The Pastor’s Piece – September 10, 2023

The Pastor’s Piece

FCFI

September 10, 2023

When I was a kid on the farm, hitch pins were always in short supply. We didn’t travel on the road at all with our farm equipment back then, so we hadn’t heard of safety clips, much less any need to use them. We made do with what we had whether it be a long, one inch thick bolt, an occasional wrench, or even a screwdriver – we used whatever we could find. At one point in time, we used an engine valve. I’m not sure what engine it came out of or where we found it, but it was a piece of hardened steel that worked well for a long time. It wasn’t very thick in diameter, but what it lacked in thickness it made up for in strength. We pulled everything with that hitch pin, but mostly wagons. One year, the seed corn dealer was giving away hitch pins. A competing seed dealer was giving away jars of jam (like what you put on your toast). When one neighbor got the free jam, he said, “Thank you. You can’t eat a hitch pin.” Maybe not, but a hitch pin with a safety clip may help you live another day so you can enjoy some blackberry jam on your morning toast. Teamwork.  

We did a little hunting when I was kid – mostly the critter type. Most everything we hunted, mom would cook for us – including one time, two pigeons we had shot. Seems kind of gross now, but I must give mom credit, she played along and finished in the frying pan what we started out in the shed. Our uncles liked to hunt rabbits and squirrels and then share the game with us. Mom would fry those up in some kind of homemade batter and we’d eat them. And it was always delicious. If I remember correctly, the squirrel meat had a consistency similar to liver and chicken gizzards. But, no matter what consistency the meat had, everything always tasted like chicken. Which leads me to wonder … Why don’t eggs taste like chicken?

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about golfing. I’ve been a golfer for about 35 years give or take. By that I mean, I’ve gone golfing about 35 times in the last 35 years. I don’t mind the sport, but I’m not crazy about it either. Maybe that’s because I haven’t improved my game much. A  friend of mine from Nebraska was telling me about golfing with his son-in-law. My friend, who is a farmer, said he always golfed in his cowboy boots. But, after a couple of outings, he wasn’t asked back. Apparently, the heels of his cowboy boots were leaving divots on the greens. 

Sometimes when I look in the mirror I wonder who that old guy is in there. I remember when my dad was my age, he would work in the haymow right along with us young guys. When dad was 65 he worked in the haymow all day in 95 degree heat and humidity without blinking an eye. I always marveled at that and wondered if I’d be able to do that someday when I was his age. I’m glad to report that I’m not that old yet, but I also won’t have to be put to that test, because we don’t make small square bales anymore. We hardly make any hay anymore – it’s all chopped or made into big square or round bales. 

Speaking of age limitations. A bunch of us from church got together a few weeks ago to help a guy pour 51 yards of concrete. There were about 6 or 8 of us there along with a few kids. We started at 7 a.m. The first truck arrived about 7:30. We wheelbarrowed the first two truck loads to the far reaches of the shed. A couple of the guys used a 2×4 to strike it off while the rest of us dumped our wheelbarrows. We had four wheelbarrows. After we got closer to the doors, we ditched the wheelbarrows and just ran the cement right to the spot where we needed it. One of the guys on the end of the striker grabbed a bull float and began floating off what we’d done earlier, so I grabbed the end of his 2×4 and took over his job of striking off the concrete. The guy on the other end is, granted, young enough to be my son, but he was quite concerned about how hard I was working and thought I was going to overdo it. Actually, that thought never crossed my mind. But he repeatedly asked me how I was doing? Was I ok? Was I getting tired? “There are younger guys here who can do that,” he said. I knew all that and I was a little taken back by his continuous concern for me. Later, I realized that I was the oldest guy on the crew. That was a first for me. I don’t think I’ve ever been the oldest guy. So I guess that’s what I’m in for from here on out. Next time maybe I’ll bring a lawn chair. 

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might,” (Ephesians 6:10).  

(Kevin Cernek is Lead Pastor of Martintown Community Church in Martintown, Wisconsin).