion). Whatever: the increased drag causes the hawk to labor heavily as it gains altitude, finally finding a high perch in an ancient pine. We are so close we can see drops of water fall off the fish soon to be turned into bird. Something significant and lively is happening on this side of Weeks Bay, too.