OPENING – THE CROOKED FURROW
I was fifteen the summer an old farmer in Tennessee handed me the biggest responsibility I’d ever had.
“Take the tractor,” he said, “and plow that field.”
It was no small patch of ground. Thirty acres of Tennessee red clay stretched behind the barn, rolling gently toward a tree line that shimmered in the July heat. The air smelled of honeysuckle, diesel, and dust.
The tractor was an old two-cylinder John Deere — green paint faded, one fender dented, seat worn shiny. When I turned the key, it started with that unmistakable rhythm that every farm boy still hears in his sleep: putt… putt… putt…
I eased forward to the edge of the field and pulled the lever. The plow sank with a grunt, and the sound changed — a deeper roar, the sound of hard work being done. Fresh earth curled over itself in clean red ribbons. I watched it, proud of the dark line trailing behind me.
But after a while curiosity got the better of me. I turned to admire my progress — and when I finally looked forward again, I realized the barn wasn’t where it should be. My rows wandered across the field like a lazy snake.
The farmer saw it, too. He came walking from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag, smiling that half-amused, half-pitying smile that only men with a lifetime of straight furrows can manage. He climbed up on the step and shouted over the engine:
“Son, you can’t drive a straight furrow looking behind you.
Pick a fence post or a tree on the far side.
Keep your eyes on that — and don’t take ’em off.”
I nodded, cheeks burning. But I never forgot it.
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I. THE WAY · FAITH · YESTERDAY
Rehearsing God’s past saving action
That day in the field turned into a parable. I didn’t know it then, but the first lesson of faith is learning where to look.
Faith isn’t about perfection; it’s about direction.
You can’t move forward if your gaze is always behind you.
We all have crooked furrows in our past — regrets, detours, losses, choices we wish we could plow again.
Some people live their whole lives staring at them, measuring, comparing, wishing.
But faith doesn’t live by regret. Faith learns to fix its eyes on something that doesn’t move.
That’s what the Israelites had to learn in the wilderness. Every time they looked back toward Egypt, they lost their way. But when they fixed their eyes on the pillar of cloud by day and the fire by night, they found their direction again.
> “We have nothing to fear for the future, except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us, and His teaching in our past history.” (Life Sketches, p. 196)
Forgetfulness is the quiet enemy of faith.
Faith rehearses God’s past saving action — the Red Seas He parted, the deserts He watered, the crooked furrows He somehow turned to harvest.
When you remember how God has led you, gratitude steadies your hands on the wheel.
You still see the stumbles, but you also see the grace between them.
Faith looks back without being trapped there.
It sees that even yesterday’s uneven rows belong to the same field of mercy.
Jesus doesn’t erase your yesterdays — He redeems them.
He is the Way that makes the journey make sense — the fixed point on the far horizon keeping your life true.
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Yesterday…
The word itself carries a sigh.
We all have one.
The Beatles sang,
> “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…”
But most of us remember our yesterdays differently — a mixture of sweet and bitter, triumph and failure, the smell of good earth and the sting of blisters.
Faith looks back differently.
It doesn’t rewrite the past; it redeems it.
It sees where God showed up in the middle of our half-done stories.
When I think of that Tennessee field now, I don’t see embarrassment; I see instruction.
A boy learning that life doesn’t go straight just because you want it to.
Direction comes from fixing your eyes on something that doesn’t move — and for the believer, that something is Someone.
Faith remembers God’s footprints behind us and trusts His presence ahead.
That’s the song of yesterday — its melody still hums under the noise of today.
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II. THE TRUTH · HOPE · TOMORROW
Rehearsing God’s promises
If faith rehearses God’s past saving action,
hope rehearses His promises — the ones not yet visible but already true.
Yesterday teaches you to remember;
tomorrow invites you to believe again.
When I was younger, I thought tomorrow would always be easier — that someday the furrows of life would all line up straight, that I’d pray enough, plan enough, know enough to stop wandering.
But the older I get, the more I realize: there will always be another field, another horizon.
And that’s where hope comes in.
Hope lives with its eyes on the horizon — not as a dreamer escaping today, but as a believer anticipating God’s tomorrow.
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The Truth That Anchors the Promise
Jesus said, “I am the truth.”
Not “I tell” it — I am it.
Truth wearing skin and sandals.
Every word He spoke became a bridge between today’s waiting and tomorrow’s fulfillment.
That’s what keeps hope steady — truth that doesn’t shift with headlines or moods or fears.
Truth that stands like a mountain when everything else trembles.
We rehearse God’s promises because the One who spoke them has never gone back on His word.
“I go to prepare a place for you.”
“I will come again.”
“He that began a good work in you will finish it.”
“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.”
Those aren’t slogans; they’re blueprints for eternity.
Hope isn’t wishing.
It’s the quiet confidence that God has already written the last chapter.
It’s holding onto truth when the evidence hasn’t yet arrived.
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Living on the Edge of God’s Tomorrow
None of us can live in tomorrow,
but we can live facing it.
Hope looks into the dark and says, “Morning’s coming.”
It looks at the unfinished, the broken, the still-empty places, and whispers, “God’s not done yet.”
That’s what Abraham did beneath a sky full of stars.
That’s what Mary did when the angel’s words defied reason.
That’s what the early church did when they buried their dead believing in resurrection.
Hope rehearses the promises of God until the heart begins to hum again — like a tractor idling in the cool of dawn, waiting for the sun.
Sometimes that’s all you can do — keep the engine warm and your eyes fixed on the horizon.
Hope isn’t a feeling; it’s a direction.
It points toward the dawn, trusting that truth is not changing — only unfolding.
And when the day finally breaks,
you’ll see that the One who promised was already walking toward you the whole time.
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III. THE LIFE · LOVE · TODAY
Living in harmony with God’s presence
Yesterday can’t be changed.
Tomorrow hasn’t yet come.
But today—today is the field you’ve been given.
It’s not as wide as your dreams or as tidy as your plans,
but it’s where the plow touches earth.
It’s where heaven meets habit.
It’s where love takes form.
Love doesn’t live in memory or imagination.
It lives in this breath, this hour, this table, this conversation.
It shows up when you stop long enough to notice another soul,
when you reach out a hand instead of crossing your arms.
Because love is never experienced in isolation.
It is only known in relationship.
You can’t store it like grain in a bin—you have to give it away to keep it alive.
God’s love is the same.
It is never static, never self-contained.
It moves, it flows, it gives.
“For God so loved the world, that He gave…”
God's love is for. --- giving.
That’s the pattern of true life—
the heartbeat of heaven sounding through human hearts.
When we give, we touch eternity.
When we love, we live.
That’s why Jesus said, “I am the life.”
He wasn’t talking about mere existence—
He was talking about the kind of life that breathes love into every moment.
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The Music of the Ordinary
Sometimes we miss it because we’re waiting for grand things—
a miracle, a calling, a sign that our life matters.
But love’s greatest work is done in the small, unnoticed places:
the forgiveness that heals a quiet wound,
the listening ear that steadies a friend,
the patience that keeps peace when no one thanks you.
Love turns duty into devotion,
a meal into communion,
a conversation into ministry.
When you live in harmony with God,
the ordinary becomes holy ground.
There’s an old saying: Heaven is not so much a place as it is a Presence.
When that Presence fills today,
you begin to experience heaven’s blessings right here—
not someday, not somewhere else, but now.
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The Miracle of Now
That’s why Paul could say,
“And now abideth faith, hope, love—these three; but the greatest of these is love.”
Because love is what connects the other two.
It makes faith visible and turns hope into action.
It’s the life of God pulsing through yours,
the light that shines between yesterday and tomorrow.
So live today as if heaven were already breaking in—
because it is.
Wherever love gives, God lives.
And if you listen close enough,
you can still hear that old John Deere rhythm under your life—
the steady, working sound of grace in motion,
love in action,
the life of God being given, not stored.
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IV. THE BALANCE OF JESUS
Holding Yesterday and Tomorrow—Today
Jesus lived in perfect balance.
He honored the past without being trapped by it.
He looked toward the future without losing sight of the moment.
And in the present, He walked with His Father—fully alive, fully surrendered.
Some people only live in the past.
They build museums out of memories, polishing what was until they lose sight of what is.
Their faith becomes nostalgia, not trust.
Others live only in the future.
They chase the next horizon, waiting for “someday” to arrive—
when everything will finally fall into place.
Their hope becomes a mirage that keeps retreating.
And some live only in the present, but without God at the center.
That kind of present turns hollow fast.
Without faith to redeem yesterday and hope to illuminate tomorrow,
today collapses into nothingness.
That’s the quiet creed of nihilism—
life without meaning, motion without direction.
But Jesus shows us another way.
He stood in the tension of all three:
rooted in the Father’s faithfulness,
anchored in the Father’s promises,
alive in the Father’s presence.
In Him, yesterday is forgiven,
tomorrow is secured,
and today becomes holy.
That’s the balance He invites us into—
faith that remembers,
hope that anticipates,
and love that gives.
So when you leave the field,
dust still on your boots and the furrows stretching behind,
lift your eyes to the horizon—but not too far.
Because the God of yesterday and tomorrow
is walking beside you today.
