Gravel sprayed in all directions as I slid into the barn lot and jumped out of my little red convertible. I was pumped! This was my first day as a farmhand. Wayne ambled from the farm house, working a toothpick like a crowbar, his focused gaze and determined steps leaving me slightly intimidated.
Insecurity washed over me and I wondered if my transition as a skinny kid with a flat-top into a competent farmhand might be more difficult than I imagined. Marilyn, the older of Wayne’s two daughters had recently agreed to “go steady with me”— upping the anxious level by the power of Dad. Wayne had shrewdly determined the best way to balance Marilyn’s obvious lapse in judgment was to “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” so he offered to take me on as a farmhand. It was the summer of 1965.
A large diesel tractor idled by the barn, black smoke puffing from its exhaust like the moist breath of an angry bull. My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Marilyn as she stepped from behind the huge tractor. She wore jeans and a flannel shirt; her honey blond hair framed the shy smile she arrowed in my direction. Finding my next breath, I returned my attention to her dad.
Only three of us circled-up in that barnyard; but a dozen different people were represented. A father, a farmer, a protector, and a soldier, flanked by a daughter, a teenager, a child, and a woman, along with by a wannabe man, a boyfriend, a teenager and a rookie farm hand. Above the swirl of all these people, Wayne announced, “You’re gonna mow the hay field on the Smith farm today. You do know how to drive a tractor, right?”
“Heck, yeah!” I lied, hoping against hope they might be impressed. Wayne continued, “Well, sit up there on that fender and Marilyn will show you how to drive the Massey Ferguson. Pay attention because it’s real easy to tear this stuff up!” Orders delivered, he spun on his heels and marched off to fight other battles. Embarrassment circled my collar and warmed my face. I had envisioned a more formal briefing, but Wayne was gone. I turned toward Marilyn, hoping to get clarification, only to discover, she, too, had dispatched herself to the tractor seat and now sat patiently waiting for me to take my place on the “learner’s fender.”
Black smoke rolled as she throttled-up the diesel. In a single motion she released the brake, raised the hydraulically operated mower mechanism, instinctively manipulated a dizzying array of gear levers, looked over her shoulder and eased the tractor onto the roadway. I had long abandoned any effort to appear nonchalant as I white knuckled the vibrating fender and prayed I wouldn’t fall off. I was completely impressed as I watched her delicate hands command obedience from the massive tractor.
After mowing the outmost portion of the Smith field she raised the mower, kicked it into neutral and climbed down. Tilting her head to one side, she shrugged, “Any questions?”
“You kiddin’? I got this!” I lied again as she set out on foot for the farm house. I waited until she was out of sight before I began the first of several failed attempts to pick up where she left off.
That humbling experience forged the steel of a 50 year relationship. I discovered Wayne was not only a good soldier and farmer, but also a good father-in-law. I’ve learned that Marilyn isn’t fearless, but that she is incredibly bold—willing to do whatever the situation demands to get the job done. I’m still learning how to ask for directions and how to admit I don’t yet understand.
I’ve also learned I can’t impress God. In fact, when I do admit I need Him, it facilitates His intervention. The Apostle Peter, having learned this lesson the hard way the night before Jesus’ crucifixion, later wrote,
“Humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God, in order that He may lift us up when the time is right. Cast all your cares on Him because He cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:6-7
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.