Surprising Grace

That field of beans west of the barn, it looked gaunt come October, bean pods all hanging like bony ribs.

Whenever the wind sighed, the whole field just rattled skinny.

That’s how my dad always spoke of a railish man, that you could count his ribs. Nothing in me wanted to count those beans, know the yield, from that spare field.

When my husband, the Farmer, rolled the combine in and lowered the combined head to bring those beans in, I sat beside him, raised my voice to ask it above the combine’s working engine: “Is it possible that something that doesn’t look like anything — can still amount to something?”

The field, it was hard to even look at it. I’ve known a face in a mirror much like that.

“Well — it isn’t much to look at, is it?” The Farmer looks up from the combine’s steering wheel, looks across the field to the north. “Weedy. And thin.”

The white of the sow thistle seeds mingles with the dust. This field had no rain in July, and a man can’t make a sky give. He can just make the knees bend and the hands raise. The harvest looked like a failure. I’ve known this, been this, am this.

The first time thanksgiving is ever mentioned in Scripture, this is what we read:

The first time thanksgiving is mentioned in Scripture, the thanksgiving offering was part of the peace offering. Could that be the thing?

Could it be — no one receives the peace of God without giving thanks to God? Is thankfulness really but the deep, contented breath of peacefulness? Is this why God asks us to give thanks even when things look a failure? When there doesn’t seem much to give thanks for?

The beans rattle through the combine, the auger filling the bin with golden beans like bread rising slow.

There were to be ten offerings of bread in every thank offering of the Israelites.

The first were like crackers. The second like wafers. These were known for their thinness. This was the order of thanks.

The thanks began for the thin things, the wafer things that almost weren’t, and the way the people of God give thanks is first to give thanks for even the meager and unlikely.

Then it came, thanks for the leavened bread. Why would leaven, yeast — that which is seen in Scripture as impure, unwanted — why would leaven be included as part of the thanks offering?

Authentic thanks is always for all things, because our God is a God kneading all things into a bread that sustains. Paul gave “glory in tribulations” (Romans 5:3 KJV) and took “pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake” (2 Corinthians 12:10 KJV), and he knew that which didn’t look like anything good might yield good, all in the hand of a good God.

To bring the sacrifice of thanksgiving means to sacrifice our understanding of what is beneficial and thank God for everything because He is benevolent. A sacrifice of thanks lays down our perspective and raises hands in praise anyways — always. A sacrifice is, by definition, not an easy thing — but it is a sacred thing.

There is this: We give thanks to God not because of how we feel but because of who He is.

“See it on the monitor?” The Farmer points to the screen to the right of the combine’s steering wheel. “See the numbers, how many bushels an acre? If you didn’t see the numbers, you’d never guess it, would you? It’s yielding higher than it looks.” He’s shaking his head in happy wonder.

“Really? How can that be?” The numbers on the screen defy the seemingly sparse and stunted crop, and I’m laughing incredulous.

“I know! I know …” The Farmer smiles, glances down at the beans feeding into the combine head, one eye still watching number of bushels on the screen.

He who is grateful for little is given much laughter … and it’s counting the ways He loves, this is what multiplies joy.

The life that counts blessings discovers its yielding more than it seems.

Why don’t I keep more of an eye on the number of His graces? Why don’t I want to know that even though it doesn’t seem like there’s been enough rain, He reigns and He is enough and the bounty is greater than it appears?

The thin places might be the places closest to God and the skinny places might be fuller than they seem, and who isn’t full when they have Christ?

“Look how many seeds were really hiding in this pod!”

Little Shalom, she calls to me walking back across the field. “Count them, Mama.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, let’s count.”

And there’s this counting the ribs of the field, graces filling unexpectedly, thanksgiving always this walking toward peace, and I see it.

See it — how the Farmer waves to me from the harvest seat, his hand turned willingly up to the sky.

God, cause me to know it afresh today: the life that counts blessings discovers its yielding much more than it seems. And my life yields most when I yield most to You.