There is this field in my mind and in it I am reaping what I have sewn.
Every day all day I am reaping what I sewn.
And it is always day.
There is one row of the field and it is endless, almost endless in front of me and behind me. This one row is my row.
There are other rows endlessly to my left and to my right. Others reap what they sew in these rows.
Strange plants, knee high and desperate for water are in front of me. They have these fruits. Strange fruits, wrinkled and coarse. So feeble are the stalks that one of these little fruits weighs the whole thing down.
I pluck the fruit from the plant and I place it in a sack tied to my belt at my left hip. The sack doesn’t ever seem to get bigger when I drop them in, though I do this nearly endlessly.
It doesn’t ever seem to get smaller when I reach in and pluck one out to eat it. It does not taste like anything and I do not eat because I am hungry. I eat it in the place where I am endlessly reaping what I have sewn because that is what I must do.
I move slowly and I trample the naked stalk under my booted feet. I am holding this wooden thing which is tied to something heavy behind me. It was a thing designed for a beast and not for a man. A large wooden piece, with two rusting chains trailing back behind me.
The chains are linked to something enormous behind me. I pull it slowly. It crushes the naked stalks beneath its wieght.
The thing that I am dragging digs a rut in the ground. When I reach the nearly endless end of the row of the field where I reap and sew, I will turn around.
My yolk and the thing which the yolk drags will disappear. There will be another sack then, at my right hip. I will walk only slightly faster than before. I will bend down and place the seeds in the little rut I dug.
There are things that do not make sense. One of them is that on the trip down I have enough arms to hold the yolk and pluck the fruit and drop the fruit into the sack.
Something else that does make sense is that by the time I reach the very end of my row in the field the fruits have grown back up again. I had reaped. I shall sew. And the yolk is back.
I do not know why I do not look back behind me.
I know that it is some great boulder that I pull.
It is both a rock and a metaphor and my hands grow blisters that are both metaphoric and true.
That rock is the weight of my selfishness. It is the weight of my pride. It is the weight of my hurt. It is the weight of my self sufficieincy, and my delusions.
It is as large as a house and my hands bleed where I push at the yolk.
And I remember that there was a man who said that his yolk was light and easy.
And yet he said I should take up a cross for him. He said I should lose my life for him. He said these things that I did not understand. He was the one who told me I will reap what I sew.
And I do reap what I sew. But I do not believe those other things he said.
I keep on not believing them until suddenly I do.
It is not a yolk I am hauling anymore but a cross, suddenly. A cross. His cross. My cross. The weight is different. It is light and yet it is not. Because it is not my strength that carries it but his, his strength somehow through me.
And this is not a burden meant for a beast. This is a burden made for a man. It is the wieght I was born to carry. It is both easy and not-easy, but I was born to carry it and the strength does not come from me, to carry it: it simply flows through me.
I reach down and pluck one of the fruits by my knees. I am surprised at its redness. I am surprised that it is sweet.