Harvesting What You’ve Planted

October always makes me think about harvest. Not just in the sense of pumpkins, apple picking, and fall leaves, but in that deeper sense of taking stock of what’s grown from the seeds we’ve planted earlier in the year—or even years ago.

It’s funny, because so much of the “planting” part of life feels slow and sometimes even thankless. We show up for our families, we pour into our work, we invest in our relationships, we try to do the right things day after day… and honestly, it can feel like nothing’s happening. I know I’ve had those seasons where I wondered, “Is any of this making a difference?”

That’s the hard part about planting: you don’t always get instant proof. You don’t get applause. You don’t even always get reassurance. You just keep tending the soil, showing up with faith that something is happening beneath the surface. And in a world that loves quick results, that can be one of the hardest things to do.

But harvest season has a way of reminding us that growth doesn’t usually happen overnight. Roots form long before anything breaks through the surface. The unseen work—the patience, the perseverance, the quiet nurturing—is just as important as what eventually shows. And when the fruit does finally appear—sometimes in big, beautiful ways, and other times in small, almost hidden moments—it’s a reminder that all that effort, love, and care wasn’t wasted.

For me, some of the most meaningful “harvests” haven’t been the big milestones, but the quiet ones. A conversation with one of my kids where I realize they really were listening all along. A project at work that finally clicks after months of steady effort. A relationship that feels stronger because of the small seeds of consistency and trust built over time. Those are the moments that stop me in my tracks and make me grateful I didn’t give up in the planting season.

And sometimes, the fruit doesn’t show up where—or when—we expect it. Not every seed grows on our timeline. Some take years. Some never sprout in the way we imagined, but instead bloom into something different, something we didn’t know we needed. And some, truthfully, never grow at all. But even then, I’ve come to see that the act of planting—choosing hope, showing up, staying faithful—changes us. It shapes who we are becoming, even while we wait.

Harvest is more than a season of results—it’s also a season of perspective. A chance to look back and realize that the small, ordinary acts of love and effort really do matter. That patience has its rewards. That even when we feel like nothing is happening, something is taking root.

So I’m trying to notice and celebrate the fruit in my own life—big and small. To pause long enough to appreciate the quiet victories that might otherwise pass by. To be thankful not just for the visible outcomes, but for the process itself: the waiting, the tending, the faith that growth is happening even when I can’t see it. And perhaps most of all, to trust that the seeds I’m still tending will, in their own time, bring forth something worth gathering.