The Seeds We’ve Planted
What are the seeds in your life that are finally bearing fruit?
Yesterday I was wading through our jungle of a garden—arms scratched from tomato vines, grape leaves in my hair—wondering what on earth three people are supposed to do with all this produce. Every weekend feels like a marathon of chopping, freeze-drying, bottling, and figuring out how many zucchini one family can actually survive on. We’re already dreaming of a smaller garden next year…or maybe just trading in half the zucchini for more berries (I’m okay if the berries produced as much and as fast as the zucchini).
Somewhere between filling another basket of cucumbers and dodging rogue squash vines, my mind drifted to another kind of harvest: the seeds I’ve planted in my own life. Seeds that once looked so small and unimpressive, but carried entire worlds of potential. Not all of them sprouted at the same time (thank heavens—imagine if all your life lessons ripened in one overwhelming week?). Just like in my garden, the fruit shows up in waves—different flavors, different seasons, each asking to be tended in its own time.
Think about your own seeds:
Maybe you planted seeds of curiosity that grew into adventures you never expected.
Or seeds of connection that rooted into lifelong friendships.
Maybe there are seeds of resilience, waiting quietly until the storm comes, and then—suddenly—they show their strength.
Seeds of courage. Seeds of creativity. Seeds of becoming.
Some have already ripened, spilling their sweetness into your days. Some are still stretching toward the sun. And some are tucked deep into the soil, dormant for now, waiting for just the right season to break through. We don’t always know when the harvest will come, only that it will, in its time.
When I was ten, the seeds of resilience and daring were planted in the red canyons of Southern Utah. I learned to trust my feet on slickrock slabs that felt terrifyingly steep, to wedge myself across potholes with only my back and toes keeping me dry, to fall asleep under vast skies where every shadow and sound whispered a choice: fear, or wonder. Those lessons were seeds, too—ones that eventually grew into a trust in my tools, a willingness to try new things, and the grit to keep moving, even if only inch by inch.
And here’s the beautiful thing: seeds don’t come with an expiration date. It’s never too late to nourish the ones planted long ago. It’s never too late to scatter new ones into the soil of your life.
So here’s your invitation: Notice what’s ripening. Celebrate what you’ve harvested. And then—look down at your hands. What new seeds are you ready to plant?
