October 1, 2001
COMMENTARY:
When summer is gone
___By Kay King
___On the farm, my sister and I watched Daddy "break stubble" every summer—a harsh, ugly scenario that meant the end of the growing season and anticipation of a new one. Then followed weeks of plowing and planting and praying for rain. And waiting. Maybe that was the hardest part. You see, those seemingly unending August days made any kind of future harvest appear impossible.
___Exactly what does the seed-time season have to do with harvest? Everything! A favorite illustration is an off-the-farm vignette set in the sweltering Texas summer of 1971. That year, the concept of harvest never crossed my mind. Instead of stubble and one-way plows and planters, my greatest concerns--well, I’ll go ahead and call them stressors--were our three rowdy kids. Boys to boot.
___Enter Vacation Bible School week. Ready or not. And I was never ready for that kind of summer fun. Before walking to church (I didn’t drive back then) and teaching other folks’ fifth graders, I had to find my own kids. It wasn’t hide-and-seek or seek-and-you-will-find-quickly, either. It was often more like seek-and-spank-everybody. And try really hard to arrive on time. Without somebody sabotaging my agenda.
___Somehow our little guys implemented their own strategy of divide-and-don’t-be-conquered. The oldest, I could usually track to Williams Creek off Panther Drive in Woodway--always trying for new speed records on his bike, but inevitably crashing somewhere near the front porch. At least Kyle chose our porch. Traditionally, our second son stayed close by, but so did his swarm of peers. Always returns of three- or four-to-one with Dee. Now Dan, the youngest--right there was a megachallenge for everybody. Past the point of no return. Before I could contact my committee of friends to search the neighborhood, he would already have scaled the church spire, via sturdy downspout, to assess his own overview of our frenzy.
___If mornings blurred with locating kids, evenings produced a kind of frantic fast-forward mode for our family. My husband’s graduate studies at Baylor required late hours tangled with statistics projects--and occasional stops by the emergency room for stitches. (Not all downspouts were sturdy enough for Dan.) Inevitably, though, tomorrow’s daily schedule broke through before the dark sky was patched with pink strands of dawn. My personal bouts with depression and intermittent overdraft notices from the bank failed to enhance inspiration for cutting out construction-paper captions for bulletin board themes and Bible memory verses. Consistently, my prayer was "Help, Lord!"
___Obviously, there were no funds for full-meal deals or drive-through rescues, so lots of fish sticks and scrambled eggs appeared on the small kitchen table. But ketchup flowed freely. Freely. And a rare premium frozen treat was awarded to the boy who might have accidentally taken an afternoon nap. Contemporary moms call that kind of coping "behavior modification" or even "the reward system." For me, it was mere survival.
___So then, seed-sowing, natural or spiritual, had no visible place in those hectic summer days of Vacation Bible School. Not until a boy named Joe, a visitor to our congregation, quietly tapped my shoulder one morning as the others hustled toward the playground and asked if he might skip recess. Surprised by his spontaneity, I gladly waved to the class and stayed behind with this quiet, serious blond-haired boy with such searching eyes.
___"Mrs. King, I’m ready to ask Jesus to come into my heart. Will you help me?" was all the freckled-faced boy said. But clearly, I heard courage. Without waiting for a response, he reached for my hand and bowed his head. And closed his eyes tightly. And prayed straight into heaven with the faith of a little child.
___ Seedtime and harvest. They’re more than poetic terms. Recently I was startled to see the photo of a handsome, grownup Joe Johnson in the Tribune’s obituary section. I wept to read the account of this Christian man’s life lived for God. Unquestionably, I sensed strong victory in a kid’s commitment kept.
___ Here’s the takeaway: If you’re a young mom (or grandmom) who has to locate your own family before teaching someone else’s children about Moses and Philemon and John 3:16, take heart. Maybe your pantry offers not a lot more than peanut butter and Pop Tarts. Take heart. If you must phone friends to bail you out of pressing straits, dial. And then take a deep breath and send a prayer. And go the distance. Kid care, and yes, Vacation Bible School too, can be a real pain. But what if it’s real pain invested?
___ Another summer has gone. Stubble is being broken across the Texas countryside. Soon, planted seeds will die. In the midst of autumn, I’ll meditate on a truth I learned a long time ago. Because Jesus Christ lives in hearts like Joe’s, joy and sorrow can dwell together without ever knowing the existence of the other. Surely, surely this mystery of seedtime and harvest is one of God’s most precious gifts to his children of all ages. I believe.
___ Kay King, a freelance writer, lives in Eddy. She has written several devotional books, including "When You Hurt Too Much to Pray, Praise!" and "Flurries of God’s Faithfulness."
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