so… where you from, friend?

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Iam from dirt fields and Case International tractors and waving fields of wheat hanging heavy in the heat of August afternoons.

I am from an old red brick house under a stretching apple tree with limbs like a ladder for barefeet, and Cowboys and Indians and hiding out behind the barn when company comes up the lane.

I am from the Queen Anne’s lace lining roadsides and fistfuls of great-grandpa Roberts’s favorite dandelions, and milkweeds oozing creamy white in late July.

I am from “it gets better up ahead here” and raspberry kuchen for Sunday dinners and women who tell you how much they paid for whatever clearance rack shirt they’re wearing today.

I am from farmers with earth under their fingernails and big hands smelling of grease and men smelling like hogs in church.

From women who know how to do wash and keep a secret and keep their lines flapping full of work jeans.

From “early to bed and early to rise…” and “mind your pennies and your dollars will take care of themselves” and “there is no mistress like the land, the land.

I’m from rationing a box of Kraft dinner across 3 meals and put pork on your fork, and from Ruth Barbara and Mary Ellen and plates of brown beans.

From midnight dips in rusty watering troughs after late-night barn chores.

From loading potbelly trucks with wrestling pigs before dawn and picking stones until after the sunset and I’m from work with your hands… and let’s get ‘er done again tomorrow.

I am from Good News Bible Clubs on backyard lawns and “Stop! And Let Me Tell You What the Lord has Done for Me” and hayrides and coming to the Cross and “It Only Takes a Spark to Get a Fire Going” and stepping down for baptism by immersion.

I am from being a grown-up in a child’s skin, from wondering if sister’s cold in her coffin, from missing my broken-hearted Mama in the psych ward and from sagging hard under the heart of my Dad.

I am from the God of Redemption, who restores the years the locusts ate up, who writes new stories on pristine pages washed white with the blood of the Lamb — whose business it is to work out all messes for glorious good.

So the thing is

to bow down and look up and give thanks for where all the coming always comes from:

His good, good hand.

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I’d love to know where you’re from. Continue the conversation?  Friend and editor Glynn Young asks me some thoughtful questions in part one of an interview over at The High Calling today  — and he and I wander around some thoughts about writing, farming and family

Wander over there and share a bit of your story and where you’re from?

I’d love to meet you — hear your story, friend. Feel free to ask a question or two —

and you and I’ll continue just a good, down-to-earth conversation.

See you over there!  I’ll have the pot of tea warm…

{You and the kids might write you own “where I’m from“? A “I Am From” Poem Template  here…}

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