01/06/2026
There are days I forget I am only a steward,
not the owner of the vineyard called my life.
I hold my plans too tightly,
as if they were planted by my own hands,
as if time and breath were mine to keep.
Yet in The Gospel of Mark,
I hear the quiet accusation of my own heart—
the times I have ignored Your voice, Lord,
the times I have turned away
when truth asked something of me.
Still, You do not stop coming.
You send Your words like messengers in the wind,
patient, persistent, unwavering—
even when I close the door of my will.
And then comes the Son,
not welcomed, but rejected;
not honored, but cast aside—
yet He becomes the cornerstone,
the foundation I keep returning to
when everything in me begins to fall apart.
Teach me, Lord, to tend Your vineyard well.
To let love grow where indifference tries to settle,
obedience rise where pride once stood,
and faith remain when fear whispers loudly.
For I am not the vine,
not the master,
only the hands You trust with something holy—
a life meant to bear fruit
for You alone.
