At the Farm


At the farm, we hunt for kitties. And scoop them up any ole way we like. Some kitties are a little more tolerant of our lovins than others.


At the farm, we pick peas with Grandma. We walk barefoot through the dirt.


We just calm down our hearts a little. And listen to the horse and buggies trotting by. We catch fireflies and wave to the fellas on the tractors. Some of us are a little envious that the Mennonite neighbors get to mow their own lawns at the ripe old age of five.


At the farm, we pick blackberries by the fence. Well, some of us pick blackberries. Some of us wait till there’s a little bucket full and then we gobble them up when no one’s paying us any mind.


Then we climb on the fence and let the juice dribble down our chin. Because it’s fun to climb on the fence. If you’re at a farm, you probably shouldn’t leave that place until you’ve climbed on a fence.


At the farm, we take a break from all the kitty holdin’ and blackberry snackin’ and pea-pickin’ and we head down to the small town parade. We squint into the sunny street and wave our flags and hope for candy coming.

Momma plugs her ears at all the firetruck sirens and police car sirens and wonders why everybody has to keep honkin’ their horns and blowing those sirens.

But, we just grin and wave.

It’s good to have a farm to go to. And a small town parade. It’s good to have a Grandma and Grandpa to spend time with. It’s especially good to have all this freedom.

Everyday we’re glad for these things as we breathe in deep.

(Thank You, Lord. Really, truly, thank You. For another day of peace.)


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