Choosing to wait with what's broken

Clogged sprinklers, old words, and unlearning the habits of canceling one another out

Photo captured by Mary Claire Photo / Image ID of our garden area in summer, comprised of a few raised beds and many potted herbs.

To fix it or to throw it away?

This was the question.

I watched with impatience as my husband diligently tended to our clogged sprinkler. Every so often, rather than watering the garden by hand, he’ll set up the rotating sprinkler to give the veggies and new seeds the drink they need. His plan to use the sprinkler was halted however when we both realized it was clogged and spinning more slowly than usual.

He kinked the hose the stop the flow of water and handed the bend in the hose to me, trusting me to keep the water’s flow at bay as he got to work. He then proceeded to use the tip of his pocket knife to remove debris from each of the sprinkler’s tiny holes.

After a few short moments, we released the kink in the hose and watched as water shot into the sky. It wasn’t working perfectly, but it was much improved. Choosing to fix the sprinkler turned out to be the right the choice.

Watching this ordinary situation unfold got me thinking about the logic of repair functioning in the lives of most farmers I know. I grew up watching my dad fix as much as he could with his own hands. Car engines and ceiling fans. Broken ovens and leaky well lines. He tried his hand at fixing it all instead of running to buy something new. This is the way many farmers think and work. Why pay for a new one when you can repair the one you’ve got?

I’ve seen this in my husband too. He would rather restore an old tool—one likely made of solid wood and lasting metals—than buy a new one, especially since newer tools tend to be mass produced with too much plastic.

It’s an entire logic, you see? It’s a way of thinking. It’s a commitment to fixing what is right in front of you instead of assuming the new, or the shiny, or the easy will meet your needs.

As I watched Alex patiently tend to the sprinkler, and by extension to our entire garden, I started thinking about how logics of repair are fundamentally different from logics of disposal.

The hope of repairing a broken tool, relationship, or cultural system is fundamentally different from the choice to throw it all away and start over. In past seasons, I’ve definitely been on Team Disposal, chanting “Burn it all down!”, and believing that repair was not possible in the face of racism, white supremacy, political extremism and more. On a personal level, there have been times when I walked away from friendships and communities because starting over somewhere new seemed easier.

But lately, I’ve been rethinking this. As I’ve watched my husband tend to our homestead and as I consider the labor of love required to steward an imperfect, ever-changing place, I’ve started to wonder whether or not disposal is what’s best.

What if cultivation and repair are actually the onramps to greater flourishing?

What if tarrying with what’s broken is a more beautiful way forward?

If the word “tarry” is new to you, it’s a common term in colloquial Black church tradition. My elders would talk of tarrying for the Holy Ghost, or waiting to be met by God. According to the dictionary, to tarry is “to stay longer than intended” or “to delay leaving a place.” It’s about attentiveness to the present moment. To tarry is to hope and believe that goodness is on its way.

To tarry, or to wait, with what’s broken is to see the value in what or who is right in front of you, even if it’s not perfect. Even if they’ve made a mistake. Even if healing and repair will take time.

One of the great challenges we’re facing as a collective is the temptation to believe our fellow humans are disposable. This is evident in the prison industrial complex, and in the ways we punitively hide people away instead of investing in processes to facilitate restoration. This is evident in the prevalence of cancelling folks out when they see the world differently than we do. We also see this play out politically when one’s political opponents are dehumanized by rampant villainization.

Of course, we must remain conversant about the realities of harm, abuse and the need for accountability. But at times, it’s as though we conflate misunderstandings, immaturity, and basic disagreement with harm and abuse, when they are not the same.

A logic of repair, and choosing to slow down enough to tend to what’s broken demonstrates commitment to the people and places around us. It seems to be profoundly counter-cultural. To think in terms of repair instead of disposal invites a perhaps more constructive way of being with ourselves and one another.

When Alex was repairing the sprinkler, I had to practice patience and trust. I know it’s a silly comparison, but how often do we rush to throw things away because we are simply too hurried or too distrustful of the process?

I’m not entirely sure of what this distinction between repair and disposal means for me, or for us. In this moment, personally, it means choosing to fix stuff I own instead of rushing to Amazon to get new versions of everything. It means being patient with the parts of myself that I’m tempted to discard. It means being present in my marriage and friendships even when they feel strained. It also means learning about the candidates in my local election and carving out time to vote early, instead of opting out of the system because it’s imperfect.

I’m curious to hear if and how you see the choice between repair and disposal in your own life. I generally try to avoid strict binaries because life is so much more nuanced, but from time to time, a binary can be a helpful framework for thinking.

This is very much so an open process of reflection. I hope you’ll add your voice, perspective, and questions in the comments below.

Until next time,

Bethaney