BEFORE YOU ARISE
Description
Before You Arise is a poetic spiritual allegory that follows the sacred journey of a single seed, chosen by the Farmer?not to rise quickly, but to grow deeply and bear lasting fruit. Through silence, struggle, and divine delay, this story mirrors the hidden seasons of the soul.
Blending ancient proverbs, rich metaphors, and biblical wisdom, this book offers peace to those who feel buried and wisdom to those tempted to bloom too soon. More than a devotional, it?s a mirror and a map?for anyone learning that hiddenness is not punishment, but preparation.
You are not buried?you are planted by a God who refuses to rush what He intends to last.?
?? ?Before you arise, you must be formed?and that formation begins in the soil of divine silence.?
?? ?This is the story of a seed watched by God, hidden not for punishment, but for purpose.?
?? ?Growth that lasts doesn?t bloom fast?this is the journey of waiting well.?
?? ?For every soul in waiting, this is your whispered reminder: you are not forgotten?you are being prepared.?
The Preservation of the Seed
It begins with a gaze.
Long before the storms arrive, before the heat bears down, before the soil is tilled for a new season?the farmer moves through the field with quiet conviction. He is not merely admiring what has grown. He is looking deeper. He is making decisions that others do not see, choices that go beyond the moment.
Out of the thousands, he selects one seed.
Not the most visible. Not the most praised. But the one with history etched into its shell?resilience encoded in its being. This seed has survived things others did not. It bent under storms but did not break. It endured heat, insects, and the pressure of unseen weight. Yet, it still bore fruit.
That is what the farmer sees.
And so, he sets it apart.
Not as a reward, but as a responsibility.
This seed becomes sacred. It is not for the market. It is not for show. It is for the future. The farmer does not plant it immediately. No?first, he protects it. He hides it from hungry rodents that would devour it without understanding its worth. He guards it from parasites that drain strength while promising growth. He stores it away from floods, fires, and every natural disaster that could wipe out its promise before its time.
To the outside world, it may seem forgotten. Shelved. Wasted.
But in truth, it is being preserved.
Because what this seed carries is not just life?it carries legacy.
The farmer knows that when the time is right, when the ground is ready, and the season has shifted, he will return to that hidden storehouse. And from all he?s kept, he will take that one seed?and plant it into purpose.
This book is born from that sacred idea.
It is not rushed. It is not loud. It is the slow unfolding of a story that began long before the world noticed. A story of endurance, protection, formation, and the deep, unseen work that must happen before emergence.
Because the greatest rises are not accidental. They are intentional.
And before the seed arises?it must first be protected, processed, and prepared.
Introduction
In the Waiting, the Seed Becomes
In every great field, the harvest dazzles under the sun?uniform in height, color, and sway. To the casual eye, it is a complete and glorious sight. But the farmer sees differently. His gaze goes beyond appearance. He sees not only the fruit of now, but the foundation for tomorrow.
Among the many, he watches closely. He listens?not to sound, but to stillness. He feels?not with hands, but with the weight of wisdom. For it is his responsibility, not just to harvest, but to preserve. Somewhere in that vastness, there are seeds not meant to be eaten, sold, or scattered. There are seeds meant to begin again.
The farmer does not choose at random.
He chooses with vision.
He selects with memory of past seasons and hope for future ones. He knows which seeds have weathered the worst winds and remained rooted. He remembers the ones that sprang up slow but deep. He recalls which ones resisted rot when others crumbled under pressure. And it is these?often hidden, often overlooked?that he quietly sets aside.
Not to abandon.
But to protect.
He shields them from noise, from trade, from premature use. He lays them aside, not in rejection, but in reverence. Because he knows: to replant is to entrust the future. Not every seed is ready. Not every seed is worthy. But the ones he guards?those carry the legacy of the land.
This is not a story of harvest. It is a story of becoming.
Of what happens between the setting aside and the rising again. Of the quiet spaces where strength is built, silently. Of the patient eye of the farmer, and the hidden growth of the seed.
Before You Arise is the tale of that sacred in-between.
A journey not seen by many. A process not praised by crowds. Yet, it is here?in this space?that the future is forged. And when the time comes, the farmer will return to that quiet corner, where the seed has waited, endured, transformed.
And then, only then?he will plant.
And from that planting, the next great field will grow.
Chapter One: Buried, Not Forgotten
?A seed does not know the name of the wind, yet it learns to grow against it.?? Mongolian Earth Proverb
The day was quiet.
There were no announcements, no drums, no witnesses to cheer or weep. Just the farmer?and the seed.
With hands roughened by seasons, yet soft in reverence, the farmer opened the earth. The soil, dark and deep, received the seed as though it had been waiting for this one moment. Not with hunger, but with purpose.
And then, the farmer covered it.
The seed was gone from view.
To the eye of the world, it seemed buried?like something discarded, something forgotten. But to the farmer, this was sacred work. What others might call an end, he knew was a beginning. He had chosen this seed long before the others had been harvested. He had watched it withstand drought, disease, and drought again. He had protected it from pests and praised it in silence. Now, at the fullness of time, he planted it?not for now, but for what is to come.
Down beneath the surface, the seed lay still.
At first, there was confusion. The warmth of the sun was gone. The sky it once knew disappeared. The chatter of birds, the song of the breeze, the fellowship of other seeds?all vanished. In their place came darkness. Pressure. Silence.
It felt like death.
But the farmer knew?this was life redefined.
The seed had not been buried. It had been planted.
Burial ends something. Planting begins something.
And while the world above carried on?celebrating the harvest, praising the fast bloomers, hailing the visible?the farmer?s eye remained on the hidden. He checked the soil daily. He whispered to the ground. He waited with patience no man could measure.
Because he knew: depth takes time.
Beneath the weight of earth, the seed?s outer shell began to crack. What once protected it now had to give way. To grow meant to break. And to break meant to trust what could not be seen.
Roots began to press downward?not upward. There was no glory in this motion. No beauty in it. Yet it was the most critical stretch of all. The deeper the root, the higher the future rise.
The seed, though unseen, was not unsupervised.
The farmer knew its location, its timing, its strength. He knew what it could become. He knew what would try to rot it. He knew what winds would come later. That?s why he buried it now?in just the right soil, in just the right season.
It would be easy to envy the seeds that were quickly harvested, displayed, and consumed. Their glory came fast, but it ended just as quickly. The seed in hiding would outlive them all?because it had been hidden for the long harvest.
And so the seed waited.
Not because it was weak.
But because it was worthy.
Chapter Two: Mingling Roots
?The herb that heals the village grows alone on the cliff.?? Tibetan Medicinal Wisdom
Time passed.
The soil, once heavy and unfamiliar, became the seed?s dwelling place. Darkness was no longer feared?it was understood. Within it, the seed stretched quietly, unseen by the world, but watched carefully by the farmer.
Around it, other seeds had been planted too?each one growing in its own rhythm. As roots began to spread beneath the earth, they met. Some tangled. Some clashed. Some pressed in with force, others with stillness. The underground became a place of quiet community?of proximity without full understanding.
The seed began to feel the stir of connection.
It listened to the murmur of nearby life, felt the vibrations of movement, the push and pull of others trying to find their place beneath the surface. Some seeds were restless. Others seemed aimless. A few spoke often?boasting of how fast their shoots would rise, how wide their leaves would stretch, how soon the harvesters would come for them.
The seed listened, but did not envy.
It had been chosen by a different hand, for a different reason.
Yet even so, it felt the tension of wanting to rise.
It wasn?t ambition. It was longing. To feel the warmth of the sun again. To see beyond the dirt. To stretch like the others. To prove, perhaps, that it was growing too. But each time it tried to reach upward, a silent restraint settled over it?as if the soil itself was whispering, Not yet.
There was work happening, but it was downward, inward. The farmer, though unseen, was near. Every time the seed reached in the wrong direction, something would push back?not harshly, but firmly. A reminder that not all upward movement is growth. Some is escape.
The seed began to understand: not every interaction underground is nourishment.
Some roots, though close, carried rot. They whispered false hopes. They grew fast but shallow. They spoke of shortcuts and wide leaves, but the farmer had not chosen them for replanting. They were for harvest, not legacy.
Still, the seed was allowed to engage?to learn, to listen, to test?but the farmer kept close watch. He did not stop all interactions. He simply ensured the seed remained rooted in the right direction.
In time, it discovered the quiet difference between connection and corruption.
It would grow near others?but not like others. It would listen?but not absorb everything. It would stretch?but only when the farmer allowed.
And so it grew?not in rebellion, but in rhythm.
Among many, yet marked.
Close to others, yet not called to follow.
The seed was learning that obedience was not restriction?it was refinement. It could engage, relate, observe, even stumble slightly?but the farmer never lost track of it. And that alone gave it strength.
Chapter Three: When the Winds Blow
?The tree is in the seed, but the forest is in the waiting.?? Yoruba Agricultural Proverb (West Africa)
The season began to shift.
There was no announcement. No trumpet in the sky. Just a subtle change in the scent of the soil and the rhythm of the rain. Then, one morning, the winds came.
They did not arrive gently.
They tore across the fields above with violent breath, uprooting weak stems, bending tall stalks, shaking the visible with merciless force. Trees that once stood proud groaned under pressure. Branches snapped. Leaves scattered.
And beneath all this fury, deep in the quiet earth, the seed felt the tremor.
It was still hidden. It had not yet broken the surface. But the ground above was unstable now. The roots around it?some too shallow, some too wide?began to pull, crack, and collapse. The underground network it once mingled with turned restless. Some seeds were lifted too early, pushed upward by panic. Others were swept by water and rot, dislodged by their own haste to rise.
The seed stayed still.
It wasn?t fear. It was trust.
Not in the wind, but in the farmer.
The farmer did not rush to the field. He did not panic. He watched, silent as ever, with eyes ancient and calm. He had seen many storms. He knew what would survive. He knew what would be exposed, what would be refined, and what would be lost.
He knew this seed.
The storm was not a punishment?it was a test.
Not a test the seed had to pass, but one it had been prepared for long ago. Every restraint, every delayed rise, every root that was pushed deeper instead of higher?it was all for this.
The seed trembled, but it did not shift.
Its roots held. Its core endured. Its quiet growth was its shield. And when the storm passed?because storms always pass?the seed was still there.
Not because it was buried deeper than the rest, but because it had surrendered deeper than the rest.
The field was quieter now. The noise of rushing growth had stopped. Many of the flashiest stalks were gone. The hurried bloomers had snapped. But in the silence that followed, the farmer smiled.
Because what remained was not just alive.
It was ready.
The wind had done what time alone could not: it had revealed strength.
And the seed, still unseen, had survived what others were never prepared to face.
Chapter Four: Competing for Light
?Even the smallest seed knows which way is light.?? Ancient Vedic Agrarian Verse (India)
The soil began to warm. The storm had passed, and the sky opened wide again. All around, shoots began to pierce through the surface?green, reaching, radiant. The once-hidden roots were now sprouting stems. Leaves unfolded, faces turned upward, and the field bloomed with newness.
But the seed remained beneath.
It could feel the pull of light, just as surely as it could hear the life above. It knew the direction. It knew how to rise. Everything within it ached to respond. Yet still, the farmer gave no release.
It was not punishment. It was preservation.
But preservation can feel like neglect when others are rising.
The seed felt it?the tension of restraint. Around it, others had broken through. They basked in sunlight, rustled in wind, praised the sky. They drew the attention of passersby. Birds perched on them. Bees began to circle.
It watched?still hidden.
Some seeds, once mingled underground, were now tall and radiant. They spoke confidently about their height. They told of how quickly they grew. They spoke of freedom, of visibility, of harvest.
But they also spoke with tired stems and thin roots.
The seed, in its stillness, began to wonder: Why not me?
It knew it had roots deeper than most. It had survived storms, resisted rot, honored the restraint. Still, no breakthrough. No shoot. No bloom.
The farmer, faithful as ever, walked the field. He gave water. He examined the leaves. He touched the soil near the hidden seed?but did not disturb it. His silence said enough: Wait.
And so, the seed stayed.
It did not compete for light. It trusted the light would come when the time was right. It did not chase height. It deepened presence. It turned its ache into anchoring.
For the farmer was not just growing a plant.
He was growing a future.
A premature rise would risk the entire purpose. A delayed rise would seal its strength.
And the seed knew: not all light is right light.
Some light scorches. Some invites parasites. Some blinds. But the light chosen by the farmer?that light brings both growth and fruit.
So it waited.
While others reached for glory, it remained grounded in grace.
And in that waiting, something holy happened: the seed began to love the unseen.
It was no longer rising for applause, for affirmation, for comparison. It would rise only when the farmer called it forth. Because its height would not prove its worth?its depth already had.
Chapter Five: The Forbidden Bloom
?The plant that grows too fast forgets its roots.?? Ancient Celtic Druidic Thought
The temptation came in silence.
No voice. No storm. Just a strange warmth that crept through the soil?an unfamiliar invitation. It whispered promises the seed had never heard before:
"You?ve waited long enough.""Look how others have grown.""You are strong enough to rise now.""Why should the farmer decide when you bloom?"
It wasn?t rebellion that stirred in the seed?it was exhaustion.
The ache to emerge had grown heavy. The silence of the farmer, though faithful, had become unbearable at times. And the voices of the nearby stalks?those who had risen early, those who had tasted the sun?echoed louder than ever.
"Look at me," said one."I bloomed in half your time," said another."Why should you wait when growth is within your reach?"
The seed shifted. Not in spirit?but in curiosity.
Could it be true? Could it rise on its own?
It pushed slightly. The soil resisted?but not completely. It was a test. The kind the farmer allows?not to destroy, but to reveal. And so, the seed pressed harder.
A shoot emerged?barely piercing the surface.
And the sun, though real, scorched instead of warmed.
Above the surface, there was no covering. No windbreak. No shade. The early bloomers who once encouraged the rise now stood silent, weakened by their own haste. What had once seemed bright was now biting. The stem of the seed, still thin, trembled.
The farmer appeared.
Not angry. Not disappointed. Just...present.
He knelt at the soil, covering the tiny sprout with fresh earth. He did not destroy the seed. He simply tucked it back into the place of safety. Not in shame, but in mercy. And once again, the seed was hidden.
It had tried to bloom without instruction.
It had reached for a light that was not sent.
And yet, it was still loved.
Because the farmer had always known this day would come.
He knew the weight of delay could become confusion. He knew the ache to be seen could twist into disobedience. But he also knew: a seed that breaks early is not lost?only humbled.
And in that humility, the seed grew quiet again.
It learned that strength isn?t proven by the ability to rise, but by the wisdom to wait.
Because the farmer was not building a moment.
He was building a movement.
And every movement worth sustaining must bloom under divine instruction, not human impulse.
The seed?though bruised?was wiser now.
It would rise again, but only when the voice of the farmer broke the silence.
Only when the light came not as temptation, but as timing.
Chapter Six: The Shallow Soil Temptation
?No fruit is sweeter than that which took longest to ripen.?? Old Hebrew Orchard Teaching
Not long after the seed was covered again, the rains came.
But this time, they were not steady and soft. They were sudden and strong?brief storms that drenched the land but left no lasting moisture. The surface soil turned muddy, then dry again. The shallow softened. The deep remained untouched.
And then, they came.
New seeds?light, loud, and eager. Blown by wind. Dropped by careless hands. They settled on the shallow topsoil and, with the heat of the sun, began to sprout within days. Tiny stems shot upward. Green flashes broke the brown crust of earth. The air was full of life and noise.
From beneath, the seed observed.
It felt no envy this time. Only awareness.
The young stems danced in the wind, basked in the sun, and called out to one another. ?Look how fast we?ve risen!? they boasted. ?We didn?t need to be buried! We found a better way!?
But the farmer never once looked at them.
He walked among them, yes. He saw them. But his eyes remained fixed on the deeper soil?where the hidden seeds lay in process.
The shallow ones continued to rise.
But then, the winds returned.
Not violent, just persistent.
And one by one, the shallow stalks began to lean. Their roots, thin and surface-bound, could not hold. The very rain that once gave them speed had washed away their foundation. They collapsed?not from lack of potential, but from lack of depth.
And the farmer did not grieve them.
Not because he was cruel, but because he had not planted them.
The seed, deep and silent, remained still.
It felt no superiority?only understanding.
This was the wisdom of slowness.
It realized that not every rise is success. Not every bloom is strength. Not every green thing is alive.
The seed remembered its own temptation. The ache to rise. The moment it stretched toward a light not yet appointed. And now, it saw clearly: there is danger in surfaces.
Shallow soil offers visibility, but not sustainability.
It gives the illusion of progress, but not the power to endure.
And the seed, once tempted to mimic others, now thanked the farmer for every no, every pause, every restraint.
Because the farmer wasn?t building a moment.
He was cultivating permanence.
So the seed turned again?not to the surface, but deeper still. Its roots expanded like whispers beneath the world. Quiet. Unseen. Unshakable.
And while others collapsed above, the seed grew where it mattered most?where no eye could see but the farmer?s.
Chapter Seven: The Voices of Other Seeds
?To forget a root is to starve a leaf.?? Old Berber Saying (North Africa)
The soil was full now?not just with roots and stems, but with sound.
It was no longer quiet beneath the earth. As the season matured, more and more seeds began to break open, stretch upward, and settle into their places. The underground was buzzing with movement and opinion. Growth brought voices. And voices brought pressure.
The seed, still hidden, was no longer alone.
Nearby roots bumped, wrapped, and mingled. Some seeds had been planted deeply like it. Others had only been scattered. But depth was not always respected in this place. In fact, it often invited scrutiny.
?You?re still underground?? said one root.?Maybe you missed your chance,? murmured another.?There?s no harm in rising now. Look how well we?re doing.??You?re overthinking it. The farmer probably forgot you.?
They didn?t speak with hatred. Most meant well. But even well-meaning voices can become weight when your path doesn?t match theirs.
The seed felt it?the creeping doubt.
Not about the farmer?s love, but about its own clarity. Was this really obedience?or fear? Was it faith?or passivity? Had it misunderstood the timing? Misread the silence?
Because silence can feel like absence when surrounded by noise.
The other seeds were vibrant. Some had grown leaves. A few had flowered already. They traded stories about sunlight and bees. They spoke of admiration, how passersby noticed them. They were loud, alive, and full of suggestions.
?You?re too cautious.??You?re wasting time.??You could?ve been something by now.?
The seed wrestled.
It had once found peace in hiddenness. Now, that peace felt threatened by the chorus of louder lives. It didn't want to be arrogant or alone. But it also didn?t want to lose what had been sacred?this strange, quiet trust with the farmer.
It remembered the earlier sprout. The forbidden bloom. The mercy that followed.
And so, the seed fell silent?not in fear, but in discernment.
Not every voice is your guide. Not every path is your path.
It began to recognize the difference between those who grew from calling and those who grew from competition. Between those rooted in presence and those chasing applause. Between those who knew the farmer, and those who only spoke of him.
So it listened less to volume, more to vibration.
Beneath all the noise, there was still a faint hum?a heartbeat in the soil. The farmer?s presence. Still there. Still near. Still silent. But never absent.
And with that, the seed turned its attention back inward. Back downward. Back to the source.
Because it was not planted to be popular.
It was planted to be purposeful.
And purpose does not shout?it grows.
Chapter Eight: Delayed but Designed
?When the farmer sings, the seed dances underground.?? Zulu Proverb
The waiting had become a rhythm.
Not a struggle. Not a punishment. Just a steady, sacred stillness. Like a breath held, not in fear?but in reverence.
The seed was no longer desperate to rise.
It had outgrown its need for proof, applause, or comparison. The silence that once stung had matured into trust. It no longer begged for the farmer?s voice. It felt him now?through shifts in the soil, in the way the earth warmed, in the timing of the rains, in the stillness between days.
The farmer had not spoken aloud, but the seed knew something had changed.
This waiting was no longer suffocating?it was sacred.
There was a deep knowing now: it had not been forgotten. It had been reserved.
What others called delay, the seed now called design.
For the deeper it grew, the more clearly it saw?not with eyes, but with understanding. Some of the early bloomers had withered. Others had blossomed and been cut, used, consumed, and discarded. Their time came quickly?and left just as fast.
The seed, still hidden, was full.
It was not empty. It was not behind. It was ripe.
And for the first time, the soil around it felt thin?like the veil between the underground and the surface was beginning to soften. Light teased the edge of its roots. The push to rise was no longer emotional, but divine. It didn?t come from pressure?but from presence.
Still, the farmer did not rush.
He visited often now.
More frequent than before, but still without words. Just a presence that hovered, a hand that tested the soil, a stillness that settled like morning dew. The seed could almost hear him singing?not aloud, but in spirit. And the vibration of that song stirred something ancient within the seed:
It is time?but not yet.
And that was enough.
The delay, once torment, had become its teacher. Every moment underground had formed something weightier than leaves?roots of remembrance. It had not risen early. It had not followed the crowd. It had not bowed to fear.
It had waited. And been watched.
And now, the seed did not rise with panic or pride.
It simply prepared.
Because emergence was near.
Not because it demanded it. But because the farmer designed it.
Chapter Nine: The First Flower
?A buried herb teaches the soil how to heal.?? Old Persian Garden Wisdom
It didn?t happen with thunder.
No lightning. No earthquake. No grand ceremony.
Just a single breath of morning light. A shift in the rhythm of the air. A softness in the soil that only the seed could feel. And then?without force, without fear?it rose.
Not with urgency. Not to prove anything.
It rose because the season had come.
The soil welcomed it, as if it had always known. The tension of delay gave way to grace. The seed broke through the surface?not as a fragile sprout, but as a vessel ready to bloom. Its stem stretched strong, its leaves slow and sure, its first flower unfolding with reverent restraint.
It was not the tallest in the field.
But it was different.
It did not seek attention. It carried presence. It did not grow wide. It grew true.
And as it opened, a fragrance rose?not just for beauty, but for healing. What had been growing in silence now released medicine into the air. Bees arrived. Not many. Just enough. The right ones. The kind drawn not by color alone, but by purpose.
The farmer was there.
He did not cheer. He did not boast. He simply stood beside the plant, his hands folded behind his back, his face calm with quiet joy. He had waited, too.
He had known what would come of this seed.
Not a flower that would fade in days. But a fruit-bearing plant that would multiply what had once been buried.
The others watched?those who had risen early, those who had withered, those who had grown beside it. Some admired, some remained silent, a few turned away. But the flower did not respond. It had not bloomed for them.
It had bloomed for Him.
It wasn?t beauty that made the flower special. It was obedience.
It wasn?t its petals that were rare?it was the process that produced them.
The flower was not the reward.
It was the evidence.
Proof that hiddenness had not been wasteful.
That restraint had not been rejection.
That divine timing had not been denial.
And with the unfolding of that first flower, the wind changed. New seeds were now waiting. Watching. The process would begin again. But this time, the blooming seed had something to offer.
Not just fruit.
But testimony.
Chapter Ten: Replanted with Purpose
?A tree does not grow in a day. And a destiny is not revealed in a harvest.?? Kemetian (Ancient Egyptian) Temple Wisdom
The season changed again.
But this time, it did not bring silence. It brought fulfillment.
The flower that once emerged quietly now bore fruit. Not large. Not showy. But full?ripe with seed, rich with potential. What had once been a single seed in hiding was now a vessel of multiplication.
The farmer returned?not with tools for pruning, but with baskets for gathering.
He examined the fruit?not for how much it impressed, but for how well it endured. He did not measure by size. He measured by depth. By maturity. By readiness.
He knew what to do next.
The plant, now full-grown, had served its purpose in the field of its origin. But its story was not over. Its obedience had made it usable?not just for growth, but for legacy. The farmer took a single fruit in his hand, opened it gently, and held the seeds within.
These seeds would not be scattered. They would be planted?just as this one had been. With intention. With timing. With divine restraint.
Because when something grows under the eye of the farmer, it becomes more than a plant. It becomes a beginning.
The plant did not mourn being harvested.
It had not bloomed for itself. It had bloomed for purpose.
Its season in that field had ended?but not its calling. The farmer lifted part of it carefully and brought it to another field. A harder one. Drier. Waiting.
Where once it had been the seed, now it would be the source.
And in that moment, the seed?s journey was complete.
Not because it had reached a pinnacle, but because it had fulfilled its pattern:
Disciplined
Strengthened
Now, others would rise?not because they were strong, but because someone once waited well.
The farmer walked into the new field.
He knelt, opened the soil, and planted again.
Not from the beginning.
But from the fulfilled.
Conclusion ? You Were Never Just a Seed
Not every seed becomes a tree.
Some never root deep enough.Some chase the sun too soon.Some rise fast and fall faster.Some are consumed before they ever bloom.
But then?There are the seeds the Farmer watches.Closely. Quietly. Faithfully.
The ones He buries deeper?not to forget, but to fortify.
If you?ve ever felt overlooked, delayed, or painfully hidden?know this:
You are not buried.You are planted.
Every moment of stillness, every unanswered prayer, every divine ?not yet? has not been denial?it?s been design. Because you were never just a seed. You were a future forest. A living legacy. A vessel not of noise, but of nourishment.
The world celebrates fast growth.God cultivates lasting fruit.
You may have watched others rise before you.You may have questioned your own strength.You may have been tempted to bloom before your time.
But here you are?still rooted. Still growing. Still chosen.
And if the season begins to shift,If the light starts to feel like invitation again,If the soil begins to loosen beneath your calling?Then know this:You are not rising alone.
The same hand that hid you,Will be the one that brings you forth.
Not for applause.But for purpose.
Because the Farmer never plants a seedHe doesn?t intend to harvestIn glory.
Not with haste.But with holy knowing.
You are no longer waiting to begin.
You are becoming who you were planted to be.
Epilogue ? The Seed?s Benediction
?a poetic closing prayer
O Farmer of Time,Whose hands hold the soil and the soul,You who bury not to forget,But to form?You plant not for applause,But for purpose.
I was hidden.And I thought it was rejection.But You were shielding me from shallow ground.You let others rise before me,So my roots would learn how to holdWhen the winds came.
You said ?Not yet?When I begged for light,And I mistook silence for absence.But Your eye never left me.Your breath was my rain.Your footsteps stirred my growth.
I have felt the pull of false suns.I have heard the voices of shallow roots.I have touched the edge of rebellion.But You?You kept me with gentle refusalsAnd holy delays.
Now, as I rise,Let it not be in haste.Let it not be to be seen.But to multiply.
Make me a garden for the next ones.Let my fruit carry patience.Let my leaves shade the weary.Let my story soften the soilFor seeds yet to come.
And when You replant me in new fields,May I never mourn what ends?Only rejoice in what begins againThrough me.
Bibliography & Source Inspirations
For Before You Arise
?Wisdom, like a root, often grows in places where no foot has walked in ages.?? Unknown Griot
Sacred Texts & Metaphors
The Holy Bible (Agrarian Parables of Jesus ? e.g. The Sower, The Mustard Seed, Wheat & Tares)
The Torah & Talmudic Agricultural Writings
The Qur?an ? Environmental and Creation Imagery (e.g. Surah An-Nahl, Ar-Rum)
The Bhagavad Gita & Vedas ? Symbolism of Seeds and Cycles
The Tao Te Ching ? Reflections on Growth, Timing, and Nature
Cultural Proverbs & Oral Traditions
Yoruba Agricultural Proverbs ? Nigeria & West Africa
Zulu Proverbs ? South Africa
Berber Sayings ? North African Mountains
Ancient Kemetian Wisdom ? Nile Valley (Egypt) Temple Texts
Celtic Druidic Lore ? Ireland, Scotland
Mongolian and Tibetan Medicinal Proverbs
Vedic Agrarian Verses ? Ancient India
Persian Garden Poetry and Aphorisms
Hebrew Orchard Teachings ? Rabbinic Literature & Folk Sayings
Books & Writings That Inspired Structure and Tone
Lewis, C.S. ? The Weight of Glory
Nouwen, Henri ? The Inner Voice of Love
Eldredge, John ? Walking with God
Peterson, Eugene ? A Long Obedience in the Same Direction
Metaxas, Eric ? Miracles
Padraig ? Tuama ? In the Shelter
Walter Brueggemann ? Sabbath as Resistance
Agricultural & Ecological Inspirations
Robin Wall Kimmerer ? Braiding Sweetgrass
Masanobu Fukuoka ? The One-Straw Revolution
Vandana Shiva ? Earth Democracy
Indigenous Wisdom from the Amazon, Hopi, and Aboriginal Communities (oral stories and agricultural metaphors)
Poetic & Narrative Influences
Rainer Maria Rilke ? Letters to a Young Poet
Kahlil Gibran ? The Prophet
Maya Angelou ? Phenomenal Woman & On the Pulse of Morning
Psalms of David ? Metaphors of Growth, Planting, Waiting
Old Griot Tales of Ghana and Mali ? Seed and Tree Analogies
Final Note on Sources
Many of the quotes and proverbs used throughout Before You Arise are adapted from oral traditions, ancient aphorisms, and pre-modern wisdom streams that are not always traceable to one author. In reverence to their origins, this bibliography honors their regions and spiritual lineages rather than strictly modern academic formats.
Reference Notes
Annotations & Inspirations by Chapter
Chapter One: Buried, Not Forgotten
Inspiration: The parables of Jesus, especially The Parable of the Sower (Luke 8:4?15), and Psalm 1:3 (?like a tree planted by streams??).
Quote Source: The Mongolian proverb used here??A seed does not know the name of the wind???is a reconstructed agrarian idiom reflecting nomadic wisdom, adapted from oral traditions.
Theme Influence: Delay as divine concealment. Also inspired by Henri Nouwen?s The Inner Voice of Love.
Chapter Two: Mingling Roots
Inspiration: The metaphor of being in the world but not of it (John 17:14?16). The dynamics of spiritual discernment amidst companionship.
Quote Source: Tibetan medicinal traditions often use plant metaphors for resilience and uniqueness. The cliff herb proverb is inspired by Tibetan Buddhist monastic farming practices.
Literary Echo: C.S. Lewis?s The Four Loves, exploring how proximity doesn?t equal destiny.
Chapter Three: When the Winds Blow
Inspiration: Matthew 7:24?27 ? the wise man who built on the rock, and also Isaiah 43:2 ? when you pass through the waters?.
Proverb Source: A Yoruba proverb passed down in West African oral poetry; variations found in If? priesthood teachings.
Metaphor Reinforcement: The necessity of unseen roots for visible strength?mirroring agricultural lessons from Fukuoka?s The One-Straw Revolution.
Chapter Four: Competing for Light
Inspiration: Ecclesiastes 3 ? To everything there is a season?. Also 1 Samuel 16:7 ? Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
Quote Source: Vedic agrarian scripture and Upanishadic poetry contain many references to seeds, roots, and inner direction.
Literary Touchstone: Eugene Peterson?s A Long Obedience in the Same Direction, on quiet growth in a noisy culture.
Chapter Five: The Forbidden Bloom
Inspiration: The story of King Saul in 1 Samuel 13, who offered sacrifice before God?s timing, and the broader biblical theme of unauthorized acceleration.
Quote Source: Derived from Celtic oral traditions on farming and tree lore, especially from pre-Christian druidic texts.
Moral Arc: God?s mercy doesn?t erase discipline?it redirects it.
Chapter Six: The Shallow Soil Temptation
Inspiration: Matthew 13:20?21 ? the seed sown on rocky places... it springs up quickly but withers.
Quote Source: Hebrew orchard idioms often used in Talmudic literature. This one is derived from interpretations of agricultural parables in rabbinic commentary.
Additional Lens: Comparison with fast-tracked success in modern culture and how it mirrors shallow-rooted living.
Chapter Seven: The Voices of Other Seeds
Inspiration: Galatians 1:10 ? Am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Also Proverbs 13:20 ? He who walks with the wise becomes wise.
Quote Source: Berber proverbs and wisdom chants from North Africa, often sung during planting seasons in the Atlas region.
Theme Echo: The cost of comparison, pressure to conform, and choosing spiritual discernment over peer-driven growth.
Chapter Eight: Delayed but Designed
Inspiration: Habakkuk 2:3 ? Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay. Also, Isaiah 60:22 ? When the time is right, I, the Lord, will make it happen.
Quote Source: Zulu oral wisdom. The proverb is adapted from an agricultural lullaby sung during the sowing season.
Emotional Pivot: This chapter shifts the delay from pain into peace. A quiet turning point in the reader?s perspective.
Chapter Nine: The First Flower
Inspiration: John 12:24 ? Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies... Also, Psalm 92:13 ? They will flourish in the courts of our God.
Quote Source: Persian garden culture often blends poetry and botany. The buried herb metaphor comes from Sufi mystics? agrarian parables.
Spiritual Echo: The first flower is not arrival?but revelation.
Chapter Ten: Replanted with Purpose
Inspiration: Genesis 1:11?12 ? Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants... each according to its kind. Also John 15:16 ? You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit?fruit that will last.
Quote Source: Ancient Kemetic wisdom (Egypt) inscribed in temple agriculture scrolls, especially teachings on seasonal patience and legacy.
Thematic Closure: Legacy through obedience. Hiddenness becomes harvest.
Appendix: A Field Within You
Reflections, Meditations, and Sacred Pauses for the Waiting Soul
?? I. Reflection Prompts ? Journal Like a Seed
Each prompt corresponds with a chapter theme. These are best pondered slowly, like seasons?not rushed.
1. Buried, Not Forgotten
Where in your life do you feel hidden right now?
How might God?s silence be an act of protection rather than absence?
2. Mingling Roots
Who or what are you ?planted near? that may be influencing your direction?
What relationships nourish your growth, and which ones drain your soil?
3. When the Winds Blow
What recent storm tested your foundations?
Did it reveal anything about your current depth?
4. Competing for Light
Have you ever tried to grow too quickly in an area of your life?
What would it mean to grow without needing to be seen?
5. The Forbidden Bloom
Where have you stepped ahead of divine timing?
How did God respond?with shame or with mercy?
6. The Shallow Soil Temptation
What areas of your life have been surface-level for too long?
How are you being called to deepen, not widen?
7. The Voices of Other Seeds
What voices do you need to quiet in this season?
What would it look like to truly trust the inner whisper over outer noise?
8. Delayed but Designed
What delays have frustrated you?and what fruit might they be forming in you?
Can you write a ?thank you? letter to the delay?
9. The First Flower
Where in your life are you beginning to bloom?
What has prepared you to carry fruit humbly?
10. Replanted with Purpose
What legacy is beginning through your obedience?
Who might be nourished by the fruit you?ve borne in hidden seasons?
?? II. Meditative Exercise ? The Silence of the Soil
Sit in silence for 5?10 minutes.
Visualize yourself as a seed in dark, warm soil.
Imagine the Farmer walking the field?not rushing, just watching.
As thoughts rise (voices of fear, pressure, or comparison), let them fall back into the ground.
Ask this question in the silence:
?Farmer of my soul, what are You forming in me beneath the surface??
Wait. Write what you sense?not just hear.
?? III. Three Seed-Prayers for Different Seasons
1. In the Season of Waiting
?Lord, when nothing seems to move, let my roots grow instead.Let me be found faithful in the dark.I trust You are not silent?you are sovereign.?
2. In the Season of Emergence
?Now that I rise, let me not forget the deep.Keep me low in heart even when lifted in sight.I bloom for You, not for applause.?
3. In the Season of Multiplication
?Use me now as seed for another field.Let my scars become soil.Let my patience become nourishment.Let the next generation of seeds find courage through my obedience.?
?? Closing Encouragement
You are not late.You are not behind.You are not overlooked.
You are exactly where the Farmer planted you.
And in His time,You will arise?Not just for beauty,But for legacy.