“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

For many years the parish I worked at as an Episcopal priest would celebrate spring with the children of the parish by planting wheatgrass seeds. These seeds grow very fast and the grass could be harvested and eaten (usually as an addition to salads or smoothies). The planting exercise was part of a larger children’s curriculum for learning about the Christian faith. The lesson using the wheatgrass seed was called “the mystery of life and death.” This lesson is designed to help children talk about death without being scary or overwhelming. In doing so, the lesson also talks about living, which in many ways is as much of a mystery as death.

One of the ways these mysteries of life and death are discussed with children is through the lens of John 12:24. 

I always thought this lesson was a bit heavy for small children. I watched them plant the seeds and then return with stories of how their seeds grew. Usually they did not talk about dying or living. But this lesson became something bigger one summer when I was working at a church in New Jersey. The church had very few children, but two of them attended a church school that used Montessori methods, which encouraged the children to wonder and to think about the lessons, rather than being told what to  feel or believe. The wheatgrass seed lesson was part of a summer program where children met once a week for four weeks that summer. The girls attending this program were about six years old and had known each other most of their lives. I taught the lesson, which started with a reflection on the verse and an opportunity to see a pot where I had planted seeds in the previous week. 

I read the verse slowly from a poster that showed the stages of a growing seed: the seed, the growing root system, and finally, the seed was replaced by a blade of grass.

What do you think? I asked the girls about the poster. One of the girls quietly said she missed her father, who had recently passed away. 

“The seed is not completely gone, it’s now grass,” said one of the girls. 

“That’s right,” I said. “Look closely and tell me what you see.” 

Then the girls looked into the clear pot and the growing grass seeds very closely. I looked too. I usually looked at the growing grass and the root system and the bits of seeds that still remain. But this time, I really saw those bits of seed that remained that had missed my attention. The six-year-olds saw these bits as evidence of love after the seeds had been transformed.

“Are the seeds really dead?” the girls asked. “What do you think?” I asked. The girls argued a bit then concluded that they did not really know. But they knew their loved ones loved them. 

Is this what the verse meant to these girls? Is it possible that they were truly pondering the mystery of life and death. For me, this verse took on more meaning after this encounter with these girls. In the past, I had focused on the beauty of new life and spring and growing. But when these girls looked for the mystery of life and death, what they found was love. For these girls, love was stronger than death.

In my six years at the College, I have seen more grief from all kinds of loss than I have in any other time of my life. I know many of you have too. As awful as loss has been, there is something about love that is ever-enduring. In the post-pandemic era, many are struggling with isolation — we locked ourselves away for a year, and so often people we loved died without our opportunity to say goodbye. For me, that still hurts. Sometimes I think our society still needs to think through what grieving means as we continue to be in a state of grief and shock over personal loss. For I am hopeful that if we face our grief, like the girls, we may come to better understand our loss, and perhaps understand what remains. For some, what remains are memories, lessons learned and perhaps even love.

I have come to read this verse differently because of these two little girls, who in the face of grief, were able to declare the power of love. In this season of spring after a long winter, please do not despair, push back against the night and — as these two little girls did — reflect on loss, which must be greived.  But like the seed, something is left behind, maybe as wheatgrass, maybe as love.

If you are struggling with grief or you need help and support as you are dealing with loss, please contact resources on campus, including the Chaplains’ Office, Integrated Wellbeing Services, Sexual Assault Response, and Health Education, the Office of Accessible Education, the Davis Center, and the Dean’s Office.

Rev. Valerie Bailey Fischer is Chaplain to the College and the Protestant Chaplain.