Planting, Watering, and Letting Go

The rain came softly this morning.

Not the dramatic kind that pounds on iron sheets and demands attention — just a steady, quiet rain that makes the red soil darker and sends the scent of eucalyptus drifting through the air. I’m sitting on the veranda again. Same wooden chair. Same chipped mug beside me. The tall eucalyptus trees in front of the house are swaying from left to right, like they’re breathing with the wind.

“Thank You for another day,” I whisper.

It’s Saturday. I finished our annual teacher development training yesterday. Eight days of teaching, planning, correcting, laughing, praying. My voice is tired. My notebook is full. My heart should feel satisfied.

Instead, the quiet begins.

Because when the noise of activity fades, the questions grow loud.

Are they really ready?
Will they teach the content properly?
Will the children pass their exams next year?
Did I prepare enough?
Did I work hard enough?
Do I ever work hard enough?

If you have ever carried responsibility for something bigger than yourself — a ministry, a business, a family, a vision — you know that feeling. It sits in your chest like a stone. It wakes up before you do. It follows you to bed.

For nine years, that stone has been my companion.

Sometimes I carried it alone. Sometimes I quietly handed pieces of it to my husband — whether he asked for it or not. We would lie in bed talking through numbers, staff concerns, exam results, future plans. Two people staring at the ceiling in the dark, trying to hold up a future that felt fragile.

And underneath all of it was one overwhelming question:

Will I be able to finish what I started?

It sounds noble. Determined. But in reality, it was fear wearing a responsible face.

Last week, I was sitting right here on this same veranda. The wind was moving the trees just like it is today. My Bible was open to Hebrews 11. I’ve read that chapter many times. The “heroes of faith.” The strong ones. The brave ones.

But this time, I noticed something different.

“These all died in faith, not having received the things promised…”

I stopped reading.

They died… not having received.

Abraham left his homeland believing God would give him a land and countless descendants. He lived in tents his whole life. Moses led a nation out of slavery but never entered the Promised Land. Others endured suffering and never saw the victory they longed for.

And yet, Scripture calls them faithful.

Not successful.

Not finished.

Faithful.

That was the moment something inside me loosened.

Scripture teaches that God is not hoping things work out. He declares the end from the beginning. He is sovereign over outcomes. He writes the full story — not just the opening chapters.

Which means this school was His idea before it was ever mine.
These children belong to Him more than they belong to our vision.
The future of this ministry is not balanced on my shoulders.

For years, I have been living as if God starts the work… and then hands it to me to make sure it survives.

But Hebrews 12 follows right after that long list of faithful saints and says we look to Jesus — the Author and Perfecter of our faith.

Author.
Perfecter.

He starts.
He completes.

Philippians 1:6 suddenly felt less like a coffee-cup verse and more like oxygen:

“He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion.”

Not might.
Not hopefully.
Will.

The pressure I had been carrying for nine years — the silent belief that everything depended on how strong, disciplined, and vigilant I could be — simply collapsed under that truth.

I am called to be faithful.

To train teachers with integrity.
To prepare lessons carefully.
To disciple hearts.
To correct what needs correcting.
To plant.
To water.

But growth? That belongs to God.

Exam results? In His hands.
Long-term sustainability? In His providence.
Whether I personally see the “finished product”? Not promised.

And suddenly the question changed.

Instead of, “Will I finish what I started?”
It became, “Will I trust the One who always finishes what He starts?”

The eucalyptus trees outside bend deeply when the wind pushes them. For a moment they almost look fragile. But then they rise again. Their strength is not in resisting the wind — it’s in their roots.

Maybe that is what Hebrews 11 gives us: roots.

Roots that go down into the character of a sovereign, faithful God.

Most of the people listed there never saw the fulfilment of what they were promised. But they lived and died trusting. Heaven does not measure them by visible outcomes. Heaven measures them by faith.

That realization brought a kind of peace I haven’t known in years.

The work is still there. The responsibility is still real. I will still push for excellence. I will still wake up early and prepare and pray.

But the crushing weight is gone.

Because this was never mine to sustain.

The rain is falling harder now. The red soil is turning darker. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear children laughing. A new school year is about to begin.

And for the first time in a long time, I am not afraid of whether I will finish.

I am resting in the certainty that He will.

With Love from Lusanja