I have a small jar of wheat sitting on my desk. The jar is only a couple of inches tall and about an inch and a half on each side. There can’t be more than a couple of ounces of wheat inside.
The jar label says that it is my dad’s wheat. I know where it came from. Dad passed away in 1986 of a massive heart attack. This wheat is part of that last harvest of grain from his farm. Each of us children has one of these jars. Our sister-in-law thankfully saved the wheat and gave us the jars a few years ago.
One of these falls, I’d like to plant just a few of the kernels. I suspect that a good percentage of them would grow. I have no clue what variety of wheat it is, but rather suspect that the science of wheat breeding has created varieties that surpass what is in the jar in the last 20 or so years.
Nevertheless, the wheat is a daily reminder of who I am and where I came from. That knowledge helps me to understand where I’m going and why I’m going there. And I know that I’m not alone in my journey from the past. I have five siblings I love very much who have made the trip with me thus far, and even now are making the trip with me to the future. That, somehow, is enormously comforting.
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