by Donna Poole
by Donna Poole
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.” — “Tears, Idle Tears” by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1847)
The tall corn still stands summer-tall sentinel on each side of the road, but its stalks are withered-brown now. The green of its youth almost forgotten, it waits patiently for harvest. The corn rustles in the breeze and sounds like old friends talking softly to each other of days gone by. Down the road a piece, another field lies already bare, its crop of beans gathered into bins, its work finished for the season.
Like Tennyson I look at the empty fields with mixed feelings. It isn’t my land, but I feel the farmer’s exhaustion and relief of another harvest completed.
I wonder what the field would think if think it could.
Would it, perhaps, heave a sigh of relief that its work was done and now it could rest and dream under the blue October sky? Might it be pleased it had done its job so well and given a bountiful harvest to the hands that planted it? Would it feel an empty sorrow for “the days that are no more”?
A harvested field seems clean, pristine, and restful. I look at a bean field and know next year it may grow corn, and the corn field will switch to beans. There is always change in farming and nature, but the rhythm remains changeless, spring, summer, fall, winter.
I never used to feel melancholy looking at an empty field; I suppose it’s my age that causes me to look at it now and muse about life and its seasons. This time of my life is full and happy; I’m ripe with the contentment old age brings, but I think of days that are no more and brush away a tear.
In the spring of my life, I learned many verses in Sunday school like this one, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”–Ecclesiastes 3:1–2
In the springtime of my life that verse was just a melody of beautiful words, a lovely tune that flowed over my tongue. My field had just been planted; what did I know of harvest, of death? But now, people my age are getting near the end; it’s almost time for harvest and the long rest. Some are already gone.
A friend about my age explained to the kids in children’s church that she and I had surpassed the biblical three score and ten allotted to the human life. Truth be told, we’re both fast approaching the four-score given to the strong.
“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”—Psalm 90:10
People live longer now than when this Bible passage was written but not by much. According to the CDC, a man living in the United States can expect 76.5 years. A woman’s average life is a bit longer, 81.4 years. And yes, labor and sorrow are part of every life, but so is joy. If you wanted to count, you’d find the word “joy” used 165 times and “joyful” 25 times in the King James version of the Bible. Sorrow is found 70 times.
Sorrow has sometimes enveloped me like the darkest fog so heavy it was almost unbearable. But underneath that blackness, if I listened for it, I could hear a bubbling brook of joy. God promises his children his own love, joy, and peace; they are gifts of the Holy Spirit. Tears will come; we’re broken people living in a broken world, but joy wins in the end.
“Tears may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” –Psalm 30:5
What if part of that joy is discovering what we loved and lost is waiting for us at Home? I don’t know that; no one does, but this I do know. For those who have repented of sin and clung to Jesus as their only hope, eternal springtime waits. There will be no more melancholy thoughts of things that are no more, only eternal joy. It will come, in that great glad morning when Jesus comes for us or we go to him.
So, to the field resting empty but still golden under the October sky, I say, mourn if you must for days that are no more, then take your long winter’s rest. Your resurrection day is coming; you will be plowed and planted next spring. Your crop will look different next year. Perhaps it will be corn. Maybe you will grow golden wheat to gladden the hearts of men. You may be barren now, but don’t lose hope. Better days are coming.
The end.
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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
