When You’re Praying for a Harvest in a World that Rages

{By Amy Breitmann}

 

We stood in a circle in the office. During our morning devotions, my coworker there in Iowa prayed for the harvest. Everyone had been watching the skies and she had known the rhythms of the Midwest land all of her years. She prayed for the weather and for the farmhands, and for the crops to be plentiful. She prayed for the days to be long and hold clear skies.

 

The land is livelihood here in Iowa and the farmers needed long, clear days. They need the snow and ice to hold off so the harvest could be all taken in. Acres and acres of corn and beans had been planted early last spring, when the last frost was still melting on the fertile Midwest ground.

 

I feel at home here in Iowa where my roots began. I spent summers on these dirt roads and this is where I skinned my knees running those old wooden feed bunks on my grandfather’s farm. Under the Midwest sun in the early autumn visits to see family I first began to understand the importance of each season.

 

amy's field

 

I drive toward Omaha in the early morning light to catch my flight back to Georgia. I know that the summer heat is still beating down through the pine trees there.  But here the land is quiet and I stare at the Midwest fields. The landscape is flat and when the sun finally rises it is round and large right away over the straight rows, casting pink as far as I can see. There is nothing here to divert the sun.

 

Nothing but miles of wide open, fertile land dotted with barns and windmills.

 

And as I drive I pray, too. For the workers, the crops, the noontime conversations that will happen during long harvest days over meals like my grandmother used to bake for the farmhands.

 

The fields on either side of me seem so wild yet deliberate. I think of the farmers like my grandfather, planting each seed, giving each its own space to grow. And how the seeds grow into strong, tall rows of promise by early July.

 

The Midwest reminds me that there is a rhythm. There is a progression of seasons, one after another, year after year. I remember this:

 

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 NIV

 

And, oh, how I have known the planting and the uprooting, the mourning and the dancing.

 

And how I have watched the climate of the skies change in my own life.

 

cross trees

 

I wonder now that I am home again in Georgia, have I forgotten? Have I forgotten the power of the sowing and the reaping? Have I felt too tired and small to have a voice in the winds of all that rages in the world? Have I felt that I have no seed of truth or love to offer the pain and destruction that overtakes my newsfeed from across the globe, or here in my own backyard?

 

I sip my coffee in the early morning light and I ponder these things. Honestly, I just want to curl up like it’s winter and hide under the blankets like the snow that covers the fields in the dead of winter. It seems too hard to keep planting.

 

But I catch a glimpse of the lily in the little flower patch that I tend.  It was nothing but a small root I transplanted from my grandmother’s garden there in Iowa.

 

And here it is blooming wild.

 

I go back inside and re-remember. Right now it is autumn. I don’t have to look any further than my own backyard to see the seeds of hope.

 

And I pray for the harvest.

 

 

::photo credits- Amy Breitmann::

_________________________________________________

 

Amy 1Amy Breitmann’s name means “Beloved” and she’s on a quest to believe it. Her boots carry Midwest soil but now she kicks it up in the south where she weaves marriage, ministry and motherhood together. Though she’s been a Christian as far as she can remember, her boots are covered with mud from her wanderings. She’s Vice President of Marketing for Vi Bella Jewelry  and Co-Founder of The Lydia Project, a ministry which holds hands with other women facing cancer as a cancer survivor her self.  She also is a lost-sock finder, a keeper of secrets for the best cheesecake recipe, and gets grace in the ordinary. The words that tumble out on her blog Beloved in Blue Jeans are balm that the Spirit speaks to quiet her soul. She loves others to eavesdrop there and walk a bit of this cobbled path with her. She’s a Co-Visionary with Tammy, Facebook Team Editor, Big-Dreamer, and Writer. Find her on Facebook  or Twitter.

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2 Comments on “When You’re Praying for a Harvest in a World that Rages

  1. Amy,
    What lovely words of the harvest, the hope, and the huge dose of reality.
    I’m going to share your post with my family in the mid-west.
    My mom is from ND, and all her family remains there.
    She moved to FL in the 1970s, and so you are so right…our life in the south is different.
    However, there are still signs of seasons ans God’s grace all around. Thank you sweet Amy!
    Jenn

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