And then there were sunflowers.

A while ago (like many months ago) my mother in law gave Cara some tiny pots with seeds to start seedlings.  This was a very fun experiment for our kitchen table as we checked on our “baby plants” during breakfast each morning.  However, I find that plants don’t really do very well in those tiny pots.  They sprouted, they became little seedings, then they wilted, and mostly didn’t make it.

I also forgot what seeds were planted in which pot. 

So, I dumped the tiny pots upside down into a planter outside in which I had planted wildflower seeds.

I might add that those wildflower seeds also mostly didn’t make it.  (I would invite you to disregard any sort of trend you might be noticing about plants under my care.)

Then, literally months later, we saw something significant growing in the planter.  I say significant because it sort of came out of nowhere, was big, and was growing fast.  Scott and I both remarked that it very well could be a weed.  (We are currently waging an all-out war with Virginia Creeper in our backyard.)  We pondered pulling it out several times, but curiosity and a dogged determination for something to grow in those porch planters convinced us to let it grow.  And grow.  And grow. 

It got about 5 feet tall.  We were starting to feel like pretty terrible homeowners with a 5 foot weed growing on our porch.  Then we started to notice a characteristic bloom shape forming.  You can imagine my delight when we discovered my once-dead, thrown away seedling, seemingly monstrous weed, was actually a giant sunflower plant right out our back door.

I had forgotten that in one of those tiny pots, that had been dumped into one of those planters, there were sunflower seeds.  I didn’t have any idea where those seeds might have ended up until months later when I was greeted by a bright yellow sunflower. 

It got me thinking about the seeds we plant in other people’s lives.  Seeds that were planted long ago and forgotten, seeds that were planted in places where we would never see the bloom, seeds that seemingly didn’t take, or wilted, or got tossed around or dumped out.  Seeds that we lost track of, or didn’t even realize we were planting. 

From Isaiah:

As the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower
and bread for the eater, so is my work that goes out from my mouth;

It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.

Often we forget about the seeds we plant in other people’s lives. Sometimes these are intentional seeds, sometimes they are natural byproducts of God’s fruitfulness in our lives, and they drop into the soil of others’ lives without us knowing. 

Maybe more often we worry if the seeds are even worth planting, or if the soil is even ready, or if any of our long toiled seedlings were strong enough to last the heat of day when we aren't there. The heart of this passage is that we don’t have to worry about that. Just like rain falls to the earth and provides water, God’s word accomplishes what it was set out to do. It falls like grace and brings life to dry ground.  Maybe not in our timeframe, maybe not in our garden, but it does not return empty.  God’s word does not return empty. 

Every seed counts.


Every act of kindness, every prayer, every moment of sharing the work of God in your life is filled with the power of God.

But in regards to this passage, I also think about the promises of God in scripture. They too do not return empty. All the ways that God promises to be present, to lead us, to guide us, to never forsake us, those promises are not empty either. They are active. They are doing something, accomplishing something. They are taking root in us. As we lean into these promises, even in times when our own soil feels dry, or empty, when it feels like the weeds are winning, hope sprouts. And before we know it it’s 5 feet tall.

I think that’s what Isaiah refers to as the passage continues. Because after he talks about God’s word accomplishing its purpose, never returning empty, he starts to describe a landscape filled with blooms and music and hope. The weeds die off and the healthy plants take root. Blooming hills pointing to the work of God. Signs of the kingdom.

“You will go out in joy

and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the Lord’s renown,
for an everlasting sign,
that will endure forever.”

As we focus on planting seeds and letting those promises of God take root in our hearts, the whole landscape begins to change. And then we have even more seeds to plant.

The great thing about sunflowers is – they’re full of seeds. Seeds to share with other and seeds of new promise ready to take root. It’s cumulative.

Some seeds we will never see the fruit of, some we will think have surely failed, some we won’t know we planted.  Some we'll forget about.  On occasion we get the joy of seeing them bloom, of being surprised by the ways they have grown. I think, more often, we don’t. But still we can trust that every seed counts.  Somewhere, somehow, in sometime, taking root to glorify God.

And every once in a while we see a sunflower;

those surprising moments where the promises of God are manifest in bright and beautiful ways as little guideposts, beacons urging us onward in this garden work.

While it may take time, while it may be hard to even remember what might be happening under the surface, while it may seem like something very different than you imagined, the sunflowers will push through the dirt; the promise of God’s unwavering presence.   And as God accomplishes His purpose in us and through us, from small simple seeds, a garden begins to emerge, not through our skill or care, but because his promises never return empty.