Dear Mr Sower,
I have heard so much about you for quite some time now. Many people I know have spoken about your character, generosity, and absolute love for others – a love they insist is rare to find. I have heard people older than me venerate you. The testimonies of these people have been astounding as well as exhilarating. I have basked in the glee of their most profound words.
Truly, you are a great man who has made indelible imprint on the lives of many people. I would have thought that only people from a particular race, ethnicity and social standing would blow your trumpet. Clearly, that has not been the case. To my gladness and bliss, I have heard people of prestigious academic standing; exceptionally rich people; and people of global acclaim – all speak about you in fascinating glowing language.
You absolutely are an amazing person!
And you are so amazing that peasants have sung your praises. You are so amazing that the poor have known your name. You are so amazing that even babies in the womb kick in heartfelt gratitude whenever your name is mentioned. The blind wish they could touch you if you would ever pass by them. I’m quite aware that people genuinely love you because you have earned their trust and respect. I have seen raw and unpretentious emotions expressed by people who play ball in your court. I am dumbfounded.
I wish to let you know, Mr Sower, that I am intrigued hearing your friends and admirers describe you in ways that make me long to meet you eventually so I could have a first-hand, up and close experience, not a related one. So this letter is a fore-runner to that meeting. But all their encomiums pale into oblivion – and are absolutely incomparable – in the face of your own son’s unveiling of you. I have not seen you, but I have seen your Son Christos. In your Son Christos, I have seen you that I’m yet to see. From the principles of logic, I have seen you. You replicate yourself in your Son.
I was enthused when Christos spoke to us about the significance of your name.
He said Sower is not your family name, but your first name. That the name Sower typifies your characteristic nature.
That you are a Sower in every sense of the word. That you just love to sow. That you have an insatiable passion for sowing seeds. When your Son spoke to us, he told us that the seeds that you sow, almost always, are small seeds. He particularly mentioned the mustard seed. I must be honest with you, Mr Sower, that I immediately he mentioned the mustard seed, my mind raced back to my trip to Israel in February 2009.
“So why does your Dad love sowing mustard-sized seeds,” I asked Christos. He smiled and nodded several times as if he had waited all along for me to pop the question. Then in tender tones that caressed my ear, the ‘Son of Man’ (Christos refers to himself by this name) took up his parable:
“A seed is a compressed forest. A seed is the capsule that contains the future. A thought is a seed. An idea is a seed. A thought or an idea is indescribably potent when it is ‘exhaled’ from the Omnipotent nose of Immortality into the fertile mind of relentless mortality. My Dad believes people don’t need an iroko-sized seed. Or a cedar-sized idea. What they need is a drop of slimy fluid into their ‘receiver.’ Just a drop of slimy fluid into their receptive egg-minds.
“You see, Bryce, a mustard seed is the smallest of all seeds. My Dad is a farmer by occupation. He is constantly in the business of planting seeds in the soil – his soil. His seeds come in different types and forms: an idea; a sentence; a song; a hymn; a mathematical equation; a word someone spoke; a verse of hymn; a line of a song; a phrase; a sentence someone heard in a movie; a chance meeting; a conference you attend; a visit you pay someone; a journey you take; a concert you attend; a poem, article, newspaper, magazine, or book you read; one visual design you see; or one work of art you come across. Bryce, Dad just keeps ‘exhaling’ mustard seeds. Per second. Round the clock. Cyclically. Dad is a creator. And he wants His offspring to co-create with Him. To bring things that don’t exist into existence. It breaks His heart when people are not observant. When they don’t see. When they don’t think. When they don’t process their thoughts. When they don’t brood on what they see, hear, touch, and feel.”
My hands and feet were numb, Mr Sower, after Christos ended his parable.
I felt guilty. Had I been more keen and observant, I would not have allowed precious seeds that were sown in my heart-soil to die immediately. Or to sprout quickly and wither just as quickly because I allowed the sun of life’s maladies scorch them to death before the roots went down. Or to be strangled by weeds of anxiety as they were coming up. Forgive me for wasting your efforts. I’m turning a new leaf.
On one part, this is a letter of penitence.
On the other part, it’s a letter of supplication.
Mr Sower, I’m not asking for a big seed. I don’t necessarily need a big seed.
I’m ably sized in certain areas. Yeah – real men should be mega-sized in certain areas (He gives me a thumbs-up). But in this issue of seed, size doesn’t really matter to me. Farmer, give me a big heart, not a big seed. Give me a big heart that can hold a small seed. A big heart of gratitude that would be thankful for, and nor grumble about, the small seed. A big heart to tend the small seed. A big skill to grow the small seed. A big mouth to speak big about and over the small seed. To bless the small seed. Sower, give me big strength to endure the small seed. To endure the small beginnings. To endure the bumpy process. Give me a big eye to magnify the small seed. Big passion to process the small seed. To process it from ‘what it is’ to ‘what it should be.’ To process it from ‘what it is’ to ‘what it could become.’ To process it from ‘how it is’ to ‘how it should be.’ To process it to what you had already programmed in it to look like. Make my heart a good soil on which your seeds – those tiny drops of slimy fluid – fall. Help me tend and grow these seeds to produce a harvest beyond my wildest dreams.
Dear Mr Sower, I know you still sow seeds.
Into my heart. Steadily. Daily. In the most unusual manner. At the most unusual times. In the most unusual places. Through the most unusual means. Using the most unusual people.
Help me recognize these seeds. Help me embrace them. Guard them. Nurse them. Tend them. And grow them. To where they become National academies. Multinational firms. Global organizations. International non-profits. Transnational phenomena. To where these mustard seeds become oak trees and ‘birds’ find shade under their leaves. And to where multitudes worldwide would enjoy bumper harvests.
I’m sharing my deepest feelings with you in this letter, Mr Sower. These, also, are the deepest feelings of those who would read this letter in error. They inadvertently made me their spokesperson.
With unbridled expectation, I look forward to meeting you soon. I’ll come with plentiful harvest from your seven mustard seeds that I grew into seven oak trees.
To you, Mr Sower, with warm affection,