It is difficult for this soul farmer to discover even after all of these years that the soil of my heart is still so hard, packed down by the endless tramping of self-doubt, bone dry from the bitter wind of fear.
I have a stone in my chest. There is gravel in my brain. I have made a wall between us with the bricks from my soul.
I am afraid of your story seeds.
For when you share out of your brokenness, it breaks me. When you weep, the rain falls.
I look within to find soft ground again. There is the throbbing of growing green.