Fields of gold

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. (Philippians 4:4)

Thanksgiving meant more to me on the plains of Nebraska than at any other time, or so it seems as I look back. It was only for five years, but the annual cycle lived there still lives in me.

We lived and died in concert with nature. Autumn was the time of sowing wheat, hoping it would soon spring up before falling asleep under ice and snow, as bitter winds bit your cheeks and made you wonder how anything could live through winter’s blast.

As nature slept, we waited in hope for the day green shoots, still sheathed in ice, would appear alive and luminous to excite our hearts with the wonder that life didn’t die in the dead of winter.

You knew it was coming. It happened every year, but you never took it for granted. It never got old. It was an extraordinary joy. Hearts brimmed with hope at the greening of the earth, making us fresh and new as the wonder of life’s unspeakable goodness.

Anxious days were not done. Would rains come? Would insects devour? Would hail destroy the crop on the eve of harvest? Too often, it happened. And then, would the price per bushel drop? So little control over any of these things.

I suppose this is why there are few sights in nature more beautiful than waves of golden wheat flowing in the wind across broad fields as harvest draws near. Anxiety over the seed, winter, drought, insects, hailstorms and disease fades, and hearts get antsy, eager to gather it all in and run fingers through harvested grain, seeds flowing between your fingers, feeling the gift of it all and the glory of participating in the miracle of every single grain.

No one had to tell you to be thankful; you just were … for the privilege of sharing in the wonder of life and the holy goodness of seedtime and harvest.

As years pass, I have come to see that I am like the wheat, all of us are. We are seeds planted in the soil of an uncertain world where threats are as real as hope, God’s hope, that with time and care, our lives will produce a harvest as beautiful as the fields that call out to me, today.

Thank you, blessed Lord, for all they gave me.

Pr. David L. Miller