The weather was gorgeous last Saturday when I drove home from northwest Iowa. The farmers, unable to harvest their crops during our wet October, were out in force. Mile after mile, combines devoured the straight, rustling rows. Augers poured golden streams of corn and soy beans into waiting grain carts.
Sunset came and went, but the work continued. The powerful headlights of the farm machinery illuminated the darkness on both sides of the road. Even though I was wary, scanning the highway for slow-moving vehicles hauling the grain to storage, a deep peace enveloped me as I sped towards home.
The feeling was the same one I experience on days like today, the quiet housework days that tag along behind a string of hectic weeks. For some reason, a to do list of ordinary tasks, the rhythm of the washing machine, and the aroma of crockpot stew mingling with the scent of whatever’s baking in the oven speaks peace and contentment to my harried soul.
So today I am busy with mundane tasks, and anticipating this weekend’s visit with my daughter and her boyfriend. I’m looking forward to supper with them and several of Anne’s college-aged cousins on Saturday night. I’ve already made and frozen applesauce for them to take back to their apartments and dorms. Later today I’ll whip up pumpkin bread to send along, too.
But I hope to send more than just applesauce and pumpkin bread when they go. I want to pass on this harvest of contentment found in everyday life. I want to shower these young adults with the abundance of common delights God has rained upon my generation. I want to send this crop of men and women, our family’s precious hope for the future, wrapped in the ordinary goodness of fellowship, simple food, and home.
That’s a tall order for a supper with relatives, pumpkin bread, and applesauce. But it’s all I have to give. Somehow, I think, it could be enough.
