Today I spent a little time dividing the poppy seeds I had bought (allegedly 7000 red, 300 white) between as many tiny resealable plastic bags as I could.  In the end I managed 29 before I ran out of seed.  Which suggests something of the order of 10 white and 200 red in each little bag.  I have no way of counting - the seeds are so tiny that the red poppy ones look like specks of dust.

Scattered next spring by whoever takes them away, these tiny specks of nothingness have the potential, given the right conditions, to germinate, grow and blossom, albeit fleetingly, next summer before casting their own seeds in the hope of another flourishing.

There is something utterly ridiculous about believing something so tiny as a poppy seed, sprinkled from a small plastic bag onto a random piece of ground (or carefully into a pot) will actually survive and thrive.  But that's the nature of corn poppies, they do just that... that's why they flowered in Flanders, and that's why, red or white, they can remain a powerful symbol of hope. 

Insignifcant, unnoticed seeds, trampled underfoot, which when fully grown bring delight to children and stir memories in the minds and hearts of adults.  Not a gazillion miles removed from a story about a mustard seed after all.

I think everything is just about ready for Sunday morning now, when we will take time to remember and to reflect - and then move onwards again, working for the inbreaking Kingdom of God's Shalom.