“Later, after I had been on many different farms and met many different farmers, I had to concede this point. A farm is a form of expression, a physical manifestation of the inner life of its farmers. The farm will reveal who you are, whether you like it or not. That’s art.”
~Kristin Kimball, The Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food, and Love

A week ago I spent six hours driving through the farm country of Wisconsin. In fact my travel time equaled twice that much but it was the first six hours that continue to stay with me. Leaving home not long after the sun had come up, I headed east into its continual rising. The fields unfolded upon themselves like a crazy quilt of the many shades of green. Deep forest green. Lime green. Soft, sweet-pea green. Emerald green. A fanciful yellow green. All moving and dancing in the morning mist as it rose off the warm fields.

Nestled in this blanket of green were the many barns and houses that call this palette home. Red barns and white ones. Those in perfect condition and those bent and breaking from years of work and neglect. Many houses looked idyllic and others wore faces of sadness and loss. Dotting the spaces between fields and structures were cattle, bison, horses and sheep, each adding another dash of color to an already vivid painting.

For six hours I drove in almost complete silence with Seattle Son sleeping in the seat next to me. Normally I would have had the radio on, would have needed some other sound to keep my attention on the task at hand which was to drive safely and arrive in Rockford, Illinois where I would meet up with my mother. For some years this has acted as the half way point between here and Ohio, her home, and the beginning of a little Minnesota vacation for her.

But something about this particular morning held me in a nearly mystical state. The unfolding beauty and the promise of fields in various states of growth seemed to pull me into them. I drove, drinking in the color, the possibility, the ways in which each farm oozed smoothly into the next, much like a watercolor artist allows the moisture of the brush to blur the hard edges that can define field and building, animal and landscape. I drove allowing the gift of this beauty to wash over me, feeling as if I was enfolded in one amazing hymn of praise for creation.

Over the last week I have been reading the book The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball. This memoir chronicles the author’s movement from life as a city dweller to the life of farming. It is not a particularly romantic story but one of hard work and immense commitment to connect to the land which brings us food. Since I can tend to have a certain soft-heartedness about farming and farmers it was a good reminder of the difficult and wearying work others do on my behalf, so I may live. From reading this book I know I could never be a true farmer, at least one who must deal with animals and the butchering of them. I do not have the stamina nor the stomach for it. I might be able to grow the vegetables but could never wield a knife the way Kimball learns to do!

But these particular words from her book which I have printed above struck me as a part of what I experienced on my early morning drive. The art that was revealed to me as I drove through the Wisconsin countryside told me much about the artists whose homes were a part of the painting they awoke in each day. I imagined their lives and wondered. Do they think of themselves as artists? Do they know that there are people driving by as I was who see a beauty in their lives which they may have ceased to see through the sweat and toil? Do they look out over all they’ve planted and see not only the resources that will feed their families but also something that reveals their deeper lives, their deep connection with their creativity and their Creator?

I pray so. Because for one morning in July I drove and experienced true worship. For that and the beauty, I am so very grateful.