Farm to Market

This is a notice to all my readers that I’ve decided to change professions. Again. Now, I know I’m prone to crow about a career change now and then, but this time I mean it. When I said I wanted to be a racecar driver, I wasn’t serious. When I said I wanted to run a chicken ranch, I was bombarded with all sorts of questionable proposals until I had to retract that statement. I meant real chickens, people. Ahem. But this time, I’m really serious. As of this moment, I am no longer a writer, so please don’t refer to me as one. I now carry the official title of “farmer.” I even have the uniform, right down to the overalls, straw hat and hoe. The other day, I hoed a row, and then another, and then another until my back ached and sweat dripped down my neck and my boots were covered in gooey, rich soil. So far in my garden, I’ve planted carrots. Tomatoes. Onions. Snow peas. Radishes. Zucchini. Squash. Blackberries, strawberries, and eight types of herbs. I even stuck some asparagus in there. I’m working on a quaint little painted-picket sign to display, with the garden’s name on it. Only, Superman and I can’t agree on a name, so right now it’s just a stick. But I digress. My point is, I’ve finally found something I’m good at, that brings me such deep joy and deliciousness, I’ve decided to quit everything else and tend my garden full-time. There’s one teensy little problem, though. Nobody actually wants to pay me to watch over my squash and water my asparagus. And since I only just planted the seeds, it’ll be a while before I have any vegetables for market. Which brings up the obvious question of whether or not I’ll actually be successful at gardening. How can I know I’m good at something, if I don’t have any evidence to support it? The answer is . . . I have no idea. I just know I like spending time in my garden, and right now, I’m kind of obsessed. And I don’t want to do anything else. Every single day I stare at my carrots and whisper to my zucchini and wait, wishing those veggies would grow. Willing them to grow. I’ve even tried to harvest a baby onion already. Would have, too, if the Sman hadn’t stood in front of me and told me I’d have to be patient. I may be adept at farming. I’m not afraid of hard work. But dadblame it, I’ve never been good at patient. Wisdom tells me I shouldn’t quit my day job just yet . . . okay, maybe I’ll still write. But I refuse to give back the uniform. As I sit here typing this to you, I’m wearing my overalls. I’m still learning the same lesson I’ve struggled with for decades. Anything worth having is worth working for. Worth waiting for. Lofty goals are beautiful, but the realization of those dreams rarely comes without dirty boots, drippy sweat, and a whole lot of patience. Take relationships, for example. Every relationship I’ve ever had, that’s brought me joy and love and made me a better person, has also gotten my feet muddy and caused me to sweat now and then. But with gentle tending and a whole lot of patience, they’ve grown into something beautiful, and the harvest is delicious. Same thing with career goals and life goals and, well, just about every important goal. Hard work and patience pay off. Just, not always today. So here I sit, thinking and writing about gardening, after spending time today in my garden. I’ll keep wearing these clothes, keep hoeing those rows until one day, the bounty will come in. In the meantime, there’s always racecar driving. “The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains. You too be patient; strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near,” James 5:7-8. Connect with Renae at www.RenaeBrumbaugh.com, or purchase her latest humor book, The Breaking Point, at Amazon.com or your local bookstore.