My dad grew up on a 160 acre farm in the small Southwest Missouri farming community of Bendavis. I don’t recall us ever calling it anything other than simply “the farm.” This, however, shouldn’t lead anyone to think of it as a place that is not special. Sometimes uncreative people will call their cat “cat” or their dog “dog,” and to me these folks are idiots; they had the perfect opportunity to give their pets an important name like Captain Wiggles or Mr. Happy or some other descriptive yet powerful name. But, a rose would smell just as sweet regardless of what we call it; therefore “the farm” is a perfectly appropriate name.
So, what makes this piece of property in the middle of nowhere so special you ask? Perhaps it’s the fact that the wind is always blowing – cooling your brow on hot Summer days wrestling the cows or reminding of our Lord, the Unmoved Mover. Or maybe it’s all of the imagery of a simpler time – the old tractor, rusted hay rake, weathered fence corner posts or the proud Prairie barn. It could even be because everywhere you turn your eyes you see something that Grandpa and Grandma Robertson touched – the Cherry, Buckeye, and Walnut trees that Grandma Annie planted and the buildings that Grandpa Glenn built with Depression Era tools and practically no money. Maybe it’s the pristine views (click the gas tank image above). All of these are great examples of the specialness of “the farm,” yet I can’t help but consider the fact that when I walk all the way to the back of the property to my favorite place I feel like I’m standing in the presence of God.