Sunday comes. Church. I slow down after a full weekend.
The guitar sings come thou fount of every blessing, and my heart is stilled and reminded that each and every blessing has one source.
It is spelled on screens, sung by weary and united voices.
As I watch summer greens electrify our sidewalks with the first signs of yellow, the parable of the sower has been on my mind.
I’m struck by the words that tell us that the sower prepared to plant. “A sower went out to sow.” The planting was deliberate and planned. It took intention. Discipline.
I don’t like discipline. Historically, it’s not my strength. But sowing. This feels like an invitation, not an ultimatum. A rhythm and a routine.
Slow and sow, I seem to hear as the music swells.
Slow down enough to step into the current of grace. Sow seeds of that grace for yourself and others.
I read in the parable about the rocky ground, the thorns, the birds, the scorching sun. I see myself in it.
To me, these things sound like the small, fearful parts of myself that I don’t want to acknowledge. I am afraid that if I show my broken, God might not actually want to do anything beautiful there.
To me, the thorns, the birds, the hot sun — they sound like fear, doubt, depair. Where am I allowing the thorns to choke or the sun to sizzle? Where am I allowing the birds to pry and uproot?
I read in the parable about the soil, the growth process, the fruit. And I see myself there too.
To me, these sound like the parts of myself that I really, really want to be true. The beautiful, hopeful pieces that I pray God is really using. The pieces that I want to believe are not an accident.
The space, the soil the seed — they sound like love, faith, trust.
Essentials, really. The simplest ingredients to a life and faith lived well. Where am I inviting those in? Where am I making margin for the good soil?
Slow and sow.
Confession, and celebration. Spelled on screens, sung by weary and united voices.
Come thou fount. Come, grace and growth.
Lord, help me to be a soil and seed kind of person. Help me to be one that willingly helps in the harvest.
Help me to trust that shortcomings in my sowing aren’t too much for you. Help me to welcome change with hospitality.
As fall settles into our streets and sidewalks, help me to believe that the sowing is already starting for next season. Help me to do the intentional work of making space and allowing your seeds in my life to grow.
Help me to believe against belief that you really are using the beautiful and the broken in me.