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If life is like a farm, we each have several fields we are given to tend. Some are fresh and fertile. Others are rocky and have poor soil. What we produce depends in large part on what efforts we make. Yes, the weather is a factor, but the prudent farmer rotates crops and furrows in ways to avoid erosion, conserve nutrients, and recycle limited resources. God observes and notices the large and little things, such as that corner of the back 40 where the farmer nurtured Black-eyed Susans just for the simple pleasure of seeing the beautiful yellow pedals adorning the black-centered flower that contrasted sublimely against the deep green of the grassy field, and the patch along the fenceline bordering the old lane that he kept clear of weeds, except, oddly it seemed, for the thorny thistle plants, a noxious weed if ever there was one. But he was reminded of Emerson's comment, that, "a weed is a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered." The farmer knew that thistle seeds would attract darting, beautiful golden finches each summer that would build nests and linger long and late on summer evenings, returning year after year, though none but the farmer and the Observer above might've noticed. Good company, the farmer thought. The farmer was embarrassed by the field to the southeast, behind the barn, because it had been sorely neglected. There was a steep hillside that separated the barn from that field, and the walk to and fro, he muttered to himself in moments of quiet reflection, was 'more trouble than it was worth,' despite the fact that his son lived on the far side of that field and quietly wished that his father had shown more interest, as it gave them a connection that was needed to repair a neglected relationship. One day in mid-November, the farmer put on his rain slicker and braved a thunderstorm to survey the field. He waded the wet-weather creek that was almost a foot deep with rushing runoff. His Labrador companion, Sam, loved the outing and was loudly barking to announce the master's venture. The sound of the barking carried over the field, above the crashing of the lightning and rumble of the thunder. The heavy rainfall masked the unexpected tears that began to fall from the farmer's eyes, which increased when he saw his son rushing forward from his modest farmhouse in the copse of trees at the far side of the field, pushing his arms into a yellow slicker as he walked, while the son’s dog, Elijah, an Australian Shepherd, was barking wildly, too, overwhelmed with excitement at seeing his four-legged pal for the first time in several moons. "Dad!" the son shouted, his Wellingtons splashing the puddles beneath the brown grass as he came closer, "What in the name of Heaven are you doing out in this weather? Are you okay? Is something wrong?" The farmer was embarrassed that he had not even noticed the wisps of gray hair on the temple of his son. He hadn't looked at him closely since the boy's wife had passed last Spring, taking with her a very much wanted grandson during a terribly tragic childbirth. The farmer felt old, alone, and shamed. He could not stop the tears that clouded his vision as he looked in the eyes of his son. "I'm okay and everything is wrong," he said. "How can I help, Dad?" "There nothing you can do, Son. It's something I need to do." "What is it, Dad? Please tell me so I can help? What's wrong?" "Son, it's this field that's wrong. Look at it. It’s pitiful because I’ve failed to give it the attention it deserved for too long. I hope it’s not too late." Neither man spoke as the son noticed that his father's eyes had more than raindrops in them, something he'd not ever seen. He felt his own eyes begin to water. He stepped closer to his father. They laughed as they watched the dogs running randomly and joyfully in the field, excited by the sheer joy of being in the presence of each other, oblivious to the storm. The farmer made his son a promise that afternoon, as solemn as any he had ever made. He would tend that field until it was equal to, or better than all the others. Though he was getting up in years, it was a promise that sustained him in the years ahead. It was in that field following a bountiful harvest of soybeans that the farmer stood on a late summer evening, noticing how the gold finches had edged it with thistle plants, which he asked his son not to spray with herbicide, a request that the younger man thought strange until he saw the joy in his father's eye that afternoon as the gold finches danced amidst the thistles. The son was standing there when his father told him how proud he was of him and how sorrowful the father had been for neglecting to tell him sooner. The son put his arm on his father's shoulder and told him that he already knew it. "You told me that, Dad, when you crossed the creek in that thunderstorm a few years ago. And you've showed it to me all your life, especially after Mom passed." "But, but," the farmer stammered, "I never said it." "You didn't need to say anything, Dad. You showed me. And, as long as the gold finches play in the thistle, I'll never forget." They stood there quietly, watching the birds. Old Sam, the Lab, laid down and had trouble rising when the farmer stirred. He was getting up in years for a dog. The son's dog had died the previous year. "Best be getting Sam back to the house," he said, "he's not getting around too well, now. Not been the same since Elijah passed. Sort of like me. Enjoys nothing more than a walk in the field and the sound of the birds on a sunny afternoon." The son knew his father had just told him that he loved him. As the older man began to walk away, the son said, "I love you, too, Dad." He knew his father's hearing was fading and it was unlikely that he had heard what the son had said. It didn't matter, the son thought. He was glad he had said that, and watched as his father and the old Labrador ambled slowly back up the incline towards the barn. The sight saddened the son, realizing that life was passing, but he was comforted watching the fading sunlight bounce from the feathers of the playful gold finches. |
