Thursday, February 3, 2011

Mustard Seeds

It was that sort of day. The kind when kids are enough to make a mom pluck every single hair from her head. One. By. One. Not pretty words. Or a pretty visual. But that’s what it was. Bare bones truth.

Zay was getting sick and he started whining at daybreak. Samuel corrected Gabe’s grammar every time I turned around. Gabe’s short-fuse temper kicked in and soon there was a tumble of children on the floor – a swarming, aggressive twist of arms and legs completely void of self control.


“Help me, Lord. I’m losing my mind,” I said. A hundred times. Over and over. “Grace and mercy, today, please. Because I think I’ve gone insane.”

God’s answer? The phrase that came to my heart? Mustard seeds.
“Mustard seeds? Mustard seeds? What do I do with mustard seeds?”

No reply.

Then I remembered that Jesus, in the book of Mark, talked about mustard seeds. He compared them to the kingdom of heaven. A mustard seed was the teeniest, tiniest seed one could plant. But with time, under the Lord’s care, those seeds produced a tall, strong plant that would host and provide for many things. God’s kingdom would grow like that.

Could it be the same with growing little boys? I’m not comparing men with the God’s heavenly kingdom – but I’m thinking about the process. If there is a goodness, a godliness, a small truth in the heart of a little boy, it must be possible, that under God’s care, that little boy can grow into a strong, righteous, godly man. The sort of man who will provide and protect. Who will love the Lord with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength. Who will branch out and reach far into the lives of others for God’s glory.

Possible? Indeed.

So for today, I’ll look ahead to those trees. And I’ll claim what’s here to hold.

My little men. And mustard seeds.

Thank you Lord, for growing my boys. Give me patience and peace when I’m too close to see the growth.

1 comment:

  1. Beautiful, Shawnelle! I remember those hair-pulling days (and I only had TWO). Soon you'll be like me....sitting in an empty, quiet house. The years fly by.