I remember driving in gravel; hot and dusty on a summer’s day. We called it the “Rocky Road”, bumping along to the rhythm of the car as we drove into my father’s past. Visiting your grandparents is always exciting when you are a child, but when they live on a farm it’s a double blessing.
There is something about life on the farm that never changes; a constant sanctuary in an unstable world. There are smells of “real food” in the kitchen, rich clean dirt, and grease from the farm machinery. There is the sight of millions of stars on a night unclouded by city lights. Warm breezes in summer and biting winds in winter both ruffle your hair in their respective seasons. Birds can be heard singing, bees buzzing, and the cycle of life marches on.
There is a solemn quiet that comes from the respect of life and growing things, but also a joy in the air that makes you feel you could laugh at any moment. At twenty-eight everything feels the same as it did when I was five years old. The farm probably held that sameness when my father was a child thirty years further back in time.
It’s comforting to know that there are still places like this left in the world; when there are wars and selfish people, and morality seems to be lost to people seeking power, pleasure, or just giving in to complacency. It’s nice to know a place where the simple yet profound relationship between ourselves and God is easily found. Where we rely on him to send us the necessities of life. Where we reap what we sow. Where children find pleasure in a bumpy ride down a gravel road on the way to visit their grandparents, and they don’t have another care in the world.