fall with hope
Dust answers every question,
silence names no forgotten seed.
Financial barrenness,
a strange wilderness
where every horizon whispers,
“Something should have grown here.”
I kneel before the cracked earth
and ask,
“What did I fail to plant?”
Was it discipline,
sown one ordinary morning at a time?
Was it wisdom,
left untouched because pride
claimed I already knew enough?
Was it patience,
abandoned after the first season
refused to bloom?
Was it courage,
that feared the humiliation
of beginning with little?
Was it generosity,
whose harvest I expected
without ever opening my hand?
Was it knowledge,
ignored because comfort
made ignorance feel affordable?
Was it the thousand tiny obediences
that looked too insignificant
to deserve today's attention,
yet together
could have become tomorrow's forest?
Abba,
I do not know.
The painful mystery
is not merely that my barn is empty.
The deeper sorrow
is wondering whether
I walked past the very seed
that You placed beside my feet.
Perhaps I prayed for rain
while leaving the seed
inside the sack.
Perhaps I admired harvesters
while refusing
the lonely posture of planters.
Perhaps I mistook wishing
for sowing,
dreaming
for cultivating,
hope
for obedience.
Father,
If this barren field
has grown from my own neglect,
teach me
without crushing me.
Show me
the seed I overlooked.
Show me
the habit I dismissed.
Show me
the lesson I postponed.
Show me
the sacrifice I avoided.
Show me
the work
that seemed too ordinary
to carry eternal consequence.
Do not merely answer my question.
Transform my hands.
For a barren field
is not healed
by discovering yesterday's mistake alone.
It is healed
when today's trembling fingers
finally begin
to plant.
And if tears
must become the first water
to touch this waiting soil,
then let every tear
fall with hope.
Because even the field
that has forgotten
the sound of harvest
still remembers
how to receive
a seed.
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