I almost didn’t post this because I was afraid you’d think I write strangely and want to correct my grammar and punctuation. But this is who I am: words are like music, like lyrics to me.
So bear with me as I wax poetic. Today I need an outlet, but I know words don’t always make sense unless they evoke a picture in your mind’s eye. So the pictures are for you today. And the words perhaps are just for me. Maybe.
I read a post today about a wheat field and am pining for home a bit, my old home and my ultimate home.
My old home is the southeast Colorado plains. In many ways, I was having trouble seeing beauty there. But I do miss it.
Why are we of such limited perspective we can’t always see what’s before us until we’re out of it? God is everywhere in relentless pursuit of those he loves. And so is heaven, I guess.
“So, brothers, in whatever condition each was called, there let him remain with God.” 1 Corinthians 7:24
Where I’m from labor is beauty, but only if you learn to see it:
Wheat bending and swaying together in communion under relentless heat.
Sustenance of summer, of work-worn, rough-worn hands toiling.
Next, the bread of life a scent most pleasing causing deepest hunger, an insatiable child’s longing finally satisfying.
I want to breathe the golden promise in, to take it in to my mind’s eye and heart’s ache, to partake of food most filling.
Where I’m from the dirt is beauty, but only if you learn to live in it:
Plows turning fragrant blended earth of rock of sand of chunks of compost moist and fragrant.
Good soil of earth worms burrowing deep to keep the ground fertilizing, preparing the way.
Next, the faithful farmer sets the seed deep, deep in hope of spring eternal.
I want to breathe the moisture in, to wet and cleanse all dirt-filled crevices I am and will become again, readying the ground for shoots to sprout disrupting dusty places and life again renewing.
Where I’m from the sky is beauty, but only if you learn to wait for it:
Sunlight settling on the plains illuminating fresh worked fields resting after hardest days of breathing, living and producing.
Some color inexplicable known only to the dirt men living across the western sky splashing and dazzling.
Next, we citizens of distant lands packing up both plows and fruits of harvesting, living thriving through another dusty day of heaven rewarding.
I want to breathe the sunlight kissed, to hold it close against myself for days to come, creating life again remembering the chill erasing.
I wrote a song last year for the sweet mother of a dear friend, someone who lived extra-ordinarily in a life disguised as ordinary simplicity. A farmer’s love who learned to live and thrive not in spite of, but because of dirty hands washed clean by living waters; hands that brought encouragement and love to neighbors, and children and friends.
Her pastor said something like this at her funeral:
“She beat cancer because she lived and loved in spite of it.”
Awe, that’s beautiful.
Here are the words to the song my husband Curtis and I sang at her funeral, in case you’re interested, because I need you to be aware of how beautiful you are even though, like me, you may be a plain plains girl, a woman at the well learning to live in the dirt as you hanker for heaven.
Steady: A Tribute to Guyla Tempel
©Curtis and Celi Turner
Raising kids and tending crops may occupy the time
While old age steadies wanderlust of youthful years gone by
In the twinkling of an eye you might think it’s over
But love continues, and like the sway of wheat in summer heat
Turns the seedling to the sustenance we need
She is steady like the moon in autumn
And though the harvest might be scarce
She bears her burden, turns dust into life and love
And when the good Lord sends the rain
She bows her head, counts her blessings
‘Cause she knows promises are made and written from the dust
Loving him then losing him has left its weary mark
While memories sooth the soul when summer ends and turns to frost
In the twinkling of an eye, you might think it’s over
But love continues, and like the sway of wheat in summer heat
Love reaps the harvest to the sustenance we need
Love reaps the harvest to the sustenance we need
She is steady like the moon in autumn
And though the harvest might be scarce
She bears her burden and turns dust into life and love
And when the good Lord sends the rain
She bows her head, and counts her blessings
‘Cause she knows promises are made and written from the dust
She knows promises are made and written from the dust
I’ll fly away—oh glory, I’ll fly away
When I die, alleluia by and by
I’ll fly away
All photos attributed to local photographer and friend Ty Lin Williams of Authenticity Photos by Ty . To see more of her work, follow Ty on Facebook or email Ty.