I stand at the edge of the farmfield, a yellowed and dead field waiting for a resurrection. A few amputated stalks bend with the wind, gilded hair blowing on an April morning.
I push my own hair out of my face, whipping wild as I pause on the rim of my world, atop a hill sculpted by the Father’s hand.
We are exposed, this field and I. Both of us have been emptied in our own harvests; we wait for a new planting.
A stripping-away in autumn. Hope for the reclothing in spring. With less of ourselves, we always see more of God.
“God’s got it.” Those are the words of my favorite farmer when he speaks of this holy work of dirt and seeds. Because here’s the Truth: we really never know what will happen after a new seed is planted into the floor of an earthen sanctuary. This field held corn last year. In a few weeks, we’ll plant soybeans in the same dirt. We rotate the crops, so we don’t deplete the soil of nutrients. I wonder what God will plant in you and I this spring? He is always doing a new thing — His own form of crop-rotation.
New plantings always feel risky. But we are all planting, or being planted — all of us. And we are all ordained — all of us.
You are a priest-farmer — yes, even you. You are preaching and planting something. You and I, we wear the white robe of a priest under the farm coveralls, the nurse’s scrubs, the postal uniform, the Army Kevlar. We plant in faithfulness. And the rest? Well, … “God’s got it.”
“May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us — yes, establish the work of our hands.” — Psalm 90:17
Linking up with Michelle today.