The Bean Snappers

Journal for Christa— (from July 30, 2009)

I’ve been snapping beans to can this morning. I had planned to snap them out on the veranda, but it was cool and rainy, so I sat at the dining room table where I could watch the hummingbirds instead.

Snapping beans doesn’t take much concentration. So much of my world requires focus. That’s probably why I don’t really mind snapping a few beans. My thoughts can wonder and snapping beans takes me back.

I imagine my midwestern grandmothers sitting on the porch, looking out over fields of corn, snapping beans in a slow, rhythmic cadence. Feet and legs tired from standing all day, they rest their eyes on rolling hills in the distance, hoping to catch a breeze on their faces—all the while strong fingers snapping off the ends of beans.

Different times bring different challenges. These women rose early, for each day held so much to do, and a summer’s day often ended in snapping beans. I wonder what they thought about. I wonder what they said to the other bean snappers.

Yet, so many things would be the same—a husband to know, children to tend, a God to wonder about—I wonder, if they could snap beans with me today, what would they tell me? I think they’d say,

“People today have too much stuff—
You need to let the Lord take care of that—
Snap them beans a little smaller.”