Papa came to our door today, carrying a small snack for Kenzley because she hadn’t gotten up in time to feed herself. It was such a simple act of kindness, but the look in his eyes told me something was wrong. His smile didn’t quite reach his face.
I paused, studying him, and asked softly, “Papa, are you okay?”
He nodded quickly, the way men often do when they don’t want to burden others. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. But I knew he wasn’t.
I asked again, a little firmer this time, “What’s wrong?”
His eyes dropped to the ground, his voice quieter now. “I think I just got too hot yesterday,” he admitted. Then he straightened, almost brushing off his own suffering. “But griping about it won’t help. Things have to get done around here, one way or another.”
And there it was—the truth of farming. The unspoken reality. Farmers don’t get to stop when the sun is too hot or the cold bites through their jackets. They don’t get to call in sick when the fields need tending or when livestock need care. They don’t complain, because they know complaining won’t change the fact that the work must go on.
In that moment, I realized how much we take them for granted. We sit down at our tables every day to eat meals—vegetables, bread, meat, milk—without always thinking of the hands that made it possible. We fill our cars with biofuel, wear clothes made from cotton, live lives of convenience, all because someone, somewhere, spent long hours in the heat, in the cold, in the rain, working for us.
Farmers are the quiet backbone of our communities. They rise before dawn and work long after the sun has set. They sacrifice their health, their comfort, and sometimes even their lives so that we don’t have to wonder where our next meal will come from.
Papa’s words—“things have to get done”—echoed in my mind long after he left. It’s not just duty for him. It’s love. Love for his land, his family, and his responsibility to feed others.
So today, I want to say thank you. Thank you to the papas, the dadas, the uncles, the mothers, the grandmothers, and the countless men and women who farm for us. Thank you for your sweat, your strength, and your sacrifice.
But more than thanks, they need our prayers. They need us to recognize their struggles, to encourage them when they are weary, to support them in meaningful ways. Because behind every loaf of bread, every glass of milk, every plate of food, there is a farmer who gave a piece of themselves so we could live.
So the next time you sit down to eat, pause. Whisper a prayer for the farmers. For Papa. For all of them. Because they carry us, quietly and faithfully, every single day.
