Harvesting More Than Food: Work, responsibility, and faith on the homestead.

Lessons from the "bounty".

Even though the land is currently baron, we know it won’t remain so. Our memories don’t have to travel far to land back on summer’s doorstep, our backs strained and brows dripping from hauling in lugs of onions and potatoes. The harvest is heavy.

Our land gives - and gives big.

The past August, I hauled in massive armfuls of mint from the herb-garden. It stood two-feet tall as I harvested it (work that must be done in the early morning so as to avoid the mid-day bees). The harvest of mint became so large that I filled more than two wheelbarrows full of it! Piles upon piles.

But the bounty carries further - into the limbs of the cider apple trees, the golden orbs of apricots, the red gems of the currant bushes. Mulberries drip from branches, thyme creeps along pathways, and warm, frothy milk fills our buckets.

Our goal on the homestead was always to do honor to the food that we eat - to put it simply, honoring the gift honors the Giver. As Christians, we proclaim that God is sovereign over all things. Yes, even over the soil microbes and fava bean harvest. This means that our garden isn’t driven on by political rebellion or a sense of security. These are vapors.

Rather, our garden, by God’s grace, offers us other good gifts. While these are gifts that are accessible in lots of alternative ways, we’re grateful to be partakers in the version that gives us tomatoes. Through our toil, we receive:

A sense of responsibility:

Part of our land is used for raising meat and dairy sheep. This past weekend, one of our dairy ewes began to prolapse. Deep into her pregnancy, her massive belly may as well be a barrel at this point - twins, for sure, but perhaps even triplets or quadruplets? That sort of pregnancy puts extra pressure on her cervix and a prolapse can happen quite easily. Much of the weekend I spent cleaning the prolapse, shoving it back in, and make-shifting a harness of twine to hold it in. The rest of the weekend I spent staring at her backside, as a farmer does, watching for signs of distress, infection, labor… or worse. The sense of responsibility is deep. Care for the animal or they die. Simple as that. If one forgets to break the ice on the water during the cold snaps, provide shelter from the storms, safely protect from predators, and build good fences, the animals die. Farming isn’t easy, but in many ways, it is simple. You care for the crop or else. Whether the crop is lambs, onions, or wheat, the tasks remain yours. One only has to slip their responsibilities once to know the direct toll of their actions. Ooh - so there’s another lesson. Actions have direct consequences.

A taste for work:

Much like a chef develops a taste for good food, so the homesteader begins to develop a taste for work. Rather than bend towards convenience and ease, we begin to develop muscles that flex and enjoy the weight of the effort. It seems odd, no? - why would anyone want to spend Saturday mornings spent bent over the garden bed, pulling armfuls of carrots from the depths of the summer soil? Isn’t that… like… work? Yet somehow in the homesteading economy, we crave the exertion. The sweat on our brow, the never-ending problem solving, the soil-caked produce that needs to be washed, the early morning milking… it becomes the flavor of our life. That which adds enhancement to everything else. Effort is a spice. And we have a taste for it.

A posture of submission:

Truth be told, I’m not anticipating this pregnancy to end well for my prolapsing-ewe. We’re vigilantly watching her, knowing we will need to assist in the birth to get the lambs out safely. Even then, she’ll prolapse during the labor - almost guaranteed. We will then clean and treat her, we will do our very best. Bottle lambs are never the goal. But the reality is, even if she does make it (as do the lambs), we will never be able to breed her again. Once a prolapse, always a prolapse. This means her second milking on our farm will be her last - a hard hit to take for breeding stock brought in just last year. Perhaps it sounds overly simplistic, but we’ve learned over our years living this life that it just happens. Chickens molt, crops fail, jars of jelly don’t seal, bread don’t rise, cows don’t get bred, lambs die. Disappointment is woven intricately into the fabric and my calloused hands have held my weeping head more times than I can count. The depths of fatigue are severe and the screams of frustration reach fever-pitch. I’ve held more dead animals in my hands than I care to remember. But all of this teaches an important posture of submission. We do our best, our very best, and then we submit to the offerings we’re given.

A gift to share:

When he was alive, my Grandpa would often drive up to our farm, miles away from town. His little red pickup would show up in the driveway and I would curse that he always managed to time it perfectly with the babies nap-times (they were easily stirred by all the activity). Empty jars in arms, he would venture into the farm kitchen, eager to tell stories and hear them. Eager to see if I’d baked anything, have a cup of coffee, fill his glass jars with fresh milk from the cow, and (if his timing was right) go home with a grocery bag full of produce from the garden. The son of Norwegian immigrants, he grew up poor, as most did during those days. Because of this, he connected deeply with what we set out to do on our small homestead - it made sense to him, and I delighted in the fact that I didn’t have to explain myself nor defend my choice. Of course you have a garden - this way, you can harvest and preserve the bounty while it’s good. Of course have a dairy cow - this way, you can always have fresh milk at hand. Of course you want to butcher animals for meat - this way, you can participate in the good and the bad, the hard, the difficult. Meat is essential. Those were early days on the homestead, and since then, we’ve learned even further what a joy it is to share. Come, let me fill your basket. When a friend leaves our cottage with a box of produce or jug of milk, I like to think that they’re getting to see a snapshot of this gift. It is a gift to share. The bounty of the homestead was never meant to only be squirreled away for me and mine.

A connection to our Creator:

At best, we are taking what is and turning it into something new. A recreation. I didn’t create the lilies or roses, but I use them as paints in my palette to create something all my own. Like a patchwork of God’s offerings, I gather up this and that - pieces I love - and compile them into a form that pleases me. I bring in new sheep, plant new varieties of tomatoes, try out a different breed of chicken - using all the various creatures, colors, and tastes offered up to me by the Ultimate Artist. I pay attention to the tiniest ants destroying my broccoli starts, to the moths curling up in my apple tree leaves, to the ways of worms. I stick my finger deep into the soil to test its warmth, stake up the unruly grape vines, and allow everything in its season. In doing so, I see a Good Shepherd who cares and looks after his sheep - he smells like them from being among them, seeks them, protects them, and rescues them - as any shepherd would. I see a Gardener, who painfully prunes off unruly vines and branches, to train the trunks up strong and ensure a bountiful harvest - as any orchardist would. I see an Artist who delights in shades of purple iris and the flights of bumblebees. I see the order and structure of nature, each piece depending on another, and all upheld by His hands as our world continues to spin, suspended in a galaxy of stars. I tell Stuart often that to be in the garden is to walk through a living museum of my favorite painter. I see his nature revealed everywhere.

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Farming this small piece of land is a privilege - one that we’ve had worked hard to do-right by. What it’s capable of producing - even on just two acres - is more than we could have ever hoped for.

Like I said. This small piece of land gives big.

In more ways than bushels.

Cheers,

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