Harvesting Heartache or Hope

October is supposed to be the crowning season at the Cutts Brothers Cranberry Farm. But this year, instead of harvesting with shouts of joy, we're beginning to wonder if we'll harvest anything but tears. (The biblical order is supposed to be: “Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy” (Psalm 126:5), and “You crown the year with a bountiful harvest” (Psalm 65:11). )

Anxiety creeps up as go-time is delayed while we wait for better berry color, only to be further delayed by equipment malfunctions, engine death, faulty fuel, leaking hydraulics. . . I can’t believe the series of misfortunate events that threatens to keep us from getting our crop to market before our November 6 deadline. I lean over to my son, who has taken off two weeks from his day job to help, and say, “I’m beginning to wonder if we should cast lots and see whose sin is causing this calamity.”

He grins and asks around, “Did the Lord call you to a distant land for some mission work you’re running away from?” He gets a few laughs, but no one confesses to being the Jonah in our story.

It isn’t unusual to have one or two setbacks during harvest, and our Cutts crew is amazing at fixing the broken. But my heart hurts as I show up to drive a tractor each morning, only to learn something else has gone wrong. A pit forms in my stomach and real tears flow at the farm when the second week passes and we are no closer to delivering our berries.

Is this the beginning of a downward spiral? What is to become of us? Most of us harvesters are about as broken down and old as the equipment we keep piecing back together. At this point, I'm not sure there's enough duct tape and baling wire to keep any of us running.

The third week in October, we move to another set of bogs, and I pray all morning on my drive that we’ll turn a corner. The autumn colors along my route are particularly vibrant, and I wonder if they’ve reached their glory. When I pull my Jeep up to the cabin for our morning meeting, my nephew Zeke is quietly laying out the game plan for our day while we old farmers nod assent.

Throughout the week, my son Brad and Zeke listen to each other’s ideas about new ways to solve old problems. They lead us with encouragement, and their happiness at being together in their native environment is contagious. Brad rallies us with interesting hypothetical debates during lag times and Zeke stays cool-headed in high-pressure situations, all after both have put in fourteen hours of hard work, day after day. 

As my morning drives continue into the last week of October, I’m still wondering if each day will be the peak of our beautiful leaves, but the next morning another tree surprises me by being even more gorgeous. How will I know when they’ve peaked? Is it when I see some of my favorites have lost most of their leaves? I search for leafless limbs, but they aren’t noticeable as the next set’s vermilion and scarlet reach the heights of their season.

Uncle Barry and I enjoy trading stories about the old days, but we don’t linger there. He turns the conversation by saying, “I’ve gotten so much pleasure from watching Zeke and Brad working together,” noting what confident leaders they’ve become. I watch my son tooling along on the same tractor he begged to sit on as a toddler and am overwhelmed with gratitude that I’ve lived to feel so proud of the man he’s become.

It isn’t that our problems are over; the dump truck gets stuck, a picker runs into a ditch, my husband gets upended in a bog and spends the day sloshing cranberries inside watery waders, but I find my tears have turned to shouts of joy. The next generation has learned from our mistakes, taking on the mantle of responsibility. The harvest isn't finished, and neither are our troubles. But somewhere between the broken equipment and the brilliant autumn leaves, I've discovered a harvest worth celebrating and I, for one, am happy to cheer the young ones on as they reach the heights of their season.