The sun hovered low over Capernaum, staining the packed earth roads with gold. Leah pressed her back harder against the stone wall of her father’s field, eyes fixed on the rows of barley swaying just beyond the gate. There were weeds everywhere now—thin, stubborn things that wrapped around the young grain. No one had noticed them until it was far too late. They would have to wait until harvest to know how much was lost. Until then, her father’s voice had grown weary. Her mother’s prayers more urgent.
Leah tightened her hands around the cloth she was mending. She had prayed… once. But since her brother Joab had been taken—dragged off by Roman soldiers for a crime he did not commit—she had stopped asking for miracles. What good were words whispered to a sky that stayed silent? Joab’s sandals still sat by the door, their worn soles staring accusingly. No one dared throw them out.
“Leah,” her father called from the threshold, “come. The Teacher is speaking down by the lake.”
She almost refused, the bitterness heavy on her tongue—but his eyes, lined with dust and years, held a flicker she couldn’t deny. She followed him down the winding road, past watchful Roman eyes and curious merchants. A crowd had gathered on the shore, huddled like birds against the breeze.
There, in a small boat, stood a man—ordinary, weathered, yet drawing the crowd’s breath with each pause. Jesus, they said His name was. She had heard rumors. Healings. Wisdom that cut like a blade. She didn’t expect much.
He spoke of a man who sowed good seed. But later, in the dark of night, an enemy crept in and scattered weeds among the wheat. Servants wanted to rip them out, but the master said no. Let them grow together. The difference would become clear in time.
Leah shifted. Her brow furrowed.
Was He speaking of fields—or people?
And then it happened.
His eyes found hers.
Only for a second—but it was as if time paused, like the world held its breath. She felt exposed, folded open from the inside. She waited for condemnation. But in His gaze, there was neither judgment nor blame. Only knowing. Sadness. And something else.
Hope.
She turned away suddenly, pressing her hand to her chest. Her breath came sharp, her thoughts racing. Maybe the weeds had grown around her life, her faith. Bitterness. Anger. Doubt. But He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t recoiled.
Maybe she hadn’t been forgotten after all.
That night, she slipped Joab’s sandals into her satchel. Tomorrow, she would go to the prison at the edge of the city. Maybe she couldn’t free him. But she could visit. Bring warmth. Be light.
The weeds were still there.
But she would grow anyway.
And wait for harvest.
The sun hovered low over Capernaum, staining the packed earth roads with gold. Leah pressed her back harder against the stone wall of her father’s field, eyes fixed on the rows of barley swaying just beyond the gate. There were weeds everywhere now—thin, stubborn things that wrapped around the young grain. No one had noticed them until it was far too late. They would have to wait until harvest to know how much was lost. Until then, her father’s voice had grown weary. Her mother’s prayers more urgent.
Leah tightened her hands around the cloth she was mending. She had prayed… once. But since her brother Joab had been taken—dragged off by Roman soldiers for a crime he did not commit—she had stopped asking for miracles. What good were words whispered to a sky that stayed silent? Joab’s sandals still sat by the door, their worn soles staring accusingly. No one dared throw them out.
“Leah,” her father called from the threshold, “come. The Teacher is speaking down by the lake.”
She almost refused, the bitterness heavy on her tongue—but his eyes, lined with dust and years, held a flicker she couldn’t deny. She followed him down the winding road, past watchful Roman eyes and curious merchants. A crowd had gathered on the shore, huddled like birds against the breeze.
There, in a small boat, stood a man—ordinary, weathered, yet drawing the crowd’s breath with each pause. Jesus, they said His name was. She had heard rumors. Healings. Wisdom that cut like a blade. She didn’t expect much.
He spoke of a man who sowed good seed. But later, in the dark of night, an enemy crept in and scattered weeds among the wheat. Servants wanted to rip them out, but the master said no. Let them grow together. The difference would become clear in time.
Leah shifted. Her brow furrowed.
Was He speaking of fields—or people?
And then it happened.
His eyes found hers.
Only for a second—but it was as if time paused, like the world held its breath. She felt exposed, folded open from the inside. She waited for condemnation. But in His gaze, there was neither judgment nor blame. Only knowing. Sadness. And something else.
Hope.
She turned away suddenly, pressing her hand to her chest. Her breath came sharp, her thoughts racing. Maybe the weeds had grown around her life, her faith. Bitterness. Anger. Doubt. But He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t recoiled.
Maybe she hadn’t been forgotten after all.
That night, she slipped Joab’s sandals into her satchel. Tomorrow, she would go to the prison at the edge of the city. Maybe she couldn’t free him. But she could visit. Bring warmth. Be light.
The weeds were still there.
But she would grow anyway.
And wait for harvest.
