The Assassination of a Grain of Wheat

 

One may never know the direction that the wind will blow, how hard it will be, or will it even blow at all? If it's been remiss in its appearance for a day, a month, or even a year - does it still exist? Does it still wield the same power as memory ascribes? Can it still possess the ability to flutter a feather curiously down the country lane all the while storing up its vehemence for the unsuspecting oak who has unknowingly, seen its last sunrise?

 

Yes.  And no.

 

Ever since time began, fertile soil has always been planted. Rich rays of sunlight warm up the earth and scream of life's great potential. Showers bring strength to young stalks, breaking free from their sprouting infancy, and racing to maturation with the vigor of the inexperienced. 

 

Time passes and the great, once bare field, is now a cacophony of rolling golden waves. Sea-like in nature and mesmerizing to the beholder. All the fields are the same; same smell, same feel, same taste. Rippling heads of a nearly ripe wheat harvest, all uniform, and bursting with symmetry.

 

Look! Afar on the horizon is a rise in the landscape, a change in the monotony of cultivation. And on top is a single stock of wheat and see! It does not move! The bending and swaying of its peers is of no effect. It stands firm in its roots to stand guard against the time to come.

 

Whoosh! A tempestuous gust of wind swirls above the golden fray

and singlehandedly breaks the guardian's stock at the head, sending the grain in a whirling fashion up into the open and unknown storm. An unfriendly burst of thunder separates the chaff from the grain and then, its cast away, into the sway of the ones it used to serve. No longer a signal of hope and good will, but now lowly. Now, once more, scattered on the damp, cold earth. 

 

Harvest comes, as does the long cold Winter. Spring is here and is barely able to shake off the shackles the cold and ice had frozen into place. A bloom here and a buzzing honeybee there, and in the blink of an eye…Summer is in the horizon, along with all the budding sprouts of this year's seed. All uniform, all congruent, all begging to experience life beyond the promises of youth. 

 

Heat bursts forth and the days grow long. The young stalks tremble at the whispers of drought. No water, no depth, no reason to press on but -

 

Look! Afar in the horizon is a rise in the landscape, a change in the monotony of cultivation. And on top are a hundred stocks of wheat and see! They do not move! The bending and swaying of their peers is of no effect. They stand firm in their ROOT to stand guard against the time to come.

 

 

 

Truly, truly, I say to you, 

unless a grain of wheat falls 

into the earth and dies, it 

remains alone; but if it dies,

 it bears much fruit.

John 12:24

 

 

Charlie Kirk

1993-2025

Rest In Peace