Now, the old farmer still rolls up his sleeves each morning, still picks up his tools, still swings the bag of seed over his shoulders, still asks the Master where he needs the seed sown. Harvests have come—and gone. Farming is not for the weak of heart or the soft in spirit.

There once was a young farmer who found great pleasure in working the soil.

And though his pleasure was great as he tilled the soil, his pleasure was rooted in the harvest he saw in his mind.

So he watered the ground with his sweat until the skin peeled from his bleeding hands.

It did not matter that this small farm did not belong to him.

It was his Master’s.

The Master had asked him to work the land from daybreak to sunset.

And because the Master had asked, the farmer did.

For ten years the farmer toiled in the heat of the day. He saw floods and fires, pestilence and drought. But still he carried his hoe each day. Still he scattered the seed.

In hope.

For ten years the young farmer waited for a harvest. It did not come.

In time, the Master thanked the farmer for his service and asked him now to work other fields. So the farmer did.

As the years rolled on and the farmer worked faithfully in his Master’s fields, sowing and reaping—seeing the fruit of his labours—he savoured every good crop but often thought of that first farm.

The farm that had no fruit.

He saw other farmers going out to work in that old patch of soil. He saw glimpses of hope that maybe this season would bring some reward.

But many weary farmers returned home in the evening with nothing to show for their labour.

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