Several years ago I was inspired to write a short poem based on 1 Corinthians 13:13, which states that faith, hope, and love are the three most important virtues. I’ve always preferred short poems over epic poetry because a.) I’m a slow reader, and b.) I have a short attention span. But, give me a book filled with short poems and I’ll gladly eat them up one page at a time, silently poring over every word choice and line break.
What I really love though are very short poems like Dream Dust by Langston Hughes, The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Willams, and Fog by Carl Sandburg. The thing that impresses me about these writers is their ability to make a giant impact, using a simple image, in just a few lines.
Now I can’t take credit for the first image in my poem, as it comes from a Bible story. It’s the one where Jesus tells his disciples that the smallest amount of faith can move an entire mountain, so long as that faith is placed in the right person—namely himself. However, I was excited when the idea of “hope” being a hand occurred to me. I’m no farmer, but when I thought about what a farmer does with seeds, I realized there has to be a fair amount of hope at play for her to bury seeds in the dirt.
I’ve been a mother for over 25 years now, and there have been many moments along the way when my faith has felt tiny, insignificant, or no longer visible. But it has never gone away completely, and when I remember to focus on who that faith is in, rather than the size or status of it, I usually feel better. This Father/Son/HolySpirit Trinity is better than I imagine and more present that I am aware of, so surely this “hope” is still secure, regardless of how dirty it gets.
For the next few weeks, I tried to come up with a concrete image to convey “love,” but none of them seemed to work very well with the story my first two images were trying to tell. Then one day I was standing in a corner at an artist’s conference when the last few lines seemed to trickle down to me like crumbs from heaven. I was mulling over the session I’d be speaking at the next day, about the value of grieving well.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that death is what has to happen for seeds to take root.
Finally I had a strong, towering image for love!
Once I put it all together on the page, I was sure someone else had already written a poem just like this and that I’d inadvertently committed plagiarism. But so far, no one else has claimed it whenever I’ve shared it, so I guess I’ll continue taking credit. Thanks for letting me share it with you. I hope you find it encouraging.
What Remains
If faith is a seed, then hope
is the hand that buries it. And love
is the death
which gives birth
to a mighty, mighty tree.
Janna Barber likes to tell stories, write poems, and eat homemade potato soup. She grew up in the various homes of a nomadic Baptist preacher and his Southern belle wife and lived to write a book about it. Janna lives in East Tennessee with three grown kids, four neurotic pets, and one saintly husband. She is the author of a memoir called Hidden in Shadow: Tales of Grief, Lamentation, and Faith. You can read more of Janna’s work at her website or by signing up for her Substack.
