The One Word That Will Change Your Monday
Harvest—the season’s yield or crop
Dear empty-handed you,
There is no amount of sparkle that I can sprinkle on these words, no scandalous or smartypants way in which I can go about the way I write them. There’s not enough oomph or pizzazz or chutzpah that I can add to what I’m about to say in order to sway you into believing what I’m about to tell you that you should believe.
There is only you and your faith, however tiny and tired it may be, choosing to believe—choosing to try and trust this truth.
I know the seasons tell us there’s a spring and a fall—a time for planting and a time for gathering, a time for sowing and a time for harvesting.
But we are not elements organized by the stars and moon. We are not wind tossed about by naked trees; we are not blooms in empty fields subject to a rising sun’s rays telling us how and why to open or when to close.
We are humans bringing in a harvest at all time’s of the year. In the warmth of spring, in the dead of winter—there is always a reaping. Whether you see or feel or believe it, or not.
There is always a reaping.
I’m talking to the tired mom waking their weary bones up at ungodly hours of the night. I’m talking to the sister holding her sister’s hand at the bedside of sickness. I’m talking to the father doing everything he can to carry his family with a career that’s caused his heart to crack and dry. I’m talking to the friend who is always giving but never receiving. The single giving (maybe even making) love that is never reciprocated, never ever respected. The college student, racking up debt and reeling in loud regrets that whisper that the road is wildly worthless.
To the one walking through tormenting loss.
The one with spinning anxieties.
A broken, bleeding body.
Sea of doubts.
Waves of confusion.
In the midst of all of these things, and more, there is a reaping, an actual gathering of a goodness that fills every inch of inconsolable emptiness and starving hunger. It is not a loud harvest, it does not scream from the mountain tops. It may not even be a bounty that overfills the brim.
But it is there and it sustains, and it covers, and it carries. And it is enough to hold you over with hope to get you through today; it is enough of a harvest to surround you with hope to get you to tomorrow.
Hold out your metaphorical hand for this reaping, this harvest that you cannot earn or work for.
Be picky and choosy, and say a prayer today—right now. Whisper the word. Is it strength? Is it courage? Is it faith? Is it forgiveness? Is it peace? Whatever it is, in Christ, it is wholly yours for the taking. It may not be a bounty that overfills the brim but it is there and it is enough.
No more empty hands, or empty hearts, or growling-angry bellies. No more tired eyes, not even for me, this giving woman, this mama. I’m choosing smiles. Choosing joy. Choosing thanks.
I’m in a season of reaping.
And so are you.
So are you.