The Farmer and His Field

      Every summer morning that I spent at my grandparents’ home was marked by a common scenario.  I would sneak into my grandparents’ family room and sit on the couch right across from their Goliath of a television set, and wait.  I waited for one thing in particular, my grandmother’s entrance into the kitchen.  This always meant two things.  First, she would always ask what I wanted for breakfast and secondly, that was the understood signal that yes, I could turn the television on.  Sometimes however, if I had awoken too early, I would go to my grandmother’s pantry, open the door, and just take in the aroma.  Still to this day, there is nothing like the smell of Golden Grahams and Bran Flakes, heaven. 

My grandmother reading to one of the twins. 

As I would await my grandmother’s entrance, I always seemed to forget that I often encountered someone else on those mornings.  I would hear a slight foot fall in the foyer and then hear the coat closet door open.  After taking down his choice of hat for the day, my grandfather would come around the corner.  With a look of surprise on his face he would ask, “Katie, is that you?”  

“Yes, Pop Pop.”  

“Now, what are you doing up so early, Katie?”  And he would have a smile from ear to ear.  No matter where he was headed, he would stop and chat with me before heading out the door.  Sometimes he would head to the garden, sometimes the church, and sometimes out on an errand.  Then a few hours later, I would see him come back into the kitchen long after we had had our breakfast of waffles or pancakes or cereal.  This was my cue to pull up a chair to the little table at the end of the galley kitchen.  I loved to sit across from my Pop Pop, just to watch him eat.  A bowl of fresh cantaloupe, a piece of toast he would care fully spread with apple butter, and a jelly jar of milk or juice was a standby for him.  He would just let me sit there and stare at him.  And to me it was one of the most beautiful conversations I ever had as a child.  

          I also noticed that if I had done something I shouldn’t have, I would feel guilt about it at those moments.  Not because my grandfather would ever scold me, but because he lived such a pure life.  I knew he wasted nothing, not his time nor his resources nor his words.  I wanted to be like him in that way.  And so, if I had wasted anything, I had a tinge of guilt.  I would purpose to get up early like him and be productive and not wasteful.  After my grandfather had had his breakfast he would be on his way, on to the next thing in his day.  And I would be onto mine.  

My grandfather passing on the game of chess. 

I always knew the times and places I would see my grandfather.  He was always there and he never hurried away.  He was constant in his work and faithful with his time.  Any time I would talk with him he always listened.  He would nod his head and have a twinkle in his eye and say, “Well now, Katie…”  And I loved him, because he was just like a farmer should be.  And so, that is what I always thought him to be. 

          He had left his Kentucky boyhood farm for Washington D.C. to care and shepherd a family.  And by the time I came along, he was only a few years from retirement.  I don’t remember him as a working man, but as a dutiful man who watched over his household.  He would tell me about his fruit trees and his bean plants and his cantaloupes.  And to me, his big garden and little orchard was a full fledged farm!  But, he cared for me and my grandmother and my mother and everyone else in my family in the most important ways he could have.  He lived what he believed with pure faith.  He prayed like no one I have ever heard.  He sounded like a pilgrim to me, addressing his Lord and Master with thees and thous.  To eat before that prayer would have been unthinkable.  I would savor each word of his simple mealtime prayers.  

          And Sundays were like no other day of the week.  He was dressed in a tie and sitting in front of his radio by the time I was out in my Sunday dress.  He would have his Sunday School lesson in his lap as he listened to those old gospel bluegrass quartets.  I knew that when he had gotten up out of that chair that it was time to go to church. He waited for no one - we always seemed to roll in at the end of Sunday School and find him there later.  

      I imagined my grandfather on the morning of his departure from this earth as a young man walking through a field.  Eyes steadfast on what lied ahead of him, hands stretched out over fields of wheat or barley.  Eyes twinkling with the prospect of tending another living thing and to watch it grow.  I smiled through tears of joy. 

Me attempting to garden this past spring.  

      You see, my grandfather will always be a farmer, for the farmer is a watchman first and foremost.  A farmer will watch and wait and plot and plan and dream and pray over what has been entrusted to his care.  And now I understand why my grandfather always asked me what I would be growing each year.  I hated to disappoint him with my answers.  Nothing, or a few tomato plants and squash.  But, now when I hear him asking me that same question, it has a far deeper meaning.  “Well, what are you and Chris planning on growing this year?”  And I want to tell him that we will be planning a garden full of plants that need a lot of tender care.  They will need good food and water, sun and air.  They will need shelter and time.  Time and the opportunity to grow in the way they were intended to grow. 

        We want to invest in the souls that God has placed in our care and hope to raise them with just a hint of the faithful watchfulness that my grandfather had for all of us.  This year, we will look to our fields, put our hands to the plow, and like my grandfather, we hope to never look back.

~ Your Fellow Sojourner

"In the Sweet By and By"

by Sanford Fillmore Bennett

There's a land that is fairer than day,
and by faith we can see it afar;
for the Father waits over the way
to prepare us a dwelling place there.

Refrain:
In the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore;
in the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

2 We shall sing on that beautiful shore
the melodious songs of the blest,
and our spirits shall sorrow no more,
not a sigh for the blessing of rest. [Refrain]

3 To our bountiful Father above,
we will offer our tribute of praise
for the glorious gift of His love,
and the blessings that hallow our days. [Refrain]