A Pitchfork and a Bedding Fork, Easy Peasy.
Dear Dungarees,
Like Limp Bizkit, we were rolling. Two townies-turned-farm-girls were driving past rows of trucks with tires more expensive than the sedan we were in. Trucks with extended cabs, extended beds, and extended warranties attached to trailers with no-nonsense weight limits overshadowed us. Our out-of-place chariot scraped the concrete parking block, signaling the beginning of our journey.
Murdoch's on Saturday is no joke. It smells like dusty leather and new Pendleton they used to lure tourists with. An electric feeling permeates the air. Imagine the New York Stock Exchange but with farm supplies, agricultural tools, and livestock instead of securities. Everyone here wears Carhartts and knows the value of quality and a hard-earned dollar.
Like skyscrapers, neatly stacked farm goods soar overhead, inviting us deeper in. There's no time for dilly-dallying. In the same way as Odysseus and his men, we pass safely through the straights. We’ve got tools to buy.
We find ourselves alone, deep within the store, where the lights cast a dim glow. You can hear a piece of hay drop, and things smell like industrial rubber and farm wisdom of the ages. We are out of our depths.
Full stop. At the back of the building, every forked tool ever created hangs as high and wide as the eye can see. A closer inspection revealed that there were no bedding forks or pitchforks marked on the tools. Had we wandered amongst the wranglers and lariats in vain? A silent presence appeared with a question wrapped in almost holy light. "How can I help you, ladies?"
Confidently clearing my throat, I said, “We need a pitchfork and can't figure out which one is…actually a pitchfork.” There was an above-average pause. (Often, I fill these spaces with awkward words. The older I get, the more I learn to marinate in the pause.) During those moments of quiet marination, Mom and I exchanged silent giggles with our eyes. Finally, the employee spoke slowly, over-enunciating each word, and a bit too loudly, he said, “This wall of tools is ALL pitchforks."
"That's fine, that's fine," I said with a clutch of my overall suspenders and a furrow in my brow, trying to channel a more farmery vibe. "But some have two, three, four, five, or six points. Which of these is considered a traditional pitchfork?” With SLOW, intentional, too-loud enunciation again, the employee said, “They ALL are Ma'am."
Now listen, farmers, I get it. You all have ideas about the perfect pitchfork. Some of you think three forks are grand while others find six prongs the sweet spot. But some of us need more guidance. In the absence of the previously mentioned additional guidance, we purchased the tools we thought we would need. (one of these... and one of these...)
With a 3-pronged pitch fork and a bedding fork (we hoped) strapped to the roof of the car, we drove away with slightly more knowledge and confidence than we entered with. And it feels like sometimes God's gifts are like that wall of tools. Tall and wide and never-ending. Disorienting in their vastness and unlimited in their purpose. How do we choose which ones to use? Somebody over-enunciate how we are to proceed!
WE. CAN. USE. THEM. ALL.
God's blessed gifts, like tools, have value and are meant to be used! Pick the ones off the wall you can use today, and with confidence, strap them to the roof of your outwardly underwhelming farm vehicle and drive out of that parking lot with your head held high, knowing every perfect gift is from above. And guess what? It won't cost you $110 (which is what we spent on the pitchfork and bedding fork). God's gifts are FREE, my friend.
Grab those proverbial spiritual suspenders and come as a worker, unashamed.
