On this early spring day, the fields are glistening once more. The wind is still chill, with night temperatures around zero, but the sun has been gathering strength and the land is drying nicely. The farmers look out from beside their barns, where they’ve spent the long winter tending cows, pigs and farm implements. Calmly and inscrutably they stand, feet set wide, hands in ample overall pockets. And from deep within, they feel the familiar work rhythm bubbling up again.

Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, next week — it will be that time again; plow, harrow, sow! Because there, under the warm sun, the fields shine again, like clean slates. And there, buried in the soil, lies the mysterious creative energy that sets seeds to sprouting. Even more than the man of science, better yet than any theologian, the farmer fathoms creation’s story. God speaks and there it is — a new creation every year. And the sown fields, first reflecting so many shades of brown, finally turn into rippling seas of pale green crops. In just days the seeds break through with tender shoots. God does not abandon the work of his hands.

Fred Talinga. Young farmer. It was only three years ago that he’d bought the farm. Pigs and 150 acres of rolling land — the low fields drained. Big and square, he stands by the kitchen window soaking up spring’s gladness. It had been a long winter. A winter with note pads and pencil stubs, figures in columns and reminders from the bank.

During the last two winters, Jane has watched as her cheerful young man became a serious, always worrying husband. There is no bounce left in him anymore. Everything is heavy, so heavy! Sometimes she thinks of her own father who also used to drive out the cheerfulness in her mother’s kitchen (with the red and white checkered curtains, still from Holland) like a gloomy, menacing cloud. Sitting, smoking and staring. Railing against the bank manager, the government and the city man who didn’t understand a thing. And hoarding all the worries, all the difficulties until finally the lid blew off, and he either fell into a deep depression or turned to the Lord with a screaming heart. Then things would go well again for a while.

Fred is just like her dad. But at least he had been able to buy his stuff cheap in the down times, when so many Canadian farmers abandoned farms for factories. Fred’s annual mortgage is bigger even than the purchase price of her father’s farm, thinks Jane. How will they ever make it now with pig prices so low? How much longer will Fred be drifting, mutely into her kitchen every morning? She sighs.

With a jump, Fred turns around. For the first time in weeks, Jane senses the vigorous youthfulness of old. “I’m taking the new tractor to the ‘back field’, I really feel like trying it out,” he says, a bit brusquely. “Should’ve never bought that tractor,” Jane sighs to herself. That tractor has been the subject of marital jousting all winter.

The back field? “Just be careful you don’t get into that boggy patch with the tractor,” Jane says. “Yes, girl, don’t you worry.” He pulls her playfully up out of the chair and kisses her firmly on the cheek. “You could do with a shave,” Jane grumbles, laughing nevertheless and pleased with his zest.

Furrowed

“Go to Holland then,” her father had said, “we’ll take care of the pigs.”  Sweet talk. As if such a trip costs nothing. Do dad and mom know that Jane buys second-hand clothes? That they haven’t been able to support the church for two years?

Fred wanders through his thoughts. Almost automatically, he keeps the tractor and plow precisely in line. He’d bought a few packs of cigarettes, just for the the plowing days (it’s not so easy to roll cigarettes while driving a tractor). He reaches for the breast pocket of his overalls. Empty — what happened to that nearly full pack anyway? He is almost back at the slough — better watch out then. Immediately he spies the pack on the dash next to the switch, just within reach. He leans over to get it, but almost loses his balance.

For just a moment his foot presses a little too hard on the pedal and, with a jump, the tractor shoots forward, heading straight for the boggy swale. Brake, Fred, brake! But it’s already too late —the tractor sinks to its axles in mud. A minute later, Fred is standing next to the tractor, with Bic lighter in hand, but cigarette pack still inside. He grabs it through the open door, lights up and calmly stands there smoking.

But then, like a taut spring suddenly released, the anger wells up inside him. That tractor, that stupid tractor will get itself unstuck and this afternoon he’s going to plow on! Damn this rotten world! A Massey Ferguson cap sails across the field, followed by a pack of cigarettes. The lighter lands among seagulls, who fly up startled, before settling in again a few meters further.

The young farmer pounds his knees wildly with clenched fists, then stands up, bends back and scans the skies with wild eyes. A heavy curse thunders over the land followed by a rough scream that sends the gulls scurrying jerkily away. That curse, that cry carries with it all the pent-up doubt, worry and helplessness of three long years of being a farmer -‑ just when the economy tanked.

Fred, Fred, Fred!!! His mother’s voice, as he’d heard it before — that boy who screamed at his smashed-up, brand new bike. “Must it be this way, Fred?” Now, as the water bubbles up beside the tracks, a deep shame rises in his soul. Didn’t he buy the new tractor to stop looking the part of poor farmer anyway? In all the worries and sorrows, did he ever seek God’s guidance? Had he not often listened to Jane’s heartfelt prayers for particular needs with a stifled smile? Well — how the heck does God do that anyway? Does three thousand dollars just fall from the sky when the bank calls again for another payment? Just like manna from heaven?

Fred looks for his cap and his cigarette pack. He walks a little further across the field to where his red lighter is sulking in the furrows. But then, suddenly, feeling the insignificance of cigarettes, he falls to his knees, sinks low into a child’s pose, and reaches for the loose soil with open hands and heart. He prays.

And then the farmer, this farmer plowed on.