I reach and pray and wait. There’s only silence, quiet like a winter afternoon when the sun is blindingly eye level and the shadows are long and tortured.
The light is there, but I still feel cold.
So I get mad.
I throw my mustard seed out the window and search for other things.
I am starting to think the silence and the quiet is the answer. The stillness is my mustard seed; my chance to practice faith and trust.
So I practice being still. I wait. I know.
And it’s enough for me, in the waiting, to know. One day my gnarled branches will have leaves and produce. It just…might not be today.
Today is for the knowing. Today is for the being still.
For Lent, I’m giving up impatience. I want to be content to wait, bare branches exposed.