We could have cut down the dill months ago. Steven planted far more than we could use, and I don’t even care for the taste. Once it began to go to seed–bursting into yellow flower–we stopped eating from it entirely. But we left it in the garden, knowing it might make a home for one of God’s creatures. Sure enough, this weekend we found that these overgrown herbs were hosting caterpillars (I’m almost certain they’re monarchs). They will munch and grow for a week or two, then settle down for their long sleep.
Had we been aiming to make our garden precisely tidy or even perfectly satisfying, we could have removed the dill. Had I coveted that spot for something I thought tastier, we would have pulled it out. But we left it standing, knowing that to a caterpillar, these flowers say, “Welcome home.” When we make the flourishing of others our telos, hospitality is hardly a sacrifice: it is an exercise in delight.