Kneeling by the picket fence next to the front porch, their two heads press close together in the morning’s autumn gold. Pausing to watch them from the kitchen window, I know their hushed pleasure; the crack of the dry pods, the rolling of hopeful brown seeds into waiting palms, banking for next year’s colors and scents.
Fists clenched tight, latent life securely held, they tumble into the house.
“Envelopes, Mama! We need envelopes for our seeds, Mama!”
Malakai carefully holds the envelope as Levi carefully unfurls his palm and let his bounty roll into its winter resting place, awaiting spring’s hopes.
As he scratches, “Sweet Peas” on the packet in his five-year-old scrawl, I press my lips into Levi’s hair. “Collecting seeds are one of my favorite things, Levi. From a long line of farmers we are.”
Levi smiles up at me. “Flower farmers, Mama, with seeds that will bloom!”
I tousle his hair.
These children are the seeds my days plant, the blooms of the next generations.
Which far surpasses even being a flower farmer.
The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it… James 5:7 (NASB)
Lord, let me plant these treasured seeds carefully, tenderly watering and nurturing, being patient…. Bloom these children, Father.
