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Good evening, little lambs. Tonight's story is called Fig's Garden and the Patient Farmer, inspired by the Gospel of Matthew thirteen twenty four forty three. And so tonight, our gospel is one of Jesus' favorite kinds of teaching, a story about a farmer's field where good wheat and pesky weeds come up side by side, so tangled together that the wise farmer decides not to yank anything out too quickly, in case he tears up the good right along with the bad. Jesus also tells us a kingdom can start as small as one mustard seed and grow into a great tree, and that a little pinch of yeast can quietly puff up a whole batch of bread overnight, working where nobody can see it. God is patient, and his good work is often small, slow, and hidden, before one day it becomes something wonderful. Tonight we're back on Shepherd's Hill in a garden bed that is giving a lamb named Fig a great deal of trouble, and Jesus is about to show him just how patient a good farmer can be. Fig had sandy gold wool and hooves that were almost never clean, because he was always digging. Three weeks ago, old Wooly had given him a handful of seeds, some wildflower, and one strange tiny seed. Old Wooly called mustard, barely bigger than a speck of sand, and Fig had planted everyone in a sunny bed behind the fold, dreaming of the day he'd show the whole flock something he'd grown all by himself. Little Bramble, who followed Fig everywhere and chewed on grass stems when nervous, watered it with him every morning. This morning the seeds had finally sprouted, but not the way Fig had pictured. Neat rows of small green flower shoots stood up proudly, but scattered among them, other sprouts had come too. Pale, floppy, spindly things Fig didn't remember planting at all. Weeds, Fig said, ears back. They'll choke everything good if I don't pull them right now. He yanked hard at one and gasped. A whole tangle of roots came up together, and one of his good flower shoots wilted sideways in his hoof, its roots torn. Fig, Bramble said, stem falling from his mouth. I ruined it, Fig said, voice going small. I was trying to save it, and I ruined it. That's when Jesus came around the fold and knelt beside the bed, looking a long moment at the tangled roots in Fig's hooves. They grew so close together underground, Jesus said gently, that pullin' one up quickly hurt the other. A good farmer doesn't rush to yank up everything strange the moment he sees it. He waits, because he can see roots, you and I can't, and he knows which ones are worth the wait. Fig remembered how Jesus hadn't thrown away Matt's bent lantern reed the night before, but had cupped it and mended it slowly instead. Maybe patience always looked something like that. But what if they really are weeds? Fig asked. Some might be, Jesus said honestly. He touched the smallest sprout in the whole bed, barely taller than a blade of grass. Do you know what this is? The mustard seed, smaller than anything else you planted. Wait for it, and one day it will grow taller than you, with branches wide enough for birds to build nests in. He smiled at Fig's dirt streaked face. Old Woolly is needing bread right now, with a pinch of yeast tucked inside. You won't see anything happen tonight, but by morning the whole batch will have risen warm and big. Good things often grow exactly like that, quietly before you're allowed to see them. So Fig and Bramble left the strange sprouts alone and simply kept watering everything, letting root and shoot and mystery grow together, unhurried. Many mornings later the truth showed itself, easy and plain. Some pale, floppy sprouts had indeed been weeds, but by then their roots had grown strong enough, apart from the flowers, that Fig could lift them out gently, harming nothing. Others turned out to be a shy little flower, nobody had grown before, silvery and sweet smelling, blooming only after dark, and right in the middle stood the mustard sprout, already taller than Fig's knee, its first yellow bloom opening at the tip. And so tonight we learned that God doesn't rush to judge what looks messy or strange too quickly. He is patient, seeing roots and futures we can't see yet, and he trusts his own good timing over ours. That same patience lets his smallest, quietest work, a mustard seed, a pinch of yeast, a bent reed, a muddled garden bed grow slowly into something wonderful. Is there something in your own life tonight that looks a little confusing or weedy that you could be patient with, trusting God to know it better than you do? Dear Jesus, thank you for being patient with me, even when I feel mixed up like a garden full of weeds and flowers all tangled together. Help me be patient too, with others and with myself, and help the good you've planted in me grow big and strong, even when I can't see it happening yet. Amen. Good night, little lamb. God loves you so much. Sweet dreams.