The Crucible of Becoming | A Word on Gathering Scraps Before the Harvest
Scriptures to sit with:
Ruth 1:16–17
Ruth 2:2–3
Romans 8:28
Psalm 27:13–14
Isaiah 55:8–9
I’ve been sitting with Ruth’s story a lot lately. Letting it unravel in me slowly, painfully, purposefully.
Ruth was a woman who lost everything—her husband, her home, her security. And yet, in the middle of that unraveling, she clung to obedience. She clung to Naomi. She clung to God. Not because the outcome was guaranteed, but because she knew who He was—even when she didn’t know what He was doing.
And I see that same crucible in her life. The becoming didn’t start when Boaz noticed her. It started in the ashes, in the foreign land, in the walking, weeping, gathering. The same way the Lord is bringing me back into the fire now—not to punish, but to refine. To form. Because Christian life isn’t just mountaintop to mountaintop—it’s field to field, threshing floor to harvest, obedience to obedience.
This season of my life has echoed that rhythm. I’ve had to keep serving in places I’ve begged the Lord to release me from. Places that feel dry and hidden. Places I’ve cried over, fasted over, wrestled with. And still—no parting of the clouds. Just the quiet whisper, Stay.
That word—stay—has been like both a thorn and a balm. Because the staying hurts. It stretches me past comfort. It chips away at pride. It’s me dying to my own understanding again and again and again. And yet, in the staying, I’m finding the tenderness of Jesus in new ways. I’m finding that He is still good, even here. Especially here.
Isaiah 28:24–26 speaks of the farmer—how he doesn’t plow forever, but he does plow long enough to prepare the ground. He breaks the soil because he knows the harvest depends on what happens before. And he knows this because God Himself teaches him. The same is true for us. We are in the pre-harvest. The breaking. The plowing. And it’s not meaningless. It’s the instruction of a loving Father forming something eternal in us.
The truth is, obedience is rarely glamorous. It’s not always loud or seen or celebrated. Sometimes, it looks like gathering leftover grain in a field you never asked to be in. Sometimes, it looks like waking up every day to do the thing you prayed God would take off your plate. And yet, it is precisely in those fields—those fields we didn’t choose—that God often meets us.
I think back to the last blog post where we talked about how obedience always comes before the miracle. Ruth didn’t get to Boaz without first walking into a land that wasn’t hers. She didn’t get to the lineage of Jesus without first saying, “Where you go, I will go.” She didn’t get a harvest before she learned to gather scraps.
And I wonder—how many of us are being asked to pick up scraps right now? To serve when our hearts feel weary? To show up in rooms where we feel unseen? To sow prayers that haven’t been answered?
What I’m learning, slowly and with many tears, is that God is still worthy even if the answer is “no.” Even if I never see the thing I’ve been praying for. Even if I stay in the field longer than I want. He is still holy. He is still faithful. He is still good.
And sometimes—maybe most times—it’s the gut-wrenching obedience that forms us. It’s not the miracle that matures us, it’s the process. It’s being faithful with what’s in our hands, even when our hearts are breaking. It’s trusting the hand of a God who sees the whole story, even when we’re stuck in one painful page.
So if you’re like me—stuck in a place you didn’t choose, tired from the weight of obedience, desperate for a yes—just know this: even here, God is working. Even here, He is shaping something holy out of your sacrifice. Even here, your faith is not wasted.
And when the breakthrough comes—if it comes—you’ll know it wasn’t the blessing that made you whole. It was the obedience. The staying. The surrender. The quiet “yes” in the dark.
You are not forgotten in the field.
You are being formed.
Keep going.
Keep gathering.
He’s still good.
Even here.
