Plow

As the sun just begins to rise over the resting farmlands of the Dakota plains, my grandpa instinctively wakes at 5:15 a.m. and gets dressed and heads out the door for his morning ritual, the chores. As he first sets foot outside the door, the cold air mysteriously captures his breath and transforms it into a soft white cloud that slowly rises from his mouth with each breath. As he walks out to the timeworn barn, my grandma watches attentively from the kitchen window to make certain that my eighty-year-old grandpa successfully completes his morning trip to the barn.

As he enters the barn, a fluffy grey kitten dashes out from behind one of the doors and persistently bothers my grandpa until it receives it reward, a scratch behind its ear. My grandpa carefully picks up the small creature and carries it closely to his warm body as he steadily makes his way to the back of the barn. The smells of hay, manure and leather fill the air as he turns on the machine that fills the troughs with silage for the cows. The cattle that are sleeping in the field, hear the noise of the troughs being filled and come running gently bumping into each other with each step. When the troughs are finally full, he slowly turns off the machine and walks to the west side of the barn.

As my grandpa approaches the horse stables, the kitten becomes bored with the activities that are taking place and clumsily jumps from his grasp. Instinctively landing on its feet, the kitten scampers off to find an exciting, new adventure. My grandpa watches as a young colt and its mother stand together in the pasture. The sun rise from behind the two horses creates a perfect silhouette on the field. He takes a moment to rest and take in nature’s artwork. He then turns and struggles a bit as he picks up a fresh bale of hay for the mare and her colt. The bale crashes to the ground inside the bedded stable and the horses quickly make their way into the barn for their breakfast. My grandpa pauses and seems pleased with himself that he can still throw the bale of hay into the stable. 

On his way out of the barn he suddenly remembers that he needs to feed the many cats that make the barn their home. He carefully walks through the old broken-down machinery in front the relatively new refrigerator that stands near the east wall of the barn. The refrigerator is used primarily for medicine for the livestock, but it also stocked with milk each week for the cats. He takes a quart of Cass-Clay milk from the refrigerator and pours the milk into the metal pans that are scattered around in front of the fridge. The cats seem to come out of the walls and rush to the pans burying their faces in the cold milk. My grandpa watches them and laughs as each of them struggles to take each other’s place around the metal pans.

As the cats finish their morning meal, my grandpa leaves the barn and makes his way to the small white shed where the farm’s well is located. The blades of the windmill above the shed slowly turn making an eerie almost frightening sound. The windmill’s purpose has been replaced by a long black wire that stretches from the telephone pole to the electrical box on the outside of the shed. My grandpa is always on time to turn on the pump and fill the tank with water for the livestock at six thirty each day. He reaches over and throws the switch for the pump and the water begins to flow from the well. As the large tank outside the shed fills with water, he stands there admiring the collection of treasures located on the building’s walls. There he notices a rusty pair of scissors which he used last summer to cut the string for the baler. A large screwdriver sits on a shelf that he used over a year ago to fix the pump. There are other tools which have been replaced over the years by more effective ones, but my grandpa feels that the old tools still serve a purpose, so he never bothers to throw them away. As the water begins to flow over the edge of the tank, he stops daydreaming, reaches over to the switch and turns off the pump.

Over the many years, my grandpa has worn a path from the shed back to the house. He first passes the area of field grass that makes up the lawn. Then he crosses the gravel driveway and finally steps up onto the sidewalk that lead to the front door of the farmhouse. As he makes his way back from the shed, my grandma watches again from the kitchen window in order to have his breakfast on the table as he makes his way into the kitchen. She can hear him as he struggles up the entry steps into the kitchen. There she has waiting for him his breakfast, eggs, toast and a glass of milk. As he sits down, he pauses and reflects on the morning chores and then lowers his head and thanks God for the blessed morning.

For many of us the chores that my grandpa did each day seem unimportant, some would say mundane. But for him it was not the chores that he did that brought value to his life, but the fact that he always had something to do, a purpose. He made the choice to be a farmer; he sold his land in Palm Springs California and homesteaded in a territory known as the Red River Valley. A farmer’s life is illustrated by the many chores that need to be done daily, and seasonally. Every spring the fields need to be broken and the plow is taken from the barn and hooked to the tractor. As the earth is broken, the rocks need to be picked before the planter can be pulled behind the tractor. Throughout the summer, the farmer does his best to battle the weeds and creatures that try to kill the crop. This is all done so that in the fall, the fields can be harvested. When the fall season is over, the machines are greased and put to rest in the barn for the winter. There are seasons of drought and hard rains. Psalms 126:5 describes these as seasons of tears, “Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.” I saw this in my grandpa, his passion did not stop as my he aged, and arthritis filled his body. His walk became more difficult as he grew older. He progressed from a cane, to a walker and finally to an old golf cart that he drove out to the barn each morning. He never stopped working. My father learned this value of purpose growing up on the farm. Today my father at eighty-three years old struggles with a rare form of ALS. When I talk to him each week, the frustration is not with the disease, but the fact that he cannot get outside and do his chores. The values that were passed from my grandpa to my father were also passed on to me. There are always things that need to be done and seasons of difficulty. I recognize that my father taught me the lesson that I am going to have to plow through the difficult times in order to reap the benefits of the harvest in the fall. The beginning of a new year means that I will need to start all over again. It has been the same for thirty years. When the year ends, I will look back on the times that I struggled and grew from the challenges I faced. No one needs to tell me what needs to be done. I wake each morning with thanksgiving that there are chores for me to do. I hope that I have instilled this same value in each of my four children that my father taught me. The purpose is found in their understanding of the plow. Without it, there is no harvest.

When a farmer plows for planting, does he plow continually? Does he keep on breaking up and working the soil?25 When he has leveled the surface. Does he not plant wheat in its place, barley in its plot, and spelt in its field? 26 His God instructs him and teaches him the right way.  Isaiah 28: 24-26