Gone are the wee morning hour walks with Father and son under the stars as the cows are gathered for milking
How the farmer grieves.
How he longs for those quiet mornings spent with his son.
Fencing projects left unfinished. . .a constant reminder of what has been lost.
The mountain meadow longs for the attention of that young boy.
The dreams of a log cabin and of family.
Now all ceased.
And is this not how our heavenly father waits in earnest for us to repent and to come to him?
Does he not long to hear us call out our need for him?
As the sod of this farm cries out for it’s boy;
So does our heavenly father long for all to come to him. To lay down their burdens and be filled.
We love because he first loved us.