Sunny Side Up August 6, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Take time to appreciate God's artistry Our son-in-law, Kendall, like his father before him, wants to farm. It'll be interesting, having a farmer in the family. He and Amanda were home for the weekend recently. One evening the three of us took a walk along a road that separates the country from the city. Farmland spread wide on our right, a quiet subdivision on our left. We'd walked only a few minutes, when Kendall pointed. A tiny flash of light blinked on and off in a hedge beside us, darting this way and that. "Firefly," Kendall said. I'm a day walker, usually. I've only seen fireflies once before, back in Ontario. They nearly spooked me to death that first time. This one flashed on and off four times, then disappeared. I was keenly disappointed. A minute later we noticed congregations of them in the roadside shallows. They flitted about, basting bright stitches of light over the dampening evening grass. Magical, I thought. We were walking in the remains of the day. A hint of orange tinted the skyline, with ocean blue above. Except for a few late night birds, the long swish of cars on the highway beside us, and the crunch of gravel under our feet, the countryside was hushed. Amanda and I were enchanted. Kendall seemed not at all moved. Not by nature's beauty-or by the flickering fireflies. Sort of 'Ho Hum�.seen those before.' And so he has, for years. That child's sense of rapture I had seems reserved for visitors to God's museum of nature. Kendall's long past that. I worry about the keepers of the earth, I told him. Farmers. Ranchers. Those whose life work is caring for land and livestock; producing food for the rest of us. They're exposed to so much of God's best artistry. They're party to some of his best kept secrets-like fireflies. Can the countryside others of us love to write and paint and sing about ever be more than a reminder of WORK for them? Does a farmer make time to absorb creation's beauty? Does the curse of Adam preclude him from standing motionless long enough to appreciate how the wind combs its fingers through the prairie wheat? Can the grinding wheels of colossal farm equipment be stilled long enough for its operator to hear the call of a meadowlark? Can nature's custodians ever view all that loveliness as part of their payment for taking care of things for the rest of us? "Kendall," I said, "promise me that if you do farm, you'll always find time to appreciate God's beauty around you." He promised nothing. I'm not worried, though. He chose for a wife a girl who's caught butterflies since she was six months old. Who can tear off a corner of the sky, stick it on paper, and try and make the rest of us believe she painted it. Who sings like a bird and shines like sunshine. He'll be a nature lover in no time flat. You can respond to these words at [email protected] |
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