Consider the vines of the vineyard,
How they grow;
They neither toil nor strive,
Yet, I tell you,
Even man with all his technology,
Cannot produce fruit like one of these.

If God so fruits the vine,
Which today is alive
And tomorrow is cast into the fire,
Will he not more surely
Produce fruit in your life,
O you of little faith?
So do not fret, saying:
'How shall I achieve something worthwhile?'
Or, 'How shall I leave my mark on this world?'
For after such fulfillment the heathen crave,
And your heavenly Father knows your need of it.

Who among you,
When your son asks if he can help,
Would always spurn his offers?
Or, if he wants to achieve something worthwhile,
Would you let him waste his life,
Rather than help him succeed?
If you then, being evil,
Know how to love your children,
How much more shall your Father in heaven
Give a ministry to those who seek it.

'Abide in Me ...
And you shall bear much fruit ...
And My Father shall be glorified.'

When the doubled-over woman met Jesus he could have said, 'See me at sundown.' That was the end of the Jewish Sabbath and presumably no more than twelve hours away - a mere 0.0076% extension to her eighteen-year wait for healing. To heal on the Sabbath was to gush petroleum upon the smouldering wrath of his enemies. The inferno could even offend sincere believers and convince the undecided that his powers were Satanic. But to the eternal Son of God those few uneventful hours in the life of a nameless woman - a 0.0076% deferral - was too high a price.

For the One to whom a thousand years are as a day, one day is like a thousand years. Infinite Love will restrain himself until the perfect time, but not one second longer.

Like vine branches, we are not continually laden with fruit. That would be unnatural. For a significant portion of its life, a grapevine is nothing but a dry, twisted stick; fruitless, useless for shade, worthless as timber; to all appearances fit only to be ripped from the ground and burned. Yet those barren times are as vital in the life of the vine, as the seasons of fruit.

If spring could tip-toe past nature without stirring it from its winter slumber; if the sun could slip through the sky without dispelling the night; if rain could fall to the ground without bringing life to the desert - only then should you fear dry times, dark times, lean times. Though you feel as useless as a fur coat in a heat-wave, the time will come when your warmth is treasured. To everything there is a season.

Your name is on God's calendar.