|The stack of our old International Harvester|
Neat parallel chocolate rows of dirt line the fields as if they are mapping the way for the green wheat to arrive in perfect, synchronized form. The sky is a somber grey today, and the rain is supposed to be here in a day or two. Inside, I sip my decaf coffee, and bounce my little one on my knee. The harvest will come, but there must be a planting.
When harvest comes, little one, you will be a bigger boy. We will show you trucks and tractors, and you may remember or even toddle around our legs. The world will seem so big, and so fresh and green then. You were born a few weeks before the earliest harvest that farmers in these parts could remember, and just about 10 days after huge tornadoes swept our state and our neighbor's home away. You were due just 5 days after the tornadoes, and Daddy and I were both glad you were not born in the storm shelter.
We sing to you. We play with you. We read to you. We love you. What joy you bring our lives. We plant little seeds of kindness, and little acts of love. There will be difficult times, we know. But this laying down of our own lives, this self-sacrifice of love and time is for something bigger than ourselves. We choose to love each other, sometimes imperfectly, but always with laughter. We are learning to be your parents. You are planting in us seeds of love, and oh, the harvest of joy.