Three generations of farmers support two generations of missionaries. Those two generations of missionaries had farmers in their linage, too – for three generations back. The missionaries share the farmers’ faith and they value this work of the land. The farmers live the missionaries’ faith and value their work of ministry.
Growing up a child of missionary parents, I was aware of the many people who prayed and sacrificially gave so that my parents could minister to military people. I addressed envelopes for the thank you letters, and I understood that a missionary’s thank yous are never finished. I met these dear people, stayed in their homes, heard their stories, and counted on their prayers. In fact, I remember wondering if people prayed for all children like they prayed for the missionary’s children. I hoped so.
I was young when I sensed this missionary vocation was what God had in mind for me. I felt peaceful about it, but also curious. I asked that God would not send me to the tropics because I didn’t think my fine, straight hair would look good there. I knew He cared about my hair. He wouldn’t count the hairs on my head if He didn’t care about them, right?
So far, God has not asked me to live in the tropics. In fact, the most unexpected move, from my perspective, was back to the States twenty years ago. My husband was called to the same mission leadership my dad had carried through much of my childhood. In so many ways, this relocation did not feel like “real missionary life.” But I knew it was – know it is. I know deep in my soul the sacrifice this form of service requires.
And through all these years – through the missionary kid childhood, the living overseas “front line” ministry as an adult, and the Stateside leadership call on my husband – three generations of farmers in Oregon have not stopped farming, praying, living for Jesus, and generously giving in support of two generations of missionaries (including my parents, my brothers, and my family).
From their fields the Gospel has gone across the world. It’s awesome to me how their calling merges with mine. How can I ever express the thanksgiving that is never finished?
I cannot – not adequately. But recently, I was able to capture a few words of thanks in this poem. I gave it to them, the second-generation farmers – the man in his well-worn overalls. (I think the only time I have seen him in other clothes was at his son’s wedding). And I gave it to the third-generation farmers – the man holding their fourth child, an infant daughter. I left it for the first generation farmers, along with the Cadence history book – a history in which they have had a part from their fields since the early days of our mission.
