Future’s Promise in Seed

Dirt Road through Ripe Barley Field in the Light of setting Sun

Fall has come. The sun, it shines upon us there, walking along our country road. For months we’d walked, The Mister and I, watching the fields. First had been the planting, future’s promise in seed, marching ‘cross the fields in rows. Then there’d been sprouts, and, later, fullest stalks.

“Look how tall it is!” I’d said in wonder, noting the unusual height of the corn (thinking, you see, of last summer’s drought). The beans, too, had flourished, laying row upon row of vibrant green, blanket like, o’er the ground.

On today’s walk, though, clouds of dust billow in the combine’s wake, drifting over trees, tops of houses and the road. Looking to my left, I note that the field’s no longer green. It’s been shorn, and dry, prickly stalks, they poke up from the ground.

It’s harvest time. That’s what I’m thinking as we stride past bare fields, one step, then another on a warm October day. Harvest. Which began with the seed, covered over with dirt, buried in darkness. And then rain.

Harvest. My heart’s quickening to this old Kingdom truth. First, the seed, falling to ground. Then darkness, and death, and all–well, it seems lost. Death first for the seed that’s been planted in dirt.

I’m looking at those rows, flattened ‘neath blades made of steel. Thinking harvest and death bringing life and then fruit. And I know it’s all true. That a kernel of wheat, falling, then dying, will produce the “much fruit.” That the life follows death, and the harvest, it’s sure.

I breathe country air and eat Kingdom food while I’m walking that road. For into seed’s darkness comes sunshine, comes rain. Then stalks poking up; green, green leaves; and the fruit.

Oh, it’s worth it to die to self and to sin. For after such death comes the Rain and the Son. Unbidden, next, fullest life, and that more abundant. All of that and then this—a harvest surpassing.

“Do not grow weary in doing good, for in due season, you shall reap if you faint not.” Press in, my friend, for a harvest awaits. Don’t quit. Press in, and then fruit. Future’s promise you are, there in seed.

P.S. The winner of last week’s Friday fun is Elaine Beckham. Elaine, please email your mailing address to info@suzannewoodsfisher.com to claim your prize.

*Image c/o stock.xchng

About Rhonda Schrock

Rhonda Schrock lives in Northern Indiana with her husband and 4 sons, ages 22 to 6. By day, she is a telecommuting medical transcriptionist. In the early morning hours, she flees to a local coffee shop where she pens “Grounds for Insanity,” a weekly column that appears in The Goshen News. She is an occasional guest columnist in The Hutch News. She’s also blogged professionally for her son’s school of choice, Bethel College, in addition to humor and parenting blogs. She is a writer and editor for the magazine, “Cooking & Such: Adventures in Plain Living.” She survives and thrives on prayer, mochas, and books. Her new home in cyberspace is at http://RhondaSchrock.com.

Comments

  1. MS Barb says:

    Thank you for your encouraging words for today!
    I live in the country, and all around me, it is harvest time! I drive slowly, behind the tractors pulling the overflowing grain wagons towards town and to the mill; it is dark when I leave, & no longer do I drive 55 mph down my country road, because I am watching for deer…
    I love the variety each season brings! You have shared yet another way to view the seasons!
    THANK YOU!

  2. Oh, you are welcome! It is a special time of year for sure with so many lessons to be drawn from it.

    We’ll rest this winter, won’t we, and wait for the light and color and life of spring to return!

    Happy autumn,

    Rhonda