From an analytical standpoint, one of the things I enjoy most about blogging is the daily report indicating “search terms” punched into the engines that ultimately lead readers to my archives.
Since launching www.stevenwwatkins.com back in January, it’s been no contest among the terms searched that lead readers here.
It’s “the farmer‘s prayer.”
Readers from the world’s every continent have searched “farmer’s prayer” and found this blogsite. And when they did so, they read about my dad. For me, that’s an honor, and it carries great reward.
It’s ironic, a bit melancholy, and still yet rewarding.
You see, after taking leave as a writer for nearly two years, it was my dad’s passing that compelled me to begin writing once again. The circumstances of his death and the “religious” blasphemy to which he was exposed welled up inside my own soul, and there were just too many things that had to come out.
So I turned to the blog.
Daddy was a farmer. It’s all he ever wanted to be. And he was a pretty decent farmer. Most of my life’s lessons were learned in a cotton patch right by his side.
When he died, our family wanted to honor his love for the land, and we composed a slide show video of a series of photos I took in 1992 – the harvest of one of his most successful cotton crops. It was a Sunday afternoon, and as I remember, among the happiest days of his life.
The last slide in the the video makes me cry every single time. It’s as if he’s saying: “I’m leaving now, but I’ll see you again soon.”
Over the last three weeks, I’ve thought a lot about my dad, the farmer. It’s the first harvest he never saw. We took a diversion from our typical cotton crop this year and planted 120 acres of the finest soybeans I’ve ever seen. The yield was high, and the price was good.
In fact, it surpassed the finest cotton crop we ever farmed. Daddy would never have believed it.
My best friend’s dad was a farmer, too. He’s been gone for 10 years now. Brady and I talk of our dads often. Because of the good crops we’ve had in recent years, we like to think our dads are still taking care of us as they always did.
We like to say we own X number of acres. Not really. God grants us the wonderful opportunity, but for a time, to be the caretakers of His land. We pray that we care for it well, and use it to glorify His name.
When Daddy became a farmer, his prayers were answered. I’m thankful he and my mom and my grandmother, and the many ancestors that preceded them, taught me a love of the land.
It was a good crop this year, dad. Thanks for sending it our way. I love and miss you, and I’m so proud of you.
THE FARMER‘S PRAYER
“Old farmers never die, they just go to seed.” ~ unknown
Time just keeps moving on
And many years have come and gone
But I grow old without regret
My hopes are in what may come yet.
On the farm I work each day
This is where I wish to stay
I watch the seeds each season sprout
From the soil as the plants rise out.
I study nature and I learn
To know the earth and feel her turn
I love her dearly in all her seasons
For I have learned her secret reasons.
All that will live in the bosom of the earth
She is the loving mother of all birth
When my body is old and spent
And my soul to Heaven has went.
Please compost and spread me on this plain
So my body Mother Earth can claim
That is where I wish to be
Then nature can nourish new life with me.
So do not for me grieve and weep
I didn’t leave, I only sleep
I am with the soil here below
Where I can nourish life of beauty and glow.
Here I can help the falling rain
Grow golden fields of ripened grain
From here I can join the winds that blow
And meet the softly falling snow.