Black: Down on the Farm
It’s Christmas time again in the city. Street lights, store windows, parties, jolly songs are being sung, TV and radio commercials are pronouncing its coming! Most of the attention centers around giving and receiving gifts, cards, trees, eggnog, turkey dressing, decorations and company coming. And in the midst of all this joyous chaos of celebration, someone is bound to remind us of the “real meaning” of Christmas; the birth of Jesus Christ.
It’s understandable that we need reminding. We get so busy just being “busy” about earthly stuff that it comes between us and our maker. It is especially true if our world circles around skyscrapers, big malls, traffic jams and 8-to-5 commitments.
Folks who live in the country have the opportunity to be a little closer to God. Not that they always take it, but the opportunity is there. We get to witness a brand new life begin. A baby calf, a litter of pigs, corn sprouting, apple blossoms, a staggering colt. Sometimes we get to help God create these miracles. He even allows us to take partial credit, but lest we get too cocky, He doesn’t allow us to take it for granted. A hailstorm, a case of killer scours, or drought reminds us who’s really responsible.
Because farm and ranch people have chosen to work directly with God, we get a closer look at life than most folks. We are not insulated from its precarious nature. Yet, in return we are exposed to the beautiful sunrise, the smell of rain, the quiet snow and the satisfaction of saving a life now and then.
Christmas (not Xmas) honors the life and teachings of God come to earth. God went out on a limb sending His son. He took a chance that we’d believe enough in him to believe in his son. I guess He expects us to believe in miracles. Maybe that’s why most country people are church-goin’ Christians; we get to see his miracles on a regular basis.
I am sure God spends time in the city. He’s there working in the shopping mall, the factories and the office buildings that speckle our wonderful nation. But I figger He must commute; ‘cause I’ll bet when He goes home for Christmas, He goes to the country.❖