Today I watched him on the tractor plowing our field. Our field. Not his own, though there is endless work to be done on his land as well. The dirt and heat swirling around his head. And the wind in his face. His sweat-stained hat wet from the hose. Pushed down tight on hair still dark. Not much gray though he’s just months from seventy. Dark like my grandmother’s midnight hair. She’s been gone for over a decade now. The girl from Montana – a force to be reckoned with. Sold her horse at seventeen and bought a train ticket to California. On her own. Her second son like that, too. A one man show. Sometimes I worry about him. He lives hard. And the years roll along. People don’t last forever. But love does.

Love does.

A man in a plain white T-shirt. Worn blue jeans. Not store bought worn. Hard work worn. Battered silver watch on a tan wrist. And cowboy boots with real manure stains. He still never wears anything else but those boots. Even on a trip to the beach with his grandkids: cowboy boots with a hundred barn miles, though the silver watch is gone now.

Long gone like the little freckle-faced girl who adored him. She is forty-three with wrinkles around her eyes, too. Burden heavy upon shoulders. “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and my burden is light” Matthew 11:28-30.

I long for him to hear these words. Deep in his soul hear these words for the weary. He’s a weary man and I sometimes grow weary praying for him. But love hears.

Love hears.

“Ask anything in My name and it will be done for you” John 14:13.

I ask for things this man I adore – my dad – does not yet ask for. He has not gotten to the end of himself. The end of all earthly things. Heaven’s door. Far from the tractor. Far from the fields that need mowing and plowing and planting. Fields that will need mowing, plowing, and planting a hundred years from now. Long after he and I are gone.

And still the wind blows. Against our fields. Against new walnut trees. Against my dad’s dark hair. All his friends gone gray, but not Dad. The defiant one. Still running against the wind.

Let the cowboys ride. Let the cowboys ride. They’ll be ridin’ against the wind. Against the wind.

I hear Bob Seger’s song Against the Wind and I think of my dad. That 1980 album. Dad finished his dream house on a hill with his own hammer in 1980, my mom hammering too, and then bought my brother and me waterbeds. The rich sleep in waterbeds. He was young and strong, bucking the wind. But love waited.

Love waits.

I heard someone say he’s getting religion now. This about Dad going to church after years of going without. I hope not. Not religion. Religion has no Wind. No Spirit. Let the dead do religion. The living trust in the One who died on the cross and rose again. The grave could not hold God’s Son. A Redeemer lives. He’s real. “He is called Faithful and True. In righteousness He judges and wages war. His eyes are a flame of fire, and on His head are many diadems; and He has a name written on Him which no one knows except himself. He is clothed with a robe dipped in blood, and His name is called The Word of God” Revelation 19:11-13.

I place The Word of God before him, over and over, before my dad. This is not an easy thing. Birth is like that. Difficult. I sigh. Again and again, I sigh. When will he rest in the Light? When will he reach for rescue? From the fields forever mowing? Plowing? Planting? From the devil forever tempting? From himself forever running against the wind?

When will he reach up? To the One called Faithful and True. The Rider of the white horse in Revelation. Wearing a robe dipped in blood. Waging war because of love. For love saves.

Love saves.