God, there’s so much ugly in me.
I’m so prone to jealousy and resentment. I see a sister receive favor from others or you, and I grumble when I ought to rejoice.
The older brother is alive and well in my heart. And this party isn’t even for a prodigal.
No, this celebration is for a sister who plowed and planted beside me. We labored together in Your field, both dreaming of a harvest–to bring glory to Your name.
And now her crop has come in.
I want to stand aside and count, weigh, and measure.
“Is it larger than mine?”
“Is it better?”
And the kicker . . . “Do others desire the fruit of her labor instead of mine?”
Oh, why God?! Why is the wheel rut of my should so entrenched toward pride? Comparison? Fear?
I glimpse the banquet table.
Her harvest center. The blessed fruit of faithful labor. Hungry souls, starving even, gather round. I listen as hearts sigh in relief.
A prayer answered.
A fear abated.
The dying flame of hope fanned.
I watch as light returns to dim eyes. Weary heads bowed low with sorrow begin to lift. Stern lips and clenched jaws soften. Smile.
I remember the day we dreamed. Side by side. Seeds sown in faith, fragile yet certain. Entrusting our sweat and labor, meager offerings really, to the One who can turn a seed into a feast.
I find a chair (the ones at the table are all taken) and join the celebration.
And we bring glory to Your name.
Photo credit: Hilary Hyland Photography