Legacy

Am I the old man now? The grandfather? Is there some prayer, some blessing, that I might offer which would secure the well being of this farm and those who name it as a part of their heritage? I know that I am not wise enough, nor good enough, to provide such a thing. My prayers are like hollow, empty things, despite my genuine assurance of the sufficiency and grace of our God. Perhaps I simply do not do nineteenth century faith behaviors very well...

Yet in the midst of this God finds a way to continue whispering to us. It was Sunday, about lunchtime, and away from the gentle chaos of serving up the meal I noticed Bess and Bryan and Chloë nested together on a couch, removed a bit from the noise. I heard Bess and Bryan's voices very quietly singing, bent over little Chloë, a little congregation of three, or perhaps I should say four...later I would ask what I had heard them singing, and they told me Saint Patrick's Breastplate:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ behind me, Christ before me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me,

Christ to comfort and restore me,

Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,

Christ in hearts of all that love me,

Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

The ancient melody like a whispering in the room, a quiet confirmation of the blessings that had been poured out upon that farm, generation after generation for some hundred and forty years...

confirmation that the great risks and human investment and extreme sacrifices stood like foundational stones, massive, still in place, unshakable. Their song took its place alongside the small and the great movements which make a farm, from the first furrow torn through the prairie to the construction of a tiny home to the harvests, the winters, the plantings, the loss of a son and brother, the autumn of those strong, sweet lives...Bess and Bryan's hymn held all these things, but also held a hope for what will come next; perhaps I sensed in this moment Chloë's generation, safe in the arms of Christ, protected, somehow, from the winds of trouble by the solidarity of this old farm.