A Lesson Learned By Moonlight

If a picture is worth a thousand words, an object lesson must be worth a million. And a really good one is never forgotten. My wife Mary has often told of such a lesson -- an especially hard one for her to learn. It happened on a brilliant moonlit night as she stood in her pajamas, watching a tractor go round and round the field at Bearhouse Creek.

She wasn't there by choice; it was more of a compelled attendance. And she shivered with a bit of trepidation as James Daniel, the uncle with whom she was living, plowed by the light of the moon.

The night was lonely and cold, but it was colder and lonelier on the tractor. Every few turns around the field, a member of the family was supposed to pay James a brief visit. Just some regular words of encouragement or a bite to eat were enough to keep him going. He already had a demanding full-time job as brakeman on the AD&N Railroad, as well as training quarter horses, so the plowing had to be done at night. Even at age 27, he felt a keen sense of family responsibility.

Mary had taken her bath and was rolling her 14-year-old hair when her Aunt Fran called out. Uncle James needed his jacket, and it was Mary's turn to make a "field trip." But she continued with her hair, pretending that she would do it "in a minute." She thought only about her inconvenience, not about how much she was being depended upon. She didn't comprehend the sacrifices that her Uncle James was making to feed and clothe three teens in addition to his own three babies. Surely someone else could deliver a jacket.

Aunt Fran took the jacket herself and brought Mary the bad news: Uncle James wanted to see her right away. So off she trudged into the chilly night air. Standing on a furrow, she watched the tractor circle the field. Uncle James knew she was there, but he kept on working. She continued to watch ... and wait.

He eventually parked near her and simply said, "Come up here with me." And round and round the field they went together. Finally, he stopped, and only then did break the silence: "I just wanted you to feel how cold it is to ride this tractor." But his words were piercing without being critical or condemning.

Mary's response was equally brief and respectful. "Yes, Sir." Then off he drove, leaving her alone again in the moonlight. She returned to the house somewhat subdued, having just learned a lesson that she didn't resent. It was a lesson she would need many times as a wife and mother herself, a lesson that only years and maturity can truly teach.

And that lesson was far more than how cold it was on the tractor.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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