We were outside Savannah, Georgia when I asked him to stop the car.
We have lived in the south 17 years but I have never looked closely at the cotton fields. The sandy soil, the brown stems, the heat reflecting off the white.
I wanted to see the cotton up close.
I wanted to walk into the white and brown field and stand in the Georgia heat glancing at the sunset.
I wanted to understand how Southern fields smell and feel.
My husband thought I was a bit crazy. But he stopped.
I marched out into the field, camera in hand. I inspected and touched and felt.
I wanted to understand how Southern fields smell and feel.
My husband thought I was a bit crazy. But he stopped.
I marched out into the field, camera in hand. I inspected and touched and felt.
As I did, I remember being 10, in our Iowa cornfield.
I remember waking up early to watch the sunrise come up over the cattle and the corn. I recall breathing deeply. There was something majestic about knowing that my family farmed the land that stretched out as far as I could see.
I remember waking up early to watch the sunrise come up over the cattle and the corn. I recall breathing deeply. There was something majestic about knowing that my family farmed the land that stretched out as far as I could see.
I spent much of my childhood in the Midwest, watching the snow on cedars and cattle eating from feed bunks. I played in the corn crib and held newborn pigs.
I am familiar with dirt and fields and country roads. But mine are dark and irrigated with feet of snow. No white exists in the summers.
I don’t know anything about how cotton grows.
I don’t know about typical height, or yield, or any of the things my cousin keeps me abreast on about corn in Iowa. Corn is tall and soybeans close to the ground. Winters are harsh and contribute to the equation. There are formulas for crops and yields and best plots of land. All of it means money and trade and ethanol.
I understand these words.
Corn and beans are harvested in tall combines that I used to ride with my grandpa. Those crops stock grocery store aisles and shelves. Iowa crops feed livestock.
This what I know. I don’t know cotton. It suddenly strikes me that I know what feeds us, but I don’t know what clothes us.
I understand these words.
Corn and beans are harvested in tall combines that I used to ride with my grandpa. Those crops stock grocery store aisles and shelves. Iowa crops feed livestock.
This what I know. I don’t know cotton. It suddenly strikes me that I know what feeds us, but I don’t know what clothes us.
I look out across the field and it looks like high cotton. Maybe it is just my ignorance, but it seems tall.
I breathe the hot night air. I remember that the phrase “high cotton” = “happy.” It means the cotton is stacked tall and bringing in good money. It means “life is good,” which translates into wealth and being comfortable. High cotton is easier to pick.
I am paused by this thought.
I am paused by this thought.
I think I still believe that “high cotton” is the goal. I find happiness in more. In easy. In comfortable. In wealth.
High cotton IS beautiful this evening. But I realize as I am standing there that it is also a lie.
The truth? We are called to stoop and serve and surrender. We are called to dirt and despair and decisions that derail us.
The fields we are placed in are hard work. Fields that call us, no matter the crop, to strain and submit and succumb.
Jesus showed us that the cotton underneath is the most precious. The hard-to-get-to, forgotten, difficult-to-find. Low cotton.
Ultimately low cotton is most beautiful.
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I’m glad we stopped on the side of this road, in the cotton, to remember:
We are called to low cotton.
Because the only thing that has ever been high and raised and beautiful was the cross.
High cotton IS beautiful this evening. But I realize as I am standing there that it is also a lie.
The truth? We are called to stoop and serve and surrender. We are called to dirt and despair and decisions that derail us.
The fields we are placed in are hard work. Fields that call us, no matter the crop, to strain and submit and succumb.
Jesus showed us that the cotton underneath is the most precious. The hard-to-get-to, forgotten, difficult-to-find. Low cotton.
Ultimately low cotton is most beautiful.
————————————————-
I’m glad we stopped on the side of this road, in the cotton, to remember:
We are called to low cotton.
Because the only thing that has ever been high and raised and beautiful was the cross.
“He provides rain for the earth; he sends water on the countryside. The lowly he sets on high, and those who mourn are lifted to safety.” Job 5: 10-11
