Because there’s something about the sound of opening up a bag of seeds in spring.
Something about holding a promise right there in the palm of your hand.
And the Farmer’s whole tilled field, she’s laid right open, expectant and waiting.
The Farmer’s got his Wranglers on and he’s got his hands into those seeds all like pearls and the man’s dirt etched and pretty happy.
He’s got these 50 pound bags of seeds sitting there open on the tailgate of his pickup, ready.
The whole truck sagging under the pregnant hope of these seeds, millions of near-weightless seeds.
He bends down to check the dirt he’s already planted. The Farmer’s kneeled like a prayer and he scrapes back the surface and he searches.
“Found one.” The wind carries his voice to us sitting in the ditch’s grass.
“We’ve got the right depth, the spacing. Looks good!”
Those hands of his, they wear dirt like plain honesty and he carefully folds that found seed back into the earth.
He’s planting 29 thousand seeds into every acre of this waiting earth.
And it all just looks like barren dirt out here.
My Dad planted this same field full of seeds when I was a little girl and I went out to the field and stood on this same dirt and believed the impossible of the impossibly small. One generation can yield promise from pain. And it’s the gritty and the grimy that can hide real yield.
I reach down and touch Shalom’s silken hair.
And I think of Abraham and Levi and seeds and all that I am planting that I don’t even see:
“For although Levi wasn’t born yet,
the seed from which he came was in Abraham’s body…” ~ Hebrews 7:10 (NLT)
Shalom looks up at me grinning. I look down into her —
For although there are generations not born yet, the seeds from which they’ll come are in the body of the child right here.
The wind blows and no child is just one child.
Every child carries generations of children inside.
Every child is like nestled dolls, all these generations nestled within — and mothering is a holy trust of whole entire eras.
Every day, every mother, she mothers thousands — all the children yet still to come.
I cup Shalom’s upturned face. She crinkles that freckled nose hers and laughs into the wind and who doesn’t laugh wild wonder that we get to be here like this?
I tremble this holy joy and a holy fear. And His grace is more than sufficient: it’s the soil that grows us all.
The Farmer drops the planter back down into the field.
He heads back out across that seedbed.
He waves back at us — this is it!
And the mother takes the child’s hand and a mother touches thousands and — this is it!
This is the time given. All the grit and the grime yields gifts….
The wind blows the child’s hair like a crowning.
Why the grace of all this?
And a woman wears motherhood like a plain honor, a hidden bestowing of a bit of eternity —
All the moments strung out like one pearled strand.
This strand of thousands and thousands of moment-like seeds….
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