Farm Foundation

Sun and rain. Bread and butter. Two peas in a pod.

There was a time when the words “family” and “farm” enjoyed a similar association as the above pairings. It was a time when stewardship of the earth and regard for family life were united in popular mindset and public discussion.

The once-tight bond between family and farm is referenced in a blog post on Catholic agrarianism by Max Becher. In it, he notes a radio address by Pope Pius XII in which the Holy Father makes clear that, from the perspective of social cohesion, the family reaches a level of perfection on a homestead that is difficult to achieve elsewhere. In other words, without a hands-on connection to creation—be it cultivating a field of corn or raising chickens in the backyard—family bonds are weakened. As a result, the bonds of society weaken as well.

Becher elaborates on the role of Church teaching in this regard:

Although the Church of the last century has largely focused on other social issues, praise for agrarianism is found explicitly in Catholic Social Teaching and certain elements of the Catholic tradition, albeit scattered through various documents, addresses and writings.1

The restorative dimension of agrarianism stands ready to inspire all citizens regardless of their occupations or place of residence. According to Becher, the appeal of the agrarian lifestyle—a mindset focused on family, productive work, and active stewardship of God’s creation—is as universal as the Church herself. He considers the grassroots movement of young Catholics called to agrarianism a hopeful sign for both Church and society.

For those of us who live once in flourishing but now hard-scrabble rural communities, the wreckage of the divorce between farm and family is profound and enduring. The heartbreak is as vivid as every abandoned farmhouse and boarded-up main street.

Yet, our faith teaches that love remains.

The brand of love at the heart of agrarianism is storge, the humble love of family and home. Its origin is of God and will forever echo within the human heart.

The following reflection reveals its power and resilience.

A battered door lies across the stoop like a passed-out drunk. The west wall resembles a caved-in chest. I turn off the road and park by the porch.

Torn screens flap like bats in the wind.

This house and I are soul mates. I give her a nod each time I drive to town. Today, I step inside and make the Sign of the Cross, then genuflect to test my weight on the dry-rot floor.

Haggard walls return my stare. Beneath the gray despair, I sense the glow of tinseled trees and hear the murmur of family rosaries. From a back room, I imagine the whirl of a sewing machine spinning beneath the static of a transistor radio.

I did not grow up in this house, but it feels like home: same size, shape and era as the one in which I was raised. It evokes the same grits-for-breakfast, clod-hopper atmosphere. Images congeal in my mind like snapshots on Polaroid film: sisters washing dishes, brothers wrestling, a collie scratching at the door. Molasses on the table. Calves in the orchard. My dad’s hat on the kitchen floor.

My home. My soul.

I hear a rustle in a far corner. A coral snake slides from beneath a heap of leaves. He lifts his head. “Gone,” he sneers. “Gone to Hell.”

I laugh. “Get behind me, Satan!”

The viper licks the air and slips away. I follow him down a narrow hall. Wires dangle amid dusty cobwebs. Hunks of plaster cling to wooden studs. Faint outlines appear on faded wallpaper. Senior portraits? Blue-ribbon steers?

In the remnants of the kitchen, cabinets peel scabs of paint like lepers in the Bible. Coyote tracks dimple a mound of red-dirt in the sink.

I touch the handle of a drawer and ponder what lies inside. Dish towels? Blessed candles? Unwilling to pry, I stare through a window bereft of glass and frame. A breeze carries the smell of manure. I search the floor for a sweat-stained hat.

I bow my head.

The rains came and the winds blew and lashed against the house.

I step outside. Gratitude, warm as barn milk in winter, moistens my eyes, my face. I walk toward the truck, grabbing memories of spring planting, ball gloves and gravel road grace along the way.

Built on rock, it did not collapse.

I put the truck in gear and head for town. The air feels crisp. The sky brims blue. All about and all around, verdant plains hum strands of hope.

1 Why Does the Church Care? (Hint: Family) by Max Becher, CatholicAgrarian.org, March 12, 2022

Pictures provided by the author