Blood poured from his hand. The wrench slammed against the metal as Bruce cursed; it had slipped, causing his knuckles to smash against the cutter-bar. Wiping his forehead, he stepped back from his broken-down combine, his faded jeans scraping the wheat stubble as he walked. Bruce clenched his jaw. It was a tough business, farming, and pierced hands didn’t help.

The combine header broke – again – and he was losing his patience with the cutter-bar. Replacing sections hadn’t made it cut much better, and with the previous break he would now need to splice it to get it working again. Bruce squinted at the blue Nebraskan sky, the sun burning his summer skin and continuing the transformation of his dark red hat to a shade of pink. It was sunny today, but the clouds still looked suspicious.

Bruce closed his eyes, exhaled, and stood for moment. “Now…” he mumbled, peering back down at the combine header. He wiped his bloody knuckles on his jeans and grabbed the greasy wrench. “Gotta get back in the field,” he whispered to himself.

—

The dew set in around 9:00 pm when the sun had gone down completely, so Bruce brought the combine to the edge of the field. “No use fightin’ it with this cutter-bar,” he thought as he parked. Fixing the combine took long enough that he couldn’t finish harvesting Wilson’s field like he hoped. Richardson’s would be calling soon, ready to cut their wheat before the big rain that was forecast for later in the week. With the combine powered-down, Bruce grabbed his water-jug, gave the door a firm shut, and scampered down the ladder.

Once his boots crunched against the wheat stubble, he lifted the nozzle of his water-jug and took a long sip – satisfying, he noticed, since he’d forgotten to drink all day. He secured the nozzle and stepped slowly toward the pickup to head home. And then he laughed. “Water’s best when we have it where we want it,” he thought. “Good in the jug, good once the crops are planted. But it’s a pain in the ass when the wheat’s ready to go.” He knew if it rained this week, even just a little, it could set him back a few days. Set the wheat back too many days and it loses all of its test weight, and then it’s not worth much. Bruce huffed. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”

He hopped in the pickup and left the field for tomorrow.

—

Thirteen miles away, lights lit the windows of home. Since it was only shortly after 9:00 pm, Bruce hoped he’d get to see the kids before bed, and maybe he could spend time with Jodi. It had been a while, really, since he’d talked to his wife – beyond the amount of conversation it takes to get lunch in the combine. He smiled at the thought of sitting back with her, even if it were just for half an hour. After that, he’d have to get to bed for tomorrow.

Bruce kicked off his boots by the door and took off his cap. “Hey honey,” he heard her call from the living room. “There’s some casserole in the oven.” Bruce stepped through the kitchen to the mud room to wash his hands. The grease stuck to his slashed-up knuckles, and as he rubbed soap into them, he felt the soothing pain of cleaning a wound.

While he scrubbed, he saw himself in the mirror. He looked as tired as he felt. It had been a long harvest. Counting the weeks, he knew it wasn’t longer than any other harvest, but this one was dragging. The constant problems with the cutter-bar didn’t help, and there was always the threat of the weather. Rinsing his hands, he looked in the mirror again. His eyes met his own, and he noticed. For a moment, he was struck by himself, by his familiar brown eyes he’d seen so many times. He looked closer, and he saw it. With his face almost up against the mirror, Bruce knew there was something there in his eyes. It, too, was tired. His breath fogged the mirror, yet he could see through the haze, it was trying to be noticed.   

“Do you want any of this?” he heard from the kitchen. Bruce quickly leaned back and looked away.

“Yeah, I’ll take some,” he said, looking back down at his now clean hands. He dried them with the old blue towel next to the sink and went back to the kitchen.

Steam rose from the tater-tot casserole on his plate. Jodi handed him the ketchup, with which Bruce baptized his meal. Then he shoveled a heaping spoon-full into his mouth.

“Sorry; we’re all out of bread,” Jodi explained.

“Are the kids up?” he asked with a full mouth.

“I put them to bed. We gotta get up early for that kid’s thing at church. Vacation Bible School, or Awana, or whatever.”

Bruce nodded. He had forgotten.

“About that,” Jodi said, handing Bruce a paper towel, “Pastor Gary, the new pastor at church, he called. Said he wants to talk to you.”

“That guy?” Bruce laughed. “What’s that city boy need from me?”

“He’s not a city boy, he’s a grown man. And I think he’s from New York.”

“New York ain’t the city?”

“There’s a lot to New York, Bruce. There are farms there too.” Jodi poured Bruce a glass of iced tea.

“Yeah, well…” Bruce took a long sip and swallowed. “When’s he want to talk?”

“I gave him your number,” Jodi said, turning to the sink. “He said he’d try to come out to the field.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, nodding slowly. “Some curious city-dweller,” he thought, annoyed. Jodi smiled, knowing what he was thinking.

“Give him a shot. Maybe you’ll make a friend,” she said.  

—

The next morning, Bruce was out to the field by 7:30 am. He needed to service the machine: the separator needed grease, and it was time he greased the header too. It would take some time.

Bruce filled his grease gun with a fresh tube and went to work. Forcing his large yet agile frame over and under his combine, he thought of how he had probably laid his hands on every single nut and bolt on that machine. If he closed his eyes, he could see every joint and hose. It was his livelihood, or at least how he brought in his livelihood. Without that big red machine, he and several others in the community wouldn’t feed their kids or pay their taxes, let alone get enough to do it all again next year. He knew he had to take care of that thing.

Servicing took about an hour, and then he was ready to give the wheat a try. It would be ready to go; the wind was blowing steadily and the sun already gave some real heat this morning, so the dew would be gone. Already dirty from greasing, he climbed the ladder, opened the cab, and plopped down in the red leather seat. Bruce brought his water jug to his mouth with his left hand and reached for the key with his right. He was thirsty, as it had already gotten hot, but the air still didn’t feel right. He sensed it might rain. He needed to get to work.

—

By 11:30 am, Wilson’s field was almost done. In the midday heat, the cutter-bar wasn’t giving him any trouble, and it made for smooth cutting. The wheat was yielding well, too, about 35 or 40 bushels per acre – pretty decent for this part of Nebraska. Bruce watched the golden wheat fall into the header like waves crashing on a beach. His tired eyes smiled, though his face stayed serious, at the feeling of earning the return of months of work. A successful harvest always seemed like an alignment of the stars, like despite all odds everything worked together in its own timing to end up okay. “It feels like getting away with something,” he thought. “It’s like getting credit for someone else’s work.”

A cloud of dust appeared in the distance by the road, and Bruce saw a vehicle – a small one. Cars were uncommon out here, so he was confused as the cloud of dust dwindled and disappeared next to where he parked the pickup. Bruce took his final pass on Wilson’s field and crept his large machine across the dusty terrain. He then saw the cloud of dust had come from a Honda CRV, a small vehicle by comparison out here. A man sat in the driver’s seat.

Bruce chuckled. “Looks like somebody’s lost.”

Polite as he was, Bruce emerged from his cab to talk with his unknown visitor. A small, slender man in a Phillies cap hopped out of what, to Bruce, was a “city-car.” And then it made sense; it was Pastor Gary. A smile ran across Bruce’s face. He had only seen Pastor Gary two or three times, always in front of the church in a tie and dress shirt. It was funny to see the preacher in casual clothes. He didn’t look totally out of place, Bruce noticed. Lots of farmers wore ball caps, and Pastor Gary had the sleeves rolled up on his blue button-up. He wore boots, too, which was fitting – but even they were a bit uncommon. They had a soft, city-look to them, like they were more for fashion than for use. They weren’t work boots. It occurred to Bruce that maybe Pastor Gary was trying to fit in, at least as best he could.

Pastor Gary, seeing Bruce’s smile, took it as an invitation and reached out his hand.

“Hi Bruce. I’m Gary from church.”

“Oh, I remember you,” he said, offering his own firm, weathered hand. Pastor Gary’s hands were masculine, but Bruce could tell he hadn’t been working on combines recently. “How are you, Pastor Gary?”

“I’m well, Bruce. And just call me Gary. I don’t like being too official.”

“Alright then,” Bruce said. “What brings you out today?”

“Well, I was over at Eric Wilson’s, and he said you’d be wrapping up here. I thought I’d come take a look.” Pastor Gary looked quizzically at the red combine sitting some 20 yards away, humming and slightly bouncing up and down. Bruce knew that was because the separator was still turning, but he didn’t think it was worth explaining.

“I see, Pastor Gary. Yeah, just got done here. I’ll probably start on Richardson’s ground now.”

Gary nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’ll follow you there and just watch for a while. It’s all so new to me, still.”

“That’s fine. But hey, if you’re gonna stick around, you might as well ride along,” Bruce offered. His eyes brightened a bit as he spoke the words.

“Yeah, that would be great!” Gary replied cheerfully.

“Sounds good. Why don’t you just follow me over there and then I’ll let you hop in?”

Gary agreed and scurried back to his car like a kid, which made Bruce chuckle again. As much as he loved driving combine, it was all so normal to him now. He’d been around it since he was little, but he knew it was totally foreign to most. It was fun to share with outsiders.

—

            Five miles east at Richardson’s field, Gary climbed the ladder and joined Bruce in the cab.

“Thanks again, Bruce,” he said closing the door. The combine started moving, and Gary looked around the cab. “It’s pretty interesting. It looks like an airplane cockpit!” he said laughing. Bruce smiled and nodded. “Do you know what all those buttons do, Bruce?”

Bruce’s smirk turned into a full laugh. “Of course! It’s my job.”

Gary shook his head in amazement, almost speechless, which made Bruce laugh again. He flipped a bright yellow switch engaging the separator, and Gary felt the combine start to pulse and hum. Then, he pressed the RPM lever forward increasing the rate of the pulse, and with the flip of another switch, the header started spinning. Gary’s mouth hung open as Bruce deftly guided the giant machine into thick, ripe wheat like a pilot landing a jet on the runway. With the process in motion, the combine could now serve its purpose and bring in the crop.  

“Is it hard to drive?” Gary asked.

“Well, not anymore. When I was a kid it was, but really anyone can do it. It’s not that complicated.”

Gary looked at Bruce in amazement. He spoke with an undeniable honesty, but Gary, new to this farming world, couldn’t believe what Bruce said with such nonchalance.

“I’m not sure, Bruce. It looks like a lot.”

“It’s nothing like being a pastor!” Bruce said, smirking again. “Shoot, you’d never see me up there giving sermons.”

Gary shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. Lots of people can do what I do. It doesn’t seem like there are many people like you anymore that understand this world.”

“This is simple stuff, Gary. This is just common-sense.”

Gary kept shaking his head. “It might be common sense, but that’s pretty significant. I really admire this way of life. It’s why I’m out here. Sure, I wasn’t far from farms back in New York. But it’s a different world out here.”

Bruce looked at the wheat. This field was good, yielding even better than Wilson’s field. Richardson’s would be happy. Again, Bruce felt that feeling of getting away with something, like he had defied the odds. Luck is what it was, he thought. Pure luck. His eyes went down to his water jug, and, suddenly very thirsty, he took a long sip and set it back down.

Bruce shrugged. “Yeah well, it’s significant, I guess. But it’s just normal stuff. It’s not like I’m saving souls. I mean, yeah, ‘work to the glory of God’ or whatever, but I’m not doing the Lord’s work out here. I admire what you do as much as you admire this.”

Gary watched the waves of wheat crash into the header. “I’m surprised you would say that, Bruce. That you’re not doing the Lord’s work.”

“I spend the day in a cab!” Bruce laughed.

“I spend the day in an office!” Gary shot back.

“Sure, but, come on.” Bruce continued, his hands working the controls all the while. “You pray for people, write sermons and that. You visit people in the hospital! I’m out here working on a broken cutter-bar breaking my damn fingers.” His face reddened a bit at his choice of language in front of the pastor. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Gary smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

For a while, the two sat in silence. Gary watched the header reel turn over and over, raking in the precious crop methodically. He watched as Bruce worked. He was the conductor of a symphony, a cowboy, one with his horse. The afternoon sun shone on the glass door against which Gary’s arm rested. He could feel it was hot out, but they were cool in the air-conditioned cab. The cab was a womb, a secure haven of adjusting yet always ideal conditions. Gary thought of Bruce, the offspring of this contemplative womb. He saw a man that knew not the wisdom he held.

“You know, Bruce,” Gary said, breaking their comfortable silence, “I’m not much of a pastor-type. I’m not one to say the pastor’s job is very special. It’s just a job, like you say farming is.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Bruce said. “You’re just doing what the Lord called you to.”

“No,” Gary said, looking down at his boots. “I’m not even really saying that. Sure, I think God calls me to serve others as a pastor. But what I’m saying is, my job is no higher-level divine task. You’re out here in the elements. You’re among the earth, the dirt, the sun, the sky, the water.”

The water. Bruce thought again of the jug, of what he had said the day before. Then he looked back to his passenger. “But Gary, you are too. You’re here right now.”

“No, Bruce,” he said slowly. “I’m barely here. You’re all here. And you’re taking communion.”

Bruce looked ahead at the straight lines of wheat. What a weird thing to say. Taking communion? It was workday, a hot afternoon with wheat ready to cut. Where was the bread? What was the wine? There was hardly anything sacred about it. Still, somewhere Bruce knew. It knew. Gary’s words hovered in his mind, and in a way he didn’t understand, they had landed.

Thirty minutes later, the combine neared the end of the field where Gary had parked, and he sat up and grabbed the door handle.

“Well, this has been fun. An honor, really,” Gary said, meeting Bruce’s eyes. “I suppose I’ll go.”

“Okay. Thanks for riding, Pastor Gary. Hope you liked it.”

Gary smiled again and went back to shaking his head. “Bruce, it’s amazing. Really.”

Gary’s excitement made Bruce smile back. “Come out and ride anytime. It’s nice to have a rider every once in a while.”

“I’ll do that,” he replied. Then he stepped out into the heat.  

—

Clouds started to gather later in the afternoon, as Bruce had suspected, and before long he was losing the heat that had made for such good harvesting. The wind stayed, but not the wind that dries and ripens the grain. This other wind, with its quick and powerful gusts, meant rain.

Without the heat, the wheat got tougher for the combine to process. Looking down at his scraped knuckles, Bruce thought of the cutter-bar and huffed. “If it’s gettin’ tough,” he thought, “the cutter-bar won’t like it.” He lowered his speed to move the wheat through slower. Still, Bruce sensed it would soon be quitting time.

In another hour the clouds got darker, and the wind brought in the fresh scent of rain. Bruce scratched the top of his head with the brim of his hat. “It looks like a serious rain,” he thought. “Damn. There is too much to do.” He thought of the rest of Richardson’s ground, the hopes he had of picking up more work. He thought through what a heavy rain would do to this good, ripe wheat. Would he be set back two, three days? Of course, it depends on the heat. Bruce racked his brain for the forecast he’d checked that morning. What did the rest of the week look like? His tired eyes closed for a second. He wished he could rebuke the approaching storm.

His eyes open again, Bruce suddenly saw a straggling line of wheat following the back of his header. “There it is,” he grumbled. It was the cutter-bar; he would have to fix broken sections.

            The wind blew cold against Bruce’s body as he struggled with the header. The rain was moments away, he knew, and he considered giving up, parking the combine by the road and going straight home, leaving the cutter-bar for tomorrow. But he figured he was halfway into the job now, so he chose to race the rain and finish right then. Turns out his speed didn’t help. He felt like he couldn’t get the complicated process right: the cutter-bar wouldn’t move to the right position; the broken bolts wouldn’t come out. Bruce’s frustration grew as he felt the wind cut through his shirt, the rich aroma of approaching rain wafting in the air. “I’m almost done,” he said through his teeth. “Just get it done.”

            Finally, the replaced sections were in place, as were the bolts, and he could tighten the nuts in place. He grabbed his wrench and began tightening. The dark sky looked ready to dump. Every few moments, Bruce felt a spattering of cold drops. “Come on,” he said aloud against the wind. “Get done!” He tightened furiously, turning the wrench firmly. And then suddenly, he felt skin against metal.

            Bruce cursed and threw the wrench against the back of the header. He had pressed too hard, tightened too much, and the nut broke off completely, driving his knuckles forcefully against the metal edge of the cutter-bar. Bruce clenched his fists and tightened his muscles, releasing a roar. He felt frustration well up in him, not just at the injury but to the clouds, to the rain, to the wheat, and to the stress. He felt the it he saw in the mirror, the it that knew Gary was right. It yelled out in frustration at the ever-enduring lack he felt, the unending wish for satisfaction.

            The roar left his throat, and breathless, he turned his tired eyes to the ground. Blood poured from his hand. His knuckles were covered, and it began to run down his fingers into the folds of his skin, filling in his fingerprints. The cold stream flowed to the end of his fingernail, forming a thick droplet to gather. Then, finally, he felt it fall. A drop descended from his hand, and Bruce’s blood met the pale brown dirt. And Bruce remembered communion.

            Drop after drop continued falling to the ground, but he kept his hand still. He stood entranced. There it was, his blood, red like his combine, oxygen and cells fighting diseases and pumping through his chest, his source of life, dissolving into the source of all organic life. Around him the wind blew violently, making the wheat rustle a melody of activity. The deep purple clouds housed rain, and they were ready to release it. Behind them all, the furious sun shone, giving the heat needed for growth, for continuation. Water, fire, earth, air. Bruce stood in his habitat, the open fields in which he’d spent most of his life. For the first time, he was here. The ground, the body. The blood, the wine.

            Rain painted the ground a darker shade of brown, blending together the marks of Bruce’s blood. He looked toward the clouds and felt the water hit his face. It was cold – it made his skin shudder. But he dared not move away. Bruce knew that it, his soul, was now here, and for this moment the rain gave the relief it sought. The rain and his soul embraced as Bruce looked intrepidly at the dark sky. There would be no further harvesting today, but that was not currently of concern. Here, now, Bruce needed only to receive the holy sacraments.