I don’t run enough. With the amount of chips and salsa I eat, I should run more.
But when I do run, I take a couple rights and the little city streets open up into the big country.
Where houses are more spread out, driveways are gravel and fences aren’t wrought iron.
The sky feels a bit bigger and the volume a bit quieter.
I don’t run far, but it’s enough to see a horse or two, catch a deep breath of fresh air and then hope this farmer is working.
Most of the time he is.
I don’t know how old he is, but if I were a betting man, I’d say his mid-80’s.
His apparel is as predictable as his work ethic. Overalls over top of a plaid shirt.
I don’t know this man in particular, but if he’s like the farmers I’m fortunate to know in my family, he teaches me a great deal without saying a word.
Responsibility. Resourcefulness. Community. Work ethic. Sticktoitiveness. The list is endless.
But the one phrase I think of every time I see this man?
“Work the field, pray for rain.”
An author I like penned that sentence. It describes this man. Waking up every day, doing his work and trusting the rain will come.
It’s a powerful reminder on control.
Life is crazy. It’s hard, unpredictable. But incredibly worth it.
Often, I get caught up in wanting someone else’s land, being bored with my own, or worried the hard labor won’t produce fruit.
This farmer reminds me that I don’t have the power to make it rain.
What I do have is the ability to work the field, this little patch of life I’ve been given, then sit on the porch with a lemonade or cold beer and pray for the rain to come.
