From the Fig Tree

Inheritance

I have written about 14 pages since Sunday.

I am literally having to ask the Lord to slow down.

Because my body has zero control over itself.

Talk about an increase.

And then here I go, just asking for more again…

Because I just can’t handle not having more of the One I was made for.

I have such a beautiful inheritance!

My goodness, I had no idea!

…So beautiful.

How could I forget?

You are at Your sweetest
When I am at my most afraid.

Under my feet.
Forever under my feet.
Amen.

Oh, the beauty of a heart that says:
“Take as long as You desire.”

“It was that time of the year, the turning point of summer, when the crops of the present year are a certainty, when one begins to think of the sowing for next year, and the mowing is at hand; when the rye is all in ear, though its ears are still light, not yet full, and it waves in gray-green billows in the wind; when the green oats, with tufts of yellow grass scattered here and there among it, droop irregularly over the late-sown fields; when the early buckwheat is already out and hiding the ground; when the fallow-lands, trodden hard as stone by the cattle are half-ploughed over, with paths left untouched by the plough; when from the dry dung-heaps carted onto the fields there comes at sunset a smell of manure mixed with meadow-sweet, and on the low-lying lands the riverside meadows are a thick sea of grass waiting for the mowing, with the blackened heaps of the stalks of sorrel among it.

It was the time when there comes a brief pause in the toil of the fields before the beginning of the labors of the harvest- every year recurring, every year straining every nerve of the peasants. The crop was a splendid one, and bright, hot summer days had set in with short, dewy nights.”

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Heaven help me, I have misunderstood the harvest.