There was once a great tree that stood alone in a field. It stretched toward the sky, its branches heavy with sweet fruit. Within the tree lived a family who had dwelt there for generations. The tree fed them, sheltered them, and kept them warm in a cold world.

For as long as their history reached, this family journeyed out into the world to observe life and bring back stories. Some even returned with gifts from distant lands.

One day an adventurer returned with news of a faraway place where families lived not in one shared structure, but in many small ones—each with space of their own.
“Well, the family has grown,” the father said. “Perhaps we should make use of the land around us.”
So they cut down a branch from the tree and built smaller homes.

As they expanded, they built farther and farther from the tree, for its great roots made it impossible to lay foundations too close.

Another traveler eventually returned, carrying exotic vegetables and fragrant herbs. He showed how these new treasures could expand their meals.
“These taste incredible…but how will we get more?” the father asked.
The traveler presented foreign soil and seeds. Knowing what needed to be done, the family cut another branch and built gardens. The foods grew, and they rejoiced.

Then came a third traveler with stories of war in a distant land. He described an enemy invasion and the weapons used to fight them off.
The father grew afraid. “What if someone came to harm us?”
Driven by fear, the family cut down branch after branch until the tree stood barren. With the wood they built high walls and stockpiled weapons, preparing for a threat that had never arrived.

Years passed. The family forgot the tree that once sustained them.
Still barren, it remained standing—silent, unmoving.

Then a great storm came.
The homes were too weak and collapsed.
The foreign crops withered, unable to survive the climate.
The walls, built to protect them, caved inward and crushed many.
The weapons they forged could not defend them from the wind.

When the storm ended, the survivors cursed the land. They looked at the lifeless tree, saw no value in it, and moved far away. And once again, the tree stood alone in the field.

Years later, an old traveler returned—one who had delayed coming home because he had nothing new to show. But when he arrived, all he found was the tree.

He took refuge within it, gathering scraps left scattered on the ground and rebuilding a home inside its hollow.
In time, the tree began to grow new branches. It bore fruit again.
The traveler felt at home.
The tree was grand once more.

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Last week we touched on the difference between being a consumer and being a creator. Today we dive deeper.

It is in human nature to create. It is also in our nature to want more. Neither force is wrong—they are simply part of our design. But the distinction matters because we are always choosing one or the other, consciously or not. Life is movement, and every choice sets another in motion.

The Preacher reminds us in Ecclesiastes that all things under the sun fade—that our greatest works will eventually be forgotten. Yet even in their impermanence, the actions of creation and consumption shape the experience we call life.

Consumption is a cycle without end, driven by desire without gratitude.
Wanting more is not the issue.
It is the lack of gratitude that corrupts us.

When caught in consumption, we mistake abundance for lack. We believe ourselves empty even when our hands are full. We cling to fears that were never ours, and those fears drive us to consume even more.

Eventually, we exhaust our own resources. Then we exhaust the people around us. Consumption does not care what it takes—only that it continues. And the more it is fed, the more it grows.
Life becomes external.
We stop thinking clearly.
And the only way out is to look inward.

Creation is the opposite movement.
When we shift our energy toward creation, fear transforms into possibility.
From the outside, it may appear as appetite or ambition—but inside, the spirit becomes full. The fruits of our labor become secondary. Often we forget we’re even creating at all.

Creation generates more creation.
A small act of kindness becomes a harvest of unexpected outcomes.
Yet even then, we are not meant to cling to the achievement. It is still only a moment—one meant to be enjoyed and then released. What matters is the joy of building, not the permanence of what was built.

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As you enter the week, hold these questions close:

Where have you been creating?
Where have you been consuming?

Next, we will explore how to recognize the signs of unhealthy consumption.
For now, look closely at your actions in this moment and ask:

“Does this promote growth, or is this just a means to an end?”

There is no end.
Only the gift of this moment and what you choose to build within it.

Which side will you choose today?