He’s been out there for hours, stopping only to hover over a plate of dinner, dirty wrists and elbows dodging contact with the table cloth. It’s eight o’clock and still 100 degrees on the dark side of the door. Just beyond it, the glow of a headlamp flickers as it oscillates behind the Toyon leaves, back and forth it moves following the work of hands inherited from Papa.
The heat is no matter, the darkness of little concern. The job must be done - not to fulfill a contract or line a pocket, not because he was told to do it or because of a pending “atta’ boy”…it must be done because they must live - no, not just live - thrive. They must eat, grow, produce, reproduce. Yesterday under his feet, today his husbandry. Their domestication now his duty. His input begets life, neglect-death.
And so he works. He searches for guidance, finds what makes sense for his circumstances, plans, and executes. He doesn’t need much, most provisions supplied by the woods’ open hand and his father’s tool bench. Design, trial, failure. Sweat. Revision, trial, progress.
Carbon, mineral, soil, carbon, nitrogen, soil, carbon, water. This layer hauled in a bucket up from the canyon, that layer from the creek bed, this layer dug from turkey pasture, that layer from the table.
His fields are turned and rotated, ventilated and cooled by dirt-stained hand. He visits them, watches them, counts them, cultivates them. His stock is humble, his harvests hidden. But his hopes are high, his brown eyes twinkling brighter under a dusty brow, and visions of what could be in time fuel him to press on day after blistering day.
He’s a husbandman.
He’s a farmer.
And by the abounding grace of God…
He’s my boy.
A few days shy of teenage, his own farming enterprise has come into being - born of a healthy dose of rural boredom, the enthusiasm of the boy he is, and the work ethic of the man he’ll be. Despite natural abilities in other capacities, his unquenchable zeal for testing the appetites of wild fish - particularly at the end of a wet line - rendered growing an endless supply of bait the obvious progression of events, at least in his assessment.
It took but hours for that once-narrow conception to swing wide the door of his imagination to the potential at hand. From supplying anglers with giant nightcrawlers to furnishing gardeners with soil amendment gold, calculations are already being made, designs being drawn, marketing strategies devised, and packaging being penciled out in his head.
I am daily educated in the ways of the earthworm, as brown-rimmed fingertips highlight their peculiar anatomy and instruct me regarding their habits. His fascination is genuine and infectious. No probing is necessary, the facts are always on the tip of his tongue and ready to indoctrinate a willing listener.
He’s made their biology and physiology a matter of independent study, accurately determining that he must master both if he is to steward his charges to their maximum potential, where they will express their ultimate wormness.
My heart swells as I watch this undertaking unfold, his faithfulness to the endeavor is tangible. What mother wouldn’t want such natural wonder and industry for her child? It blesses this mama heart.
But, I do worry of the risk of this narrative coming across as an elongated social media post, boasting of the accomplishments of my progeny as a backdoor to a pat on the back of my motherhood. If you really know me, you know it is quite the opposite.
If you know me, you understand that motherhood is not a vocation I came by intentionally (at first), and not one that I have natural gifts to execute in any fruitful way. I can only show you all this with one hand and use the other to point to heaven, and exclaim, “Look! Look, what He’s done! I mean…wow! It’s amazing, right?!” What is written here is by way of observation, not administration. God did this.
In his infinite wisdom, the Lord uses tangible means to implement His will. And He has provided this farm, these woods, life in His creation, as a generous means to help me parent. Their wisdom and ability are only exceeded by my gratitude. They’ve taught my children more, and provided more opportunities for learning and growth, than I ever could have contrived without them.
And that may indeed be one of the most enduring harvests these fifty acres ever produce.
Happy birthday, my boy. It’s a privilege to be your mama. You are a gift.
Sending birthday wishes to one of our favorite young men.