Recognizing When It Is Time to Grow, Harvest – or Reset

 Recently, my son Lucas and I decided to take on a project.

Behind our home runs a dike overlooking the Petitcodiac River. The province cuts the grass along it once a year, but with the summer heat and rain, nature takes over quickly; the grass grows rapidly – in most places reaching nearly four feet tall – and before long the path becomes difficult to walk.

So, we decided to clear it.

We took two small commercial mowers, one going ahead with the deck raised to tackle the tall grass, while the other followed with the deck lowered to finish the path. We wanted to reopen a way through it so people could once again walk there and enjoy what lies beyond.

When the work was finished, we started making our way home slowly, enjoying everything around us and feeling that particular satisfaction that comes from knowing that soon others would be able to walk the same path and experience the remarkable views of the Petitcodiac River: a river that seems to offer something different every time the tides, the clouds and the sun change.

Perhaps because we had spent hours working in the landscape, we were paying closer attention to it, and at one point we came across something that made me stop. Right there in front of us were three very different stages of a field: one section was bare, another was lush and intensely green, and another had matured and was ready for harvest.

I took a couple of photographs.

At first, I thought the contrast was beautiful, but for days afterward, the image kept coming back to me and drawing me into a much deeper reflection: Not everything grows at the same time.

We often expect our lives to look uniformly green. We want the finances growing, the family thriving, the career progressing, businesses expanding, the marriage strong, the children doing well, our health good, our faith strong and our plans moving forward – all at once.

But life rarely looks like that.

We tend to celebrate the green because growth is easy to recognize, new beginnings are exciting, and a harvest gives us something tangible to celebrate. But what about the bare field?

When God Told the Land to Rest

Having lived in Israel for almost two decades, the image brought to mind a biblical practice I have always found fascinating: Shnat Shmita — שנת שמיטה.

The Hebrew word shanah means “year,” while shnat is its construct form — “year of” — and Shmita carries the idea of release or letting go. Shnat Shmita, commonly known as the Sabbatical Year, is therefore a “year of release.”

The principle appears in the Torah, where we read that for six years the Israelites could sow their fields, prune their vineyards and gather their harvest.

“But in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of solemn rest for the land, a sabbath to the LORD. You shall neither sow your field nor prune your vineyard.”

— Leviticus 25:4, NKJV

The land itself was given a Sabbath.

It is easy to read those words thousands of years later and miss how radical that command would have been because, for an agricultural society, land wasn’t just property or scenery; it represented food, livelihood, security and the expectation of the next harvest.

Yet God established a rhythm in which His people were commanded to stop doing what would otherwise have appeared productive. For six years they planted, cultivated, pruned and harvested.

Then came release. The land rested, and the people had to trust.

Shmita was more than an agricultural practice; it carried a much deeper lesson about ownership, dependence, and faith, reminding the people that, ultimately, the land belonged to God, their provision came from God, and endless human effort was not the source of everything they possessed.

Imagine walking past those fields during a Shmita year without understanding what was happening. An uncultivated field might have looked neglected, unproductive, perhaps even irresponsible. But appearances would have been deceiving.

The bare field could be evidence of obedience.

What If the Reset Is Part of the Plan?

I wonder how differently we might see some seasons of our own lives if we understood that principle. We live in a culture that celebrates constant progress, where beginnings are exciting, growth is applauded and harvests are easy to celebrate, but we are often much less comfortable with the seasons in between.

A child leaves home. A career changes direction. A long-held plan no longer makes sense. A door closes. Something we invested years in reaches its conclusion. Priorities shift.

Sometimes the change is chosen, and sometimes life chooses it for us. And sometimes, after much prayer and reflection, we realize that we need to intentionally clear something ourselves.

I think again about the path Lucas and I mowed. Nothing was wrong with the field; nature had simply grown across the path until the way through became difficult to see.

Sometimes our lives can become like that too: Not everything we need to clear from our lives is bad.

Something may have been right for a previous season but no longer be right for the one ahead. We may need to simplify, release something, change direction, or stop filling every available space with activity so we are able to hear God clearly again.

Sometimes we need enough courage to allow the moving pieces of life to settle before deciding what comes next. Sometimes we wait and we pray. Waiting can feel terribly unproductive, especially when the field beside ours looks very green.

Shmita reminds us that visible production is not the only measure of faithful stewardship.

Rest is not necessarily the absence of progress. Many times, rest is part of the process.

There are moments when we need enough distance to see clearly, when the soil should not immediately be replanted, and when wisdom may  mean resisting the urge to do something before we understand what God is asking us to do next.

 

Seeing the Bare Field Differently

Perhaps the bare field had already produced something. Perhaps it was being prepared for something new. Perhaps it just needed rest. We should not confuse a reset with a failure.

A reset can look bare before it looks beautiful, and while a lush green field requires very little imagination because the evidence of growth is already in front of us, bare ground asks us to see beyond what is visible today.

For people of faith, it asks an even deeper question:

Am I trusting God in a season that does not look productive?

Ecclesiastes tells us:

“To everything there is a season,

A time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to plant,

And a time to pluck what is planted.”

— Ecclesiastes 3:1–2, NKJV

That afternoon beside the Petitcodiac River, Lucas and I were looking at those different seasons at the same time: bare, growing and ready for harvest.

Same field. Same summer. Different seasons.

Perhaps that is a more honest picture of our lives than the uniformly green field we sometimes expect, because maturity may not mean having every part of our lives flourishing at once; perhaps maturity is learning to recognize the season each part is in, and having the wisdom and courage to tend it accordingly.

Plant when it is time to plant. Tend what is growing. Harvest what is ready. Clear what is preventing a greater purpose. Wait and pray when the direction isn’t yet clear. And when the season calls for it, allow the field to rest.

Sometimes stepping back is good stewardship, sometimes releasing is an act of faith, and sometimes the bare field is not evidence that something has gone wrong.

It may be evidence that, for this season, we had the courage to stop – and the faith to trust God with what He will grow there next.