by Elizabeth de Barros
Winter’s sun was on the rise when the morning silence found me at the dining room table. Every distraction, including the hum of the refrigerator, ceased. A holy moment, indeed. Like Samuel, I inclined my ear and said, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”
The plowman is through. What you have sown, now you will reap.
My mind wandered away to what looked like a farmer’s barren field, the soil that had been harrowed now lay still. The plowman was gone from his labor, leaving behind a noiseless earth; open and ready to receive.
Trudging back to survey the spiritual landscape of this past year, I recalled the hard tears that had fallen upon the wreckage of yet another Ziklag. All that remained was a future looming under the hidden fray of my soul’s perturbation. Only after my restless wanderings forced me to my knees did I realize I was anchored to a greater hope. Of those hard-packed days, Grace taught me this: Anguish of soul is never in vain when directed in prayer to God.
During this quiet moment I realized how the year had been useful to God. Little did I know He was busy plowing my back. Even used my enemies to make my furrows long.
Whatever is the plowman’s field, there is no difference in the equation. The fixed law of sowing and reaping is God’s poetic justice Whose efforts cannot be plagiarized or mocked. When the plowman is through, everything is written in perfect iambic pentameter bearing a heavenly copyright.
My prayer has now become this: To receive from His hand what was sown in the days when nothing seemed to rhyme.
All this also comes from the LORD Almighty,
wonderful in counsel and magnificent in wisdom.