It was a bad day on the farm.
Well, maybe I should say it was nearly a tragically bad day and one whale of a wake-up call.
One of the reasons I love driving my old John Deere tractor into the fields to work the ground, plant some seeds, and eventually deliver a crop at harvest is that Jean (my name for the tractor) is a little older than I am and still getting the job done.
I also like that the little bench seat leaves enough room for me to have one of the grandkids beside me. I must admit, I probably enjoy it more than they do.
I love to share stories about growing up on this same farm where they are living and teach them about the responsibilities and joys that come from tending all the precious life around us.
So, yesterday afternoon after school, Harmon joined me on the tractor as we hauled some bags of fertilizer out to my back forty so I could get to them faster today when I planned to add the nutrients to the soil.
We loaded the flat bed trailer pulled by the tractor and took off on the long route to the field.
At Harmon's urging, I pushed the pedal a little further toward the floor and the wind made us grab our hats so they wouldn't blow away.
Maybe that was the problem, but I can only blame myself, for in that instant the big right wheel hit a washed out hole in the muddy road.
Next thing I knew we tilted over and were thrown off the seat, landing face first in the mud and the stuff left behind by that morning's honey wagon run.
Dazed, I got up on my knees and looked for Harmon. At first I thought I saw a big doll, but it was Harmon.
He wasn't moving.
I found a pulse and moved him enough so he could breathe once I cleared the already caked mud away from his nose and mouth. He wasn't conscious.
Where was my phone? There it is, in the puddle but it seemed to be mostly dry.
I hit the button to call Harmon's Dad and then called 9-1-1.
Then the most important call... to the Lord above. "Please Lord, be with Harmon right now. Help the EMTs get here quick. In Your Son's Name. Amen"
As I looked up, wiping away my tears, I saw my son high-tailing it across the field in a four-wheeler and heard the siren start to sound as the Rescue Team pulled out of the station.
He was starting to move a little, but we asked him to lay still. He wasn't opening his eyes, and stopped moving.
The EMTs were able to drive right to us with the new 4 wheel drive rescue vehicle they had thanks to the community fund-raising efforts that bought it. Harmon raised the most of any kid on his baseball team for the truck. He always wanted a ride in it, but I'm sure he wanted to be up front, not laying down in the back.
Jacob got to him first, knelt down and looked him over then took some readings and communicated to the hospital. He looked up at a nervous father and grandfather and said it looked like a concussion and a bunch of nasty bruises, but we would know more after the trip into emergency room.
Those next several minutes, all I really heard was the sound of my own breath and a continuing line of prayers from my heart.
Then they loaded him up, Scotty got in with them, and off they went.
I got on the four wheeler and drove it back to the house where I could get the truck and head into town.
Hospital waiting rooms are nicer than they used to be, but they still have that distinct feeling of anxiety, worry, and guilt. Maybe it was just my guilt.
What was I thinking? Why was I going so fast? How will I explain this, and realized there was no explanation - just an open wound of hurt - that I prayed would feel better when the doctor came out of the ER.
As I dropped into a chair, I noticed the headline story from last Sunday's paper - about the risk to children living on farms. I read the first couple of paragraphs before I had to put it down.
It read: The Childhood Agricultural Safety Network figures that a child dies from farm injuries, on average, every 3 and a half days.
The leading cause of death for kids? The tractor. Blamed for 40% of farm fatalities for kids under 15.
The word fatalities spun around my skull like a NASCAR. "Dear Lord, please be with Harmon and bring him back to full health...."
"Excuse me?"
I looked up. It was the doctor.
"Well, you dodged a bullet there, sir. Someone was looking out for him. Harmon needs to stay here overnight and he is going to have a nasty shiner and his leg in a cast for six weeks, but otherwise he should be ready for his chores in about eight weeks."
"Thank you doctor." I bowed my head, "Thank you, Jesus."
To catch up on the earlier chapters click here.
Well, maybe I should say it was nearly a tragically bad day and one whale of a wake-up call.
One of the reasons I love driving my old John Deere tractor into the fields to work the ground, plant some seeds, and eventually deliver a crop at harvest is that Jean (my name for the tractor) is a little older than I am and still getting the job done.
I also like that the little bench seat leaves enough room for me to have one of the grandkids beside me. I must admit, I probably enjoy it more than they do.
I love to share stories about growing up on this same farm where they are living and teach them about the responsibilities and joys that come from tending all the precious life around us.
So, yesterday afternoon after school, Harmon joined me on the tractor as we hauled some bags of fertilizer out to my back forty so I could get to them faster today when I planned to add the nutrients to the soil.We loaded the flat bed trailer pulled by the tractor and took off on the long route to the field.
At Harmon's urging, I pushed the pedal a little further toward the floor and the wind made us grab our hats so they wouldn't blow away.
Maybe that was the problem, but I can only blame myself, for in that instant the big right wheel hit a washed out hole in the muddy road.
Next thing I knew we tilted over and were thrown off the seat, landing face first in the mud and the stuff left behind by that morning's honey wagon run.
Dazed, I got up on my knees and looked for Harmon. At first I thought I saw a big doll, but it was Harmon.
He wasn't moving.
I found a pulse and moved him enough so he could breathe once I cleared the already caked mud away from his nose and mouth. He wasn't conscious.
Where was my phone? There it is, in the puddle but it seemed to be mostly dry.
I hit the button to call Harmon's Dad and then called 9-1-1.
Then the most important call... to the Lord above. "Please Lord, be with Harmon right now. Help the EMTs get here quick. In Your Son's Name. Amen"
As I looked up, wiping away my tears, I saw my son high-tailing it across the field in a four-wheeler and heard the siren start to sound as the Rescue Team pulled out of the station.
He was starting to move a little, but we asked him to lay still. He wasn't opening his eyes, and stopped moving.
The EMTs were able to drive right to us with the new 4 wheel drive rescue vehicle they had thanks to the community fund-raising efforts that bought it. Harmon raised the most of any kid on his baseball team for the truck. He always wanted a ride in it, but I'm sure he wanted to be up front, not laying down in the back.
Jacob got to him first, knelt down and looked him over then took some readings and communicated to the hospital. He looked up at a nervous father and grandfather and said it looked like a concussion and a bunch of nasty bruises, but we would know more after the trip into emergency room.
Those next several minutes, all I really heard was the sound of my own breath and a continuing line of prayers from my heart.
Then they loaded him up, Scotty got in with them, and off they went.
I got on the four wheeler and drove it back to the house where I could get the truck and head into town.
Hospital waiting rooms are nicer than they used to be, but they still have that distinct feeling of anxiety, worry, and guilt. Maybe it was just my guilt.
What was I thinking? Why was I going so fast? How will I explain this, and realized there was no explanation - just an open wound of hurt - that I prayed would feel better when the doctor came out of the ER.
As I dropped into a chair, I noticed the headline story from last Sunday's paper - about the risk to children living on farms. I read the first couple of paragraphs before I had to put it down.
It read: The Childhood Agricultural Safety Network figures that a child dies from farm injuries, on average, every 3 and a half days.
The leading cause of death for kids? The tractor. Blamed for 40% of farm fatalities for kids under 15.
The word fatalities spun around my skull like a NASCAR. "Dear Lord, please be with Harmon and bring him back to full health...."
"Excuse me?"
I looked up. It was the doctor.
"Well, you dodged a bullet there, sir. Someone was looking out for him. Harmon needs to stay here overnight and he is going to have a nasty shiner and his leg in a cast for six weeks, but otherwise he should be ready for his chores in about eight weeks."
"Thank you doctor." I bowed my head, "Thank you, Jesus."
To catch up on the earlier chapters click here.
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