Ecclesiastes 11:6

Ecclesiastes is a book written from the perspective of a wise teacher — called 'the Teacher' or Qohelet — who grapples with deep honesty about the uncertainties and limits of human life. This verse uses the image of a farmer sowing seed, which in the ancient agricultural world was everything — the whole year's survival depended on the harvest. The Teacher's instruction is essentially: don't stop working just because you're unsure which effort will pay off. Work in the morning; keep at it in the evening. You cannot predict which seed will grow, but doing nothing guarantees nothing. It's practical wisdom about diligence in the face of uncertainty — an anxiety most of us know well.

God, I confess I hold back more than I sow — afraid of failing, afraid of wasting effort on the wrong thing. Give me the courage to act before I have guarantees, to work faithfully with open hands and trust you with the harvest. Amen.

There's a particular paralysis that comes with not knowing. You don't send the email because you can't guarantee it'll land. You don't start the project because you can't be sure it'll succeed. You don't have the hard conversation because you don't know how it'll go. And so you wait — for perfect conditions, a clearer sign, better timing. The Teacher in Ecclesiastes, who has seen everything under the sun and is brutally honest about how little we control, doesn't offer false assurance. He just says: sow anyway. Morning and evening. Both seeds. All of them. The freedom hidden in this verse is this — you are not responsible for the harvest. You are responsible for showing up and planting. That email, that prayer, that apology, that creative risk you've been sitting on for months — you don't know which will bear fruit. Maybe neither. Maybe both. But the farmer who scatters seed widely is far more likely to eat than the one waiting at the window for better weather. What seed have you been holding in your hand, too afraid to let it fall into the ground?