The Farmer idles the tractor for a moment on the headland, grabs a bite with us, the burgers wrapped in foil, the peanut butter cookies still warm from the oven.
April blows warm and dusty, earth in the eyes.
Littlest, she crawls up for one last Daddy-hug before he heads back to the dirt and the laying down of million of seeds in their beds and through a cloud of gritty field, he waves. I wave.
And remember. Yes… Just. “Just encourage me.”
It’s late when he lies beside me, bathed clean and stretched out weary on clean sheets, the earth scrubbed off the hands that finds mine, that laces my fingers and he begins slow, a quiet prayer in the dark, giving thanks for the long lines of seeds sleeping too. “Thank you, Lord… for whatever You’ll do with what we’ve laid down.“
And there’ll be no growth without some dark clouds and rain, some drought to drive us hard to our knees, and we’ll live with our hands cupped to the heavens and we’ll take what He gives, just as He gives, for He is Father and doesn’t He only give good gifts? And all the people trembled Amen.
We fall asleep side by side, the hands still laced, The Farmer and his wife, the one word of the dirt-formed, God-breathed people on the lips, the only word that makes any sense of all this grimy, ripped open, beautiful earth… Thanks.
Under stars, seeds swell hope in the black.
Photos: planting our corn and prayers this year…
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