I am like a field before my Creator: He gives the soil of my substance.

I take it.

He gives:

seeds

water

light

spirit.

I take: seeds, water, light, spirit.

Then, out of the soil, a harvest!

Glorious! A mystery. That any fruit – any moment of kindness, love, joy – would grow… from me?

Yet, wonder one moment, turns into greed the next.

And I become a field, rolled up into itself,

preserving,

hoarding,

protecting the very miracle I took from Someone else.

Unroll me, Spirit of God.

Harvest, glean, survey this field.

Take from my taking.

– by Laura