by Amirah David

Seeds

Have you ever spent quality time with a seed?
Perhaps an onion seed?
A mustard seed?
Even an acorn?

Really seen its round
little dot body and wondered how
we believe it can be a new body
so great it can feed a forest of beings –
how this meager kernel of matter
turns into an oak tree
or a flower?

Seeds are so mighty with power,
and so deeply weak –
can be crushed, lost, dried,
windswept, brushed aside,
or choked by weeds.

But can also root and with slow motion speed
expand to cover the face of the earth with trees –
and with the slow strength of wood,
can crack rock, and free the rise of its child seed.

Of all the imagery options to speak of God’s word –
a mighty ax, a shovel, a wind, a sword –
Jesus chose the humble seed.

It cannot force or pry or plead,
split or hammer or bleed –
it cannot change us with mechanical tools –
make us obey with fear and stiff rules –
it can only be received into soft soil and organically proceed,
protected from treading feet,
worked in gently with time, water and light so sweet,
and most astonishingly,
the seed must then die to itself completely
to become the new body of leaves
to abundantly feed all the hungry and needy.

Carefully Jesus came and patiently
He sowed the potent, humble seeds
of God’s word that would steadily breed
the greatest garden of meaning the world had ever seen –
grown from the impeccably meek.

Our words describe, explain, and seek
to paint stories, or persuade, relay our heart with speech
imperfect to impart the truth beneath.

But God’s word is the fine art of breathing
into being what He speaks –
like the plentiful harvest from a seed
He yields abundance of life exceeding.

If “in the beginning the Word was with God and the Word was God” (John 1:1)
and if this “Word was made flesh and dwelt among us” indeed, (John 1:14)
and if that Word spoke of the word as a seed,
then God in the flesh was the ultimate seed.

The Lord of the universe became a single cell – a selfless deed –
before He was an embryo, or a baby, or a man –
to dwell with us – to tell us of truelove,
and the only way for us to go up, was for Him to come down from above –

way down – willingly planted in the ground
to die to Himself and rise again, to astound
the world as the great living Tree,
only after He hung on a tree of death –
and with His last breath,
reached from sky to dirt –
the true bridge from heaven to earth –
the one we’d tried to build to prove our worth
with our towers, higher selves, and feigned superpowers,
seeking to save ourselves and earth with our own feeble brain power.

We’ve tried to climb higher,
leaving earth for heaven
with our crafted ladders –
but God intends to remake this garden –
to hearten the world and bring heaven
here and cure the sad and hurt –
to bring rain to the desert.

Like our feet landed, and arms beseeching;
like roots planted, and branches reaching –
Jesus succeeded in sealing the link –
the trunk between the lowly and the King –
uniting us as His offspring –
planting us in Spring –
so we too can die to yield the fruit He made us to bring.

If He is not the king,
then he can’t help us with anything –
but then again, neither can our synthetic rescuers.

But if He is the King, and our pursuer –
then our only duty is to bring our everything,
and bow down because it is His due –
to lose our control and let Him break through
our hard ground to breathe His word, plant His seed,
and grow the kingdom,
the garden,

of His,

and our,

dreams.

Butterflies

There is something miraculous happening
as we go about our dishes and errands –
it artfully mystifies:

caterpillars’ bodies hang, and harden –
proceed to liquify
into new matter – not there before,

right there – in the garden.

In this way the caterpillar dies –
is reconceived, rebuilt, and grown
into a bright winged thing for skies –
blowing open the confines of what is known.
This is fantasy, but no lie.

As kids, we read books about
how and why.
But now, as I look and see
what’s happening before me –
I can see nothing but a painting of God’s glory –
what He means
by our birth into new life –
into something more free,
more bold.

I once ordered caterpillars for my kids
to witness this miracle untold.

The box was unmarked and slipped by mistake into the counter clutter –
looked past by the household –
until one day, as I cut through the shuffle, I uncovered
this little box –
opened gingerly to unfold
a tragedy that haunted me.

Heart flushed to belly
and grieved tears came welling.
How wrong for a miracle,
winged life of shine,
to never open, never fly,
never dry in the sun, or see the sky,
never taste a flower,
live the hours in the black,
packed tight –
only to die.

But that is all they knew.
I wondered if somewhere inside,
one of them yearned for the blue –
knew it was there,
even though another might scoff and say,
“where?”

Months later, God rubbed balm on my heart’s malady,
from this confined nightmare,
by showing how we too could be this tragedy –
could die in the dark
before our beauty
is made full –
how the longing for and pull
to heaven in our being,
are the wings needing to stretch!
Some will laugh and say,
“Where?
Too far-fetched.”

God’s gift of fresh new life,
can only be put into motion
if it is received,
and opened –
so He can feed us –
and shine His light,
until one day, perhaps in the night,
He remakes us, intercedes,
and frees us into a life more real than before –
when we crawled like caterpillars on the floor –
unable to fake an idea of what we were about to partake in.

I wonder if those butterflies will be there,
in heaven.

Until then,
I’ll go in prayer,
and ask to be forgiven for

unaware.

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