July 22, 2025:
“The wisdom of a scribe cometh by his time of leisure; and he that is less in action, shall receive wisdom. With what wisdom shall he be furnished that holdeth the plough, and that glorieith in the goad, that driveth the oxen therewith, and is occupied in their labours, and his whole talk is about the offspring of bulls? He shall give his mind to turn up furrows, and his care is to give the kine fodder.”—Ecclesiasticus (Sirach) 38: 25-27
Reading, it hits like a gut-punch from God.
What am I living for? What am I doing? What is my purpose, my vocation? Am I attaining wisdom or busying in labor limited to farm?
What do I want to do? What do I value? Where do I discern and find my worth?
Is it wrong to answer “leisure” if in leisure I mean to live as scribe as Book and Bible tell?
Or do I dismiss this desire and draw, forsaking wisdom and less-actioned life, consumed in labors of working kine and plow?
Today, we begin haying. Since final bale of last season, the equipment has been put away and stored under barn.
If asked what haying is to one with both row crop acres and cattle—it is what a farmer does to stay busy until corn is ready to harvest. Mow, rake, bale, stack, move, stack. It is a slow process—winter fodder for the kine.
What wisdom do I gain. There is no leisure. It is on occupier and exhauster of time.
Mornings, reading and writing in leisure and contemplation of mind—these start my days in joy and meaning. Then I go to rote to make money and a living. All action, no wisdom, and there are many days that seem all a loss—broken equipment, lost time, redirection of priorities so that all one does is “keep busy” and hours on the clock, exhaustion of life time, all one has to show for efforts and the stress.
We have a new baler. I’ve never used it before, and before starting in to laying down grass to dry and cure to hay, I want to ensure it works.
First problem, feed and lock handle of the baler’s net wrap doesn’t work. The wrap won’t load and feed. I read the manual, reinspect. A spacer is missing where one should be. The spacer holds the tension of a sleeve that drives the feeding roller to load the wrap. Sometimes a $3.00 part is all it takes for worlds of headaches and frustrations.
I order and get it coming.
I start into the field, a new(er) cabbed tractor (“new” to me as point of reference but we’ve had it now more years than most would use as reference for the word). It is more computer than tractor, and for that, I generally avoid and resent it. For most farm work, one wants a machine they can control a consistent RPM and working force. The computer-transmission tries to be “efficient.” It has multiple settings for drive-rate and power of the PTO shaft. Wrong setting, wrong working—it isn’t a simple set the throttle and drive. Inconsistent thicknesses in stand of clover and grass, the cutterbar heaves and, when overloaded, stops cutting and just lays the grass over. I adjust the PTO settings. Mower works cutting clean and leaving hay in windrow trail.
Half a lap on end-row of the pasture, washout of a waterway before me, I make sharp turn to mow around. Mower stalls again.
I raise the cutterbar, back up—try again; same thing.
One more time, I start, everything looks good. I set the tractor in to forward drive—mess behind.
Tongue pin of the mower’s rattled out—that’s never happened before. Tongue of the mower drops. Front half of mower’s PTO shaft comes out from the back, flies off the tractor’s drive. Hydraulic electric lines are stretched, but undamaged.
I unhook the lines, leave all as it lies.
Maybe it’s God telling me to do as I already wanted to do. I don’t want to drive the computer. I want to drive a tractor. We have an old 4320 open cab that we used before for haying, a diesel motor with wheels we use mostly now for driving grain augers during harvest for the filling of our bins.
It’s three in the afternoon.
Amidst the work of preparation and starting into field, there are messages from my son’s baseball team going on his phone. Their season is almost done. They are ranked first in our smalltown league, and they will have a batting practice tonight at five.
I’d like to be there.
It’s haying season.
I try not to think about it much—which means I do—trying to focus on the work.
I get a ride to the 4320, still attached to auger from summer’s wheat harvest.
It starts right up. Fuel gauge shows half a tank—which doesn’t mean much, that’s as low as gauge goes—and head for the farm.
First of drive is a stretch of busy highway, and I turn off at the first backroad I reach, getting away and out of traffic. One hundred yards on trafficless gravel, tractor heaves and surges—out of gas!
In wrong order, I slam the brake and kill the key before the motor fully loses prime. If such should happen, every fuel line on the engine block must be opened, and every fuel line and filter purged of air that impedes its firing up for start by a little thumb pump that, as I remember well, can take much longer than anyone would ever wish.
It’s 4:15. I think about the lost time in day and try not to think of my son’s practice—which means I do.
I call my ride. He’s already headed with a load of grain to ship from a different bin from where the 4320’d been.
Waiting, I allow myself to think about my son and his practice. I’d like to go. Maybe this is God allowing opportunity to do what I already I want to do.
They day is gone, by the time we get to farm, lift the mower tongue, hook everything again to operating—it will be dark.
Waiting, I message my wife. I tell her it’s been a day.
He turns around, picks me up, and we return to the farm for fuel trailer and tools.
By the time we make it back, another hand is arrived.
I am blessed with help.
We crack the fuel lines, we pump the thumb pump until hooking the starter to jumper cables and cranking so that, in addition to fuel, we don’t run the battery dry cranking on a motor that will not fire.
Blessing, tractor starts far easier than experiences in the past. It is 4:45.
I read the sign. I see the chance. I do as I wanted to do and, through adversities, God affords.
I will be late, but late is better than total absence.
I get to the farm. I park the tractor and go.
I pick up my son. We go the cage.
His friends’ father hass had his own day—more adversities than mine—and coaching and seeing kids have the chance to live as ballplayers for a window of life and time, everyone of us feels better.
Adversities and work will be there—today, tomorrow, and whenever we show up—but it’s important too to make time for the leisure; for the wisdom and pleasures God gifts to us when we allow ourselves to rest, not idle, but in the living of our spirits—isn’t that piece to what this life is all about?
Wisdom of a scribe, receiveth in leisure—I write it now.
*****
Next day, I talk to Denis of the practice, how good and special of a time it was and how I know I only have a little while for times and moments like then. I tell how my son is going into high school, his freshman year, and in telling relate I only played summer ball through my sophomore summer. After that, wanting to play football in college, that was where I weighted my efforts.
Sophomore summer—last season of summer baseball—that’s the first first time I’ve spoken or registered reality out loud. One more summer…where’s the time gone?
Have I lived enough memories, showed enough care? Where has the time gone?
Worry and wonder aid to nothing.
Make the memories you wish to share.
Make the time.
Live the moments.
Isn’t that piece to what this life is all about?
Presence, making time, prioritizing—it’s the greatest way to show we care and someone matters.