The Harvest

Dreams that occur when your eyes are open are sometimes the hardest to grasp.

He kicked the dry Delta dirt with his boot. The resulting cloud of dust floated across the field of soybeans.  A rag from his pocket wiped the sweat off his brow and from his burning eyes. August’s afternoon sun was brutal and unforgiving.  It was just him, his dog and his talent in the middle of  1,000 acres of nothing — a strange place to search for a dream.  But that’s what he was doing. He was going to be a singer.  And sometimes, the pursuit of dreams takes you on the most unusual route.

He had prayed every night for his dream to come true.  He quickly learned that God didn’t answers prayers like a genie.  No, instead God put him places for him to achieve what he prayed for.  The smoke-filled lounge.  The county fair.  His church. The political picnic.  At times he questioned it all.  Why? Why can’t it be easier?

For 10 years he struggled to be an overnight success.

There were setbacks along the way. Lots of them. As he looked across the Delta, he thought of the people who didn’t believe in him.  They were like insects that ate the grain: The people who discouraged his talent.  The  bosses who didn’t understand his abilities. The well-meaning family members who urged him to settle down. The time he was laid off and had to take three jobs to make ends meet.  The anger caused acid to bubble up from his stomach and damage his throat. He remembered when it all made sense to him: When his sister gave him the puzzle that could only be solved by taking two steps back for every three moves forward. That was a hard lesson for him to learn: The road to success wasn’t a straight line.

Right now, that road was a Delta dirt road.

He climbed into his truck next to his dog and turned on the radio.  A familiar song came on — it was one of his.  He pulled over, put his head down and prayed a quick prayer of thanks.  The local radio station had given him some airplay. You never knew who might be listening. People always asked him who is best friend was. He quipped, “Chance.”

He looked out at the field and realized his talent like the rich Delta soil. If no seeds were planted, nothing would grow.  But each performance was a seed. And the more he planted, the bigger crop he would have.  His insistence on excellence; his discipline was him hoeing the weeds out.  Him taking care of himself physically provided the fertilizer his crop would need.  Like a farmer, he knew he could not scatter a few seeds and be an overnight success.  Farmers didn’t plant seeds and reap a harvest the very next day.  His crop would come in. The good Lord would determine the length of the growing season.

He got out of his truck and scooped some rich, black Delta soil into a Mason Jar.

He had to keep planting.  The law of probabilities only works if you’re in the game.  So plant he did. He kept singing at honky-tonks. He sang on a statewide radio station.  A local gig in the state capitol led to another bigger gig. He hit the pillow every night exhausted.

One night he was singing in the Capitol City and a man in the back of the bar made a call. On the other end, a man in Nashville  listened to the sweet song coming through his phone.

A prayer was answered.

The man in Nashville offered him a record deal.  Several concerts led to a TV appearance.  The TV appearance led to more record sales and radio airplay. Fans loved his down-home, no-nonsense style.  He was called talented and refreshingly honest.  People admired his work-ethic and discipline — the very discipline that allowed him to tend to his most important crop of all: His dream of being a singer. People asked him his secret of success. He replied honestly, “I’m a farmer.”

A year later, he stood on the stage of the Grand Ol’ Opry.  He sang sweet songs that made momma’s cry.  As he strummed the last chord on his current #1 hit, the camera panned out.There, by his foot, was a Mason Jar full of dark Delta soil.

His crop had come in. And it was a bountiful harvest.