I sigh and take a deep breath. "Am I making any progress?" "Am I ever going to catch up?"
The long rows lined up perfectly. Three foot spaces. Tilled down the middle. Long green grasses choking growth. Yet the stalks grow.
I can imagine the warm crunchy corn as the white kernels pop. The aroma. The taste. The miracle of change. Changing a plain dry kernel of popcorn into a fluffy white morsel.
But the rows need cleaning.
Hand pulling. Hoe raking. Stooping. Bending. Kneeling. Deep breaths. Breaks while standing. Gazing down the row. Endless.... And overwhelmed. I am left with tears. I have failed. The muscles of my bottom ache. The lower back longs to stretch. Stiffness enters into my hands. I will not finish today.
But I persevere. One more weed. One more plant. One more row. And the grasses which have been competing for nutrients and space with the corn are left rooted up. To die without hydration. Baked in the late July sun.
Eight more rows to go. Forty five minutes each row. But they will wait. Left to fend by themselves for another day. To struggle against that which grows so readily. While I, the weary farmer, rest.
"May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves." (Ps 126:5-6)
