He wakes up with the dawning of the sun; light streams through the windows and casts a shadow over his broad shoulders and rugged stance. He loves the early mornings. He says the endless sunrises bring him hope with each new day. He brews his coffee strong, fills his thermos and is out the door, but not without two last minute snuggles by the back door from his sleepy-eyed little girls. He pulls me close, kisses my face and brushes my cheek with his hand. His hands are rough and calloused, they tell of years of long, hot days and hours of his heart and soul poured into his tasks. There is gentleness in the roughness. It’s the thing that draws me to him the most. He loves my fragile heart so well.
Out the door and into his truck, he stops to scratch behind the ears of his best girl. And out to the fields he goes. Mending fence, laying pipe, planting fields and hauling grain; everyday is something different, but it’s so very much the same. Passion flows from the depths of his soul. When there’s a job to be done, it’s done with everything in him and with determination. There is no stone left unturned, no detail overlooked. He takes pride in his work because he respects it so much. There is nothing he loves more.
He stands in the middle of a field, sweat pouring from his brow. The sun is setting. He lifts his cap, wipes away the effort from the day and heads home. I hear the crunch of the gravel beneath the tires of his truck. He’s almost home. He walks through the door, drops his bags to the floor and we embrace. He holds me with those calloused hands. There is nothing more comforting than standing in the arms of my love; in the arms of my Nebraska farmer.