“This time of year just makes me homesick for the harvest,” my mom confessed as we stood last month on the sidelines of a soccer field. We breathed deeply the crisp autumn air while the orange light of dusk cast shadows on the golden treetops.
While I am not a born and bred farm girl like my mom, her words resonate in my soul like an undefined ache. Homesick for the harvest. The yearning washes over me at unexpected times––when my preschooler lies to avoid a consequence, when my toddler bites to get her way, when my pre–teen accuses me of being unjust, when my ten–year-old claims I don't understand her, when my six–year–old cries because her heart just hurts--then my soul moans, I am homesick for the harvest.
When I hear the nightly news report– another child battered by abuse, another woman sold into slavery, another teenager ravished by the world’s false promises, another baby slain by a “woman’s right” – I am homesick for the harvest.
As a mom, I spend most of my days planting...“Say please and thank you.”
“Be nice to your sister.”
“Let’s see what God’s Word says about that.”
“I know this math homework is hard, but it’s important to finish what you’ve begun.”
“Did you ask your brother why he’s crying?”
“I love you.”
“I know it was a little lie, but truth is a big matter.”
“God’s got great plans for you.”
“Fair doesn’t mean I should treat you all the same.”
“I love you, too.”
“No, you may not have that candy bar before supper.”
“Great job!”
“Do you know what I prayed for you today?”
“Take three more bites. Children are starving in Africa!”
"I don't know why. That's just how God made it."
"Did you make your bed?"
"Shut the door! We don't live in a barn."
"Yes, baby Jesus DID live in a barn, but that was just for a few days..."
"Do you see this mess?"
"I saw what you did to your sister!"
“Yes, I do see a dragon in the clouds."
“Do you see Jesus in me?”I know that one day my season will change. I will trade diaper boxes for moving boxes, preschool parties for graduation parties. But for now, I live in a perpetual springtime, my hands buried in the dirt of diapers and discipline, playtime and prayer time. And day after day, I plant. Seeds of truth, saplings of good intentions, kernels of hope– I slip them all into the soil of my children’s lives and beg the God of the harvest to take the thorny offerings of this imperfect plow woman and grow something of beauty in its place.
I water the seeds with prayer. Worry that I should pray more. I tend them with tears. Saturate them with scripture. Wonder if another woman could do better. Long for a guarantee that my saplings will flourish. I wish I could predict the rains and the sun, the drought and disease. But the Lord of the Harvest whispers in the springtime breeze, “Plant.”
So commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these words of mine… Teach them to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so that as long as the sky remains above the early, you and your children may flourish… ( Dt 11:13–21)
Now and then I spy a sprout, a little stem of hope that suggests my efforts are not in vain. My six–year–old stops her playing to kiss her brother’s scraped knee. My pre–teen throws his arm around my waist and offers an unexpected hug. My toddler says, “I’m sorry,” without prompting. These are signs of summer, revitalizing fuel for a tired planter. Each splash of green reminds me that my season will change, that the Giver of Life is still at work. I thank the Son for shining on the seeds I plant. I thank the Father for growing what I cannot grow. And I pray for harvest. In God’s time. In God’s way. By God’s grace.
