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Seeds will grow (or not)
in their own time; we cannot
rush them. Though we might want
to impose our schedules of convenience
upon them, they are not ours to rule.
A word written long ago,
an encouraging smile,
a mutual tear, may yet
inspire a soul thought sleeping
by those of us far off. And yet,
that word takes root as sure as any
seed, and forms tiny roots, then
delicate sprouts, in the soft soil
of kindness.
When compassion’s voice calls us
into being, and we move beyond
our isolated shells, to touch and help
another living being,
we cannot count the cost,
or compute small profit to ourselves.
We cannot even know for certain
if our acts will yield an edible fruit
at all. We scatter the seeds,
warmed in our hands; we pray
that life’s showers may wash over them;
that God’s grace may dwell in them;
and then, we hope. We wait, finding
other calls to answer, perhaps even
forgetting most of the seeds we’ve planted,
until one day, out walking in the field,
we spy a tiny blade of newly green grass,
a delicate tendril, making its way from the
ground—still, perhaps, to delicate to survive,
but there, alive, remembering.
And we know then, in these moments
of inspiration and insight,
that all our labors and our love
have not been in vain,
jbs
5/21/02 - 3/2/03
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