Late each autumn as the evenings chilled to frost, our church youth group enjoyed a hayride. Living in rural Fairfield County in the 1950’s and 60’s made it much easier to catch a ride on a hay wagon. The appearance of a dusty tractor pulling a wagon smothered in hay wasn’t a contrivance but a way of life. It was common to see wood decked hay wagons, burdened with freshly mown hay, lumbering along in a lazy zigzag pattern behind horses with names like John Deere, Allis Chalmers and Ford Ferguson.
Farming was much different then—smaller; each farm a biological microcosm revolving around the cycle of life. There were chickens for eggs and cows for milk and pigs for…well, you get the idea. The fenced in acreage was used for livestock grazing as well as for crops. Harvest was not merely a cash crop but part of the environmental cycle that made up the organic unit called a family farm.
Back then farms were not only smaller, there were more farms and more farmers. These tiny farms dotted the country side, each a cottage industry, each owned and operated by its resident family.
And it was in this atmosphere our youth group at Oakthorpe Church rode wagons of hay along dusty, tree lined back roads.
The year Marilyn and I were 15, as a pre-licensed teenage boy, I recognized a hayride was the perfect opportunity to snuggle into fresh cut hay with the girl of my dreams. The combination of elements could not go unnoticed—a moonlit night and a beautiful farmer’s daughter, and the wisp of Windsong, her intoxicating perfume, promised cold noses and stolen kisses.
However, because my dream-girl was also the daughter of the man driving the tractor, I had to give careful attention to the seating arrangement. When the call came to “climb aboard”, I nearly pulled her arm out of its socket as I drug her to the rear of the wagon, as far from daddy’s purview as possible.
It turned out Marilyn’s dad, Wayne, had his own plan to keep us all better occupied. He steered us back a narrow dirt road, blackened further by thick tree cover. Suddenly, the wagon creaked and shuttered to a stop in front of an abandoned cemetery. Unkempt, its stones leaned this way and another. Suddenly Wayne shouted, “I think I see someone hiding in the cemetery. You guys better not go in there!” Sure enough, as the girls’ obligatory screams pierced the October chill, the movement of a shadowy figure appeared among the tombstones.
Later, in the retelling of the story, Wayne explained how he had convinced one of his contemporaries to hide out in the graveyard promising, “Heck, these boys won’t even get off the wagon.” However, neither Wayne nor his friend allowed for the Williams brothers: two teenage farm boys who, like their daddy before them, blossomed early into mountainous men. Before Wayne’s challenge rose over the rattle of the tractor engine, the Williams brothers detected the spooky movement among the tombstones and like two Dobermans leapt from the still moving wagon and were instantly atop the unsuspecting volunteer, forcing Wayne to call off the prank. Even now, the graveyard hayride remains a fond remembrance in our family.
Today our home sits on the road leading to that graveyard; the same road that ferried our youth group fifty years ago. As I sit here on the front porch, I can’t help but wonder if the dust kicked up by the late model sedan that just sped by is the same dust that wafted over Marilyn and I that night…God only knows.
There’s an intriguing story found in Luke chapter 24 in which two believers are walking along with the newly resurrected Jesus. Either because of the late hour or because his presence is out of context, they grieve aloud believing the Savior is no longer alive. Only after he leaves them do they recognize with whom they were walking.
Reflecting back they marvel,
“He talked with us on the road. He opened the Scriptures to us. Weren’t our hearts burning inside us during that time?” (verse 32)
Honestly, we all live on a road that leads to a cemetery, and The Savior offers to walk with us along that dusty path. Stop for a moment and breathe in His presence…and you too will sense the same heartwarming our friends experienced on the road to Emmaus.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.