Love, Labor, and Gratitude on the Farm
I snapped this picture the other night at the end of a long, grueling day, my phone trembling slightly in my tired hands. I was exhausted, irritated, overwhelmed. Earlier, I had sent my husband a text, half venting, half hopeless, telling him I knew it probably wouldn’t make a difference, but that I needed him to know I was fed up. Fed up with the constant balancing act of running a household alone while he worked from dawn to dusk, with only brief glimpses of time together. The full-time job, cooking dinner, bathing the kids, managing weekend trips solo, keeping the house in some semblance of order… it all fell on me. I resented it, more than I wanted to admit.
Planting and harvest season brings little mercy. Days stretch into nights, and there are moments when I just need to sit, exhale, and let someone else carry the weight. But that evening, everything shifted. My husband finally walked in, sweat clinging to his shirt, sunburned and tired. He fixed his plate and sat down to eat alone. He could have complained or maybe even deserved to, but instead, he simply said, “I’m sorry you’re feeling so tired.” That’s it. No defensiveness. No excuses. Just acknowledgment and care.
Charlotte, our eldest, immediately joined him at the table, chattering away with the boundless energy only children possess. She practically ate his dinner too, while he listened and laughed, sharing stories from the field and our neighbors’ farms. In that simple, quiet moment, I saw him not just as the man who leaves before dawn and returns long after dark, but as a father, a husband, a steward of our family legacy.
Yes, I wish we had more time together each day. One hour barely scratches the surface of what I long for. But the love he pours into his craft, the sweat and sacrifice he gives to sustain our family and uphold four generations of work, is something to marvel at. Farming is often a thankless life. There are endless debates about non-GMO crops, organic certifications, market prices, and the whims of Mother Nature. It’s grueling, unforgiving work. Yet here he is, committed, showing our children the value of perseverance, discipline, and pride in one’s labor.
And suddenly, my frustration melted into gratitude. I had the privilege of sitting down for dinner with the kids, listening to their stories, their laughter echoing through the house. I got to give them baths, hear their squeals of delight, snuggle them tight, and love on them for hours longer than he could that day. The truth hit me: he is the one sacrificing, not me. I am the fortunate one who benefits from his labor, who can savor the little joys that come from a full home and a safe, nourishing life.
We’ll keep going, day after day, until the next rainy afternoon brings a few extra hours with him. And in the meantime, when I slip into a soft cotton shirt or bite into fresh vegetables from our farm, I am reminded of the work, love, and endurance behind it. The next time you enjoy a meal, remember the farmers, their hands in the soil, their hearts in the work. Where would we be without them?
Because in the quiet, exhausting rhythm of life on a farm, love and labor walk hand in hand, and gratitude makes all the difference.
Credit: Katie Spence Pugh
