to be saint
We are called to be fruitful, but also little. How can I do much good without much pomp?
Seeds. Seeds are little, very little, but have the power to transform the face of the earth (both literally and spiritually). I try to plant seeds as I feel called: I post a blog, I prepare a meal. Do my words speak to souls? Are my sacrifices in the kitchen appreciated? Oftentimes, I do not know and never will. Yes, I desire a forest to grow up by my toil—and a forest may well grow up—but it is likely I will never see it. Such does not mean I have not been fruitful; it simply means I, in the world’s eyes, am also blessedly insignificant.
But sometimes I do know. In those moments, I witness saplings push their way up from the soil I tilled and sowed and watered. I witness them reach for the sunlight, for heavenly things. But if I were to dwell on the saplings, I would cease to scatter seed, and my shadow would stunt the new growth. I must move on. For pomp would kill as surely as any blight would.
I like to say that a very selfless act is to plant an oak . . . because you will never live to see it in its glory, a hundred years from now. In truth, a young oak is quite scrawny, even ugly. But still you plant it. Why? Because you know that you, in your present insignificance, can begin something very significant indeed: fruit to come. You may never be acknowledged on this earth as the one who planted that awe-inspiring oak—yes, your name may be forgotten—but in Heaven your name will be remembered forever.
Because sainthood is the sowing done not for recognition, but for God.