I grew up on a farm that raised seed corn. Across the road from our house there was a large building where the dried corn was sorted, bagged and stored. We called it “The Seed House”. On late fall evenings, my dad would go over there and bag corn. He would set a bag on the scale, open the shoot and let those golden kernels pour in, then sew the bag shut. Over and over and over.

Sometimes I went to the Seed House with my dad. I would watch him for a while, sitting on the ever growing stack of seed corn bags. Eventually, I would wander away to pretend that the warehouse was my castle, or my theater, or my business office. No matter where I went in my imagination, it always smelled of fresh corn and aged wood and good country air.

I don’t live on a farm in the country anymore.
I don’t plant seeds in fertile fields or harvest a corn crop.
I don’t bag kernels or stack bags or fill a warehouse.

But I have a Seed House.

Years ago, I wistfully mentioned to PB that someday I’d like to have a tiny cabin in the woods. Nothing fancy — just a place to sit with my thoughts, put those thoughts into words and put those words onto paper.

PB doesn’t forget things like that.
He’s the kind of guy who loves to take a dream and make it come true.
He’s been making my dreams come true for years,
but he really outdid himself this time.

I hope the seed of an idea will germinate in my little cabin in the woods.

Like a good farmer, I will give that precious seed a safe place to land, cultivate it, make sure it has time to grow and hopefully, bring forth fruit.

“For God is the one who provides seed for the farmer.” 2 Corinthians 9:10