His foot struck a stone, and he stumbled. The sack slung over his shoulder shifted, scattering seed across the dry path.
“Let it be,” Eli muttered. He didn’t bend to gather what had fallen.
His hands had begun to tremble lately. The olive trees no longer needed him, and the herds had passed to his sons. They weren’t cruel boys, but there was no place for him among the deals and decisions now. They kept telling him to rest.
So he had taken this plot—bare, rocky, unwanted—and he walked its edge each morning and dropped seed into the earth. Not to harvest. Not to sell. Just to feel it warm beneath his sandals.
A swallow darted low over the field. Eli squinted upward, the midday sun bright along the slope. He moved slower now, gentler. Some seed landed square in the furrow; some not.
“Foolish old man,” he said aloud. The wind didn’t disagree.
Weeks passed.
He didn’t watch the field every day—he had his pride—but sometimes he’d sit near the top, alone, chewing a bit of fig and worrying a thread between his fingers. Little green things stalked up through the cracks, and weeds tangled among them. Eli didn’t pull them. He just watched.
One morning, a boy from the village wandered close. The same one who chased goats through the alleys and never greeted his elders properly.
“What are you planting?” the boy asked, sticking his toe in the dirt.
Eli stared at the line of small leaves. “I’m not sure.”
The boy blinked. “How do you not know?”
“I planted what I had.” He turned his face toward the slope again. “The Lord will do what He pleases.”
The boy didn’t understand, of course. He scuffed the ground and ran off. Eli stayed seated long after.
By high summer, the stalks stood higher than his waist.
He hadn't done a thing.
Once, he found himself standing in the middle of it all, breath caught. The grain rippled around him like water. Golden, whispering, alive. Where the path had split his rows, green crept across even that gap now, as if the earth had refused to stay bald.
He reached his hand into the heads of grain. Full. Heavy. Not just grass—wheat. Real wheat.
Tears surprised him. He wiped them away before they could soak into his beard.
Later that week, he brought a sickle. He hadn’t used one in years.
The first cut nearly buckled his knees.
Not from pain—from something he couldn’t name. The blade slipping through grown things, the kernels falling, the image of it: harvest after stillness. Fruit where he hadn’t worked.
People began to notice. A few even asked to help. One younger man—a cousin, maybe—joined him silently one morning, swinging his own blade beside Eli’s. No questions. No congratulations.
Just labor in a field no one believed in.
Eli was glad for the quiet.
Late one evening, after the last bundle had been brought in, he walked the stubbled rows alone. Dust drifted in the air like smoke. He bent, rested a hand on the earth.
“Blessed are You,” he whispered, “who grows what we cannot.”
The wind rustled behind him.
He didn’t turn. He simply stood. Let the hush fall. Let it be.
His foot struck a stone, and he stumbled. The sack slung over his shoulder shifted, scattering seed across the dry path.
“Let it be,” Eli muttered. He didn’t bend to gather what had fallen.
His hands had begun to tremble lately. The olive trees no longer needed him, and the herds had passed to his sons. They weren’t cruel boys, but there was no place for him among the deals and decisions now. They kept telling him to rest.
So he had taken this plot—bare, rocky, unwanted—and he walked its edge each morning and dropped seed into the earth. Not to harvest. Not to sell. Just to feel it warm beneath his sandals.
A swallow darted low over the field. Eli squinted upward, the midday sun bright along the slope. He moved slower now, gentler. Some seed landed square in the furrow; some not.
“Foolish old man,” he said aloud. The wind didn’t disagree.
Weeks passed.
He didn’t watch the field every day—he had his pride—but sometimes he’d sit near the top, alone, chewing a bit of fig and worrying a thread between his fingers. Little green things stalked up through the cracks, and weeds tangled among them. Eli didn’t pull them. He just watched.
One morning, a boy from the village wandered close. The same one who chased goats through the alleys and never greeted his elders properly.
“What are you planting?” the boy asked, sticking his toe in the dirt.
Eli stared at the line of small leaves. “I’m not sure.”
The boy blinked. “How do you not know?”
“I planted what I had.” He turned his face toward the slope again. “The Lord will do what He pleases.”
The boy didn’t understand, of course. He scuffed the ground and ran off. Eli stayed seated long after.
By high summer, the stalks stood higher than his waist.
He hadn't done a thing.
Once, he found himself standing in the middle of it all, breath caught. The grain rippled around him like water. Golden, whispering, alive. Where the path had split his rows, green crept across even that gap now, as if the earth had refused to stay bald.
He reached his hand into the heads of grain. Full. Heavy. Not just grass—wheat. Real wheat.
Tears surprised him. He wiped them away before they could soak into his beard.
Later that week, he brought a sickle. He hadn’t used one in years.
The first cut nearly buckled his knees.
Not from pain—from something he couldn’t name. The blade slipping through grown things, the kernels falling, the image of it: harvest after stillness. Fruit where he hadn’t worked.
People began to notice. A few even asked to help. One younger man—a cousin, maybe—joined him silently one morning, swinging his own blade beside Eli’s. No questions. No congratulations.
Just labor in a field no one believed in.
Eli was glad for the quiet.
Late one evening, after the last bundle had been brought in, he walked the stubbled rows alone. Dust drifted in the air like smoke. He bent, rested a hand on the earth.
“Blessed are You,” he whispered, “who grows what we cannot.”
The wind rustled behind him.
He didn’t turn. He simply stood. Let the hush fall. Let it be.
