A kidney donor recipient, middle-aged man & black woman walk into a soybean field ...

It starts like the start of a ridiculously demented joke, doesn’t it? A kidney donor recipient, a middle-aged man and a black person walk into a soybean field...but this story, my friends, is not a joke. This is just another page in the adventurous story of my real life. My ridiculous real life.

I’m allergic to three things that I know of in life: ragweed, soy and pushing myself past physical limits of pain and exhaustion. All three of them I confronted in one long and hot six hour day. This past Saturday, in the small town of McCool Junction, somewhere in the state I live in, there lies a very large soybean field. This field also had roughly 72 million ragweed bushes growing in the midst of it (give or take). From what I understand, the farmer tried to eliminate the problem with another product, but it didn’t work. A new product is what he wanted to use, but because of the size of many of the weeds, ANY product would not be able to zap those suckers. So they had to be pulled to eliminate problems now and in the future.

Shortly put, these were not weeds at all. They were bushels and trees of ragweed. Like nothing I had ever seen before. They were the godzilla hybrids of ragweed and mockery, just waiting to pollenate and wreak havoc on a world of unsuspecting allergy victims and choke out the profit of soybean bushels to this farmer. And if any other person than who asked for our help would have asked, I would have laughed at them, judged them and likely told the story a few times over about the person who asked me to pick weeds in a soybean field.... 

But this friendship is a different kind of friendship. Let me fill you in on this part just a bit.

Last year around this same time, Paul was up at Mayo Clinic with his son for a surgery when he met a young boy and his mother in a nearby restaurant. The boy’s father had just had a kidney transplant and was sitting alone, recovering from his recent surgery. Paul, in his usual passionate fashion, spoke to her about Tiny Hands and what we do and they conversed about surgeries and medical stuff and other small talk. And that was that. Well wishes, nice conversation, exchange of prayerful wishes....and that was that. Or so we thought.

A few short weeks later, however, paths crossed again. In Lincoln this time. At a concert. Sitting just one row behind them. This time I was with them. And in an overheard comment made about Tiny Hands when we sat down, the man turned around and said “I know about Tiny Hands”....and it was him. The husband from the restaurant, just weeks after receiving a new kidney, waiting to worship with his family at a Casting Crowns concert.

There are more threads to this story that unraveled that night and in the coming weeks and months. For one, this man (Sean is his name) was a childhood friend of my family when we were growing up. His wife and I used to celebrate Christmases together at a friend’s house. We all lost touch somewhere along the way, but that moment at the top of the Double Tree Hotel in Minnesota, God began to intersect our paths again. And now, the friendship is reignited and has blossomed into one so deep that...well, without hesitation, we agree to help pick ragweed in a soybean field. Without hesitation the FIRST time that is. :)

As if once wasn’t enough, we went out twice. And there may be more times. If there’s one thing I learned about manual labor in the field, it’s this: You don’t work until you’re too tired to work any more. You work until you’re done and then about an hour longer. You work until the sun refuses to provide anymore light. You work even when the heat advisory says not to.

Crabby 1 and Crabby 2 at end of Day 1

You see, by all counts, none of us should have been out there. Sean has a kidney thing. Paul has a serious back thing. And me....well, I have a thing for air-conditioning. I kinda like how it feels. I don’t like seeing mice jet across my path or frogs jumping by my hand when I reach for a root or reports of snakes in the tall brush. I don’t like sunburns and heat exhaustion. I don’t like scratchy things touching my skin or mud all over my shoes. I don’t like gravel roads. I don’t like any of those things one bit. But I love the friendship. I love hearing Sean and Paul harass each other. I love the comfort level between all of us to say something completely offensive and not be offended in the least bit by it. I love hearing the jokes and the laughter. And I love the non-stop “inspirational” quotes that come from the mouth and mind of Sean, meant mostly to motivate but mostly just makes us laugh. I even wrote one on my arm. “Life is more than what’s handed to you”. 

The start of this blog started with the three of us in a somewhat humorous joke beginning. The ironic (but not surprising) fact about this experience is that my friend, Ann, joined us for our second round. A hard worker who always loves a good challenge and a new experience, Ann wasn’t asked by us to join and help out. She volunteered. Because she’s Ann and that’s just the kind of person she is. So when we went out again our second time, we had another hard worker on our hands and even more funny memories. Our backs are sore again, our fingers are numb

The pictures just show a day of hard work in the field by a few kids, a kidney donor recipient, a middle aged man and a black woman...and now a blonde. But like most things in life, there’s always a greater story behind what seems to be the start of a good joke. And there’s even more to the depth of the friendships God has given me. As hard as it was (is), I am so thankful for an opportunity to be around my friends in this way. It truly is a blessing.

To see more photos of this lovely extravaganza, click the following link:


https://picasaweb.google.com/114492662071259764154/RagweedPickin?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCNiYuoD8iP-cIg&feat=directlink