Into the Fields

thoughts on rain, seasons, and ordinary days

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof—the first spring rain. Rich went out into the pitch-black night with a flashlight, not wanting to wait until the sun rose to check the rain gauge. He came back into the house with a smile, “A half inch, already. And more rain is in the forecast.” 

Over the next few days, the rain kept coming. The roads became a sloppy mess, and our vehicles turned a shade of brown. It rained nearly 1.5”— a significant amount of rain for us. Overnight, it seemed, the prairie went from drab brown to vibrant green. The trees started blooming, and the winter wheat seeded last fall was shooting up—the green blades a welcome sight after months of winter.

Last week, Rich asked me to run the roller for a few days—a job I’ve never tried. For three days, I packed a lunch for Nora and myself and headed to the field. I drove the tractor back and forth through the winter wheat, pulling heavy-weighted rollers behind me. The rollers smashed the rocks protruding from the soil back down into the ground, creating a smoother surface for the combines during harvest this summer. I listened to podcasts, letting auto-steer do most of the work, while I distributed snacks to Nora, convincing her, “We’ll only be out here a little longer.” She napped two of the three days, curled up in the “nest” I made for her on the floor of the tractor.

Those three days spent in the tractor were more hours than I spent all of last year running equipment. Like the buds on the trees, I feel a change in seasons coming, with Nora turning four next month and likely starting Pre-K this fall. I knew this season was coming, but still, I don’t feel ready.

From one of the fields, I saw the pasture where we found “Lucky” the calf in January. The straw still spread out on the ground, reminding me of that bitterly cold night standing outside under the black sky, listening. In some ways, January feels like forever ago, yet it wasn’t that long ago. Driving the tractor on a warm spring day reminded me of how quickly things change. Seasons never stay the same. Even those we aren’t ready to end eventually do. 

On Monday, the guys began seeding the spring crops. Canola, chickpeas, lentils, malt barley, hay barely, and mustard—the seeds varying in size and color—will be spread into the waiting fields in the coming weeks. The fields are ready, thanks to the rain. 

Every spring, I ask Rich, “How long will seeding take?” And every year, he can never give me an exact answer. It all depends on the weather, breakdowns, and other factors. Raising crops is a science, but never an exact one. 

I’m a planner, and I crave absolutes. I want to be able to write on my calendar the exact days they will be in the field, with an end date written in pen: “Last day of seeding.” Then, when that day comes, they’ll finish seeding—like planned—and I can cross it off. Check. Check. But that’s not how farming, or life, always works. 

For the first time in years, my question to Rich didn’t feel as fraught. I wasn’t as overwhelmed thinking of putting the kids to bed without him. Mostly, I was just curious what the coming weeks would look like.

I made a list of dinners to cook and take to the field each night—meals I can easily pack into styrofoam containers to keep them hot. The kids will come with me each evening, fighting over who gets to hand over the containers—the coveted role of passing out the hot meal. 

We’ll drive past the fields of winter wheat, noticing the growth that feels like it came overnight. But glancing at the kids’ in my rearview mirror, I’ll be reminded how fast and slow seasons go, all at the same time. 

Sunrise over the bins. One of the air seeders ready for the field.

Recently, I read “This Must Be The Place” by Jami Nato; the author mentioned advice she received from a writing teacher years ago. I loved it so much that I wrote it on a Post-it note and stuck it on my office wall.

“Just write what you know. You’ll get lost if you try to write what you think others want to read.”

Often, I feel like I don’t have any stories worth sharing. And more than that, I wonder what type of stories I should share. I sometimes get lost trying to write a certain way or feel like each story has to have a bigger meaning to justify a whole post, an email in your inbox. Most days, my life feels pretty mundane and ordinary. From my house on the prairie, surrounded by fields, it’s easy to assume everyone else’s lives are much more exciting.

Maybe I don’t always have something significant to share. But I do know life isn’t made up of significant moments. It’s the ordinary moments that fill our days. 

As the author, Annie Dillard, says, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing."

In the coming weeks, I’ll watch the tractors and air seeders go through my yard. I’ll see the excitement on my kids’ faces when we get to the field each night. I’ll witness the start of another crop season—millions of tiny seeds planted into the soil, which we will, God willing, harvest this summer. Some days, I might help in the fields more than in past years.

I don’t know exactly what each day will bring or what each season will be like. I have to trust that all of the seasons before me have prepared me for this next season like the rains prepared the soil.

But what I do know is this:

A meal offered to someone—whether homemade or take-out—fills more than just their stomach. 

A good rain refreshes more than just the soil. 

Seasons—on the farm and motherhood—don’t last forever.

And everyone’s story, ordinary and significant, is worth sharing.