The Farmer sits high overlooking the earth below as his body bounces up and down thanks to the plowed field beneath him. He looks down at the small, brown-haired head bouncing up and down beside him. Perched on a five gallon pail, the neighbour's son sits quietly, watching the tractor, watching the sky, and watching the woods to the left. He looks up and watches the Farmer and they share a smile but neither says a word.
Farmer thinks back to when his own sons were small and would come out to the fields, dragging their own five gallon pails behind them to provide a place to sit in the tractor with Dad. Mom had sent them out, hoping for a few moments of peace. Many little heads had bobbed up and down beside him; brown heads, blond heads, and heads sporting piggy tails. The piggy tails had since changed into pony tails and braids. Has any of it made a difference? the Farmer wonders, thinking back on his life.
Farmer has rough hands, callused from working every day of his life. Even when he was sick and one of the sons could have gone out to feed the hogs Farmer went out. Those hands are also gentle from all the years he brushed his daughter's hair and held his babies and pet the dog. His left hand always bears a simple gold band, a statement of commitment to his wife and kids and God.
His ears hear the hum of the tractor and the thud of the plow behind. Those ears that suffered through years of music lessons, fire arms safety courses, quarrels, complaints, and car rides to the in-laws. Those ears that have been blessed with well-played hymns, laughter, satisfaction, and questions; questions that he always found the answer to. Questions that are still asked of him because the asker knows he has a wise answer.
His eyes follow a hawk flying overhead. He nudges the child beside him and points it out and they look on in wonder. Those eyes have always held wonder, creating in his children the joy of learning. Those eyes have seen his son graduate university, those eyes have seen his daughter run the kitchen of a children's camp, those eyes have beheld the weddings of three sons, and those eyes will soon see his first grandchild. Those eyes have held tears, held laughter, and held joy.
He nudges the child again and points to the bag at their feet. The child pulls out two cookies and hands one to Farmer. Farmer's tongue comes alive with the taste of oatmeal and cinnamon and chocolate. That tongue which spoke the Bible around the table twice a day, that tongue which offered prayers of thanks, that tongue which read bed time stories, that tongue that told jokes and laughed till he cried. That tongue which rebuked, taught, encouraged, and tasted, but most of all never went a day without saying "I love you".
Farmer has never won an election, never traveled to Europe, never spoke to thousands. But he has made a difference in seven lives. He taught his children (and many of their friends) to work, to think, to laugh, to sing, to play, to learn, to wonder, to question, to grown, to try, to pray, and to love.
The Farmer pulls the tractor to a stop at the edge of the field when he sees the child's mother wave to him from their yard. He opens the door and climbs out, then turns and picks up the child and sets him on his feet, his pail beside him. The child hugs the Farmer's legs and runs to his mother. Farmer climbs back in the tractor, waves to the nieghbours, and starts again.
Perhaps he did not make a difference in the world by being famous. But perhaps it is enough to have seven children walking with the Lord. And perhaps it is enough to have a wife that loves him. And perhaps it is enough, for today, to know the neighbour could get her baby down for a nap and tidy her home because her son was with the Farmer.
Farmer smiles. Yes, it is enough.
Farmer thinks back to when his own sons were small and would come out to the fields, dragging their own five gallon pails behind them to provide a place to sit in the tractor with Dad. Mom had sent them out, hoping for a few moments of peace. Many little heads had bobbed up and down beside him; brown heads, blond heads, and heads sporting piggy tails. The piggy tails had since changed into pony tails and braids. Has any of it made a difference? the Farmer wonders, thinking back on his life.
Farmer has rough hands, callused from working every day of his life. Even when he was sick and one of the sons could have gone out to feed the hogs Farmer went out. Those hands are also gentle from all the years he brushed his daughter's hair and held his babies and pet the dog. His left hand always bears a simple gold band, a statement of commitment to his wife and kids and God.
His ears hear the hum of the tractor and the thud of the plow behind. Those ears that suffered through years of music lessons, fire arms safety courses, quarrels, complaints, and car rides to the in-laws. Those ears that have been blessed with well-played hymns, laughter, satisfaction, and questions; questions that he always found the answer to. Questions that are still asked of him because the asker knows he has a wise answer.
His eyes follow a hawk flying overhead. He nudges the child beside him and points it out and they look on in wonder. Those eyes have always held wonder, creating in his children the joy of learning. Those eyes have seen his son graduate university, those eyes have seen his daughter run the kitchen of a children's camp, those eyes have beheld the weddings of three sons, and those eyes will soon see his first grandchild. Those eyes have held tears, held laughter, and held joy.
He nudges the child again and points to the bag at their feet. The child pulls out two cookies and hands one to Farmer. Farmer's tongue comes alive with the taste of oatmeal and cinnamon and chocolate. That tongue which spoke the Bible around the table twice a day, that tongue which offered prayers of thanks, that tongue which read bed time stories, that tongue that told jokes and laughed till he cried. That tongue which rebuked, taught, encouraged, and tasted, but most of all never went a day without saying "I love you".
Farmer has never won an election, never traveled to Europe, never spoke to thousands. But he has made a difference in seven lives. He taught his children (and many of their friends) to work, to think, to laugh, to sing, to play, to learn, to wonder, to question, to grown, to try, to pray, and to love.
The Farmer pulls the tractor to a stop at the edge of the field when he sees the child's mother wave to him from their yard. He opens the door and climbs out, then turns and picks up the child and sets him on his feet, his pail beside him. The child hugs the Farmer's legs and runs to his mother. Farmer climbs back in the tractor, waves to the nieghbours, and starts again.
Perhaps he did not make a difference in the world by being famous. But perhaps it is enough to have seven children walking with the Lord. And perhaps it is enough to have a wife that loves him. And perhaps it is enough, for today, to know the neighbour could get her baby down for a nap and tidy her home because her son was with the Farmer.
Farmer smiles. Yes, it is enough.
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