back here

With my father-in-law chisel plowing in the field and my brother-in-law hauling the last loads of round bales, Travis needed me to help him bale the hay that had recently been cut.  I climbed on the H and, with a little instruction, pulled the wagon up to the yard.  We hooked the wagon to the baler, Travis climbed on the tractor while I jumped on the wagon, and we headed down to the hay meadow.  Since it is the end of the season and there wasn't much grass to be baled, it took a long time for the square bales to push their way into existence.  So, I sat on the wagon and reflected on the day's events in between stacking bales.

There is something so refreshing about being on the farm -- a simplicity and quietness that fields and meadows whisper.  And, there is something about good, honest, hard work that really is invigorating.  Sometimes I feel like I'm back where I started.  As a little girl I said I would never live on the farm... then I decided it wouldn't be so bad... then I moved to Boston and had little desire to go back and get my hands dirty... and then something pulled me back there.  Back where we can tomatoes and pickles and slaughter our own meat.  Back where we hang our clothes on the line.  Back where we work hard all day, laugh hard all night, and then settle down by watching the stars.  Back there.  Yes, back here to the place my city friends mocked.  Back here where English is spoken with fewer articles and longer vowels.  Back here where you really do know your neighbors, really do care about their lives and really are there to lend a helping hand when life gets difficult.  Back here where I am aware of God's presence and where I worship while I work.  Back here.

And, as I stacked those bales on the back of the wagon, I thought about my grandpa Ralph, and I thought about how proud he would be to know that I was out there doing some good, honest, hard work with my husband.  And, I paused a moment as I thanked God that in His wisdom He brought this little girl back here.