White For The Harvest

From my sanctuary in the clouds, a sea of gold ebbed and flowed in the world far below. Leaning against my pack, I watched wave after wave rise and fall driven by the rushing wind. Each flowed the full length of the valley before crashing upon the far mountainside and returning in a thousand trickling streams to the main body.

From this opposing mountain I had made my way, pulled along by the current. All day I had drifted through an endless ocean of wheat fields. In the cool of the morning, countless others had waded into this same ocean. Using a single tool, these were bent over everywhere cutting at the outer edges of the fields. White heads marked the harvest season as they floated upon the golden stalks rustling in the wind.

Now, as darkness descended over the valley, thousands of tiny lights began to appear. Some stood alone, others banded together in small communities. Thousands of white lights caught in the deep current of the night. A multitude carried about with the wind and the waves. Like white heads in a sea of gold, they wait.

Long ago, Luke stood on these very rocks. He looked out over these very people. He saw the very same white heads ready for harvest. Back then, reality seemed bleak; there was not one light in the entire region. As I stand here four years later, the light is bright. A single light. Yet it shines brightly from this peak over all the valley. Even the parallel mountainside is caught up in its illumination. It has started with one man. And the fields are white for the harvest.