To America’s farmers and all who work with their hands, “Thank you”

Here in the Midwest, fall’s brush has begun to touch the land. This year’s arrival is late. Unseasonably warm weather has delayed its return. Now, though, there are bits of red dabbled here and there throughout the underbrush. Trees are beginning to show off their highlights of orange and yellow. Yet the most telling sign is the one we see as we drive up and down the country roads.

The combines are back.

Looking out the window at the spreading fields, the giant machines lumber up and down in symmetrical lines, devouring row upon row of soybeans. Dust rolls in their wake. Semi trucks wait patiently for their turn in the annual dance. The farmer fills it; they haul it away. Over and over until the harvest is done, they move in this beautiful rhythm.

Soon, they’ll come for the corn, and fields once full of towering stalks will be leveled, laid bare. The dust will roll. The trucks will, too, and then the ground will go fallow for the winter.

Every time we observe these lovely vignettes, my stalwart husband murmurs beside me, “I just love that.” I know what he means. It’s pure Americana. Pure country. A reminder of the people who settled and tamed this land, removing rocks from the soil by hand. Chiseling rows into hard-baked dirt and planting those precious seeds. By hand.

The American farmer is a national treasure. Though the art of farming has changed (those big combines are a reminder), the heart of the farmer has not, and the challenges he faces remain much the same. He is dependent on the weather, which is outside of his control. A year of drought, which we have had, can nearly wipe him out, and a year of abundance is to be celebrated. He well knows the reality of the term “feast or famine.”

Economic ups and downs with changing crop prices are ever a concern. This, too, is beyond his control. Increasing costs of supplies and land affect his bottom line, and yet he arises every day, sets his face toward the sun and keeps on tending the land.

In a time of heated political rhetoric and national division, it is good and wholesome to return to our roots. To remember the men and women who pushed back the wild frontier and built this country from the ground straight up. It is good.

It’s good to shift our focus from Washington and its politics and to see what’s right in front of us; rather, who is right in front of us. The men and women of the trades are heroes, and it’s time we honor them.

Every day at the office, I look out the plate glass window, and there they are. Countless trucks of every shape and size, wearing the logos and names of businesses, pass by. More and more, I see women sitting in the cabs, taking their places beside their male counterparts in the world of commerce. Night and day, these trucks travel the highways and byways of this great nation, delivering the goods that we need. I am thankful for them.

Of late, we have had a steady stream of tradespeople, folks trained with the skills and abilities that we lack. They are specialists in their chosen fields.

Last week, a father-son team appeared, ready to tackle a list of plumbing issues and appliance repairs. While the father looked at the air conditioner and some plumbing needs, the son started in on the appliances. This young man had graduated with one of my own sons. Even though he did go to college and get his degree, he chose to go into the trades, working for his dad. From his father, he’d learned the plumbing side of things. Now, he was taking classes in refrigeration, adding to his knowledge base.

At one point in the job, he got stuck. Turning to his dad, he showed him the problem and asked his advice. I watched from the sidelines as the seasoned technician with decades of experience showed his son what to do. Father and son, working hand in hand, the older teaching the younger his trade. It was a lovely moment.

Recently, another tradesman came by. He works at a factory by day, taking classes at night. He wants to become a full-time electrician, so we handed him a list. With the skills he’s already mastered, he completed the job, and he did it well. We are grateful for his skill and expertise.

Yet another tradesman has been helping us out. A local Amish man who, too, works in a factory by day and cultivates a trade by night, has been working on our water softener. He hires a driver to take him to his evening jobs, and he puts heart and soul into his service. Again, he is able to do what we cannot, and we value his knowledge and ability.

To the trash truck drivers who take care of our garbage, thank you. To the mechanics who fix our cars, the body shops who do the same, and the construction workers who build things, thank you. To the painters, the waiters and waitresses, the baristas, and to every policeman; to all of our precious fellow Americans who work with their hands every day, we honor you. We love you. We are grateful for you and your gifts.

May God bless every single one, and may God bless these United States. Amen.