I have so many emotions when I look at this picture.
Pride. Love. Anxiety. Sadness.
I wonder what Farmer sees when he looks into this barn.
Does he remember the field it used to be that he drove, walked by for years. Many when he was on his way home from school? Some when he was driving down the road to feed cattle in the old barn.
Does he remember standing there with builders trying to decide what to build and if to expand? Does he remember watching the truck loads of sand and the dust that went on for days to bring the level of the ground up to match the existing barn?
Maybe he’s thinking of all the different stages of building. The pouring of the cement, the roofing, the installing of the free stalls or grooving the floor. It could be he’s remembering the padding that was put down in the alleys – the first or second time.
Or perhaps when we first let in the cows.
Is he remembering installing all the fans and sprinkling system to keep the cows cool in the heat of summer or walking through the barns in the middle of the winter trying to keep warm while checking the cows.
He could be thinking of all the hours he spent scraping and feeding in this place. Or teaching his sons to do the same.
There are memories of chasing cows back in when someone left a gate unchained. And the hours we’ve spent sorting hundreds of cows over the years.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
I know I’m thinking about the adjustment he’s making.
How do I help him walk away from one of the loves of his life? The life I’ve come to love and treasure. The life neither of us want to close the books.
So many people sing “Man, I can’t wait until I retire. Then I can do the things I want to do.” What if you’ve spent the last 60 plus years doing what you’ve loved to do. What you were born to do? What you were created to do? And then the calendar page turns and it’s time to stop.
The hopes, dreams and desires are supposed to be neatly placed in a box, put the lid on and handed to your son and pray he opens it with the reverence it deserves. You know there will be parts he continues; some he will put by the wayside and some new things that will go into his box.
And all of that is a necessity. And turning over the box is a good thing. And it’s done willingly. But after carrying that heavy box for years and having your arms free and the load lifted is foreign and empty arms aren’t pleasant.
It will take time to fill those arms again and slowly it will happen.
I know the grieving I feel after coming in late to the party and slowly working my way into the working gears. The love Farmer has lived with has grown on me more than I would like. So, the transition – I hate that word – isn’t easy.
The handing of the box isn’t easy for my son either. While he’s been a major part for years, the weight of the box is 100% in his arms. He gets the questions; the decisions must come from him alone. The victories are all him and the failures are his to turn around.
There is pride watching our son do a great job. There is also concern when we see the long hours knowing the toll it will take on his life. There is apprehension knowing the hardships to come and some new ones we can’t see.
So, looking at this picture evokes more emotions than I really want to deal with. I am a fixer and I can’t fix this. This isn’t something broken that can be or needs corrected. It’s an inevitable path we walk. And we will learn to navigate, explore, and eventually enjoy.
I’m not writing this to evoke sympathy or word like “Enjoy! You will figure it out. Go travel, etc”.
I write this because I’m a writer and that’s what I do. It’s part of me, like breathing. And, over the years I know my writing has helped others. Especially the hard things that no one wants to admit or discuss.
If you are flipping the calendar as we are, I wish you well fellow traveler.
If you are receiving the recently closed box, I pray you open it carefully and honor what’s inside. I pray you fill it with treasures for the next recipient.
If you’re a bystander, pray for all concerned and choose your words of encouragement carefully.
