"Before You See It" - June 8th, 2026

Last week, a friend from our church, who is one of our trustees came out to the parsonage and spent the day working alongside me in the yard. The soil had gone untended for a while, and it showed. But he came anyway, brought his energy and his willingness, and together we got to work -- tilling, turning, clearing, and planting. Since then, something quiet has been happening outside my window. Night after night, rain has come. Morning after morning, sun has followed. And this morning -- I looked out and there it was: thin, bright green threads of new grass, barely taller than a fingernail, reaching up through the dark soil. New life. It snuck up quietly, the way all good things tend to.

Scripture 
"Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again."
- Ecclesiastes 11:1 (NIV)


Reflection
There is a particular kind of courage in planting something you cannot yet see.
The work at the parsonage last week did not begin with soft, ready ground. A church friend came alongside, and together we pushed through compaction and years of neglect, pressing seeds into earth that had no immediate promise to offer. And then we went inside. The rain came while most of us were asleep. The sun did what it always does, rising without fanfare. And this morning, without announcement or ceremony, light green sprouts pushed through the surface of the dark ground.

The Hebrew word behind the concept of sowing -- זָרַע (zara) -- carries more than the simple agricultural act. It holds within it the full weight of expectation without guarantee. To zara is to release something into the ground with open hands, trusting that forces larger than your own will complete what you have begun. The farmer does not grow the grain. The farmer creates the conditions, and then waits.

Qohelet, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes, is not often known for his optimism. His writing leans toward honest reckoning with what is uncertain, what is fleeting, what lies outside the tight grip of human control. And yet here, in chapter 11, he does not counsel paralysis. He counsels release. Cast your bread upon the waters. Scatter your seed. Do not withhold because you cannot see every outcome. The not-knowing is not a reason to stop -- it is simply the nature of all faithful work.

There is something that resonates deeply in Korean culture around this kind of patient, quiet investment. The concept of 기다림 (gidallim, "waiting with expectancy") is not passive. It is an active, attentive posture -- like a farmer who checks the ground each morning not out of anxiety, but out of care. The watching is part of the tending. The hope is inseparable from the work.

This is what it looks like to trust the rhythms God has woven into creation. Rain in the night. Sun in the morning. Soil that remembers what seeds are for.
The new grass at the parsonage did not ask anyone's permission before it arrived. It came because the conditions were honored. Because a friend showed up and did the quiet, unglamorous work of preparation alongside me. And then the gifts that only God can give -- the timing of rain, the warmth of sun, the miracle of germination -- those gifts followed.

Much of the work we are called to in the life of faith looks like this. We prepare. We plant. We water when we can, and we trust the rest to the One who makes things grow. The Apostle Paul wrote as much to the church in Corinth: "I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow" (1 Corinthians 3:6, NIV). The credit for life belongs not to the one who digs the trench, but to the One who breathes into the seed.

There may be ground in your own life right now that looks like that parsonage yard did before last week -- neglected, hard, slow to respond. Perhaps you have been planting without visible return. Perhaps you have been patient longer than feels reasonable. Take heart. The rain often comes at night. The green often appears before we think it should.
Trust the timing. Trust the Giver. And do not stop casting your seed.


Closing Prayer
Lord, teach us the faith of the farmer -- to work with open hands and wait with open eyes. When the ground looks bare and the season feels long, remind us that You are already at work beneath the surface. Give us the courage to plant what we cannot yet see, and the grace to trust that You will bring it to life. Amen.