The local farm, this sinner’s piece of Eden. Where one looks beyond the inevitable hum of summer’s haze, placed over the fields as a swarm of bees on the run, and moves out towards the work to be done. Where cell phones and iPods won’t do any good, but a hula-hoe, a rake and these own two hands could. Where dirt on your shirt and stains on your shorts is a sign of respect and a carrot gone straight from ground to mouth is best.
People deserve food that matches their worth, and when they receive it, it better come with a wink, smile and little conversation too – from the grower, not the Chiquita fruit lady or the Jolly Green Giant, but the one who put it in the ground, tended it and wants nothing more than to see where it’s going . Never before had I seen greens light up a face, like I did at the local farm. Never before had I even known what greens were.
That’s just it though, the farm isn’t about the self-glory in knowing, it’s about learning and growing. To the highest place you and these stalks could be. It’s about the cucumbers, the zucchini and the eggplant; it’s about the pattypan, the delicata, and the butternut squashes. It’s about change. Yet above all though, the farm is about people. The people who arrive different, from the burbs and streets, black and white – white and black, but when come to the land, stay a while, and do real work, become a kinship.
This is why I believe in the local farm, and this is why I believe that the all-powerful, loving God, whom sees all that ever was, will be, and is, chooses to look down on the farm offering that fatherly grin only He can give; for here – both believer and non truly become- the “laborers in His vineyard”.
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