A Tale of Two Farms

Jacob’s farm was the best. For miles and miles around it was the best. Choice piece of land – level, fertile, and accessible. Fenced and cross-fenced, with plenty of roads. Roads that were graveled, not muddy, well drained and maintained. Big beautiful barns – some for equipment, some for storage, some for processing. Immaculately manicured. Nice new tractors. Plenty of wells and water rights. And productive. Buyers, sellers, employees – a bustling, busy productive farm.

Ben was a farm hand for Jacob. It was a great place to work. Ben was happy, well-cared for, satisfied, almost pampered. He had no reason, no need, no ambition to look elsewhere or otherwise. Jacob was known for miles around, just like the farm. He was the best. He knew all the facts and procedures, kept a tight reign, and paid promptly. He really had his act together.

But one day that all changed. Not the farm, but for Ben. It’s amazing how one letter, a single mystery could change the whole course of one’s life. He had heard recent accounts of a few brave souls who had begun to settle in a wild valley over the mountains in the next great watershed. But he thought they were foolish to leave the comfort, the ease, the security of working for the great plantation farms such as Jacob’s. But what slipped out of the envelope that day was a deed. A deed for eighty acres, written out in his name. A half section of land was his, for free. The letter with the deed simply read, “Please accept my gift. You can do it. I know. I’ll be looking in on you. The land isn’t the only thing that will change. Take courage, my friend. Blessings!”

Ben wrestled and debated, deep in his heart, struggling to make a decision. He hadn’t a friend or confidant on the farm whom he could trust to give him counsel, for they would all consider it foolish to accept the deed and start from scratch. But out of struggle and turmoil arises courage and determination.. His life was set upon a new mission, a destiny hatched by a mysterious letter with a gracious deed.

When the day came to announce his decision and bid farewell, Jacob begged and bartered with Ben to stay. The offers were enticing. But Ben’s heart was unshakeable. So Jacob told him he was always welcome to return. “Come back anytime,” he said, fully expecting that he would see him again soon.

The task that Ben set upon was daunting. The work was hard. Trees to fall, stumps to remove, brush to clear, earth to prepare. It seemed that the process was so slow. Piece by piece, acre upon acre. But sometimes it felt as though he was making no progress at all. Others in the valley were doing the same, and they would help each other out constantly. The friendship that developed was so kindred that Ben wondered if he had ever really had a true friend back at Jacob’s farm. Each day Ben would pause to reflect upon what was transpiring, starting with the deed, resulting in an unquenchable sense of hope, of adventure, and purpose. Each morning he seemed to be renewed with power and guidance. What seemed impossible he found he could accomplish. What he had always been told to do by Jacob he now had to figure out for himself – the why, the when, the how. Crop selection, planting, tilling, herbicides and pesticides, thinning and trimming, hiring and training, harvesting, marketing.

There were times, you must know, when Ben made mistakes. Costly, blundering mistakes. And times when he sat on a stump and just let the tears pour out. There were even times when the memory of Jacob’s farm overwhelmed poor Ben. One time he even drove up to the hilltop to gaze down at all the beautiful farms, all laid out so nice and orderly, with various crops, farmers, foremen, and laborers all doing their part. He dreamt of going back, but only momentarily. Then he closed his eyes and thought back to the mystery that started him on this new venture. He was so thankful for the deed, for the donor, for the land, for the progress. But most of all for the mystery of the envelope that had long since morphed into a greater mystery, a heart that was totally reliant on a living source of strength, peace, hope, and purpose. Yes, even an intangible sense of love. An inwardly empowering love and an outgoing love that encouraged everyone that came into his circle – neighbors, employees, family, and clients. No, his farm was not easy, and it was far from perfect. But this wild valley farm was his joy, his life.

And The Winner Is

There’s a saying, “He who dies with the most toys, wins.” And another, “The difference between a man and a boy is merely the size of his toys.”

I watched in amazement, over the course of several years, as my grandparents grew older and eventually passed on to be with the Lord. My grandfather was a rugged logger in Washington, back in the day when they cut down old growth trees that were six to eight feet in diameter. He homesteaded a property near Elma, clearing the land, with primitive tools and horses. And he built a barn and home by his own two hands. No chainsaws, no electric power tools, no nail guns. Maybe some dynamite. But no excavator. Eventually he moved to the big city to work for Lockheed, building airplanes.

When I really got to know him was when he retired to Kingman, Arizona. He wasn’t there long because he moved back up to his “home”, near Elma, and bought a modest little house with a big shop and several acres to plant trees. At eighty years of age he still felt compelled to plant fir trees, knowing that someone else would someday be the benefactor of harvesting the lumber.

When he got to the point that he couldn’t keep up with the little farm they sold it and moved into an apartment in Olympia. They had a huge estate sale to get rid of so, so much of their tools, furniture, housewares, and belongings. In just a few short years my Grandmother passed on. So Grandpa got rid of more stuff and moved into an assisted care center. He wasn’t there long before he went back to Arizona to live with his daughter, my mother and father.

The memory that made such an impression on my mind was when he boarded the plane to leave his home state of Washington to live his last few months or years in Arizona. He had with him one suitcase. All his worldly possessions were whittled down, step by step, to just one suitcase.

And when we leave this earth, bound for eternity, we won’t be taking even a single suitcase.

In America, land of the free and the brave, the wealthiest nation ever to live on planet Earth, we view possessions and ownership far different than most other people. I was only twenty-five years old when a church sent a man to Oregon to move me down to Arizona to begin ministry there. We nearly filled up an entire U-haul truck. His comment to me has stuck with me ever since. “I’m impressed with how much stuff you have – tools, collections, furniture. That tells me you must be quite a guy.” Rather than flattering me it humbled me. It caused me to change my heart, and begin to try to buck the culture. I would rather God be impressed than men – impressed by how much I give away and by how much I share, not by how much I possess.

“So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6:31-33)

“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” (Philippians 4:12)