We had a few empty flower pots, so Heather used two of them to plant some basil. I love the simplicity of it: a small clay pot, some black dirt, tiny seeds, water, sunshine. We have a nice ledge with a large double window above our kitchen sink, the perfect spot for morning light.
Once she decided to grow something, it was a simple matter to begin: get your hands dirty and wait. She knew such a small gesture would work, but I had my doubts. See: we’ve never been good at keeping plants. They tend to die on us so we’ve never had many in our home. But Heather believed.
We have kept the soil moist and have simply waited, letting the sun God do his work.
Some days ago, some tiny green shoots sprang from the dirt, bright green standing hopeful against the rich, dark soil, life raised upward as if in free, young praise.
We worship a great God, a God who would make tiny seeds, buried in earth, break and grow.
So, why do we despise small beginnings when even a small ending is miraculous?