by Jason Brown
But when we don’t risk, we don’t reap the rewards, either.
When you follow God—truly follow Him, body and soul—new doors seem to open up. You may find, as I have, that God really is with us and that He’s an awesome God indeed. To trust Him—to open up the door and walk outside—leaves you vulnerable. The rains may come. But you know what? You feel the warmth of God’s love on your face too. And sometimes those showers you feel? They’re the showers of blessings.
God blesses you in some strange ways. That’s what my friend told me when I first received those roosters. He added this: You shouldn’t be surprised, seeing miracle after miracle.
Tay and I have indeed seen miracle after miracle on First Fruits Farm, beginning with the ability to buy the farm itself. I could fill a whole book with stories of these miracles. Here’s another.
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It was February of 2016 and I needed a greenhouse—a greenhouse to get our vegetable garden growing even while there was still the threat of frost. As it was, Tay and I were spending a ridiculous amount of money on starter tomato and pepper plants. If we had a greenhouse, we could start thousands of little seedlings and, in the long run, save some of what little money we had.
But in this case, it takes money to save money. Greenhouses are expensive. The kind of greenhouse I needed started at $20,000. The ones I wanted were closer to $30,000. So I scrapped the idea of buying a new one and started looking for something used.
Not long after, I drove by and noticed an old unused greenhouse on a neighbor’s property. The clear plastic covering for the structure was almost entirely destroyed. Trees were growing through the holes. The whole building was surrounded by weeds and brush. But the frame seemed to be in decent shape, and I wondered whether this was the greenhouse God meant for us.
I stopped by and talked with the man who owned the dilapidated greenhouse, and I offered him most of what Tay and I had to spend: $2,000.
He wanted $3,000. Just, essentially, for that used frame.
I went home and talked with Tay about it.
“Tay, I think God wants us to have a greenhouse,” I told her. “Maybe we can find a little more money to buy this one.”
“If God wants us to have a greenhouse, it’s not this one,” she said. “God has something better in store for us.”
Months went by. The winter rolled on. It was then March, about time when we’d be starting our seedlings…if we had a greenhouse.
One day I went off to speak at a pep rally at a nearby middle school. After I finished my speech, I spent a few minutes talking with the school’s athletic director. We talked about sports, of course, about baseball and football for a little while, and then he mentioned that some of the schoolkids were interested in farming and agriculture. In fact, he added, a few of them were working on a little greenhouse behind the school.
“Oh, that’s awesome,” I said. “My wife and I are in the market for a greenhouse.”
That’s all I said. I didn’t say, “Hey, we are in serious need of a greenhouse.” I didn’t say, “We’ve been praying for a greenhouse.” And I certainly didn’t say, “We can’t really afford a greenhouse, so it sure would be nice if someone would give us one.” I simply said that we were in the market for one.
The next words out of his mouth were these: “Really? That’s interesting. You know, when we bought our home four years ago, the previous owner built this state-of-the-art greenhouse in the backyard. We’re not doing anything with it. Would you like it?”
I was shocked—so shocked, in fact, that I didn’t even know how to receive the offer.
“No sir,” I said finally. “That’s very kind of you, but we couldn’t take that kind of gift from you.”
“No, you don’t understand,” the athletic director explained. “I’ve been just storing junk in it for years. My wife wants me to build an aboveground swimming pool right where the greenhouse stands. She wants it gone. Take it and you’ll be doing me a favor.”
When I went to look at it, I realized the greenhouse was way better than that old skeleton of one that my neighbor wanted to sell to me for $3,000. It was even way better than those $20,000 to $30,000 new greenhouses I’d been looking at. This greenhouse was a state-of-the-art commercial-grade $100,000 structure—a combination of everything I needed, everything I wanted, and some things I’d never dreamed of.
“How soon can I have it?” I asked.
“Immediately.”
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Those moments remind me that God is with us—that He’s with us always. They help keep me moving forward. Because, trust me, this life hasn’t been all miracles. Following God is costly too.
But here’s the thing: if following God weren’t so costly, we never would’ve seen most of those miracles.
Think about it: If my fortune was left intact, I would’ve just bought one of those $30,000 greenhouses. If I had still been a wealthy man, I would’ve just bought a new tractor. If I still had the resources I’d had in 2012, do you think I would’ve been excited about seeing a couple of roosters near my driveway?
In Matthew 17:24–27, Jesus and Peter are in Capernaum one day and Peter discovers they need to pay a tax. Jesus asks Peter how much the tax is, and Peter tells Him. So Jesus commands Peter to go down to the sea and cast his line out. “Take the first fish that comes up, and when you open its mouth you will find a shekel,” Jesus says. “Take that and give it to [the tax collectors] for me and for yourself” (verse 27).
Now, in the Bible, this is almost a throwaway little miracle. Jesus seems so nonchalant about it, like it happens every day. But if you look at it from Peter’s perspective, it’s mind blowing. He’s been a fisherman all his life. He’s probably caught thousands upon thousands of fish in his career, maybe millions. I bet he’d never found money in a fish’s mouth before. But there it is, just like Jesus told him.
If Peter were rich, would that miracle have taken place? Wouldn’t he just have taken a shekel right out of his own bank account? If Peter’s pockets were heavy with coins, would he ever have had a chance to be amazed?
But Peter didn’t have a shekel. He needed a miracle. He needed God to help him out, because he had no other choice.
That’s the type of faith that Tay and I have to have.
Ever since First Fruits Farm began, we’ve had no idea how we were going to make it work from year to year, sometimes even from week to week. We don’t really have the resources to do what we’re doing. Anyone with any financial sense would look at our plans—plans we believe come straight from God—and then look at our bank accounts and say, “This doesn’t add up. How do you expect to fix the barn [or clear the field or buy a greenhouse] with what you have? How’s that going to happen?”
Tay and I look at each other and say, “By God’s grace.” Our resources may be paltry, but we’re tied to a kingdom with unlimited wealth and to a generous Father. That doesn’t mean we squander what we have. We need to be good stewards of our resources. Those resources, no matter how well we manage them, are never enough to do what God has asked us to do.
But you know what? Everything we feel He’s asked us to do, and everything for which we’ve gone to Him in prayer, has come to pass. Everything. Every vision. Every promise. Tay and I never have any idea how it’s going to be accomplished. Or even when. But without exception and without fail, it happens.
When you look at the Bible, not many of its stories focus on rich people. If God’s own plans were governed by spreadsheets, you’d think Jesus would’ve surrounded Himself with rich disciples who could fund His travels, not poor fishermen who couldn’t pay their taxes. Joseph’s family was probably relatively wealthy back in the day, but it was only when they were poor—when Joseph’s brothers came to Egypt literally begging for food—that they had a c
hance to see Joseph’s own amazing, miraculous story. Don’t misunderstand: God uses rich people too. He used them in biblical times, and He uses them now. But the poor have a chance to see God operate more powerfully and intimately. They lean on Him because they don’t have their own resources to use as a crutch.
Losing my fortune was painful. Tay and I still feel that pain. And I’d be lying to you if I said that sometimes we wouldn’t love to have it all back. We could do some amazing things on First Fruits Farm with it.
But in the last several years, I’ve learned that having favor from God is worth more than gold and silver. Having that favor—having a real relationship with Him—is priceless, because God is always batting a thousand.
I know what it’s like to have a big bank account. I know what it’s like to live a comfortable life. But I’d never want to go back. I would much rather be in the position I’m in right now: praying to God every single day for my manna, praying for my daily bread. I don’t need an abundance; just give me what I need.
The Man Box
I needed a forklift. I’d borrowed one in 2015 to move around all the sweet-potato boxes we needed for that year’s harvest, but we couldn’t do that every year. The First Fruits Farm needed its own. But, as usual, I didn’t have the money for one. Forklifts, even used ones, can cost anywhere from $20,000 to $40,000. I had just $5,000 to spend on one.
I turned to Craigslist and found one for sale—one that seemed, from the ad, to be in decent condition—for just that amount. Praise the Lord, I said to myself, but there was a catch: it was all the way up in Richmond, Virginia, about 140 miles away.
So I called my dad, who owned a trailer capable of hauling the forklift back to the farm. “We’re going on a road trip,” I told him.
It’s a long drive, so my dad and I prayed over everything: the truck, the trailer, the road, the people on the road, everything. We drove up to Richmond and arrived at the forklift owner’s shop around midday. We greeted each other, and almost immediately the guy started talking about his “man box.”
“Man box?” I asked. I’d never heard of a man box before. Never in my entire life.
The forklift seller showed us his own man box—essentially a metal platform with safety rails around the edges. Think of the bucket that workers from the phone company or power company use and combine that with what a scaffolding platform might look like, and you have a pretty good idea of what a man box looks like and how it works. The forks in the forklift fit in some slots underneath the box, and the forklift can then securely raise and lower the box so that the user can work in some high, difficult-to-reach places. It’s safer than a ladder and far easier to work from.
It’s a pretty ingenious contraption, and I could see all sorts of uses for it on the farm. I weighed just a little more than four hundred pounds at the time, and ladders and I don’t get along that well. In fact, there’s not really a ladder out there—even the heavy-duty ones—that has a weight limit that technically makes it safe for me to climb. I still used ladders, because you have to use ladders on the farm. But every time I climbed one, it was a risky adventure, like white-water rafting without a life jacket. So, every time I’d climb a ladder, I’d sing praise-and-worship music. I’d say to God, I know there’s no way You’re going to allow me to fall or let this ladder break while I’m singing praises to You.
But the man wasn’t selling his man box, and I probably couldn’t have afforded it even if he were. But I did take pictures of it from every angle. I knew a welder, and I figured maybe he could help me build one.
I bought the forklift, and my dad and I loaded it up on the trailer. We headed back home and eventually turned onto a gloomy two-lane highway that felt completely deserted for miles and miles.
We were right in the middle of Dinwiddie County, Virginia, when pop! A tire blew on the trailer. I didn’t have a spare.
God, didn’t I pray over the trailer? I asked internally, kind of furious that He would allow something to go wrong in the middle of nowhere like this. Didn’t we have this worked out?
I pulled over to the side of the road, yanked out my phone, and started looking for somewhere, anywhere, that I might find a place to fix the tire. Good news: I found a tow-service facility about ten miles down the road. I didn’t really want to spend the money to pay for a tow. It was money that I didn’t have. I’d just spent $5,000 on a forklift, after all. Maybe I can just limp another ten miles and get it to the service station myself, I thought.
That was a mistake. By the time we got there, around five, I’d worn out the rim on the wheel too—another huge expense. This forklift was getting more expensive by the minute.
The towing facility looked practically deserted—the sort of place you’d see in a post-apocalyptic zombie movie. The place needed paint. I could see a junkyard out back. The sign in the window of the facility’s shop area said it was open, but no one came out to greet us.
I said, “Dad, I’m going to go in and see if I can get us some help.”
I walked in, and I found half a dozen guys in there—white guys—in dirty, greasy work clothes and overalls, slurping down spaghetti. One had sauce dripping down his chin. Some turned to stare at me when I walked in. A couple of them, including the guy who looked to be the man in charge, didn’t even bother to do that. No one said hello. No one asked if I needed help.
Now, look, I’m not one to pull out the race card, but I was in the middle of rural Virginia. These men, by the looks of them, seemed like they might be the sort of folks who wouldn’t be all that friendly toward someone who looks like me. And here’s the thing: this service station was the only place for miles around. My dad and I were stranded there, at the mercy of those men. If something went wrong, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.
I thought of my grandfather Jasper.
The man who looked like the man in charge kept chewing his spaghetti, and I saw him look at my truck and trailer out of the corner of his eye.
“That’s a nice-lookin’ forklift you got on that trailer,” he said in his Virginia drawl. “How much you want for it?”
“Um, it’s not for sale,” I said. I tried to muster a smile. “In fact, I just bought it. I just need some help with fixing a flat.”
He took another bite of spaghetti. He chewed it. Slowly.
“All right,” he said finally. “Lemme finish my supper. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I smiled, said thanks, and walked—backward—through the front door and toward the truck, keeping an eye on the men all the way. God, please, I said silently. Please, please, please, help me.
My dad looked at me through the truck window. “Is everything all right?”
“Dad, just—just stay in the car,” I told him. “Lock the doors and don’t say anything, okay?”
The man—the leader—sauntered out of the building, rubbing his hands on his clothes.
“Sure ya don’t want to sell that forklift?” he drawled.
I was scared. Me, a four-hundred-pound ex–football player, terrified.
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” I said, forcing the nerves out of my voice. “Like I said, I just bought it. I have a farm in North Carolina, and I need it. For my fruits and vegetables and stuff.” And then, just to make conversation, I said, “Yeah, and I’m going to make a man box for it. Just found out what one was today.”
The guy looked me over again. Then he turned to his service station and pointed.
“See that metalwork up there?” he said. “Did all that from a man box. Made it myself. Yep, they sure come in handy. Yeah, that ole man box, it’s sitting on top of a junk pile out back. Ain’t had any use for it since.”
And then he added, “Tell you what. After I get your wheel all fixed and your tire all patched, we’ll load that man box up in your trailer. You can just take it home with you.”
My jaw dropped. Just hours before, I hadn’t even known what a man box was. Now I owned one. Not a minute before, I was a little worried my dad and I wouldn’t even make it back on the road. Suddenly, I was a man box richer—and more mindful than ever to never judge things, or people, too quickly or too harshly. This was the last person that I would’ve expected to help me—that God would’ve used to bless me. But I drove out of that place deeply blessed.
I’d been angry that God had let my tire blow in the middle of nowhere. And, when I finally reached the place that might fix that tire, I felt abandoned. Forsaken.
I should’ve known that God orchestrated the whole trip. What looked like a disaster turned out to be a blessing.
In a way, that’s the story of First Fruits Farm too. What looked like a setback was just another step toward something wonderful. What felt like a disaster brought us into a place of peace and trust and opened the door for miracles.
Dirt
First Fruits Farm, when you get down to its bare essentials, is just a thousand acres of dirt. Oh yeah, drive by and you’ll notice it’s filled with plenty of other things: trees and ponds and barns and crops. The dirt might be the last thing you see. And that’s not surprising. To most people’s eyes, dirt’s not much to look at. It’s brown and boring. Get dirt on your hands, and you scrub it away with soap and water. Get mud on your shoes, and you scrape it off. We don’t like dirt. It’s messy. It’s filthy. When we say that someone treats you like dirt, it’s no compliment. Dirt is about the lowest, humblest material on God’s green earth. But put a seed in that dirt and give it a little sun and water and care, and it grows into something useful, even beautiful.