Things were getting desperate.

I was a newly married young man, and the local economy had taken a serious downturn.

I figured I had it better than some; in fact, I know I did.  My job wasn’t the greatest, but it was something I was pretty sure I could depend on, seeing’s as how it was tied closer to human need and not so much to human want, like some other jobs.  Those jobs had been steadily laying off help in an effort to curb the rising cost of overhead and loss of income.

My wife was young and healthy.  I prayed she would stay that way.  Our finances were just barely making it around; if sickness hit, we would be goners in less than a month.  Our little girl was the light of our lives.  She played and sang the days through, tripping gaily around the house.

She had no way of knowing how desperate things were, and for sure how much more so they were about to become.  It didn’t occur to her to be sad, or anxious, haggard with worry.

And then.

I noticed my boss wasn’t himself that morning, and all day he seemed preoccupied with running errands here and there.

We managed to keep things rolling, and when he returned late in the afternoon to see a tip-top, clean and tidy shop with the day’s product sitting by the door waiting to ship, I expect a smile to break out on his tired face.

It didn’t.

Instead, he began weeping, and, as we drew near in quiet support, he told us that it was over.  His banker, also feeling the pinch, had tightened up his accounts by starting with those who owed the most, or were the greatest risk, asking for resolution to their debts.

As a result, my boss had to sell his shop in order to come clean on his debt.

I lost my job.

That was two weeks ago.

Now, I stared mutely at the last $100 I had. 

My wife had four dresses to her name.  One for church, and the other three to make do with evening plans (I didn’t expect too many folks to be hospitable now) and for daily wear.

Things weren’t much better for our little girl.  Her wardrobe was decidedly worn, and she was growing a little more, it seemed, each day.

I decided I would take that $100 and use half for groceries and half for clothes when I remembered I hadn’t paid tithe out of my last paycheck. 

Tithe would come to $90.

*****

Since the day I lost my job, I had been out early and home late every day, looking for work.

I was a desperate man on a desperate mission.  Every other man in our community was as desperate.

Low grade anger and frustration began to build as each day went by.

I began to loathe the field I drove by each day on my way uptown in search of work.  I knew I was targeting the man who farmed it with unjust anger; my feelings sort of boiled out each time I passed it though.

He was a newcomer to our community at the end of last year.  A quiet type, although easy enough to get to know once you were with him for a bit. 

I remember visiting with him back then, asking him what he planned to do.  He said he had bought this piece of land and planned to farm it.

He must have learned to farm somewhere other than close by; his method of farming and the way his field looked drew my attention early on.  It wasn’t conventional at all. 

When I had a job, that didn’t really matter.  Just more or less piqued my curiosity now and again.

Now, his odd ways of doing things downright irked me, and like I said, I knew I was targeting him.

His crop looked fine.  In fact, I’ll grudgingly admit it probably looked better than most in the region. 

But his rows weren’t very straight.  I wished I could show him a thing or two about how to pull a straight row.

And I couldn’t get a grip at all on what his plan was for the weeds springing up here and there.  As each day went by, they grew more, and he seemed completely unconcerned.

His apparent lack of foresight burned me up the most.  I mean, if you have a crop that is flourishing, and for sure in times as tight as these were, why not make sure of your investment?

It got to where every time I drove by that field, I had a plain ole mad going on by the time I reached the end of it.

*****

I remember I got up early, like usual, that morning.  Even though it was hard to muster up any enthusiasm for another day of what I figured would be fruitless job hunting, I knew I had to do what I had to do for my little family.

It was a cloudy morning and I wondered if it would rain before night.  I doubted it would; we were having some scorching hot days and I knew by experience that as soon as the sun came up it would burn away any coolness that lingered as fast as dry tinder in a firebox.

I was almost to the end of his field when I saw the sign, and him. 

His sign stated that he needed help chopping weeds.  I skidded to a stop.  When a man is as hungry as I was for work, anything goes.  Chopping weeds was a far cry from what I had been doing, but no matter.

I asked what he was paying.  He said I could have an hour off for dinner, start at 8 and work to 6 for $11 an hour or about $100 per day until the weeds were gone. 

I said I’d go for it and ran back home to get a rusty machete that had leaned against a wall for the last few years. 

I was soon hard at it.  I rejoiced that my good wife had persuaded me to go ahead and pay that tithe, even though I hadn’t wanted to at the time.  One day on this job and I’d have it back.  God is good, I thought.

From the bottom of the field, I looked back and was amazed at what I saw.  I saw a couple of other fellows, knives flashing in the sun, taking up where I had started.  I was a little grieved, knowing that their contributions to the project would cut hours for me, but I was also glad for the company.

It didn’t stop with them though.  By ten that morning, several more had joined.  I guess the hard times were affecting us all.  At noon a few more were in the field.  Later afternoon brought more. 

By evening, there were enough out there that it was obvious we would finish the field that day.  I wearily trudged towards the field owner to get my wages.  It had turned out to be a scorcher, just like I thought it would, and I was drained, both of liquid and of energy. 

I was so tired I didn’t pay any mind for a while, but then my subconscious started picking up on what was going on. 

I couldn’t believe it.  Everyone was getting $100.  It didn’t matter when they had started. 

“Hold on,” I shouted, “I’ve worked here all day.  Some of these guys have just been here two hours.  And they are the town loafers.  Everyone knows them for what they are.”

The mad I had carried so many days when I drove by frothed out and over everything around.  I was pouring sweat.  My head felt like it would burst with the sun headache I had acquired during the day.  My vision skewed. 

“Wait a minute,” he said.  “Didn’t you agree to the wages I offered?  And when you agreed to them, they seemed fair, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but. . .”

“Look, young man.  Look closely at those you called the town loafers.  Look at their feet.  They were prisoners of war, years ago, in a war that made this country, and your community what it is today. If they hadn’t won that war, you would be a slave, right now, to your neighboring nation. Their feet were wounded deeply by those who tortured them.  Before your time they were healed, but the damage remains.  Could they walk all day? 

Look at those who joined at noon.  Do you recognize them?  Their children and wives were buried, not so long ago, as a result of that horrible sickness that swept through.  Your house was spared of it.”  (I bowed my head in shame as I remembered those terrible days of death and heartache, and how I had piously patted myself on the back, thinking I must be living right to have avoided such a catastrophe in my house.)

“Look again, young man.  Look at those who joined in the morning.  Do you remember them asking for a job from your former employer?  They’ve been out of work longer than you, and I happen to know they haven’t eaten for the last two days.  They wouldn’t have made it this long if I hadn’t given them a little something to eat before they started.”

But I wasn’t looking at them anymore.  My vision had cleared, and I began to see Him for who He really was. 

I saw depth and understanding like I have never seen before in His kind eyes.  I saw tearstains in the dust on his cheeks . . . Had he wept with those who had so recently buried their loved ones? 

I saw His frame, lean and hollow, bent from weariness, and it was then I realized that vaguely I remembered seeing Him out and about on all those days I had scorned his farming methods, visiting those who were discouraged and poor.  His shoulders drooped, as if under a heavy load.

I saw His field, and suddenly I wondered, “Had he planted it with the sole purpose of helping our community in our time of need?”  Stunned, I realized it seemed quite likely that He had.

Lastly, my eyes fell upon his money satchel, and I saw, through tears that swam in my own eyes now, that He took the last few coins from it and handed them to me.

“Here,” he said, “Go now, and do likewise.”