“Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain...” begins the
beautiful song America. Representing more than 1/3 of America, this fly over
country as it is referred to for many is a boring area. “Nothing there but
fields and farmers, I think I’ll just read,” while flying over it. But when on
two wheels, the ground takes on a new beauty all of its own. From North Dakota
south to Kansas, my artificial lines of demarcation, the first times across were
at 55 mph, a distance you can measure in dog years. And in a car, windows up,
AC on, and CD player blasting, set the cruise today for 80 and it goes by
quickly, or at least not as slow. But get off the interstate on two wheels, and
you begin to see the song writers words come true. The skies do seem to go on
forever, no end to the horizon, it seems to never move, giving credence to the
flat earth believers. But the smells, alert the senses to another story. Early
morning dew still glistening, and the sun heating up the tarmac, and soon the
heat waves are seen rising from it, creating another smell competing with the
land. Small towns dot the horizon, some seen from 50-100 miles off, with only
the old billboard ads giving time and distance any meaning. Small towns, of
maybe 500-5000 people, a place that for a 100 mile radius farmers and their
families do their business. The farmers bring their harvest to town, where huge
silos store it until processed and taken further to market by hundreds of
semis. Where no Walmart has yet encroached on civilization, and moms buy shoes
and clothes for their kids at family owned businesses. Where grocery stores
still carry the family’s groceries out to the pickup, and much business is
discussed over coffee and breakfast at the diner. No Denny’s here, this is real
food, for real men, who work real hard.
My first real farm breakfast was in a little town in Kansas, on a Sunday
morning. Sitting at the counter, I was mesmerized by listening to men talk of
their crops, and the prices they hoped to get for them. The cost of their loans
keeping them afloat until the harvest was in and sold. The price of gas that
effected them directly, and each penny increase multiplied many times came right
out of their profit. They discussed politics, and how the world seemed to be
invading their world, how Washington never listens, and how they could care less
about pretty boys sending young men to war, when the war being fought here was
taking its toll. All the same issues we discuss, they discussed, too. And I
was amazed at how they got up day after day, and went to work. No welfare for a
farm family, no unemployment checks when the winter winds blow, and work is
impossible. No sick days, as every day is a work day, except Sunday in some
cases. Benefits-I got a family to feed. They plant, they water, and God
provides the growth. But in between, the work never stops. And so the work of
a farmer never ends. And they are both farmer, businessman, negotiator, father
or mother, tractor operator, county representative, consumer, and producer-all
at once. They don’t concentrate on corn futures, they are corn, wheat, grain,
and dairy products today, whose every day delay to market can spell failure from
spoilage, or losing money while waiting out time for the harvest. A tough life,
but when challenged, would accept no other. And my hat and helmet goes off to
them.
Another time in Wisconsin I learned while these small town diners serve
breakfast all day. Stopping in Iola,Wisconsin, with less than 1000 people, I
had what was a late breakfast for me. The diner was filled with farmers, and
the mood was festive, the waitresses busy, and the food looked great. Even
though it was 1000am, it was still breakfast time, and even though the menu
spelled breakfast, this was the second meal of the day for many. Their first
breakfast was at 400am, before the cows were up and the roosters were still
waiting for the sun to rise to give their wake- up call. Our traditional
breakfast was for them a morning snack, with this late morning breakfast a
feast. As I found a seat at the counter, between two large men in overalls,
boots covered in mud, there was no doubt I was the stranger in a strange land.
Through the window they could see my California plates on the Tiger, and I am
sure they wondered how I had wandered so far from home. Listening as their eyes
checked me out, I ordered the Farmer’s Special-3 eggs, 3 bacon, 2 sausage, ham,
potatoes, and pancakes. Enough to feed a small family, for men at work this
would have to last until dinner when the sun went down. And as the waitress
brought me the three platters of food, these two men who surrounded me watched
as I ate. It was possible the eggs were from one of their farms, the butter
they were fried in theirs, the bacon from their pigs, and the buckwheat in the
pancakes from their fields. I had given thanks, and as they continued to
consume cups of coffee, a pot was set in front of each one, foe the next 20
minutes I consumed, until I was about to bust. And they boht looked to me,
smiled, and extended the hand of friendship. This California boy had cleaned
his plates, maybe he was not so bad as they thought. Not so different after
all. Thoughts mirrored by me. And we talked, of their fields, my trips,
problems with kids, how the government cannot be trusted, and if they ever got
to California places to go. But mostly, what was it like on a motorcycle? And
the look in their eyes showed a respect and admiration for my ride. Following
me out and wishing me well, not ever letting on that it would be almost two days
and three states until I ate again. Excuse me, BURP!
I had been a stranger, and been welcomed. And made to feel welcome. Two
different environments could have crashed that day, but left friends, admiring
each other. Jesus tells us of how we were once strangers, and He took us in.
Something to remember when dealing with homeless, skateboarders, yuppies, and
bikers. Those who look different, or worship different. We are all different,
but Jesus loves us all the same. It took some getting used to me eating three
platters of food, but it was a compliment to them and their profession. Seeing
someone enjoying the fruits of their labor. The fruit of Jesus’ labor is
reflected in love, joy, peace patience, goodness, kindness, meekness, and long
suffering. The character of God, shown in our actions. And welcoming a
stranger is a big part of it. When someone looks lost at church, ask them to
sit with you. Don’t give directions, walk them to where they need to go.
Extend a hand of friendship, ask them to lunch after. Take the love outside of
the church when you leave, helping the mom with more kids than hands, the hungry
needing food, the thirsty needing drink, the naked needing clothes, and those in
need. Welcome the stranger, for we were all once strangers. Nothing like being
welcomed in a new environment. We call it discipleship. God calls it love.
That morning in Iola it was called breakfast, today it may be lunch. Holding
the door open for someone, smiling at one who is down. How many Lazaruses you
step over today is your choice. Just like there is fly over country, there are
fly over people. Show the love of Jesus today, become an evangelist of love,
become a friend. For every farmer I meet I have a new friend, someone to listen
and someone to listen to. Share the gospel today, when needed use words. They
may just be waiting for someone to wave to them so they can wave back. An
opportunity I don’t wish to miss. Best seen from the seat on a motorcycle. Why
we ride...
love with compassion,
Mikematthew25biker.blogspot.com