It is Harvest Time

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It is Harvest Time...
by Gloria Gaither
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It is harvest time

Lord, it is harvest time.

The ripe fields are being cut,

            their full grains carried by conveyors

                        into waiting trucks,

                                    then driven off to storage bins.

Huge wagons loaded with baled grasses move like awkward prehistoric animals

            through the country roads, groaning with the weight of their burden.

Apples and pears,

            sweet and full,

                        are sorted into wooden crates

                                    to be the central joy of craft festivals.

Root vegetables are being dug

            and hidden in dark cellars against the threat of winter.

Everywhere the reaping of fruit

            and grains

                        and grasses

                                    celebrate the faithful work of spring planting

                                                and hot summer cultivation.

This, Lord, is the season to rejoice,

            the season to enjoy,

                        the season to rest from labor and to dance

                                    in streets and country roads—

                                                around warm bonfires.

I feel it in my bones, Lord.

I, too, am entering the season of harvest.

For so long I have wondered what I would be when I grew up.

For so long I have done, as faithfully as I knew,

            just what the day demanded of me:

                        daily tasks, tending children, meeting deadlines,

                                    passing out love, finishing routines.

All of the while I felt as if one day I would “turn out”—

            do something special—

                        be something when I grew up.

Now, half a century of my days have passed

            doing “regular” things the best I knew.

I smell the smoke of autumn fires,

            and feel the days shortening.

I hear the rustle of “gathering in.”

I can see now, that the daily being was what I was to do.

Even now, my days are so “regular,”

            my chores so unspectacular.

Yet I feel a festival in the air.

My grandchildren dance in the leaves on the hillside.

My husband hurries home to be warmed

            by hot soup and a fire in the kitchen hearth

                        and by our well-tested love.

My work has, on wings of its own,

            found its way into places I will never go,

                        but joy has returned on the wind to sing at the festival.

Yes, this is harvest time.

The fruit is ripe and sweet.

Help me, Lord, to see the life You’ve given me in a new and joyful perspective.

            Help me to embrace the process of seasons.

May the harvest bonfires be a sweet incense to Your nostrils, too.

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You can read more here in Gloria's book, A Book of Simple Prayers. Click here.