From time to time, I'll throw in bits of my old writings, especially poems and songs, that hold clues of the long, meandering faith journey I've been on. This one was written in late 2004, during the period of "invisible homelessness" between the time I left the farm and the time I was called to Winnipeg to begin my term of voluntary service with Mennonite Central Committee. Since I did not begin the tradition of dating each poem with the location (including the nearest river) until sometime during my Canadian adventure, I have no record of where I was staying at the time it was written.
It was such a small seed,
just a tiny speck of faith
watered in with a mere sprinkle of water
that wintery Sunday morning.
I did plant it in earnest--
even seeds that probably won't grow
deserve a decent burial, right?
At least I gave it a chance.
Even if it germinated,
there would be weeds crowding it out;
there would be ravaging rabbits and stomping boots:
all manners of evil in a sprout's world.
It would probably die,
but I went ahead and put it in earth.
Maybe the soil was sour; I didn't know.
Maybe there was poison and pestilence there;
I didn't know much about such seeds or soil.
Yes, there were weeds
and farmhands with boots and machetes,
slashing at random.
There were stray sheep with greedy teeth and sharp hooves.
There were crows.
There was drought, and wind, and frost,
and fierce summer sun.
It was such a small seed;
it was so hard to have hope that I didn't,
and for a long time nothing happened.
Then, suddenly, it seemed to take root.
Every time I looked it was bigger, and growing--
as big as a tree!
But--it's crowding out everything:
not just the weeds I hated, but wildflowers, too,
and other things I'd planted.
Now I'm afraid;
it's so big, and so fast,
I can't reach to prune it all;
it's so tough it defies the knife;
it's seeding itself far and wide;
it's out of control.
I mean, I sort of knew God could work miracles,
and all He wanted me to plant was a tiny seed,
but I didn't know
it was out of my control.