I’d been a bit chilly all day, snuggled into a favorite sweatshirt. The oven warmth was welcoming as I slid pans of cinnamon-sugar coated cookies in and out. At the edge of the kitchen, the calendar beamed its brand-new April page as I’d actually remembered to turn it this morning. Sunshine played peekaboo and a southish wind sent drafts around the corners.
Spooning leftover meat, potatoes and corn into the Tupperware divided dish, I prepared a quick supper for the field. A few taps and the microwave whirred to life. Ice cubes rattled into a paper cup and I splashed tea in to the brim. My farmer man is always thirsty.
Settling my crushed, red wool hat on my head to ward against my all-day chill, I balance dish, cookies and tea and juggle it all into my Yukon.
His tractor is turning up dirt only a few miles from home, and the supper and I bump our way there. We’re comparable to a Pizza Hut delivery car, minus the Pizza Hut sign on the roof and, well, minus the pizza and Pepsi.
The tractor chugs its way to the field’s edge, stops and waits patiently as the farmer crosses the ditch to collect his supper.
We chat a bit. He eats. Then heads back for a few more hours bouncing on tractor seat, preparing soil.
I take in the evening air , the sky, the peaceful pictorial scene, and lift my phone to snap a shot.
For at the end of the day, is there anything more blessed than simply seeing what’s right in front of me and savoring the moment as it slides into the next and the next and the next, quicker than the shutter sound on my phone?
Pausing to give pause.
Pausing to give praise.
For when I cannot pause, when I do not ever pause, how will my soul learn to savor, to sing glorious gratitude, and simply delight in the essence of being?
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