I’m praying for friends who are getting their crops in late because the ground has been flooded, for those whose growing crops are endangered by hail and tornadoes, and for those whose crops are safe and doing well not to feel guilty if their neighbors are struggling. I’m praying for those whose farmland is still covered with water, with no end of rain in sight.
Lord, bless the farmers.
My Grandma planted parsley. She supplied all the little Armenian ladies in her circle with it for their plaki, and chee kuftah. She had a fig tree. We ate oranges and lemons from trees in our yards that were as ornamental as they were functional. We had things to eat and flowers to enjoy and it was life-giving.
There's something in my veins, but it's not easily defined. I see God grow things. I notice them planted on purpose from the Farmer and accidentally by the birds. I know that all of them are given from the Father.
I salvage plants root-bound in plastic pots and give them freedom in the earth around my home. They bless me with colors and fragrances that make me smile. It's a good arrangement, this trade off.
When I ride out past the boundaries of my neighborhood, I find this ground, acres and acres that give life to the birds that fly out from it; give bread for our table, or our neighbor's, or the farmer's. It's beautiful.
In a few days the sounds will start and the tractors will plow, the dust will stir and the crops will come in.
I don't know what this ground will give life to next. But it makes me pause, watch the breeze move the grain mimicking the wind on water, stirring the life in me today.
Thank You Lord, for the Farmers.