I don't think I'm alone in that. Many of the parents I talk with carry a quiet weariness about the world their kids are growing up in. We love this place, and we grieve it too. If I'm honest, that grief can slowly turn into something less holy. I catch myself daydreaming about somewhere quieter, somewhere cleaner, somewhere the problems feel smaller. I start to pull back, to protect, to wait for heaven instead of looking for where God is already at work.

A few weeks ago I pulled an old book off my shelf, Garden City by John Mark Comer, and started reading it again. I'm still working my way through it, but it has already met me right in that discouragement and reframed how I see the place where God has planted my family.

Comer starts where the Bible starts, in a garden. God makes humans in his image and places them in Eden with a simple, beautiful job: to work it and keep it. We were made to cultivate, to take the raw materials of creation and draw out their potential, to build and nurture and make things grow. Our work was never meant to distract us from our life with God. It was meant to be part of it.

What struck me this time is that God placed them there. The garden wasn't something they chose off a map; it was the ground they were given. And every gardener knows that you don't tend a garden from a distance. You kneel in the dirt. You come back day after day. You learn its soil and its seasons, and you stay long enough to see what grows.

Then Comer points out something I'd read many times without really seeing. The Bible begins in a garden, but it doesn't end in one. It ends in a city. In Revelation, the new Jerusalem comes down from heaven, and a river runs through the middle of it, with the tree of life growing on its banks. It isn't simply Eden restored as it was. It's a garden city, where creation and human culture are finally brought together, healed, and made whole in God's presence.

That has changed how I see Tacoma. We don't live in the Garden of Eden. We live in the middle of the story, in a city marked by both beauty and brokenness. But the calling hasn't changed. We are still invited to cultivate goodness right here, on these streets, among these neighbors.

A few of Comer's ideas have stayed with me. One is that ordinary work matters to God. The teacher preparing a lesson, the nurse finishing a double shift, the mechanic, the small business owner, the parent packing lunches before sunrise are all cultivating something. Our kids need to hear this. Their future vocations aren't simply paths to a paycheck. They are opportunities to join God in caring for his world, often in the very places others have given up on.

Another is that brokenness isn't the end of the story. The weeds are real, and so are the thorns. But weeds have never been a reason for a gardener to walk away; they're the reason the gardener is needed. Scripture points toward renewal. God isn't abandoning his creation. He's redeeming it. Our hope isn't escapism. It's trusting that what God began, he will finish, and that our faithful work today matters.

And then there is rest. The rhythm of Sabbath is woven into creation itself, a reminder that we are gardeners, not saviors. We can work hard for our city's flourishing and then set our tools down, trusting that the harvest ultimately belongs to God. For a discouraged heart, that is a deep relief. It means we don't have to run when we're tired. We can rest right where we are.

As I've been reading, I keep thinking of the words God spoke to his exiled people through Jeremiah: "Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you… for in its welfare you will find your welfare." Babylon wasn't home, and it certainly wasn't Eden. The people longed to be somewhere else. But God didn't tell them to escape. He told them to build homes, plant gardens, raise families, and pray for the good of the city where God had placed them.

I think there is something there for us too. What would it look like for our families to put down roots and faithfully tend the places God has given us? Maybe it's learning our neighbors' names. Maybe it's starting a book club with a few other parents from your child's class. The point isn't adding another meeting to the calendar; friendships and community rarely happen by accident. Maybe it's noticing a young reader who could use a little extra time with a book and gathering a few kids to read together. Maybe it's choosing to use our words to bring life: encouraging a teacher, speaking hope to another parent, or making sure a student knows they are seen and valued.

It might be serving people who can never repay us, or building a business, teaching a classroom, coaching a team, caring for a patient, creating something beautiful, or simply showing up faithfully day after day. The garden might be our neighborhood. It might be our workplace. It might be a classroom, a team, or the community right here at LCA. Maybe tending the garden isn't one more thing to add to our lives. Maybe it's learning to see the lives and places we've already been given differently.

So, parents, I want to encourage you to read Garden City. Read it with your spouse, a friend, or a small group. Talk about it around the dinner table with your teenagers. And as you do, ask one simple question:

What ground has God given us to tend?

I still see the brokenness, and I don't think I'm supposed to stop seeing it. But I see something else now too: a city God loves, a story that ends in restoration, and an invitation to stay, pick up our tools, and get to work. The mountain is still out. The water still shines on Commencement Bay. And God is still planting his garden city, right here, with us in it.