Becoming A Farmer

I was reading a book several years ago, and I suddenly had an epiphany. It had nothing to do with the reading material itself, but everything to do with the written pages.

First there were the margins. Empty, but always where they belonged. A good place for scribbling notes and ideas, but otherwise quiet. Mostly there to give the page a sense of order.

Then there were the written words. Marching from margin to margin like good little soldiers. Spaced obediently one character apart. Separated by sentencing and paragraphing rules from time to time, but otherwise shoulder to shoulder . . . page after page . . . until the book ended.

And I knew.
It was a parable of my life.

Crowding my days with routine and obligation and drive.
Living from sermon to sermon, Sunday to Sunday, hanging onto to a tenuous faith.
Keeping my story readable and my margins sacrosanct.
Regular.
Organized.
Expected.
But somehow without a theme that made real sense to me.

That was the moment I realized something needed changing. There might be people who wouldn’t like it. There might be people who wouldn’t understand. I might literally have to duck and run to break free. But it was time.

I wasn’t really ready.
But I did it anyway.

I turned the page, handed God the pen, and threw my hands up in reckless abandonment.

So what happens when you give the Lord creative license in the story of your life?
And then you leave the margins to Him too?

I’m still finding out.
This is what I can tell you so far:

The margins get pretty messy, but the story is astounding.
And somehow, in the crazy unexpectedness of it all, I've become a farmer.

Psalm 137:1-17