Sunday Thoughts

A few random bits that haven't fit in well elsewhere.

The welded plates on the back of the tractor bucket make an amazing difference in switching implements. Phil can bring down something on a pallet, then switch to the bucket to carry buckets of sand and mortar, then switch back to move a pallet of block. It takes a few seconds. What an awesome bit of fabricated metal.

Phil had tried to fill the propane canisters a few days back. He and all the boys showered. For some reason, one of my sons takes half hour (or so) showers. It's a family joke. By the time he had finished, I was deep into some task or other, and by the time it was done, I was too tired to go shower.

Phil woke up, groggy, this morning to ask if I wanted him to run to town. We had run out of propane, and to cook or bathe with warm water, I would need propane. I opted to let him sleep. And so I taught Sunday school, somewhat covered in grey concrete dust, hair pulled back severely to hide the grease. But, as I suspected, Phil turned over and went back to sleep. An hour more rest for him seemed like a good exchange.

We love our eight-seater Toyota Sienna. After church, we picked up up two more scaffolds. The last one shipped to us, so we hadn't really reckoned on how large it would be. We shuffled the boys so they were two in front, two in back; pulled out one chair and stuck it in the back, and the scaffolds fit. (Before we made it home, we also picked up a new propane canister, and many groceries: it felt a bit like a clown car, the amount we stuffed in there!)

I tried to take cute brother photos when we got home from church. It was late enough, though, that the places I hoped would work well had the worst possible lighting.





***

I've been thinking about Snowman's death. As I wrote to a friend, in some ways, even in the sadness, there was still blessing. He died when it was dry enough to actually dig a hole (if it had been more wet, we would have had to leave him in the barn, which is yucky). He died on a day when we didn't have much going on, so it wasn't a matter of trying to balance construction with funeral, or building with crying. And I'm thankful he died before the real hay feeding started, which reduced our financial hit.

And it's helpful, having had sad losses on a semi-regular basis since we moved here, to realize that it's not weakness or inability to farm that makes me cry. It's a right response to a sad situation, a right response to living in a fallen world. It's helpful to say, "I can grieve about this, but it won't break me. I can be thankful he was here, and sad that he's not here now, and wish I can do more but not regret that I didn't." Maybe that's perspective I'm gaining. It's not as emotional a loss as some of the earlier ones. I didn't end the day feeling shattered, just tired and drained.

***

Maybe I have written this on the blog already: I've searched back through August and haven't found a mention of it. I have written to friends and talked about the metal building so often, though, I want a record of it here, too.

The metal building was like a microcosm of the farm, or of my life (I hope). We had the metal building here for over a year: an attempted excavation; a bad concrete pour before we were ready. Workers who wouldn't come. Extra funds for concrete that took time to earn. Nothing happened.

All last winter, Phil was sawing boards (and chipping branches). That was building the building, but I couldn't see it. It felt wasted to me. When the excavation for the foundation happened, and Phil built the formwork with the logs he had sawed, he was building the building, though the lined trench didn't show above the ground.

Even pouring concrete: that four hours was dramatic and exciting, but there was not much to show above the ground. Four hours was a fraction of the time spent filling in the hole for the foundation. But both were needed.

Actually building the structure felt like incredible progress, and it took less time, I would expect, than cutting down boards to form the foundation.

How faithless of me, though, through the winter and spring, to feel like nothing was happening. It was happening. It all needed to happen for the building to be done.

Right now, I hope, this farm is in the foundation stage. We've had messes; we've had sorrows. But when, someday, we have income from our fulfilling work, that will be the finished building. Now, maybe, we're still "sawing the boards." It's not pointless; it's not wasted, even as those form boards, now used twice. It's just early, and the full "structure" isn't up yet.

Maybe the foundation isn't even finished being poured. That's okay. I'm not known for patience; maybe that's what I'm learning now.