This season (1000 Gifts, Vol. 3, #881 - #890)

(Blogger had some issues, and this post ended up lost.)

He’s only had three hours sleep, ...

“You okay?” I ask.

“Calling for sun today. Gotta try for the beans.” He reaches for socks.

We’re in this window before rain. Hundreds of acres of beans to plant.

Those are the words of Ann Voskamp, but they could be mine.

This window before rain, these days, week perhaps, of ten minutes a day of being awake together, usually from 6:00 - 6:10 AM, both too groggy to speak intelligently enough to make conversation, he reducing a full cereal bowl to nothing while I fill a red insulated lunch box as full as I can to cover the next two meals plus snacks, and then he leaves, calling out, "See you tomorrow."

It's the same for all farm wives.  We run into each other around town, and the conversation goes something like, "He came in at 3 AM," or "I don't know what time my husband came in last night."

And when we need our husband's input to coordinate a plan for sharing rides on Sunday, a day filled with worship, lunch, two small groups, and a 90th birthday open house, my sister-in-law starts to say, "Ask Jim ..." and then auto-corrects to, "If you see Jim before then, ..."

It's only for a season, this we know, and we're ultimately thankful ... thankful for

physical safety & protection
strength
meaningful work
equipment in working order
this window before the rain
protection from all sorts of weather disasters we hear about on the news
a retired father-in-law who puts in his share of long days, too
the camaraderie of mother-in-law and two daughters-in-law sharing a ride to prayer meeting

And these images and more:

The open seed bags line the tailgate, ready.

The truck bed sags under the heaviness of seeds

(Ann's words, again.)

And I'm reminded of a cross-stitch sampler I received years ago:

Who plants a seed 
beneath the sod
And waits to see 
believes in God.