I wish you could have been with me this morning, at the end of the driveway when that fog hung from Heaven’s invisible strings. It’s a September morning, and all the Earth here is golden, ready for harvest.
My favorite farmer will lay bare this ground. In the stripping away, my heart is always laid bare, too. I feel this cycle deep — perennial hope in the spring and a palpable grief each fall. What we grow will be stripped away.
This is life, too — a growing, and a cutting away, and a rebirth in the starting-over-again each spring. Nothing ever ends. It only just begins again.
Here at the edge of this field, I imagine what you and I would have talked about, both in our own growing seasons. I thought about you today, friend, when I stood at the edge of this field.
You and I, we’re both farmers. We plant seeds, trust God to water and grow those seeds. To grow us.
We don’t know how long, or how tall. We don’t know the fruit of our harvest in these lives — each life is part beauty, part barb.
Growth stings sometimes, yes?
On the cusp of another harvest, we see this: the way toward God comes in the growing. We are not yet what we will be. But we are moving toward it.
And just over the horizon, I see the sun, still shining its promise, making golden all that it touches.
“This life is not godliness, but growth in godliness. … We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road.”
— Martin Luther
Writing with the Five-Minute Friday community today, where Lisa-Jo encourages us to just… write. No backtracking, no overthinking. Just write, real and true. This week’s prompt: Growth.