Seven acres of prairie grass turned upside down today. Tractor pulling plow tore earth straight up and exposed roots deep. And the wispy dried tan became raw umber chunks that will wait for weeding and planting and fertilizing in spring.
This south field was once home to bobolinks and red-winged blackbirds greeting us on our summer morning trail hikes. No more.
This field has new purpose. Hay will be grown and cut and dried and baled and barned. Hay will feed horses when pastures lay frozen under thick snow blanket.
But now, it’s turning time.
As sharp discs cut and churn, I can’t help but think of how God prepares us for His kingdom—how He allows life to cut and churn and break us up for His holy purpose. Turned and broken, smoothed and furrowed, we become rich and ready land for planting. And as we are transformed from one state to another, He grows goodness that will feed many—more holy purpose.
Does the earth scream when it’s cut and churned? Do the birds wonder why the destruction?
There is a plan. And it’s good, because He’s good. Earth will rest and wait after this cutting and churning. Settling takes time.
Do I scream and cry when I’m cut and churned, when the hard soil of my soul is broken and laid bare, when there’s a season of waiting and settling?
Yes, I do.
Even though I know God is good and I seek His purposes fulfilled in and through me—yet I cry.
Cutting and churning hurts.
But it’s good. It’s necessary. And I wouldn’t do it myself. I couldn’t.
I can’t plow the field of my own soul any more than our field can plow itself. We both need a skilled farmer—one with vision—one with plan—one with good intent.
And we both have such a farmer.
I watched as ours drove his tractor, inspecting his paths, making sure depth of blade wasn’t too shallow, wasn’t too deep. He cut only the necessary for goodness—according to plan.
My Farmer does the same with my soul—churning not too shallow, not too deep—plowing only for goodness—according to plan.
If I were but earthen clod, I would not ask whyor how or when. I would accept.
But I am not. I am from rib, though rib from dust, and I ponder. I ask.
I want to know WHY and HOW and WHEN.
WHY does it have to hurt, this cutting and churning, this transforming?
HOW am I to endure this sanctifying?
WHEN will it end?
Why and how and when are eclipsed by WHO. Because, after all—
WHO is all I really need to know.
The farmer knows what he’s doing with our field.
Our Heavenly Farmer knows what He’s doing with our souls.
Do I really KNOW Him—as the perfect love He is?
Do I trust Him?
Will I let Him?
I don’t like cutting and churning. I don’t like feeling plow through my soul.
But I like the plan.
And I love the Planner.
The Farmer of my soul—I will trust. I will trust He will grow good things in the soil of my soul and reap a holy harvest after all this cutting and churning. My soul field will grow and mature, in due time.
My Farmer will do the work.
All I have to do is say—
YES.
Can we say “YES” together?