“What a Dried-Up Sorghum field Taught Me About Faith, Burnout, and Starting Over”

There’s a sorghum field near my home that’s planted every summer—but it’s never harvested. It withers by midsummer, a field full of dry, brittle stalks that were never meant to feed anyone. And I can’t help but wonder… how often do we do the same?

Every summer, not far from where I live, a huge sorghum field is planted.

It stretches for acres—row after perfect row—standing tall and full of promise. But year after year, by late July, the leaves curl, the stalks crisp, and the corn begins to dry out. The rains don’t come. The ground cracks beneath it. And what was once a field full of potential turns brittle, lifeless.

And here’s the strange part: it happens every single year.

EVERY YEAR.

The sorghum isn’t planted for food, or for joy, or for harvest. It’s planted for a tax break. No one cares if it grows. No one’s checking healthy roots. It just has to exist. Be seen. That’s all. And when it dries out? It gets cut down. Tossed aside. Forgotten until the next season when it starts all over again.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived seasons like that.

Doing the same things. Showing up, looking the part, going through the motions.

All for one reason—habit, obligation, survival, control.

But deep down, I knew the truth: I wasn’t sowing for the kind of harvest I actually wanted. I wasn’t planting with life in mind. And when drought came—and it always does—I couldn’t keep it alive.

Maybe you’ve felt it, too. You started with hopeful intention. But somewhere along the way, the why got lost. Maybe the seed was good—but the season was too dry. Or the field you planted was too big, too scattered, too ambitious to keep watered in the hard months. And you burned out before anything could grow.

Here’s what I’ve learned: drought reveals what we were really planting for.

If we’re sowing for recognition, we’ll wither without applause.
If we’re sowing for perfection, we’ll crumble when flaws appear.
If we’re sowing for control, we’ll panic when life turns wild and unpredictable.

But—if we sow in faith, if we plant with purpose, if we prepare for the drought, we can survive it.

We can thrive in it.

The key isn’t to avoid the dry seasons. It’s to water anyway.
It’s to know ahead of time that the sun will scorch, the winds will blow—and still choose to care for what matters. Still choose to plant a field that’s meant for more than just being seen.

So friend, if you’ve been sowing in a field that no longer brings life—maybe it’s time to plant something new.
Smaller, perhaps. But intentional.
Not a field that impresses… a field that feeds.
Not a crop for optics… a crop for harvest.

And if you’ve over-seeded, trying to do too much, don’t be afraid to scale back. You don’t have to keep it all alive. You’re not called to do everything. You’re called to be faithful with something.

Here’s the promise:
Those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy.
(Psalm 126:5)

So don’t give up. Even if the field looks dry.
Water anyway.
Tend to what matters.
Plant for the harvest you hope for—not just the one you think you need to survive.

Because when the rain comes—and it will come—your faithfulness will bloom in ways you couldn’t imagine.

Want to read more?

When The Path Becomes Hard To See