I was a seed, as we all begin, buried in the underneath, alone in the beauty of darkness. His gentle hand placed me in the warm soil and promised me many fruitful seasons to come. My sower appointed the nurturing care of my tenders and their rich communities as my sacred ground. They sung beautiful songs of life into my land, maintaining my sower’s diligence to strengthen my fragile roots. They tend in a land many thought was lost. Assumed to be too weak in nutrients to be worth the cost. The soles of the blind mushed the Earth above me, oblivious to the growth occurring, but my guardians continued to tend. They weathered the storms with tarp covered roots and fed me rotten dirt. The blind thought they were fools for tending to a dry land. He told them to continue. Leaves fell and seasons changed. Many thought the freeze would take their crops away, but the tenders stayed. Ice melted off the top and soaked eagerly into my home. As the sunlight started to expose my leaves began to unfold.

I grew into a seedling and He whispered well done. Now I could begin my season in the sun. I endured many rains and knew more were to come. He told me stories of such: how a deserted land needed rainfall to thrive, how everyone would turn a blind eye. How those who sought power could smell His promise for miles and how their greed would try to tear it all down. He showed me their ways as I reached up to the Heavens and scorched my leaves in their presence. I shed many tears, in the face of confusion and fear, why would my sower burn me when He promised me great years?

He reached to my roots and pulled them low. He whispered a song “They’re not suppose to know” He spread me wide and spoke light on the inside, granting me access to lands further than what meets the eyes. He allowed my tenders to rest, their seventh day success, and continued to grow His seed.

I come from a land where oak roots break through streets concrete dressed. Where they weather storms better than the rest. Where they stand tall in their wisdom for centuries and cast big shadows. This is the land I chose for you. One where the roots spread farther than man can understand. One where legacies are told time and time again. Your season of growth will not be one of haste. It will develop slowly, but never in last place. I will take my time so it can live many lives. Seeds from my first planting seasons will last over time. Over generations and those after, so my light will outshine all their laughter. You will be my seed, the fruit that feeds those in need, as long as you hold on to your faith, even if it’s just a mustard seed. You are my grapevine, heavy with fruit. You are chosen to tend to my crop, my troop. Take heed to the parable told, for many nights will be cold. Dark and lonely like your original resting place. The first time I asked you to have a little faith.