Clouds of dust rise from the hard, dry ground with each stroke of my hoe.
Three seeds fall from my hand into small, hollowed holes in the ground.
My bare feet step over the stony field, calloused and broken from a lifetime of playing, working and living without shoes.
The hoe is an extension of my hands.
I seem to be growing out of the ground, deeply rooted in the soil.
“God formed people from the dust of the ground,” says scripture.
I’m stooped and working, planting the fields that will help people live, and I smile.
Now I understand.
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