Van Gogh's The Harvest and my inspiration
You, Who gives seed to the sower, give me faith to scatter.
I till the soil of young hearts, some still tender. Others already rocky with the disillusionment of time and experience. The grit and gravel littered upon the ground by the enemy of this field.
I wait for perfect weather, but the seasons fly fast, and this sower's seed lies waiting in my satchel.
Can one plant in rain, wind, drought, and storm? The climate of this terra, this home, sees it all.
Oh, to own the simple faith of the farmer. His efforts sown, he scatters knowing only One can make seeds grow.
I long for harvest and rejoice when seemingly fallow fields bear fruit. How silly of me not to scatter seed, waiting for perfect conditions. How proud.
In the sowing, my dependence dies to self and arises to Another. Buried deep in the darkness of faith, life is called forth. Hope sprouts and reaches toward the light. From death to life.
Resurrection is not my task.
"Come sit with me, sweet child, dear son. Let me tell you of my Father."
And all I do is scatter.
Repost from the archives
Labels: imperfect prose