My music studio is twenty-six steps above ground level. Yesterday, before leading worship for two services at church, I had to pack my equipment and haul it down those steps. My keyboard alone weighs over a hundred pounds, which makes twenty-six a number you develop a personal relationship with.
After the services, everything had to be packed again, loaded into the truck, driven home, and carried back up to the studio. Those same twenty-six steps were still there, waiting for me like a faithful dog.
After a quick piece of toast, in what felt like a complete violation of the Sabbath, I rushed to the winery. My son and I pressed and transferred nearly three thousand gallons of wine. Three thousand gallons is considerably easier to report than to move.
By the time I came inside at ten last night, I was exhausted and needed a shower. Selena was finishing her own day of canning. We finally went to bed around eleven.
Lying there, I could feel my body throbbing with the beat of my heart, right in the middle of all the aches and pains. The workday was over, but my body was still delivering its report.
This morning, I woke up feeling about eighty-five percent recovered.
Something had happened during those hours that another round of effort could not have accomplished. I had stopped hauling, lifting, pressing, and transferring. I had gone to sleep. And I woke with much of my strength restored.
I did not have to supervise it.
There is a small parable in Mark’s Gospel that feels particularly close to the ground this morning. Jesus describes a man scattering seed. Night comes, and the man sleeps. Morning comes, and he gets up. Meanwhile, the seed sprouts and grows.
“Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how.”
The farmer has work to do. He plants, and when the grain is ready, he harvests. Between those acts, growth happens beyond his understanding and control.
Jesus is describing the kingdom of God. Our effort has a place within something much larger than anything we can accomplish. The farmer participates faithfully, and the life unfolding in his field continues while he sleeps.
Some of us would like a daily progress report from the seed.
Physical work has a certain clarity. Yesterday’s equipment eventually made it back into the studio. The wine was pressed and transferred. I could point to what had been done, and my body supplied supporting documentation.
Other kinds of work are harder to set down.
A conversation can follow us home long after the words have ended. Concern for someone we love can occupy every unclaimed moment. We can carry a problem to bed and pick it up again at three in the morning. By breakfast, we have worked another shift, although very little has benefited from our attendance.
I wonder how often I treat that continued mental labor as evidence that I care. As though setting a concern down for the night might amount to abandoning the person or responsibility attached to it.
Where have I started treating worry as part of my job description?
There are things that require my attention. Promises to keep. Difficult conversations to enter honestly. Work to finish, mistakes to acknowledge, changes to make. I want to give those things the care they deserve.
I also want to recognize where my part ends.
Trust takes time to grow. People need room to consider what they have heard. An apology can be offered sincerely while the work of repair continues slowly. We may contribute to something whose full shape we will never get to see.
That leaves room for humility. It leaves room for God.
Sleep makes this impossible to keep theoretical. Every night, I reach the limits of what I can keep doing. I have to lie down and receive something I cannot produce through another hour of effort. The day may still contain unfinished work. My understanding may be incomplete. A question may remain unanswered when I turn out the light.
I am learning to ask what faithfulness requires of me today, and to let that be a question I can actually answer. There is usually something within reach: a task, a conversation, a small act of care. I can give myself to it and ask God to use it.
Then, when it is time to rest, I can receive that gift without requiring everything to be finished first.
Last night, I went to bed aching. This morning, I woke with strength I could not have recovered by carrying one more thing.
The farmer goes to bed. There is still life at work.
Until next time,
George
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