We are the people of the next. On a farm, the clock and the calendar are our masters, but they are also our greatest distractions. We wait all day for the end of the day so we can finally pull off our boots. We wait all year for the next year to come, hoping for better margins, better weather or a better balance of the markets. We spend entire lifetimes working for the prize 2-year-old, the record milk production or the bin-busting crop that finally justifies the sweat.
But if we are honest, when those records finally arrive, they often feel like a destination we reached while we were looking out the window at something else. Because the truth of the farm life — the goodness we praise God for — isn’t found in the record books; it’s found on an ordinary Tuesday.
The Success of the Seconds
Success on our 750-cow dairy is usually measured in pounds, percentages and bushels harvested. We track data points with precision, seeking logic in the chaos, but the real successes of a farming life don’t always happen in the margins. Sometimes they are the glimmering moments that we too often take for granted because they don’t come with a trophy or a line on a balance sheet.
Think about the last time you worked cattle together as a family. It’s a task that can easily descend into shouted directions and frayed nerves. But then, there’s that moment where it all just works. No one has to say a word; you move in a silent, practiced choreography passed down through generations. Your father knows exactly where you’re going to move the gate; your children anticipate the next cow in the chute. In that fleeting minute, the legacy isn’t a legal document or a transition plan — it’s a heartbeat.
It’s the five-minute window in between filling the planter when a football appears from the back of the truck. The dust is still settling, the sun is high and, for 60 seconds, you aren’t a manager or an operator; you’re a dad. You’re a kid again yourself. Those spirals thrown over the tongue of the planter are the things we actually long for, yet we often treat them as interruptions to the “real work.”
Community Covered in Plastic
We saw it last fall during the long stretch of chopping. The silage pile was growing, the weather was turning and the exhaustion was setting in. Then, the high school varsity football team showed up — a dozen young men with more energy than sense, ready to help pull the plastic and toss the tires.
In the grand scheme of the year’s production, that couple of hours of help was a small fraction of the labor. But in the grand scheme of life, it was everything. It was the community showing up when the always-on nature of the dairy felt like too much to carry alone. It was the realization that the farm doesn’t just produce milk; it produces the character of the town. If you didn’t stop to see the goodness in those dusty, laughing teenagers, you might have thought it was just another chore finished. But it was the best Tuesday of the month.
The Prize of the Return
Then there is the greatest glimmer of all: the conversation you didn’t dare to script. It happens in the cab of the truck or while walking back from the parlor. Your oldest son, the one you’ve watched grow up in the shadow of this barn, looks at the horizon and says he wants to do what Dad does for a living. After graduating from college this spring, he is planning to come back to the family farm.
In that moment, the low margin and crummy weather lose their power. The audacity and faith required to keep a 750-cow and 1,800-acre operation running are suddenly rewarded. Not with a record milk check, but with the knowledge that the soil you’ve tended and the cows you’ve bred have a future beyond your own hands.
Searching for the Glimmer
The thing about these moments is that they don’t happen for 24 consecutive hours. They don’t last for weeks or months. They are seconds. They are glimmers of hope that we have to actively search for.
If we aren’t careful, we can finish the day thinking it was just another grind — another ordinary Tuesday where the equipment broke or the labor was short. But if we adjust our sails and shift our gaze, we realize that the days we’ve been longing for are happening right in front of our eyes.
The prize isn’t the 2-year-old in the show ring; it’s the 2-year-old grandchild sitting on your lap in the tractor. The record crop isn’t just the bushels per acre; it’s the harvest of memories with family by your side being made while the work was being done.
Praise God for the goodness that being a farmer is — not because it is easy and not because it is always profitable, but because it gives us the eyes to see that an ordinary Tuesday can be the best day we have ever asked for. We just have to be brave enough to stop waiting for the “next” long enough to see the “now.”
