The Word Fell on You… and Died

This morning I’m sitting with the image from Matthew 13:4—the seed that fell beside the way. Not on the path, not in the field, but right on the edge. That place gets trampled. It’s compacted by all the coming and going. The seed can’t sink in. It just sits there, exposed. Vulnerable. And the birds—quick, sharp—snatch it away.
I feel the weight of that metaphor. The wayside is a heart hardened by traffic. Not evil, just busy. Full of movement. Full of noise. Education, politics, business, opinions, ambitions. All of it rushing through the mind, the emotions, the will. There’s no stillness. No softness. No space for the word to settle.
I wonder: have I let my heart drift toward the edge? Have I stayed too close to the way, where the soil is thin and the Spirit can’t breathe?
I don’t want to live on the margins of the field. I want to move inward—toward the center, where the soil is tended, where the seed can go deep. I want to be poor in spirit, pure in heart. I want to be quiet enough to hear the whisper of the kingdom.
No farmer lets traffic run through his field. Why should I?
So today, I’m asking: where is the traffic in me? And how do I step away from it—not with shame, but with intention? I want to be good soil. I want to be a place where the word doesn’t just land, but lives.