“I remember you,” said the young clergy woman. We were introducing ourselves before the program began. Around tables we sat, breaking bread, and sharing about our diasporic ministries, strewn about as we were, like seeds sown.
“I remember what you said.” My heart skipped.
“When was it?” I asked, “and what did I say?”
It was thirty year ago. I was a new clergyman, unsure of who I was, and of what I was doing, speaking to a group of young people who had gathered to provide help to those in need. We were all in need.
“Why did you remember that?”
“It was worth remembering.”
I had told them a story of how I heard the voice of God on a roof that we were repairing many years before. The voice came from without, but somehow within. Words I didn’t locate as my own: “It’s good for you to be here.”
That was the seed planted within her.
Those words, which had flowed from me all those years ago, now flowed back to me as harvest. What she did not know was that I was pondering why on earth I’d stayed in the church. Like a faithful echo, I was reminded that what I’ve done has mattered.
To taste this fruit born of my ripening, grown from a tree whose seed was planted years ago, was a beautiful homecoming. From this remembrance, I received a new seed within my soil. From there, another garden can grow.* God bless that seed.
