Planting in All the Wrong Places

Based on Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7, God tells the exiles to build homes and seek the welfare of Babylon.

Gideon Ash stepped off the bus onto the cracked footpath of the town’s main street and immediately noticed the way the morning sunlight hit the faded paint of the community centre. The building leaned ever so slightly to one side, enough to suggest it had been there longer than anyone could quite remember. Gideon adjusted the strap of his satchel and walked toward the NGO office, a small brick building tucked between a chemist and a café that promised “the best pies this side of the highway.” No one would ever ask for directions to it, and he suspected that was part of the charm.

Inside, the staff were gathered around a circular table that had seen better days, but everyone wore smiles broad enough to make up for the wobbling legs. A young woman with sharp eyes and hair tied back in a practical bun stepped forward. “Welcome, Mr. Ash. We’re excited you are here. Things run at their own pace around here, but we manage.”

Gideon inclined his head slightly. “Ah, yes. There’s a certain rhythm to a place that values its own timing. I look forward to discovering it.” The words hung long enough for a faint smile to twitch across her face, unsure whether to feel flattered or slightly embarrassed.

“Please, call me Sarah,” she said. “I hope you’re ready for a day of introductions.”

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Planting in All the Wrong Places

Based on Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7, God tells the exiles to build homes and seek the welfare of Babylon.

Gideon Ash stepped off the bus onto the cracked footpath of the town’s main street and immediately noticed the way the morning sunlight hit the faded paint of the community centre. The building leaned ever so slightly to one side, enough to suggest it had been there longer than anyone could quite remember. Gideon adjusted the strap of his satchel and walked toward the NGO office, a small brick building tucked between a chemist and a café that promised “the best pies this side of the highway.” No one would ever ask for directions to it, and he suspected that was part of the charm.

Inside, the staff were gathered around a circular table that had seen better days, but everyone wore smiles broad enough to make up for the wobbling legs. A young woman with sharp eyes and hair tied back in a practical bun stepped forward. “Welcome, Mr. Ash. We’re excited you are here. Things run at their own pace around here, but we manage.”

Gideon inclined his head slightly. “Ah, yes. There’s a certain rhythm to a place that values its own timing. I look forward to discovering it.” The words hung long enough for a faint smile to twitch across her face, unsure whether to feel flattered or slightly embarrassed.

“Please, call me Sarah,” she said. “I hope you’re ready for a day of introductions.”

“Always,” Gideon replied, and as he followed her down a narrow corridor lined with framed posters of smiling men holding cups of tea, he allowed himself a small inward sigh. Yes, every town has its rhythm. Some are a little more interpretive than others.

The volunteer coordinator, a man with a kindly face that seemed permanently surprised, held out a hand. “Gideon, it’s an honour. You’ll find our schedules a bit… flexible, but everyone’s committed.”

“Flexible schedules have their virtues,” Gideon said. “They allow the mind to explore possibilities that a rigid timetable might otherwise overlook.” He paused just long enough for the man to nod eagerly. “I look forward to observing all the explorations firsthand.”

By mid-morning, Gideon had noticed the small gaps in workflow: paper stacked at odd angles, a phone that rang without being answered, a whiteboard listing programs with passed dates. He said nothing, letting the reader detect the inefficiencies without remarking on them aloud.

Later, a young employee caught up to him. “I’ve heard about your work before. You’ve managed some pretty complex operations?”

Gideon allowed a faint smile. “A few. But let’s see how this town introduces me to complexity. I suspect the lessons here will be… memorable.”

The young man nodded. “I’m Liam. We handle a lot of outreach, but there’s always room for guidance. Your perspective will be… interesting.”

“Interesting is a good start,” Gideon said, his words layered. To the casual ear, encouragement; to anyone paying attention, a subtle critique.

The afternoon passed with polite chatter and meetings. Gideon observed, assessed, and moved quietly, offering suggestions in conversation that sounded complimentary but carried subtext. He admired the volunteers’ dedication while noting the gaps, all without seeming critical. By the time he left the office, the sun was low, casting a gold light across rooftops, and Gideon walked back toward the bus stop, thinking about the challenges and potentials of this small town.

It was not until the following week that the crisis arrived. A bushfire, driven by dry winds and a week of heat, crept dangerously close to the outskirts. Volunteers rushed to prepare evacuation lists and supply caches, and the town’s limitations became apparent: communication lines were thin, emergency shelters under-equipped, and coordination uncertain.

Liam approached Gideon, eyes wide. “Sir, I… I know you’re new here, but we could really use your help coordinating the response. I’ve heard a little about your work elsewhere. You’ve managed complex situations like this, haven’t you?”

Gideon’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in arrogance but in calculation. “I’ve been fortunate enough to have a few experiences,” he said evenly. “Let’s see what this town needs, and we’ll adapt.”

Within minutes, Gideon was directing staff, volunteers, and local officials with calm precision. He issued instructions that sounded conversational but carried strategic weight: “Perhaps we can ensure the shelters are ready while maintaining the sense of community everyone values so highly. Comfort and order need not be mutually exclusive.”

He spoke to the council, to volunteers, to families. Every word was carefully chosen, conveying reassurance to those in panic while subtly nudging them toward effective action. The bushfire crept closer, smoke curling above the trees, and Gideon’s quiet, ironic commentary often lightened tense moments. “One could admire the efficiency of fire, if only it were a little less enthusiastic,” he said to a group of volunteers, and they laughed, nerves easing just enough to focus.

By nightfall, the fire had been contained at the town’s edges. No lives lost, only property threatened, and the volunteers had worked far more effectively than anyone would have expected when panic first hit. The town’s residents looked at Gideon differently now, respect mingled with relief, though he remained outwardly wry, observing them as much as leading them.

As the smoke cleared, Gideon returned to the NGO office, where Sarah handed him a cup of tea. “I don’t know how you did it. The fire… You kept everyone calm and organised. We owe you a lot.”

Gideon sipped slowly, eyes distant, voice dry but gentle. “I suspect you all would have managed splendidly in time. It was merely a matter of aligning energies. Everyone does better when they realise the stakes and the opportunity.”

Sarah tilted her head, uncertain whether to feel chastised or encouraged. “I suppose… yes.”

Gideon allowed himself a small, private smile. The town had exposed its weaknesses, yes, but in doing so, it had revealed its strengths. And he, despite himself, had become part of it.

In the following days, the town began to rebuild, and Gideon continued his work, moving among staff and locals with the same quiet wit, subtle insight, and layered commentary. He never lost the irony in his observations. He noticed the long queues, the improvisations, the missed connections, but all of it became part of the rhythm he had come to understand, part of the soil in which he had, surprisingly, taken root.

Walking home one evening, the sun low and golden, he paused by the community centre and watched men passing basketballs with laughter spilling across the car park. He allowed himself a private thought, one not for the staff or the council or the volunteers: Not the soil I would have chosen. Perhaps not ideal. But enough to bloom.

And with that, Gideon Ash, quietly wry, sharply intelligent, and unexpectedly planted, stepped forward, ready to continue.