Above me, the sky begins to close shut like a giant eyelid on another day. The sun droops lower, a disappearing eye. My feet are tethered to Earth — to a field. To dirt. We are one.
This side of the world is ready to drift off to sleep in darkness, but I am just beginning to awaken. At the cusp of darkness, I see Light.
This is the work of spring — the season of hope and promise in the planting of seeds.
My favorite farmer stops the tractor and leaps onto the dirt, kicking up a cloud. He adjusts his cap and shortens the distance between us with a smile and a happy wave. I sense an almost-giddy eagerness in him each spring — and in me, too. Here, in spring, we see God’s promises kept again and again.
“God’s got it.” Those are the words of my favorite farmer — in springtime and in harvest and when life gets crazy around here.
This life, it keeps us humble. At the edge of this field, I’m reminded that we can plant seeds, but God gives all things their roots.
Those roots help us make sense of things. Maybe this is Earth’s own way of saying “God’s got it?” I know this: roots hold tender shoots steady when the storms come whipping through.
Roots reminds me that we’ve got to live life like that — going deeper, To Get Down With Jesus. Because the Only Way Up is Down.
I stand in dirt, and I am dirt — dust of the Earth. I am created for purposes that are not of my own choosing.
And wasn’t it just yesterday that this man in Carhartt denim, kicking at the dirt, wore the suit jacket? His world was clean fingernails and neckties and boardrooms and briefcases.
And wasn’t it just yesterday that I wore tailored skirts and high heels to the State Capitol? My world was pantyhose and concrete and high-rises and press conferences.
His hard-cover books with gilded letters on the front covers — Civil Procedure and Property Law — are in a cardboard box in the basement. The paper-proof of his law degree is in a manila file folder. I’ve forgotten where.
And me? I don’t remember what it feels like to wear pantyhose. Do I even own a pair?
Right now, standing in this field, I am aware of dirt in my right shoe, and the faint smell of livestock, a perfume that no longer crinkles my nose.
We did not give up on our dreams. We simply traded them for dreams with roots in fertile Iowa soil.
I’m chuckling now as I write those words. I say we “traded our dreams” like we had the ultimate control of our fate. I’m beginning to think this life chose us. And I’m still unwrapping this gift.
This surprise life is still surprising me. I did not make this life, but it is making me.
Ann Voskamp invites us to write today about the Resurrection, in these weeks following Easter. This farm is where I first really believed, and now it’s where I’m living as one of the Easter people — in the humble fields.