Mom, dad and me, happy, and celebrating one of the best cottoncrops we ever had in 1992.
“Then the Lord God took the man and put him into the garden of Eden to cultivate it, and keep it.” ~ Genesis 2:15
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From an analytical standpoint, one of the things I enjoy most about blogging is the daily report indicating “search terms” punched into the engines that ultimately lead readers to my archives.
Since launching www.stevenwwatkins.com back in January, it’s been no contest among the terms searched that lead readers here.
Readers from the world’s every continent have searched “farmer’s prayer” and found this blogsite. And when they did so, they read about my dad. For me, that’s an honor, and it carries great reward.
I asked dad to pose for this shot, and he reluctantly agreed, but you can see just how proud he is. It’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him during the harvest.
It’s ironic, a bit melancholy, and still yet rewarding.
You see, after taking leave as a writer for nearly two years, it was my dad’s passing that compelled me to begin writing once again. The circumstances of his death and the “religious” blasphemy to which he was exposed welled up inside my own soul, and there were just too many things that had to come out.
So I turned to the blog.
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Daddy was a farmer. It’s all he ever wanted to be. And he was a pretty decent farmer. Most of my life’s lessons were learned in a cotton patch right by his side.
When he died, our family wanted to honor his love for the land, and we composed a slide show video of a series of photos I took in 1992 – the harvest of one of his most successful cotton crops. It was a Sunday afternoon, and as I remember, among the happiest days of his life.
The last slide in the the video makes me cry every single time. It’s as if he’s saying: “I’m leaving now, but I’ll see you again soon.”
Over the last three weeks, I’ve thought a lot about my dad, the farmer. It’s the first harvest he never saw. We took a diversion from our typical cotton crop this year and planted 120 acres of the finest soybeans I’ve ever seen. The yield was high, and the price was good.
Me, earlier this spring, checking the seed depth on our soybean crop near Monette, Arkansas. I’ve seen my dad do this thousands of times, so I stopped to do it, too.
In fact, it surpassed the finest cotton crop we ever farmed. Daddy would never have believed it.
My best friend’s dad was a farmer, too. He’s been gone for 10 years now. Brady and I talk of our dads often. Because of the good crops we’ve had in recent years, we like to think our dads are still taking care of us as they always did.
We like to say we own X number of acres. Not really. God grants us the wonderful opportunity, but for a time, to be the caretakers of His land. We pray that we care for it well, and use it to glorify His name.
When Daddy became a farmer, his prayers were answered. I’m thankful he and my mom and my grandmother, and the many ancestors that preceded them, taught me a love of the land.
It was a good crop this year, dad. Thanks for sending it our way. I love and miss you, and I’m so proud of you.
Good message. Having decended from a long line of farmers, I understand your words, written and unspoken.