I lean into that farmer of mine.
The tears flow freely; the ache piercing.
Its not fair I say.
I don’t like this plan.
I want to cook for him, hear his voice, look into the deep blue eyes.
I want to know how he is doing and dance at his wedding.
I want to pick up his dirty clothes and fight with him.
Fighting with him was like sparring.
Engaging, mentally challenging and exhausting all at once.
That dear farmer of mine wraps me tight in those long arms.
He holds me while I release the pent up tears.
Tears I have tried to not shed for months now.
Feeling like I am a burden to those around me.
I tell my farmer that I know it was his time.
Nothing could have stopped his death.
It was his time.
In that soothing voice I have loved for nearly 24 years my farmer speaks wisdom into my aching soul.
He does not long for Elijah to be back.
Not for one minute.
He wouldn’t want that for his beloved son.
Elijah is experiencing the most glorious and abundant life possible.
Not for one moment does he wish him back.
I am torn between two worlds.
That farmer of mine continues to remind me of the hope that we cling to.
Later in the day I stand at his grave.
It is pouring out.
I am soaked; cold and heart broken.
There is no anecdote for these feelings.
There is nothing but the love of God that can hold all this pain.
I sit on our front porch.
My farmer is finishing up chores.
The rain has stopped.
I have changed into dry clothes.
The farm girls are gone for the weekend.
It’s quiet; so I sit.
Laundry, book work, cleaning and cooking call to me.
I don’t listen.
I listen to the drip of the rain on the tin roof.
I love the look of everything after a rain.
The sun begins to shine.
We cling to hope.
We stand firm on the Promises made throughout the generations.
I am grateful for that Farmer of mine pointing me to truth, keeping my feet on solid ground;
filling me with hope and strength.
Later, with the college girl and farm boy we visit the crash site and the grave.
Together we will continue our journey here.
We turn from the grave to walk to the car.
We’re all quiet.
Until someone complains about the mosquitoes.
We’re working through grief.
Reaching for hope and sharing that hope with all whom we encounter.
For this world is not our permanent home;
we are looking forward to a home yet to come.