I was raised in the Church with the idea that one planted good seeds and trusted that they’d bear fruit. That fruit, however, might not ripen for a while, or even in my lifetime.

Years ago, when we began restoring the historic cemetery on my family’s long-held property, a group of Mennonites came to one of our events there. They’ve just recently been received as Western-rite Orthodox.  I didn’t know about their journey, but I recognize that a seed was planted and nurtured, way back then, when we stood amongst the graves and talked about life eternal in Christ.

I have built up the cemetery, gone around the country and spoken at seminaries and gatherings of all kinds, established a small history museum, and founded a parish. None of these evangelical efforts  were made alone. In all cases, it took at least two, myself and my wife, Magdalena, to agree on the task at hand, acknowledging that the work was Godly.

The seeds I plant come from the fruit (as seeds do) of our gathering – an ongoing contemplation at the kitchen table.