When Grace Outruns the Garden

If Jesus Raced Bikes, It Would Be Cyclocross

Every Thursday during the fall, my kids and I head to the town compost center. It’s not where most people look for a spiritual epiphany. It smells of decay—the heavy, sweet-sour scent of rotting leaves and organic waste. It is loud with the mechanical scream of squealing disc brakes and the rhythmic crunch-crunch of tires on loose gravel. My kids and I …