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Every Season has a Meaning…

He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it.”-Matt 10:39

The mountains are shrouded by a thick blanket of clouds today. Grandfather remains hidden like an ancient being wrapped up in his winter blankets; protected from all harm, safe but unseen. Water drips from the leaves as the river now runs with fully bodied spirit over the rapids that just a few weeks ago barely made a trickling sound.

Shards of dark earth lie in rows of the fields of upturned soil. The gentle rain flows deep into the crevices, soothing the parched earth that seldom finds the touch of rain. All around us somber earth tones match the mood of the sky above; winter is now upon us in full season.

sod

In my mind’s eye, I’m standing down the hill from the old farmhouse, looking back up the hill from whence I came. Images that were never apparent until now suddenly reveal themselves. Unlike the front of the home, from behind we can see all of the genuineness of the life of those who live within; the clothesline where the wash will be hung, the burning barrel where the trash will be burnt, and finally the back porch where everything from the deep freezer to the canning table sits, awaiting the next growing season. Here, the real work of life goes on, out of sight. Like the soil, until the blade of the bottom plow chisels into the

The Old Farmhouse outside New Harmony, Indiana, 1965.

The Old Farmhouse outside New Harmony, Indiana, 1965.

earth, causing an upheaval of sediment, the true work of the earth cannot be seen. The dirt folds over like the corners of the grandma’s quilt on the bed, rolling up the root-side of the dirt, exposing it to the elements. Meanwhile, the sod below begins to decay adding nutrients and building more compost for the future.

One layer must die so that the other may live.

We too are like these things, the soil and the farmhouse. What truly makes us who we are is what we are within; the part of us that cannot be seen from the outside. To reveal ourselves is to have the bottom plow cut us deep within and fold over our barriers we have created. Many fear revealing their true nature and only do so in short burst of often uncomfortable circumstances that they wish they could have prevented. Sin makes this possible, and since we are all sinners, each of us has this inner being with which we battle daily.  In essence, we are comprised of a triune being; body, soul, and spirit. (1Thess.5:23) The world and Satan try to affect us from the outside in, while God works on us from the inside out. He infuses us through our spirit. From the inside out we are changed when we truly accept Jesus Christ into our lives. Like the back of the farm house where the real work takes place, out of sight, inside us is where the actual work has to start. We have to choose to allow the Holy Spirit to come into our lives, so that from within, we will be filled with a new light, which then will begin to permeate into our soul, and eventually our body. The longer we walk with Christ, the more our whole being changes; our tastes, our likes, and how we physically seek pleasures in this world, knowing what is to come is even greater. One is never finished in this manner, as we are always a work in progress.

Like the soil, we must die to our former selves in order to live for Him. “He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it.”-Matt 10:39 We cannot have the sinful pleasures of this world and still try to obtain sanctification. One cannot stand with one foot in sin and one in Christ. He is a jealous God and wants us all or nothing. So, we continually battle an enemy that never stops trying to make us fall. Hopefully, in time or by chance someone shares the opportunity to find and accept Christ into your life, it is then that you will come into the season of change.

For every season there is meaning and purpose.

The prayers we lifted for the life-giving rain have been answered. The fires are all out, and once more the forest begins to heal. Like the sod that has been turned for preparation for the next year’s growing season, we too have to decide in that season when to begin the life we lead.

Are you ready to get to work?

Eternity awaits your decision.

Thanks be to God.

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Feet Bound By Leather Souls…

The image of hundreds of feet, dressed in fancy footwear, walking in some marbled concourse flashed upon the television screen the other day. Possibly the scene from some commercial, I’m not sure because I didn’t have the sound turned on; I rarely watch T.V. But in that brief instant, for some reason, the thought of how perhaps some of those feet, if not most, might not have ever known the touch of bare skin to soil. Some may have never known the fresh earthly embrace of the coolness when bare feet are allowed to explore the world around them. “Could it be possible?” I thought to myself. Then the verse below came to mind;

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

The whirlwind of life sometimes seems to put you on your heels, trying all the while to maintain your balance. When these times become too hectic, one place I find comfort is outside, on the farm. It seems whether it’s working with the cattle or in the garden, there’s an earthly grounding solace to it all. The smell of new turned soil, the feel of dirt under your nails all lend to a particular satisfaction of oneself you come to realize out here; working the land.

Recently, it was a long time overdue, I had to plow under the summer garden, or rather what was left that the weeds had not claimed as their own conquest. Knowing my neglect of visitation had led to this jungle of overgrowth, I gladly hooked the single blade plow up to my tractor to turn it all asunder. However, before I could begin I had to inspect the one recognizable item still growing therein; there was one beautiful cucumber vine that had volunteered itself to grow amongst the angry vegetation. It provided two of the sweetest little cucumbers which were quite rewarding since there had been none since the last vestiges of the spring garden had given up their sumptuous fruit. However, the vine being where it lay, in the dead center middle of the plot, I had no choice but to plow it along with the serpentine pestilence of weeds that surrounded it; another case of all or nothing in a world where singularity of beauty is often forsaken in order to succumb to the needs of the masses.

Once the soil was turned multiple times, the land was a dark, rich earthly aroma laying in rolled rows of earthen loaves. Then, with the disc attached to the tractor, we folded the land again, disking it into finer particles of dirt until it was a smooth precious tender bed ready for seed in which to impart. The growing storm clouds on the southwestern horizon made the project all the more satisfying, knowing the newly sewn seeds would be watered by the master’s hand. All that was left to do was to wait, for the new garden was all but done. One last item was needed, and that the good Lord would provide.

The gentle sound of rain on the rooftop later that evening provided a comforting knowledge of a job well done. Timing is everything in farming and when it all comes together, there is no better feeling. As I scraped vestiges of soil from underneath my grateful fingernails. The smell of earth was still with me…washed down the sink, but forever in mind and spirit.

Then returned the thought of all those dress shoes walking hurriedly to some destination…

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

Then again, it’s likely they never had the chance to even put their hands into that same sod, working the land with bare hands. Earthen soil pushed tightly under the fingernail, some easily knocked free with thumb or forefinger, other requiring the sharp edge of blade to remove. No matter the effort, there still remains a dark reminder of the hand that tills the soil, toils the land and reaps the harvest. No man knoweth like anything more than through what he has struggled or toiled, sweat laden brow, stinging eyes, weary aching backs that seem to lock in place only never to be bent back into their original youthful form. These toilsome folk only know the pain of unending labor to never sit at the master’s table until the very end. While the ones wearing the thick soles, who upon humble earth trod, insulated, cushioned from the realities of the torment by which they so freely live each day, take for granted so much. No thought, no pause given to the flick of the switch, a simple phone call, ordered food prepared by another unknown, then on to pursue frolicking enjoyment with mostly little or no care as to the wake they leave in their path. Then comes Monday morning when it’s back to the cubicled-office they return…wearing the patent leather loafers of life.

Perhaps one day, they too will find the satisfaction of a good days work in the soil upon which they trod, before it’s too late…in this we can only hope…

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