My husband and I look through the kitchen window at rows of Hope that he planted in an earlier season. And we wonder: When will we see the harvest?
An early-morning snowfall dressed our golden farmfields in white. And the John Deere combine will sit idle another day.
Coffee cup warming my hands, I look out the window at corn leaves, fringed in snow, as the farmer clicks through online forecasts. He hasn’t harvested a single plant from these acres, and it’s already October 12.
“It’s supposed to be 50 degrees by the weekend,” Scott says. Is that hope I hear in his voice, melting a wife’s worry?
Even in the harvest, the farmer is still planting. He’s dropping Hope Seeds in our home — like he did back in the spring.
“God is in control,” Scott told me in the spring, when soggy fields delayed his planting.
He was right. The ground dried, and that young farmer scraped back Earth to drop seeds into an earthen bed — tiny acts of hope that sprouted green and grew tall and faded into a coppery promise.
He knew what it meant to wait with faith, to be still. It seems a farmer would never have peace with Earth or with God outside of a place called surrender.
In the spring, while we waited, I offered a word to him: “You know, we’ve never missed a harvest yet. The harvest always comes.”
But now it’s October 12, and my confident words echo long in my soul as I look out this window. It was so easy for me to speak faith-filled words then. But now … look what happened to my faith when tested? Seeds of autumn doubt try to choke out springtime hope.