Why Now is the Perfect Time

On the way into town, the boy told me the wheat was about ready.

And I look across to the west and all those gold heads swaying yes — and I look over at him, elbow resting half out the window and all July’s heat blowing in, and none of this was supposed to happen this way.


The Farmer had said yes, if any week would work, he had said this one would —  after the children’s heads were all full of their school books and before the wheat heads bowed fully down. Before he would need me in the fields to bring in the kernels ready to fall to the ground.

We could fly because the fields were supposed to be ready after Haiti. After the oldest boy and I returned from the poorest country in the western hemisphere — then we would harvest the wheat and make our bread. And I’m not saying that there wasn’t something horribly wrong with that.

What if plans are better as prayers and what if everything is supposed to happen this way because His Sovereign Hand can make any happening into good?

And what if the harvest of our lives is not in how we earn our bread and butter, but only if we make our lives into bread to give away? The wheat fields keep swaying their yes.

In town, the oldest boy and I go up to the old People’s store, same one I bought a purple comb and matching mirror for my little sister, Christmas of 1982. Because we need to find clothes for Jonelson, the 8-year-old Haitian boy we sponsor through Compassion. And for Hulda and Jean, the two young students we’re sponsoring through university through Compassion’s Leadership Development Program.

I don’t really know how to buy clothes for people I’ve never met.


I carry their glossy pictures from rack to rack. This skirt look too large. These pants look too wide. Trying to rightly size up someone from pixels, it’s a bit like

Our oldest, Caleb, he picks out a shirt and tie for Jean. “He looks about my size, don’t you think?”

I look down at the photo. Jean’s just started university. Caleb is only a year away.

Caleb smooths the buttons down his chest and I hold the photo of Jean up to his shoulder and how can love come straight out of the thin air giving?


Standing there with Jean’s photo in one hand and a shirt for him in the other, it happens right here, just like it’s supposed to.

Love happens.

I can already see Jean tying that tie. I can see him like a son smoothing out buttons. I can see him standing about as tall as my son right here and it’s my heart that tying to God. For God so loved the world, He gave and I’m picking out clothes for strangers and I can see it, how they will fill with this giving and we do, and when you give of yourself, love happens.

You don’t always end up giving because you love.

Sometimes you end up loving because you give.

It does feel like the brink of the harvest.

On the way down the back roads to the farm, Caleb sits with the shirt for Jean,  skirts for Hulda, swimming trunks and shoes for Jonelson, his head leaned against the passenger window, the wheat fields streaming by.

“You knew that, right, Mom? How it’s always when the monarch butterflies are out over the fields.” Caleb turns towards the fields gilded in the lateness of the deepening sun.

The wheat’s always about ready when the monarch butterflies circle together out over the fields.


And I nod slow towards the wheat dying into gold and there is so much you can know but still have to live out the knowing.

How the dying and the giving your life away is always right when a life lights with wings.

Now is always the perfect time to die to self and be broken and given.

And it’s right there out the window.

How the wheat might yield heavy this year — all these fields of the prayerful yes.


Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone;

but if it dies, it bears much fruit.

John 12:24


{I can’t thank you enough for joining Caleb & I here as we head to Haiti in the morning… Do you feel it too? Why now is the perfect time and we all could be ready for a harvest?}