rainy pause

kate jComment

There's a freshly worked field in front of me, egg sandwiches in the seat next to me. The sunroof is open, XM rolling thru the speakers, but not so loud that it covers the birds in the trees overtop. 

They're finishing the round before they meet me at the back of the Yukon for breakfast, "they" of course being the three generations of Johnson farmers squeezed into the cab of a John Deere with Christmas-morning excitement. 

The last few weeks have been rainy, which put a hold on planting. They're all ready to cross it off, to move on to caring for the crops that are already up, and hopefully, the next few days will close the books.  

It's been said that the quality of our lives is directly related to the amount of uncertainty we are willing to live with - how many rainy days we can endure before we start to panic and change course. 

And I never cease to be amazed at the impeccable timing of a rainy spell, and these last few weeks were no different. It meant Farmer Johnson was available when our family needed him most. I transitioned into a new job, CJ had a spring sing and field trip, we snuck in a long overdue family breakfast in the corner booth of our favorite Sunday spot.

The guilt vanishes when it begins to rain, as if he suddenly has approval to just be - to laugh more, to take life less seriously, to spend time doing things he doesn't normally allow himself to do when he's focused on being all he can be for our little family. As the rain drags on, though, he grows weary and antsy. 

He starts talk of switching to beans, worrying about replants, overthinking his hard work and underestimating his abilities. And like clockwork, just when he's about to drive me absolutely insane, here comes the sun. A few days of dry. A return of his smile, and another family-filled Saturday morning in the field.