The Work Horse

I had a dream that I was a work horse plowing up my master’s field. I labored night and day working relentlessly to secure my master’s pleasure. As the sweat would tumble from my back, I wanted to let my master know how good I was for him, how much he needed me and how much I could be counted upon to do his work. It seemed like the fields were never good enough, that the more I labored the more labor there was to do. I did not have time to leave the fields for they needed my care so I nourished my muscles by grazing on the scrub grass and the errant stalks of green that dotted the ever-increasing landscape. I was strong, and the constant effort and hot sun would beat down upon me, but I must never give up, I must toil on. My mind was preoccupied with thoughts of success and failure. When a portion of the field was unwilling to be turned and the ground was stubborn and rejected my efforts, I just dug in even more, convinced that I could make it work. I must make it pliable! By my strength and earnest nature, I accomplished much in plowing the fields, I saw good success, I suppose, but I felt worn and weary, and before long I began to wonder why it was that my master had set me to labor in such a difficult field. I wondered why he would allow just me, or so it seemed, to labor so long and arduously with what could be considered an impossible task. There was too much field, too much hard packed clay. It was too much and with my head down in the savage heat, bent with exhaustion, I wondered why my master was so cruel at times. Of course I could only entertain those thoughts when I was most worn out, because I knew he was a good master, but why did it seem like his goodness was not upon me. But I plowed on, determined now to show him even more that I was his best work horse ever. I was determined to make other work horses envy the size of my field and the work of my sinewy flesh! Subtly, a change began to work within me, I started to think of the field as mine. It was my precious work that I must do and all successes or failures hinged upon my ability and determination to make it work. I ate less and less of the scrub grass because there was no time for the brief nourishment, just enough to keep me going for one more section of field. Days turned into months and months into years, as I now forgot all about the master and only considered the duty of my work before me. I must try harder to make the field even more wonderful and successful-it is my work, my field, my duty-all other thoughts must not be entertained. But then in the coolness of one evening as I was returning to my rest from a long day of plowing, I heard what I thought was a familiar voice. Yes, I recognized it, but not well. It was from my past, and I believed that it was my name being called by this strangely familiar yet distant voice. I realized that under the weight and cares of my plowing these many years, I had been breathing so hard and my thoughts of my distress were so loud in my mind, I had not picked my head up for some time. And so then for some strange reason, maybe it was the tiredness in my bones, maybe it was something within in me compelling me, I lifted my head and saw Him standing there at the edge of the field. He had a look on His face that was both full of love and full of sorrow. He was calling me and there was an urgency in his voice as if he had been calling me for time unknown. It was a voice of power, almost making me afraid to walk near his voice, yet there was kindness in the sound of his word. He was saying the same sentence as if he had said it hundreds of times yet I was too busy in “my” field to have heard it. “Come and dine,” he called out. At that moment, I suddenly realized how emaciated I had become, and how malnourished I was. A diet of scrub grass can only keep you going for so long. So as I stepped tentatively closer to the One calling me to Himself, I began to notice that he held in his hands all manner of fruits and vegetables. Reddest apples, crisp carrots, deep green leafs of lettuce seemed to pour out of his hands. With each step closer, I began to remember not only who He was, but who I was as well. The glory I felt within his service in my early days was slow to return, but I began to remember how foolishly I had lived off the scrub grass when such bounty was within reach, not just to nourish and provide sustenance for the day, but food so rich to bring great delight and joy. My grief became overwhelming as I further began to remember how selfishly I had sought to plow the field within my own strength, when my master had been holding out the bounty of his provision intent on refreshing my soul. Oh, how wicked I had been to work to impress my master then eventually to impress myself while forgetting that my performance whether success or failure could not impress such a one as this. He had bought me, I was His possession, he had loved me-had given me a field to work in, yes, I was His, but He was also mine. Mine to enjoy, mine to delight in, my Master to love and to cherish with all my mind, my muscle, my heart and my work. As I came closer, I should have received the crop for my deviant behavior, but instead, he gave me the rich goodness of the work of his hands. And I ate, oh, I ate gloriously, and I could not take my eyes off my Master who loved me and gave Himself for me. I wonder why I was so intent on my labors that I missed the Master’s gentle call of love? I wonder why I simply ate the scrub grass to stay alive, when I could have been eating the apples and carrots of delight? I wonder why I was so determined in my work that I never stopped to look up and see my Master and remember that it was His work all along?

“And Jesus answered and said to her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luk 10:41-42 NKJ)