Another year of share-cropping has begun. And already the first crisis has been averted: frost.
Last night the predictions for a mild freeze were on. So my farmer husband rounded up every trashcan, box, wheelbarrow, five-gallon bucket and cooler in the Campbell-Reed domain and hauled them over to the oversized garden // mini-farm. He covered the hills of squash and melons and two dozen tomato plants.
This morning my duties as the farmers’ wife kicked in. Now, I’m all about farmers being women, men and children, whoever does the actual farming. But in my case “farmer’s wife” is more accurate. He does the farming. I do what I’m asked when I can to help, which is sometimes more, sometimes less.
This morning my job was to uncover all the plants so that the boxes and trashcans which saved the plants wouldn’t become their graves or the cause of their untimely demise. So I put on my muddy shoes and old clothes and trudged into the field. (How dramatic of me.) But here’s the fun part. I got to roll away the stones. And under each one was a healthy, unfrozen plant, saved for a season of growth.
I’m not a big fan of Easter. I’d rather Lent go on for another six weeks. (Too often Easter feels hollow and cheap, whereas Lent feels honest and costly and full of the fullness of life.) But to be part of a story of salvation, no matter how small, feels hopeful. Call me a heretic or a sad sack but seeing small living things saved for life, when the odds were against them, when they should by all accounts be dead? It is a joy. Being part of a little resurrection that will feed people in the coming spring, summer and fall? That’s worth getting up for and putting on your muddy shoes.