That love is earned

The sun cast a long shadow across the old man’s face, lines etched as deeply into his weathered skin as the furrows upon his fields. A lifetime’s labor showed in the gnarled hands that held the plow, the shoulders bowed under a yoke of both toil and quiet acceptance. He was a simple farmer, a man of the earth, but in his calloused touch, there was a timeless kind of philosophy.

“See here, son,” he rumbled one afternoon, the rhythm of his words slow as the oxen pulling their weight. “The ground, she don’t play favorites. If you do right by her, sow the seed true and tend the crop honest, she yields a bounty. Cheat her, and even the richest soil turns to dust.”

The wisdom wasn’t just for the land. He spoke of the grain, but his gaze drifted to the town beyond the sloping fields. That’s where he’d see the banker, dressed in fine linens that spoke of a different world. The butcher, apron stained with the work of the day, standing at his stall. And when the winds of change blew ill, the soldiers – young and old – marching off with duty heavy on their faces.

“Don’t be thinking your work ain’t got the same weight as mine,” he’d say after a thoughtful pause. “It’s the honesty of it that makes the difference, same as tending the fields true.”

The banker might count coins, a far cry from the bushels of wheat the farmer hefted. Yet, in meticulous ledgers and careful transactions, there was a parallel to the earth’s cycle. An honest balance sheet was its own fruitful harvest, providing for the townsfolk in ways the farmer never could.

The butcher, his strong arms slick with his trade, performed a task most wouldn’t dare. But in his skill, his swift, clean cuts, was respect for the creature that gave its life, and the responsibility of nourishing the living. His honesty was in the weight on the scale, the fair pricing, a stark counterpoint to the blood on his hands.

The soldiers, ah, that’s where it got tangled. The old man understood the sword and shield better than most. War had marked his youth like weather scars an ancient tree. “There’s honor in the fight,” he’d admit quietly, on nights when the old ache was in his bones. “But it’s in doing what’s right even when it’s hard, that’s where the true fight lies.” Mercy to a fallen foe, defense of the innocent over blind obedience – he’d lived that kind of honor, seen it, and mourned the lack of it more than he liked to admit.

He’d even say the same for those with softer hands, like the medics stitching up wounds. “There’s days even they gotta choose who lives and dies. It’s the honesty that keeps those choices from haunting them. Do your duty, do it right, don’t let fear or pride muddle your mind. That’s how you live with it later.”

The old man, he even had a word for the folks in the big city, though he’d never set foot in one himself. The factory workers, lost in the belly of some rattling beast of iron. “Each one’s just a cog,” he’d reckon, “but if one cog lies, the whole machine grinds to a halt. Honest work, even a small bit of it, makes that machine spin, feeds families, builds things.” There was a kind of respect in his voice, distant though it might be.

His world was the land, and the span of sky it held. Yet, he’d turn his weathered gaze on whatever profession crossed his path and nod sagely. “Life ain’t about what you do, see? It’s about how you do it. Honest work, that’s worth more than gold. The world goes on, bad times and good, but like a good well, honest work never runs dry.”

And sure, when the day was done and his weary bones ached, he wasn’t reading fancy books or reciting poetry. But there’s poetry, the quiet sort, in calloused hands at rest. And philosophy lives not only in the minds of scholars, but in the dirt beneath a farmer’s boot and the sweat of any brow bent in earnest labor.