I didn’t understand it, this love that farmers have for their work. The way they pour their hearts and souls into it. Why they would put in the hours, sweat, and heartbreak, just to have another crop succumb to drought or hail. It made no sense. This passion I witnessed seemed almost foolish.
Then I married a farmer, and he took my hand and brought me along on this journey of stewardship of God’s land and animals. Of being thankful for every drop of rain, being humbled after the loss of a crop, and the feeling of joy and satisfaction as you watch the hard work be augured into the bin. Gratefulness for every bushel of grain God has granted you.
What these farmers do, it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to pour so much into something with no guarantee. It doesn’t make sense to people who don’t live it. But once you’re in this life, I don’t think it could ever leave your blood.
You’ll never forget the feeling of learning to really work with your hands, the exhaustion at the end of harvest and planting, and the smell of rain on freshly turned dirt. It’s something that can’t be explained, it can only be lived.
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