The Mustard Seed and the Mountain
Finding hope in humble beginnings and the daily work of surrender
I recently read Matthew 13:31–32—the parable of the mustard seed. And something about it struck a nerve:
“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.”
Lately, I’ve been stuck in the struggle. Trying to get abstinent. Trying to work the tools. Trying to do what I know I should be doing. But the trying hasn’t been enough to get me over the hump. And honestly, it’s been discouraging.
But then this verse reminded me: God doesn’t measure my recovery in perfect abstinence or flawless spiritual performance. He’s not waiting for me to show up with a mountain of faith or a streak of “good days.” He’s asking for something much smaller.
He’s asking for something real.
This isn’t a post about success. It’s a post about starting again. About planting something honest in the dirt—even when I feel like a failure. Even when I think I should be further along.
And it starts here—with a seed.
Just a Seed
—a mustard cry for recovery
I told myself it had to be perfect—
the faith, the food, the tools, the trust.
I thought God wanted mountains from me,
but all He asked for…
was dust.
A seed.
Smaller than the lies I tell.
Quieter than my shame.
But real.
And that’s the part that wrecked me.
Because I can fake effort.
Fake belief.
Fake working a program
while still feeding a beast.
But I can't fake a seed.
A mustard seed doesn’t pretend.
It burrows down in the dirt,
fighting through the dark,
trusting light it hasn’t seen.
And that’s recovery.
Not a clean kitchen scale.
Not thirty perfect days.
But one raw prayer
muttered through a mouthful of fear.
Just one call.
One honest share.
One “God, I can’t do this,”
that isn’t dressed up in spiritual flair.
I’ve planted that seed before.
Watched it sprout and fall.
Thought the dying meant failure—
but it was just the root
pushing deeper than I thought I’d let it go.
So today—no fanfare.
No fireworks.
No declarations of permanent abstinence.
Just this—
I will plant again.
Even if my hands are shaking.
Even if the soil is dry.
Even if all I’ve got left is the memory
of who I was when I believed I could grow.
God doesn’t measure what I build.
He measures what I bury.
And He meets me in the soil,
not the sky.
So here it is, Lord.
Just a seed.
Do what You do.
Grow it.
If this is you too…
Don’t wait until you feel strong to start again.
Start small. Start messy. Start scared.
Just start.
God’s not asking for mountains today.
He’s asking for a seed.