I found this poem among Mother’s papers following her death. Typed with her best Smith-Corona – on paper which is now yellowed, she had used her red ink pen from the classroom for her greeting and signature. The words entered in her handwriting were, “To My Loving Farmer Husband” and signed “Your Farmer’s Wife.”
The description of this landscape where I grew up – and the description of my father – so closely match my memories and the “sense of place” I carry with me.
I share it with you.
You’ll find it at the city’s edge… vast and green and rich.
Those wooded hills are part of it… that stretch of grass…
That field of corn…
That grain which pays such graceful homage to the breeze.
That’s all a part of it.
God’s garden plot.
But, enter now. Behold the whole of it,
And marvel at the grandeur of His plan.
That wide plain there that touches each horizon, 
That’s where His wheat is sown.
And, look… those fertile fields of corn…
He chose a perfect spot for them.
The rolling hills you see are lush with grass – for grazing flock or herd.
And there… there, where the sun is brightest,
Is where His orchard blooms.
But let me talk of him whom God made steward of this plot.
He’s of a special sort.
Strong he is, of soul and sinew… and brown from wind and sun.
Gentle is his heart – his hands are rough.
Kindred he is to Nature.
He makes the elements his tools, and the soil his workshop.
He reads the sky as though it were a book and, from the wind, sifts prophecies.
His robe of office is a denim shirt,
And yet no earthly King surveys his realm more proudly.
Small glory attends his task,
And yet no artist approaches quite so nearly the miracle of creation.
Yes, let me talk of him who minds this plot.
He’s of a special sort.
His title… humble as himself…
Reads simply: Farmer.
But there’s a grander one he merits…
One more suited to his trust.
And we have recourse to it now:
“God’s Gardener.”
Posted by: Susan Troyer
