One of Dad's Crew

I walked outside last week to find that our neighbor was, once again, cutting the hay field. I immediately breathed in the smells of freshly mown hay, and that familiar scent took me right back to my childhood on the farm days.

I was raised on a farm in rural Mississippi. We had cattle, a few horses, and a lot of hay. I can still recall the old Oliver tractor. Even better, I remember when my dad was able to afford his very own, brand new John Deere tractor. What pride!

As I watched the work going on next door, one particular hay bailing memory came rushing back. Actually, it was after the bailing—the hauling out of the field and putting it away.

I was about 10, and Dad had invited some neighborhood boys to come over and pitch the square bales onto the trailer. Yours truly was driving the truck. Dad gave me explicit instructions about how to go up and down the aisles of those myriad bales. The boys would pitch the hay up on the trailer, Dad would neatly stack it, and all I had to do was keep the truck going forward.

Now, let me say that there is probably nothing better in the world for a 10-year-old than climbing into the driver’s seat of the pickup truck and be told to drive.

I had to sit up on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals because it was a standard transmission. It had a “granny” gear and dad told me to keep it in that slow-go granny gear.

We hadn’t gone far before hay bales were flying and Dad had his hands full stacking them. Of course, the windows were rolled down in case I needed to get a message—yelling was our communication system.

And get a message I did.

“Slow down, Wanda!” Dad yelled from the back. I quickly hit the brake, but the standard transmission did not take kindly to that treatment and immediately went dead.

Oh yeah, engage clutch.

I cranked the truck, eased out on the clutch and we were off again. We hadn’t gotten far before the dreaded words entered the cab again.

“Slow down, dammit!”

Ouch! Ok. Clutch in, easy on the brake … let it roll a bit. Got it.

Now ease out on the clutch again.

More expletives from the back.

Wanda, quit ridin’ the clutch! You’re gonna burn the &$*# thing up!”

What a memory! But you know, I took a lot of pride in being the driver of that truck because I knew something important:

I was one of Dad’s crew!

As I smiled at the memory, I looked back across the pasture—a huge field with one lone tractor driver out there cutting hay.

And, of course, my mind went to the words of Jesus:

“The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few.” _— Matthew 9:37

Sometimes we get so busy with the day-to-day that we forget why we are here.

Maybe we all need the occasional reminder to slow down—although perhaps not quite as loudly as Dad delivered mine! and make time to be workers for our Heavenly Father.

Because in the end, I can think of nothing more rewarding than knowing:

I’m still one of Dad’s crew.