They said that’s all we’ll need.
Farmer Husband takes me to the field to see where they think the miracle will take place. With a little time and space.
When we laid those seeds into the ground, it was wet in the fall, and late, nearly October, winter wheat before the snow. Wheat sprouted in autumn dampness.
We saw green before the freezing, barely.
The snow came early.
I felt it in my bones before it came, chill snaking up the spine, and when it finally coiled around us in a hiss of white, I kept thinking of homeless Ken and his buddies huddled in their sleeping bags and how winter would slither up those stark Toronto streets, up a man’s back turned.
For weeks, the snow lay over the fields, lay that wheat down to dormancy. I only imagined how it covered humps under blankets around Toronto’s Nathan Philip Square.
Then, restless and wayfaring, snow moved on for a bit in February, stripping that wheat back bare. Leaving it naked to that wind howling and moaning over snow’s going.
Subfreezing temperatures, standing water, ice encasement, bitter winds, all the elements corkscrewed around our wheat. When the land finally heaved high with frost in March, the wheat writhed a death heave of its own.
Farmers call it winterkill.
I have no idea how Ken and friends fared.
“Ann?” He calls from the back door, work-wizened hand still on the doorknob. I come find him there with wind-burnt face, his coat still on.
“The neighbors have got to be laughing at me out there fertilizing that wheat. There’s whole acres out there where it’s pretty scarce. Hardly anything. A sprout here and there… and a whole lot of empty space.” He shakes his head.
“I’m wondering about just ripping it up.”
“Tonight?” I don’t want to ask how tearing up the wheat might tear up our pockets.
“I guess I should call Agricorp in the morning, and get someone out here just to make sure that’s the right decision.” He sighs deep and we’re two weak smiles made stronger by the sharing.
Come morning, after the crop inspector leaves, I’m running a stunted wheat leaf through my fingers, veined life reaching for sun, and Farmer Husband’s bending over a worn patch of earth.
“He says all we really need is one wheat shoot for every square foot. That’s it.”
“Really?” I can’t envision it. Patches of the field look rubbed raw.
“Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe when you look at it. But he said he’s seen it before like this. Just be patient and give it time and each stalk will stool out.”
I scuff the bald earth. “Each shoot will fill in with more stalks?“
“That’s what he said. It sure doesn’t look great right now.” He’s counting out how many shoots every few feet. He straightens up.
“Give it a few weeks and she’ll fill in, and he thinks we should get 80 to 90% of the yield.” Farmer Husband’s smiling, chuckling, believing the unexpected.
And I’m thinking about Ken and me and those who are cast offs. Some rough days with some kids I know. A bad life-patch that looks like it should be ripped up. People and hopes and love rubbed raw.
Maybe nothing in life is ever a write off? People. Relationships. Dreams.
What seems hopeless today may be flourishing tomorrow.
What appears barren from here may be yielding heavily up there.
What’s rubbed raw may surprisingly fill in.
Farmer Husband digs his hands deep into pockets and grins. He’s digging in for the long haul. “Looks like we won’t give up on this field just yet.”
Maybe that’s all we all need.
Just a little time and space… and faith.
To let the miracle unfold.
Lord God… this despairing stretch that doesn’t look like it can bear much good? What if I just gave You the time and space … and faith… to yield the impossible?
Photos: Farmer Husband having faith in God’s time to fill in the spaces
Related: The importance of giving our children time and space
