life on a farm

Friday night I got a call around 8:00 PM. It was from a friend who told me that a woman who was a part of our faith community died. I know the family well and had visited with them over the last few weeks. On Friday night, after the call, I drove out to spend time with the family. While there I met two individuals who were at least in their seventies.

Their grey hair, slow walk, and wrinkles only served to reflect their kind faces. They both had such a gentle way about them. As they sat with us, I could see that their hearts broke for the wonderful family this woman left behind. They weren’t family they were friends. And as I learned they were an integral part of this family’s story.

Over forty years ago a group of people in a small Western Michigan church decided to live beyond the walls of their building. They lived in a town surrounded by farms that were worked by men and woman who migrated from Mexico. These men and women worked hard during the summer months so that they could live a little better in the winter months. During the summers in Michigan they lived in small, ramshackle “towns” around the farms.

These men and women of this small church decided to go and be with the farm workers. Due to the fact that the parents spent most of the day working, they made a connection with their children. The kids came around mostly because of food, cookies, lemonade, and other treats that were always available. Through the relationships built with the kids, they eventually met the parents.

Over the course of years, they raised some money to build a building near the farms, and continued for over thirty years to invest their lives into the families that came to work in the summers. The two people that came into the house on Friday evening were just two of the several people who spent over thirty years serving those families. One of those families, whose life was changed, was that of the friend who I was sitting next to that had just lost his wife.

He and his wife had met at the little chapel that was built by these faithful people. The longevity of their marriage, over thirty-five years, was a result of the faith that they had learned at that little chapel. Today, was the visitation for the family. Many more men and women from that chapel came to see the family.

I realized that no magazine would ever cover their story. No books would be written about what they did there. There was no non-profit set up for people to donate money. They were never on Christian television (they never died their hair, wore gold, or told crazy stories about how Washington D.C. is the new Jerusalem). Many of those who served in that time have since passed away.

However, the stories they told me are better than the best book. They told me of dozens of those kids who found faith who have gone on to do amazing things. The families who lives changed because of a few people who lived in the country and grew up on farms that loved other people who did not speak their language. This was their story.

It caused me to think about what I pursue. What my desires are. What would I say if I knew that in forty years I had spent my life working in the midst of farm country with a few people who did not speak my language? So often many of us think we have so much to say. Rather than talking so much, maybe we should experience the joy of living as these men and women did. Maybe we should let our lives speak.