Sometimes I wish I was a farmer. A farmer's reliance on grace, on the favor of God and the blessing of the seasons, is a given. He never has to wonder who is responsible for his provision. He doesn't say, like the Israelites did, "My power and the strength of my hand made me this wealth." He knows that some of his own effort was involved; after all, he himself planted the seed, cultivated the soil, nourished the seedlings as best he could. But he knows that one thing is utterly outside his control. No matter what he does, he cannot coax the sky to rain. The hard blue of summer can last for days, weeks: he waits. Sometimes he waits on his knees, but all he has is his waiting. There is no twice-monthly paycheck that is faithfully deposited no matter what. There is no time card, punched with long hours spent among the stalks, pleading with them to produce fruit. The fields are indifferent. So are the skies. They do not reward the farmer for his work.
When the blessing is given, it is only grace. Maybe, though, that's not a bad thing. Maybe, if God is good, then knowing that our efforts do not necessarily produce positive outcomes is good. If he is good, then even when the skies are iron and the grass dry, somehow that is good too. Can we be certain that even our hard things, our weeping, will reap joy? If God is truly good, somewhere there are spoils.
Photo by styledip
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