She waited

My mother went out to sow. And as she sowed, some seeds fell along the path. The birds came and devoured them. Other seeds fell on rocky ground. They sprang up but the sun scorched them and they withered away. Other seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them.

But she kept sowing.

My mother is the sower and we are her field, her four daughters. I am rocky and thorny and generally unhelpful with the birds.

She sowed in stories and songs, good food and clean laundry and kisses. She pulled weeds. She chased the birds away. She sowed in laughter; she sowed in tears. She sowed in prayers through the years. Every hour we were together, with every touch, she sowed life—life—life—life.

A few seeds fell on good soil. The black dirt swallowed her seeds, and her words were buried in the ground. There, in the dark, they stayed hidden for a long, long time.

She waited. Until one day
—life.

Lilias Trotter, 9 July 1907.

Father, hear us, we are praying,
Hear the words our hearts are saying,
We are praying for our children. 

Keep them from the powers of evil,
From the secret, hidden peril,
From the whirlpool that would suck them,
From the treacherous quicksand sand pluck them. 

From the worlding’s hollow gladness,
From the sting of faithless sadness,
Holy Father, save our children. 

Through life’s troubled waters steer them,
Through life’s bitter battle cheer them,
Father, Father, be Thou near them. 

Read the language of our longing,
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,
Holy Father, for our children 

And wherever they may bide,
Lead them Home at eventide.

Amy Carmichael, Toward Jerusalem (1936).