The Patient Farmer and the Quiet Stakes

In a valley, a farmer marked his field with quiet stakes. In the first month the ground looked the same everywhere—brown, ordinary, unimpressive. Travelers mocked him: “You’ve bought dirt.”

In the second month, thin green threads rose. Some were straight, some were crooked, some were sharp enough to cut a finger. A neighbor urged him, “Go now. Pull the sharp ones out before they spread.”

But the farmer said, “If I pull too early, I will tear up what I cannot yet recognize. I will watch the field by its fruit.”

So he did not rage at the ground. He did not announce judgment over the sprouts. He walked the rows at dawn and at dusk. He watered what could be watered. He repaired broken fences. He kept the gate.

In the third month, the difference became plain. Some stalks stood with weight and bowed with grain. Others stood empty and made a noise when the wind came.

Then the farmer called his helpers and said, “Now. Gather what feeds. Remove what corrupts. Do not confuse haste with purity.”

And the travelers who had mocked him watched the barn fill, and they went away quieter than they arrived.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.