Parenting is (hands down) the hardest job in the world. And if you don’t believe me, there are about two million mom bloggers who provide numerous accounts that back up my statement. Go read them if you dare to argue. Anywho…it is the hardest job ever. Ironically, it is also the one lifetime career that is unpaid and comes with no instruction on how to do it right. Go figure. I knew this going into it at the age of nineteen, so I cannot claim ignorance. However, until you are holding a tiny human in your arms and realize that their very existence relies solely upon your mothering abilities (or lack thereof,) you cannot imagine how completely true and petrifying this realization is. Now, take that and multiply it by seven. That’s me.
One day, I was sitting at the computer blogging and trying to put into words just how unprepared and unsure I was feeling about my role as a mother of seven. Suddenly, words just started flowing into my brain and pouring out from my fingertips. Five minutes later, it sat staring at me on the computer screen. It was a poem and I had no idea that it had been sitting in my head, just waiting to be given life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did the first time.
The Farmer
There once was a farmer. Seven seeds she did sow.
She knew nothing of farming. It was “learn as you go”.
She planted them, nourished them, and hoped for the best.
But her thumb was not green, unlike all the rest.
The other farmers would snicker and stare,
Saying, “Seven seeds? She wouldn’t dare!
She’s not a great farmer and can’t handle those seeds!
Her tools are too puny to provide for their needs.”
The farmer had tools that were humble and small.
But she figured them better than nothing at all.
She used her tools to tend the seeds daily.
Even though there were times she did not do it gaily.
There were many times when she’d tend to them wrong.
Or she’d worry that one would not grow to be strong.
But she kept right on farming and tending those seeds.
She tried hard to provide for all of their needs.
She soon learned to ignore all the other rude farmers.
Whose own smug pride she refused to let harm hers.
As spring and summer were nearing an end,
All she could do was call on a friend.
“Please God,” she would pray. “I’ve done all I can.
I’ve tried to raise them according to plan.
But I’m just one farmer, and I know I’m not gifted.
So I’ll hand them over, to you they are lifted.”
For many weeks, the farmer waited
to see what would happen, her breath always baited.
The leaves are now changing. Harvest season is near.
The farmer, still trusting in her Father dear.
She loves her sprouts, but fears the unknown.
She hopes they produce the good things she’s sown.
She thinks back to a time when they were just seeds.
Times she had to deny them of things that weren’t “needs.”
Would some of her choices turn out to be wrong?
Would they still grow into plants that were fruitful and strong?
These answers are hidden from the farmer’s view.
She has to trust God to know what to do.
For He’s the real farmer of things great and small.
We depend on Him, for our harvest, come Fall.
