“For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”
Romans 8:20-21
I live, now, on Crawford Dairy Road. The place lives up to its name. There are fields on either side of my house and tall dear corn growing across the road. Crawford Dairy rolls and gently bends past a farm house and then slips behind the tall North Carolina pines that frame our skyline. In the evening the lightning bugs launch themselves by the hundreds to dance the night away. I am captivated. Yet, as I sit on my porch soaking in this a pastoral place, I consider that the same idyllic scene has been played out for hundreds, even thousands of years. The snapshot is indeed beautiful. Yet as I think about the corn, I remember that it grows there by the sweat of a farmer’s brow. He tills, he sews, he waits, he harvests. Next year he’ll do it again, and the next year, and the next, until he comes to the end of his days. Then his sons will serve of the land as he did and his father did and his father’s father before him. The dance of the lightning bugs flickering above the corn is also futile. For they launch, dance, mate, and die, only for their offspring to do it again.
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