Even in a Single Kernel of Corn

Once again today, my mother came up from the countryside and left a bundle of freshly steamed, still-warm corn outside my front door.

Having grown up in the countryside, I ate so much corn as a child that I no longer care for it very much. But my son loves it, so I have little choice. I freeze half of it as whole ears and remove the kernels from the rest before freezing them. Working my way through all that corn, kernel by kernel, over several days leaves my thumbs are sore. Since it is hardly my favorite chore, I sometimes find myself pouting as I do it.

After retiring, my father moved to the countryside and took up farming. When I heard he had injured his foot and could not harvest the corn, I headed there with my mother early one morning to help. Although the worst of the scorching heat had passed, the country sun still beat down painfully. Armed with protective sleeves and a hat, I headed into the field. My mother picked the corn while I husked it. Even husking the corn was no easy task. By the time we finished, all the pulling and twisting had left my thumbs numb.

Just when I thought the work was finally over, I noticed a huge pile of corn that a neighbor had brought over. Someone said it was probably too mature to eat and might as well be used as chicken feed, but my mother insisted it would still be good if we cooked it long enough in the large iron cauldron and began husking the ears. There was such an enormous amount that it would not all fit into the cauldron at once. After simmering for more than two hours, however, the tough corn had transformed into something wonderfully savory, chewy, and delicious.

The work did not end there. We still had to lift the steaming ears of corn from the hot cauldron and let them cool so they could be taken home without spoiling. My mother placed the corn in a basket and wrapped each ear in a layer of husk to keep it from drying out. Then she picked out only the nicest, most appetizing ears and set them aside for my family. The misshapen ones, with sparse, uneven kernels, she kept for herself and my father. Despite his injured foot, my father limped around on his badly swollen foot, constantly adding and removing firewood to keep the corn cooking properly. Even when we told him to sit down and rest so his injury would not get worse, he kept finding ways to make things easier for my mother—bringing her a chair and moving bowls and baskets where she needed them. As the aroma of boiling corn filled the yard, my parents grew drenched in sweat.

Watching my parents work so hard, I felt ashamed of how I had hardly appreciated even the corn they had gone to all the trouble of cooking and bringing to me. Compared with everything my parents had done, my own effort of removing the kernels and freezing them seemed almost embarrassingly small.

For parents who want nothing more than to give their children the best and most delicious food, neither an injured leg nor the blazing midsummer sun can stand in their way. Once I realized that my father’s sacrifice and my mother’s love were present in the corn I had always taken for granted—and sometimes even regarded as a burden—every single kernel became precious to me.

I reflect on my many years of faith. Have I been keeping the Sabbath each week and the Passover each year merely out of habit, forgetting that they, too, are filled with the sacrifice of our Heavenly Father and the love of our Heavenly Mother? Remembering the heart of our Heavenly Parents, who willingly endured suffering to restore the feasts of the new covenant, I resolve to cherish every worship service.

Today, the corn tastes especially sweet and delicious.