The Corn in the Field

Today would have been my dad’s 95^th birthday. On a recent trip R.J. and I took, we drove through farmland in Minnesota and Wisconsin. It’s October, and the fields are either ready to harvest or already harvested. I couldn’t help thinking back to five years ago, at the time of my dad’s final days. I have shared this story before, but I felt so drawn to it that I am sharing it again.

My dad and I had a very special relationship. One of the best parts of my childhood was being his little girl. I have five older brothers and am the only girl in my family and a tag-along to boot. My parents were almost 40 years old and pretty sure they were done having kids when I came into their lives.  Dad and I snuggled together in his big La-Z-Boy recliner, ate ice cream together, and rode horseback together. My daddy worked hard all day long, but when he came home he always had time for me, and I cherished our special relationship. When my mom passed away in 1999, my dad and I grew even closer. I reminded him a lot of my mom, and I was nearby to do the “mom” things for him, things that, as he put it, were “not in his job description.” I helped put up Christmas decorations, helped get birthday cards ready to send out, ate out with him on his anniversary and Mom’s birthday, and even made a family scrapbook with him. When he went into a care center in 2007, I looked forward to visiting him at least once a week. It was a privilege to spend time with him, to sneak him contraband Arby’s food, to hear about the other residents in the care center. And of course, I enjoyed hearing about his life, which started in a completely different era from the world in which we live now.

 My dad grew up on the farm and was always comfortable surrounded by rolling hills and countryside. He went off to serve his country during WWII (stateside, in Texas), but he came back home to those hills when he was discharged. And when he returned home, he did farm work. Eventually he found a career at a grain elevator, winding up with ownership of Fountain Grain and Feed.  Farming was a real part of who he was. I loved listening to the stories about his growing up days, working the land with the horses. He really knew how to make those days come to life for me, and no sugar coating, either - possibly some exaggeration, if it made the story better, but no sugar coating!

My dad’s 90^th birthday was on October 28, 2009. He had been ill with an infection and wasn’t as “sharp” as he always had been. Still, it was good to be able to have the party and celebrate his 90 years on this earth. Since it was the end of October, we drove home through a landscape that was on its way to becoming barren. A few leaves still hung on trees, but the brilliant reds were mostly gone.  As we drove along, my youngest son, then nearly 16, commented that the cornfields weren’t as pretty as they had been in the summer. I tried to tell him that they were just a different pretty, but he was firm in his opinion. The dusky, yellowish-beige was nowhere near as brilliant as the deep green of summer; that truth could not be denied.  But I wanted my son to see the beauty I saw in those cornfields, just as they were.  

“What do you see when you look at the fields?” I asked. 

He replied, “It’s all dead.”

“David, this was the farmer’s goal when he planted the corn last spring. The seeds sprouted, stalks grew tall and produced their own ears of corn. Everything the farmer hopes for is in those dead stalks of corn. And the corn can’t be harvested until it gets to this stage of life.” The tears stung my eyes as I said the words, because I realized how true they were for all of God’s creation, and of course, for my dad specifically. He was nearing his harvest time.

The shell that held the wonderful man I called my father was failing. It became more and more evident over the following month. He understood that as well. I wanted to soak up every minute I could have with him; he told me “you don’t have to come for this.” But he was still my daddy, and I loved him too much to stay away. He wasn’t awake very often during the month of November, much like that “dying” corn in the field. He was waiting, biding time, until the Master Farmer said it was harvest time.

I wish I could say that letting go was easy. My dad was old, in pain, and ready to go. I knew that God was calling my dad home. But in the moments he was alert, Dad’s personality shone through.  The “green cornstalk” was still in there, in all its vivid color. Thinking about life without that earthly connection hurt so very much. The day came, though, when the staff at the care center where my dad made his home alerted us that his death was imminent. As family surrounded my dad one last time, we all held hands in a circle around his bed and prayed him into heaven. It was as though we were tools in the Master Farmer’s hands, and I thank Him for that experience. Then, all that was left here was the empty husk of the man who once was so alive.

By the time Dad passed away, harvest was long past. It was early December and snow covered a barren Minnesota landscape. He was buried in a cemetery not far from the farm where he grew up, on the rolling hills of southeastern Minnesota. That’s where his body rests, but his soul resides in heaven. He is without pain, young and full of life again. I had to let go, even though I didn’t want to, even though I wasn’t ready. That’s the way it is sometimes, with God. His timing is different from our own. I am so thankful that His love and His comfort are everlasting.