I sit alone on the park bench, watching the world go by. Nearby walkers pass in and out of my field of vision, but I am not watching them. Their chatter, and the chatter of birds, dimly registers in my consciousness. There is a rose garden to my left; from here, I can see the pastels dancing gently in the breeze, and their fragrance wafts past me. A path treads among the waving flowers; I could tread it if I wished, but for now, I wish to sit here.
The reason is right before me. A giant tree stands a few feet away, stretching majestically into the heavens. Its foliage is a rich, deep green, and its trunk is thicker than several people put together. This tree must be hundreds of years old. I can almost feel its warmth from here. I can only imagine the storms this tree has withstood, the wild weather and long years it has witnessed. It does not appear weak for its age; if anything, it conveys strength and fortitude, serenity and calm.
It conveys strength and fortitude, serenity and calm.
Whoever originally planted this tree did not know what would become of it. The planter must have hoped it would grow; they must have planted it with that intent. But many things could have thwarted that plan. The seed could have been dug up by birds or washed away by rain. The sapling could have been bent by winds or eaten by animals. Even as a young tree, it could have been splintered by storms or uprooted by a well-meaning landscaper.
Yet here it is.
This glorious tree has not only a testimony of survival. It provides ample shade for those seeking rest. It allows birds to nest within its arms. Each year it drops its leaves in order to welcome new ones. It is a thriving part of God’s creation.
Many seeds we sow in life have unknown destinies. We do not know their fate when we plant them; we just plant, and pray, and hope they will live. But it can be hard to keep going with even worthy ministries when we may not live to fully witness the outcome of our planting; like the tree, our seeds may take hundreds of years to manifest their fruit.
We just plant, and pray, and hope they will live.
When I write, I am planting seeds that may or may not thrive. I write with this gamble in mind. Yet I worry about my seeds too. Will anyone read my blog? Will people buy my book, and even if they read it, will they be touched by it? Will my words reach their mark? Am I making any difference at all?
I have no answer to offer. I entrust instead my questions and inadequacies and faltering hope to the One who breathes life into trees and roses and words, the One who tends our lives like gardens, the One who numbers the hairs on our heads and the words on our pages. Surely he can be trusted with these plantings. Who knows? Perhaps some of my words will weather the storms and one day grow into something strong and nurturing, like my friend the tree.
I entrust instead my faltering hope to the One who breathes life into trees and roses and words.
In the meantime, I’ll do my best to keep calm—and keep on writing.
Do you ever worry about the seeds you plant and what will become of them? Do you sometimes struggle to keep on writing and ministering to others? What keeps you going during those times? Share your story. Let’s have a countercultural conversation.