thoughts of planting
Spring brings with it thoughts of planting.
-On my mud room window sill are two containers of grape hyacinths. Their green fronds lean companionably toward the afternoon sun, a leaning with which I empathize. I turn the pots every few days to correct their growth. I peek through their tender greenness with the hopes of seeing the beginnings of purple buds. Every time I look at them, I am treated with a surge of hope.
-Last week's sermon can be found online. Its message of of the laws of sowing & reaping has stayed with me, bolstering my weekly voyage of this thing we call life. Everywhere, I saw the seed in my hand, the plowed soil, the tiny seedlings of good choices. The tiny seedlings of bad choices. The waving heads of consequences, ripe for harvest.
Oh, for His mercy to shorten the harvest of unwise plantings! Oh, for His grace to handle the rich bounty of good harvest!
-The cement floor is cracked and heaving. The metal shelving is rusted and sagging. The air is damp, musty, and cold. I was standing in my excuse for a greenhouse, industrial garbage bag in hand, wondering if my "big-thinks" about its usefulness were worth the thinking.
"Will anything ever grow here?" I said aloud to the empty stalls of the attached barn. Decade-old hay moldered in the dark corners and breathed out a huff of resignation.
My cell phone rang, jarring me into the present. The dear voice on the other end had things to say. Harvest things. Reaping, piling into bushels, overflowing onto the threshing floor things. Green, growing, flourishing things. Miraculous, Lazarus-inspired things that swept my crestfallen heart clean.
-The jury is still out with whether I have a garden this summer or not. But you can bet your last copper coin that I will be planting, sowing, and reaping anyway.
-On my mud room window sill are two containers of grape hyacinths. Their green fronds lean companionably toward the afternoon sun, a leaning with which I empathize. I turn the pots every few days to correct their growth. I peek through their tender greenness with the hopes of seeing the beginnings of purple buds. Every time I look at them, I am treated with a surge of hope.
-Last week's sermon can be found online. Its message of of the laws of sowing & reaping has stayed with me, bolstering my weekly voyage of this thing we call life. Everywhere, I saw the seed in my hand, the plowed soil, the tiny seedlings of good choices. The tiny seedlings of bad choices. The waving heads of consequences, ripe for harvest.
Oh, for His mercy to shorten the harvest of unwise plantings! Oh, for His grace to handle the rich bounty of good harvest!
-The cement floor is cracked and heaving. The metal shelving is rusted and sagging. The air is damp, musty, and cold. I was standing in my excuse for a greenhouse, industrial garbage bag in hand, wondering if my "big-thinks" about its usefulness were worth the thinking.
"Will anything ever grow here?" I said aloud to the empty stalls of the attached barn. Decade-old hay moldered in the dark corners and breathed out a huff of resignation.
My cell phone rang, jarring me into the present. The dear voice on the other end had things to say. Harvest things. Reaping, piling into bushels, overflowing onto the threshing floor things. Green, growing, flourishing things. Miraculous, Lazarus-inspired things that swept my crestfallen heart clean.
-The jury is still out with whether I have a garden this summer or not. But you can bet your last copper coin that I will be planting, sowing, and reaping anyway.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 8:51 AM
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