The Reckoning Days
As the velvety black settles around us, the crickets’ song finds full crescendo in between
the cut and uncut rows of perfectly planted wheat. We’re thankful that the thunderhead trailed to
the North this time, though the storm, I suppose was uncertain of its own trajectory. The breeze
steadies, the great combines swallow and thrash, all the while lightning strobes us with
This is the time to cut. We cut until Mother Nature or God directs us otherwise. This has
been a wild year. A year of plenty, no doubt, but also a year of doubts. Mid-March,
the rains came and stayed. Pasture dams ran over, lakes sprung up in our fields and the dirt roads turned
to muddy smears that eventually vanished all together. Isolation reigned as the homestead
became an island in a sea of flooded prairie. It’s the first time in our lifetimes we can remember
asking Him for dry weather. Make the rain stop.
After a few weeks, the sun returned and revealed God’s new kingdom. Never have we
seen such an abundance of rabbits, antelope, toads, nor wheat. The wheat! Even the eldest
cannot recall a time of stalks waist high and heads bent under the weight of grain. It’s a
majestic, yet fearful sight. Imagine if you would: a million and a half dollars of grain sitting out
there spread over 3300 acres, swaying in the wind. Mind you, there’s already three quarters of a
million invested in this crop and that’s not counting the hours of toil that the six of us have put in
over the last ten months.
This hazy dream, a scenario where we reap hundreds of thousands of bushels, fill all our
bins to the top, and maybe even the basement of our home with wheat, could be erased at a
moment’s notice. All it would take is a tornado, fire or hail. It’s happened before and it makes
our gut sink to know that it’ll happen again. So for now, we pray, we cut, we cut, we pray, and
we worry. That is the rhythm of our existence until we, by the grace of God, harvest all our
wheat. This may be the year of plenty, but these are the reckoning days.