One summer, Grandpa allowed me to tag along to the cornfield. The sun warmed my back and the musky scent of rain-washed earth hung in the air. Green blades of corn tickled my hands as Grandpa surveyed the field. “Yep. Knee-high in July,” he said, the corn brushing his overalls just above the knee. Knee-high in July was farmer talk for: It looks like a good crop. I didn’t go to kindergarten; I went to Grandpa’s-garden. I learned the miracle of germination—a seed becoming a plant; the wonder of a flower turning into a cucumber, or squash, or tomato; and the miraculous explosion of a fistful of seeds becoming basketfuls of harvest—overflowing Grandma’s cellar with rows of glinting mason jars. This July, I’m asking myself what seeds I’m germinating in my psyche. I'm discouraged by much of the news. I’m not sure my optimism is knee-high this July. But then I think of a meager fistful of seeds, and the explosive potential for their germination. And I think about Desmond Tutu who said, “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.” So, I will plant my “little bits of good” and hope for a mighty harvest; maybe, together, we can overflow the world with our glints of goodwill.
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