He was the last one to get home. He had lingered in the waning daylight longer than the rest, busy with the remaining tasks his Father had for him. He'd wanted to complete them all, leaving nothing undone. Not one seed could remain unplanted, not one bit of ground remain unturned. He strived on, even when he found his strength wavering and his body growing old. His mind had played tricks on him of late, and sticking to the task had been more of a challenge than usual. But he loved the work. It had been his life, his heart. Held deep within his soul it had become his passion never to be extinguished even by the difficulty that had flowed in upon him in unexpected waves. He stood, hoe in hand, observing the final row, wanting to be there for the harvest, but knowing it would yield itself to younger, stronger hands.
He smiled. It had been a good run, he thought. Never in a million years would he have imagined such a life.
He stared into the growing dusk that cast its shadows on the well-tilled ground. He saw a boy in overalls running through the field toward the old screen door that entered in upon the well-lit place he knew as home. He remembered the dog--so loved--that tagged along behind, the bicycle, the paper route, the brothers and sisters and mom and dad that boundaried his days with the finer things in life--things like family, love, and laughter.
The boy had found a greater presence in his life, as he had grown. The God he'd come to know had drawn him into a family circle ever increasing. And he had been eternally grateful.
The old man turned his gaze as another figure stepped across the furrow he had dug. Dressed in brown, the youngish figure took on a serious tone. He had heard the call to be a man. And capped, and jacketed with brass all buttoned down the front he boarded a ship and sailed into the darkness.
They had spilled onto the beaches of Leyte and Okinawa--he and his companions, the sons of many praying mothers. His own mother yielded him to God and marked the days until he would return. And the sky lit with shells exploding in a cause that sought to free a people in that far off land. Men died, turning the ground beneath them an awful scarlet hue--paying the price of victory. Somewhere in the din he heard another call upon his life. And he knew he would live and go home, but only for a little while. He would return here when the peace was finally won, and once again he'd fight an enemy, but not of flesh and blood. He knew the battle would last a lifetime. And once again he'd fight to free a people and to offer them a victory that was worth everything.
The figure of the soldier faded, and another figure stood before the old man. Standing there within the well-plowed furrow was a man graduated from school, with a woman by his side. The old man smiled at her beauty. He knew her well--this faithful wisp of womanhood that daily touched his life. He watched as the man and woman boarded a ship and sailed into the darkness. They carried love and light enough for an entire nation. The field in which they labored was different from the ones they'd always known. It brought work that was difficult and joyful, and demanded of them all that they could offer. In the offering they discovered a gladness that was unspeakable, and a harvest that yielded a hundred fold all that they had planted.
Children were born--two of their own, and many more were birthed into their family by the Spirit of God. They had never imagined so large a family.
The scene was altered, misting the eyes of the old man. The man and woman, older now, worked on at home, taking on the task of directing the work in their beloved field from a distance. The yield was abundant. But home had changed. The parents they had left had now grown older--or had gone. Brothers and sisters struggled with the ailments of time. Three had died earlier in life. But grandchildren greeted the coming of the man and woman, and brightened their existence with the hope of a new generation to carry on the Father's name. The man and the woman were glad.
Their work yielded to another task. Intercession was the field they plowed, in expectation of greater things to come. The burden was large, but the joy unending.
Then had come the years of difficulty. He had tried to be strong and plow as he had always done--dropping seeds into the little caches of earth prepared with so much love. But it hadn't been easy. God had given him determination to bask in loving and being loved, and to remain faithful to the task before him. He had defeated two enemies before. Victory would again be his, in time.
The old man started and looked around him. The images that had come to greet him faded into the shadows and were gone. It was dark now. And he remembered he was hungry for supper. He walked the last furrow and quietly left the field behind, propping his hoe against the barn. It had been a good day's work, and he was satisfied. Eagerly he made his way across the yard and down the path. He approached the old screen door. It entered upon the well-lit place he knew as Home. The sound of familiar voices touched upon his ears, inviting him to hurry. His footsteps quickened. "I'm home!" he shouted, as he reached for the handle. And loving arms enfolded him, as he stepped across the threshold, and the door creaked and closed gently behind him.
Written in honor of my uncle, Charles Hufstetler
By Janice Clough (Niece), December 30, 2009
