I planted hope today.
Pale, dry, wrinkled seeds, pushed side by side in long narrow rows of freshly turned dirt.
I planted hope in spite of the wind that comes from the south, and the darkness it carries toward us.
I planted hope, trusting that the mysterious and miraculous thing inside those little seeds, that life that seems so dry and dead right now, will spring up through the dark moist dirt in the wooden grow boxes in my yard.
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| row on row |
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| dry seeds in March fresh peas in May |
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| a single seed will not germinate. seeds need each other. so do we. |
I do not know what the next few weeks will carry for us. We’re all a little rattled, like the wind chimes outside my back door. Schools are closed, businesses shut down, even church doors are locked against the masses. We will worship here at home tomorrow. We will break bread and bless it and sing together, the little seedlings who belong in this little grow box I call home. We will sing and pray and trust that there is also something inside of us that will grow.
We're planting hope tomorrow.
