It’s that time of the year again when we take time to honor the farmers in our midst. How grateful we are to them for keeping the agri-CULTURE way of life alive and well in and around our community. 

Vine Street Christian Church is especially blessed to have so many “farm families” as part of our “faith family.” The lessons we learn every day throughout the year from our farmers are treasures that keep us rooted in the natural harmony of God’s time. 

Our farmers are there each day when the sun comes up … and long after the sun goes down. The rhythm of their lives is in sync with the seasons that God bestowed upon us. The day’s weather is a dominant presence in their lives, ever dependent on the will of God to provide the proper amount of sun and rain to get through another year. 

The culture of agriculture is one of the greatest gifts we have in our American culture today. It teaches us that all things work for good … and all things work best in God’s time. It slows us down to a human pace and shows us the miracles that can occur – like a seed into a soybean – when we put our trust in God and partner with God for our life’s work. 

Those of us who aren’t farmers can learn a lot from a farmer. Most important, we can learn a lot about how God works and the blessings that fill our lives the more we live in harmony with God’s will. 

God bless our farmers! YOU are the salt of the earth and the light of the world! 

Here is a poem dedicated to our farmers, recommended by Lois Silvanik. 


by Thomas Alan Orr

The October air was warm and musky, blowing

Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance

Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.

He was pulling a truckload onto the scales

At the elevator near the rail siding north of town.

When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,

Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.

The man said he had just invested a hundred grand

In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.

The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching

For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,

Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed

By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside

Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful

Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:

Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April

When you’re ready to plant and can’t get in;

Like three kids at the kitchen table

Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row;

Or like a broken part on the combine when

Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.

Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling

When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;

Or like your old man’s tears when you tell him

How much the land might bring for subdivisions.

Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks.

When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.

He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,

Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:

Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.

Peace on a tractor … 

Pastor Bob <><