This One’s Going To Make It

 

EDG This One Is Going To Make It

“We need the rain.”

His observation is simple, direct, yet I sense the uncertainty behind it. Before us, the fields yawn wide, cracked and blistered by the long winter and barren sky.

My shoes skid on rocks, stumble over ridges of hardened soil. Veins of black crisscross the pale skin of the earth underneath me. Not even weeds grow here.

Nothing can grow here.

I am not an agronomist. I know little of plants and how to grow them. But I know they must have sunlight and water to survive, and this landscape is devoid of both.

Behind me, I hear the scuff of denim against earth. The farmer is on his knees, digging. Calloused hands flick deftly through the pebbles, the dirt, the desert. I watch him in silence, the fading sunlight painting golden beads of sweat across his brow.

Then his fingers reach deep into the earth, and he turns to me with cupped hands. His face is split into a proud smile.

There, bright against his soil- and sun-darkened skin, glimmers a tiny green jewel, all curves and light and life.

“Look here,” he says. “This one’s going to make it.”

The seed he cradles seems so small, so fragile, blushing pink against the glow of the sunset. Yet his voice is calm, certain. In the farmer’s kind face, I see the memory of my grandfather grinning up at me. Strong, protective, yet gentle, alight with childlike wonder and unshakeable faith.

Then, just for a moment, I catch a glimpse of my Heavenly father.

Culling seeds out of the darkness, out of the desert, into light. Face split into a grin. Voice flushed with love and pride.

“This one’s going to make it.”

In my heart, I hear afresh the words of Jesus. The parable comes flooding back, and I can see them in my mind’s eye: the seeds, tumbling where they may—along the path, among the rocks, among the thorns. I remember how Jesus said some wilted and withered and were consumed, how people scorned His words and disregarded His teaching.

I look around me, and I see the story come to life: the fields, the path, the rocks, the thorns, the birds circling overhead.

And then I see him, kneeling in the middle of it all. Hands cupping a single seed, face still radiant with light.

The farmer.

And I remember. The beginning. The opening of the parable. “A farmer went out to sow his seed.”

It’s not the parable of the seeds. It’s the parable of the sower.

The parable of the farmer.

Because the seeds-they’re all His.

And this is it, the heart of the story–

“This one’s going to make it.”

The heart of the farmer.

The heart of our God.

The God who sent His only son to die, to rescue us from the darkness, to pull us out of the cracks and the rocks and the desert. The God who is willing to kneel, to dig in our dirt in order to bring us out.

The Savior who cups us in His calloused, nail-scarred hands and lifts us to His face, grinning wide with joy.

“This one’s going to make it.”

He means you, dear friend.

He is calling you from your darkness, reaching for you in the hard places. His hands are strong, and His touch is gentle.

His heart for you is love.

I don’t know where you’ve fallen, brave heart. I don’t know the hurt you’re facing, the darkness you live in.

But I know Him. I know the Farmer.

And I know He longs to cradle you in His hands and bring you into His light.

Trust Him, friend. Rest easy in the Farmer’s care.

You’re going to make it.

EDG Fathers Heart Is Love

Pssst…this post is being featured by my friend Tara over at Story of My Heart! Go check it out, and while you’re there, be sure to get to know Tara and Melissa, too…I know they would love to encourage you today! :)

 

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