Fallow. Adjective: (Of land) plowed and left unseeded for a season or more; uncultivated. Noun: land that has undergone plowing and harrowing and has been left unseeded for one or more growing seasons.

I had the privilege of hearing Sandra McCracken play her hymn, In Feast or Fallow, this past Sunday a house show. I think the Lord brought me to there that night just to hear this song. To remember.

There is something beautiful that happens in our waiting. I've found myself waiting a lot lately. Waiting for the next revelation. The next opportunity. The next day. The next season. Waiting for hope to be restored. Death to be no more. Tears to stop. Christ's return.

Where's the beauty in dying though? Why must there be the fallow? I've heard it over and over again, the answer to this question. But it has not resonated true in my heart yet. I fight death. I hate death. I want myself. Selfishness. My gain. My harvest. My time.

Yet there must be a fallow season. There must be a time to be stripped, torn, plowed through, left barren. The earth is left, waiting, for it's restoration. For God's gentle hand of nourishment to knead into the tired ground. It's only in this season of the fallow that a harvest can produce.

So I wait. I must learn that waiting is beautiful. That dying brings life. Dying to myself, to my time, to my agenda, to my hopes and dreams. I wait for all restoration. For final redemption. My soul, tired, worn, and stripped. Yet resting in God's nourishment. His gentle hand of faithfulness, grace, and love to an undeserved individual.

As Sandra McCracken says, "Life is like farming, with seasons of planting, waiting, harvesting, and resting." I drink my cup thankfully.

v.1 "When the fields are dry, and the winter is long

Blessed are the meek, the hungry, the poor.

When my soul is downcast, and my voice has no song

For mercy, for comfort, I wait on the Lord

CH: In the harvest feast or the fallow ground

My certain hope is in Jesus found

My lot, my cup, my portion sure

Whatever comes, we shall endure

Whatever comes, we shall endure

We had a great time with friends and a community of broken people longing for hope:

Thy Mercy My God

I went for a walk this morning listening to Sandra McCracken. As I walked and took in her melody and John Stocker's lyrics to this song, my heart found rest, freedom, and peace. May its richness do the same for you.

Thy mercy, My God, is the theme of my song
The joy of my heart, and boast of my tongue
Thy free grace alone, from the first to the last,
Hath won my affections and bound my soul fast.

Without thy sweet mercy I could not live here,
Sin soon would reduce me to utter despair;
But, through thy free goodness, my spirits revive
And he that first made me, still keeps me alive.

Thy mercy is more than a match for my heart,
Which wonders to feel its own hardness depart;
Dissolved by thy goodness, I fall to the ground,
And weep to the praise of the mercy I found.

The door of thy mercy stands open all day
To the door and the need who knock by the way;
No sinner shall ever be empty sent back,
Who comes seeking mercy for Jesus' sake.

Thy mercy is Jesus exempts me from hell;
Its glories I'll sing, and its wonders I'll tell;
'Twas Jesus my all, as he hung on the tree,
Who opened the channel of mercy for me.

Great Father of mercies, thy goodness I own,
And the cov'nant love of thy crucified Son;
All praise to the Spirit whose whisper divine,
Seals mercy and pardon and righteousness mine!