It’s calloused and rough, this hand.
I am a little girl and I hold the swollen of this farmer.
We walk the green grass and mud and manure
As he yells ‘C’on, C’on, Let’s Go!’
Callng the cows in for the milking.
I hold this hand too in that old canvas recliner
As we spend a late night in the language of our hearts.
We pray to God for His love & Gospel to go into
The world and the broken of these years somehow,
Somewhere heals.
I see these hands clasped in prayer. Rivers of grief
Inside just days after mom’s passing.
The callouses are heart deep but the softening
Yet deeper. The hands you hold out to
The God who is like the summer sun and the spring rain
That make the crops grow in season.
On Sundays now I imagine our hands held together
Familiar and heady, I feel the rough plains that the farming
Has formed on your weathered exterior in the
Steady way of faith that finds its rutted roads on this
Wide world all the way Home.
Joining all the brave of the #FMFParty on a sunny, warm midday in Budapest
