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I’ve been sitting with the parable of the rocky soil again—Matthew 13:5–6, 20–21—and it’s unsettling how close it

hits. The seed falls, the sun rises, and the plant withers. Not because the sun is cruel, but because the roots never went deep.
I know that place. The shallow heart. The quick joy. The loud praise. But underneath—if I’m honest—there are still stones. Not just the obvious ones, but the quiet, buried kind: old desires, self-pity, the need to be seen, the ache to be right. These things don’t scream. They just sit there, unmoved, keeping the word from settling in.
And then the heat comes. Not punishment, but pressure. Life’s afflictions, the hard conversations, the quiet disappointments. The sun was meant to grow me. But without root, it scorches. I dry up. I retreat. I wonder why the joy didn’t last.
I think some of those rocks are still in me. Lust, yes. But also the flesh that wants comfort more than surrender. The self that wants control. The part of me that resists being known too deeply, even by God.
I don’t want to be a surface soul. I want depth. I want the seed to find good soil in me. But I know it won’t happen unless the Lord digs. Not gently. Not politely. But thoroughly. I need Him to unearth the hidden things—my temper, my pride, my fear of being small. I need Him to make space.
So today, I ask for mercy. Not just forgiveness, but excavation. I want to be rooted. I want to endure the heat and still stand. I want the word to live in me—not just visit.
Come, Lord. Dig deep.