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.
What do workers gain from their toil?
I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race.
He has made everything beautiful in its time.
He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live.
That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-14The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®
This morning, I woke to memories of the rhythm of the farm. Life was dictated by 16,000 100-year-old-vines. Old crones that cracked the whip. They broke tractors, discs, spirits, and bodies. The only thing bigger than their demands was God.
Every month, for 17 years, from the 1 – 4th, VST could truly rest while I irrigated. Think of planning your life from March until September without including the 1st – 4th. Just mark them off the calendar, even if the month happened to be July. It matter not, because you had to deal with acre feet of water, valves, gopher holes, and the heat.
It didn’t matter that two farmers had real jobs as a teacher and business executive. Nope. Irrigation reined supreme. For those for days, with a shovel in hand, every vine got a nice long drink. Forty acres isn’t the biggest patch of land in the world. However, when irrigating it all with at least 3″ of water, it can seem like half the world lays at your muddy irrigation boots. You need big hands, a big hat, lots of cold water, and patience.
At least twice a day, 4 came twice a day. 4AM and 4 PM. For two hours, up and down the dusty avenues I’d go, making notes on a chart that no one but another farmer would understand. More water on Row 72, flooding on Row 53. Whoops, forgot the shovel at Row 109. Man, it’s hot. We’ve got a gopher hole on Row 12. All this while the afternoon temperatures could be 105 or even higher.
The rhythm of the farm was woven through everything in our lives. You had to eat fast because there were only a few hours left of daylight. Or, you had to rest because it would be cooler at 7PM. When the grapes bloomed, you needed watch the weather closely, hoping that frost wouldn’t steal your crop away on a 30 degree night. The minutes of the day dictated that raisins needed harvesting on September 1st, because by September 15th the angle of the sun would be quite different and not good for drying the grapes.
Four times a year, scheduled crop payments arrived just before the rhythm of the creditors plucked the money away for services rendered in previous days. Yes. A time for everything and a season for everything under the heavens.
King Solomon was an amazing writer who penned Ecclesiastes 3 along with The Song of Solomon 2:10-13, from where came the inspiration for the name Winterpast. What a brilliant mind to leave such words for us all to ponder thousands of years later. His works are woven throughout the Bible sharing his very human side with mankind.
I miss the rhythm of the farm, woven into my soul for 52 years. Even though we sold the farm in 2007, a farm girl never loses her instincts and roots. Born on the farm from the rich soil, I grew and blossomed into a woman.
Whatever your activities for the day, remember your own season of your life. Embrace it. Many things lost along the way have been replaced with new wonders. Life is an amazing journey. As VST loved to reminded me, we can sleep when we’re dead.
More tomorrow.