I could never be a farmer. The only thing I can plant is my butt on the couch.
But I know farmers. They work all around me. My house is next door to the farm headquarters of a farmer named Leech. He and his employees work from dawn till well after sunset on big green pieces of metal.
They make designs in dirt. They put little things in the dirt. Then it looks like they spray stuff on the dirt. Then green things grow. Rice. Cotton. Corn. Soybeans. All of these are a rock’s throw from my front deck depending on the time of year.
It looks like hard work. It’s supposed to be. It is the only job that God expressly said He would make hard. A very small thing can render months of money, sweat and acres of dirt useless. Too much chemical. Too little chemical. Too much water. Too little water. And don’t dare forget plant diseases. Did you know plants can get strange fungus spots just like humans?
How would it feel to gaze as far as you can see and observe months of effort to be in vain? I have never felt that. At least not about crops.
My mind and emotions are hard at work raising my frustration and increasing my annoyance.
Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
GOD, the Lord, is my strength;
he makes my feet like the deer’s;
he makes me tread on my high places.