JULY/AUGUST 2002

Then I, too, saw the treasure he sought: a tiny, insignificant speck of green protruding through the soil at his feet. A few inches away another, then another, until a squinting eye could almost discern row after row of tiny green leaves, newly born and pushing upward through the soil. There would be a corn crop again this year.

The grateful farmer, humble before this miracle in his field, turned back to other more mundane chores, his mind at rest for another growing season. He had faithfully done his job preparing the seedbed, choosing a good hybrid, carefully spacing the seed, and then fertilizing and covering it at a precise depth. It was all he could do. Soil and the weather had dictated his responsibility, now the results were in the hands of a higher power.

The farmer and his land: it is no less than a covenant between the faithful steward and his master. The tiller of the soil gives of his labor, the land determines the rules to work by, and when those rules have been followed carefully, then and only then does the land reward the farmer by bringing new life out of a dry, shriveled seed and nurturing it until there is food enough for everyone.

The farmer’s partnership with the land is forged in the tears of his own sweat, tempered with occasional disappointment. But the land always gives gifts to those who work it, intangible qualities of family and community not always understood by those who tread life’s other paths. For the rewards of the land are reserved for the patriots who love the soil enough to remain on it through hardship and abundance.