Blossoming and Bearing Fruit

Spring, once overflowing with blossoms, has passed, and now summer has come. It is the season of preparing for fruit—and at the same time, the season when fruit is already beginning to form. Since coming to Gimje to learn agriculture, I have found the farms constantly busy. Seeing this, it almost feels out of place to linger too long in simple admiration of the seasons. Before I knew anything about farming, I used to think of spring as dazzling and summer as full of life. With just a single line, I would sum up an entire season and tuck it away in my heart. But living here and encountering agriculture firsthand, I have come to realize that there is far too much to be contained in a single line. Every day feels like a film, and every moment like a scene from a drama. Those who watch from the sidelines can offer only a brief impression. Only those who take part in every step can truly become the protagonists. Perhaps this holds true wherever we are.

Through agriculture, I learned something quite fascinating about how plants grow. Growth isn’t just one continuous process—it unfolds in two distinct stages: vegetative growth and reproductive growth. Put simply, vegetative growth is when the plant builds itself—its stems lengthen and leaves begin to form. Reproductive growth, on the other hand, is when the plant produces flowers and eventually bears fruit. This pattern applies not only to cultivated crops but to most plants as well. It was something I had never truly realized before.

As I learned more about plant growth, I came across something quite intriguing. The environments required for vegetative growth—when a plant increases in size—and reproductive growth—when it bears fruit—are not the same. In cultivating crops, three elements are essential: water, light, and temperature. When there is plenty of water and sunlight, along with a stable and suitable temperature, plants grow vigorously. Their stems stretch upward, and their leaves flourish. This is the ideal environment for vegetative growth. But what surprised me was this: those same “perfect” conditions are not what lead to flowers and fruit. If a plant is continually given abundant water and light and kept at an optimal temperature, it may never flower at all—and without flowers, it cannot bear fruit. At first, I found this difficult to understand. I thought, “If everything is provided so well, shouldn’t the plant grow strong and then naturally produce flowers and fruit?” It even felt somewhat unfair—after giving it everything It needed, it would only grow bigger, without ever bearing fruit.

For this reason, when crops fail to flower or bear fruit, farmers change the environment. In doing so, they guide the plant from vegetative growth—when it only increases in size—into reproductive growth, where it begins to bear fruit. They may reduce the amount of water, limit sunlight, or adjust the temperature. In a sense, they introduce a certain level of “stress.” Of course, this does not mean harming the plant. A farmer would never withhold water until it withers, block out sunlight completely, or expose it to freezing temperatures. Instead, the changes are very slight. The environment that was once ideal is adjusted just a little—almost imperceptibly. Too much stress would damage the plant, so the farmer applies only gentle, careful pressure—just enough to encourage it to bear fruit while keeping it healthy.

And from that point on, the plants begin to change. Across the field, flowers start to bloom, and soon they bear fruit in abundance, as if competing with one another. The stems, strengthened during seasons of abundance, stand firm even under the weight of heavy fruit. The leaves, once nurtured in the best conditions, now gather sunlight and fill the fruit with rich nourishment. And all the while, beneath the soil where no one can see, the roots continue their quiet work, drawing up water and nutrients without ceasing. Whether in the season of vegetative growth, when stems and leaves develop, or in the season of reproductive growth, when flowers bloom and fruit is borne, the roots remain steadfast in what is unseen.

Within the order of all creation lies the will of God who made it. In the age of the wilderness, in the apostolic age, and even today, it seems that God Elohim has gently placed His will within all things, patiently waiting for His children to recognize it. Lest His precious children grow thirsty, He has given the water of life. Lest they wither in the darkness of this world, He has willingly poured out the light of His glory. And even that was not enough—He came to this cold and desolate world Himself, embracing His children with warmth and granting them a place of peace where nothing is lacking.

Yet He could not simply stand by and watch His children grow without purpose. Surely, He did not desire them to become like plants with strong stems and abundant leaves, yet bearing no fruit. I have seen the end of such crops. They grow only for themselves—useful to no one, bringing joy to no one. Watching them be cut down, gathered together, left to dry, and finally thrown away filled my heart with heaviness. How much more, then, must it grieve God Elohim to see His children become like that. And so, perhaps, He has chosen to give each of us a small and gentle “stress.”

When the stems have grown strong and the leaves have become full, the next step is not to strengthen the stems further or to produce more leaves. It is to bloom and bear fruit through what has already been given. And the role of the farmer is to help bring that fruit forth. Only now do I begin to understand what Heavenly Mother meant when She said that Her work is to help Her children.

Yet I still have not fully cast off my weak and foolish nature. When things do not go as I hope, my heart is easily troubled. At times, I have even found myself wondering—with a hint of resentment—why God Elohim does not grant Their beloved children only what is peaceful and good in this world until the day they enter heaven.

But now I have come to understand that this is not what God desires. What parent would ever wish for their children to be insulted or mistreated? And yet, God Elohim has silently borne such pain, holding it deep within for so long. The sorrow, layer upon layer, must have filled His vast heart like a heap of stones—so heavy that it seemed to press upon His very breath—yet He never expressed it even with a single sigh. All the while, He has only longed for His children to bear even one fruit, spending sleepless nights in deep concern that even one might be left behind.

Every crop eventually reaches a season when it can no longer bear fruit. Though I cannot fully grasp the urgency in the hearts of our Heavenly Father and Mother, I earnestly desire to walk the path They walk. Rather than letting the changing seasons pass with only a fleeting reflection, I sincerely hope that we may dwell within the history of our Heavenly Parents—so vivid it feels like a film, so moving it unfolds like a drama—and become its protagonists.