Water, water everywhere... but here

We have had rain three days straight now, short intense showers and long slow showers. With our rain deficit in the two digit range, we have been watching our pastures turn crunchy brown. Cows have been searching for grass amongst the weeds that seem unaffected by the lack of rain. If we could understand how thistles manage to prosper with or without rain maybe we could transfer that property to grass.
Our water pressure is not strong enough to run a sprinkler and we are beginning to worry about the affect of the drought on our well. I keep a plastic tub under the faucets and catch water used for rinsing glasses, washing hands and other small cleaning tasks. This water is keeping my outdoor plants alive. As I stood on the porch pouring water on my hydrangeas, I remembered my Grandma’s house.
At Cloverly, we drew water from the well in a bucket and brought it to the kitchen where two buckets sat side by side on a table. An aluminum dipper hung on the side of one bucket. We drank from the dipper and no one worried much about drinking after somebody else. The little enclosed back porch had a shelf for wash basins, soap, a mirror and our toothbrushes. We would take our basins and a glass to the bucket, fill them and return to the porch. There we would wash ourselves, soaping and rinsing, face first and feet last, until we were clean. Opening the squeaky screen door, we would throw water on the flower bed. We would dip our toothbrush in the glass of water, add toothpaste and brush. Going out on the back steps, we would rinse and spit on the ground throwing the glass of water where we spit.
On Saturday nights, we would bring in several buckets of water and dump them in the big washtub placed in the middle of the kitchen floor. Pans on the stove would hold steaming hot water that Grandma would add to the water in the tub until the temperature was warm. Then we would bathe, one after another, in the same water. Water was precious and plentiful... precious because it took work to acquire and plentiful because the well always was full.
Water that is hand drawn from a well is treated differently than water on tap. We lived in a conscious state of awareness connected to water. When we walked through the kitchen, we checked the buckets to see if more water was needed. When you have to go outside and pull a heavy bucket of water hand over hand to the top, you don’t waste it.
This is the second or third year of our extreme drought. Images of the Dust Bowl from the thirties seem more real to me now when I drive up our road surrounded by disturbed dirt in the air. Daily mountain showers are a distant memory, no longer the usual pattern in the summertime. Once again I am living with a heightened awareness of water, its abundance and its scarcity. Unbuffered and unprotected by a city water system, we in the country who depend on wells see and feel the affects of the drought every day.
Our ground is baked hard, so hard you have to use a pick axe to dig a hole, so hard that mama’s cats can’t dig holes and have to come inside for the litter box. The water hole in the Sound of Music Hill is barely a mudhole. The rain can’t penetrate the hard surface easily so it runs off carrying the top layers of dirt with it. Some days praying for rain seems downright sensible and the only thing to do.
Michael says to pray for rain is to hold God accountable for the weather, like holding God accountable for floods and tornadoes. But when my body and soul, the fields and streams are parched and dry because there has been no rain, what else can I do but pray? Like Zechariah I will “Ask for rain from the Lord in the season of the spring rain, from the Lord who makes the storm clouds, who gives us showers of rain...” I will pray for Ezekiel’s vision...”And I will make them and the places round about my hill a blessing; and I will send down the showers in their season; they shall be showers of blessing.” I will pray for rain and showers, not just for me and my hill, but for all who are parched and dry in body and spirit. I will ask for showers of blessing to fall upon the turkey hens trying to find grazing for their broods... rain that will grow the grass by the high barn where the deer graze... water for the streams and water holes where cows and racoons and rabbits drink... damp, cool dirt for the frogs and turtles... Send us showers, Lord, that will soften our ground and our hearts that we may bend towards you refreshed and renewed.

Strays...

I was working outside getting the yard pretty for Julianna’s wedding reception when Gary called. He had some sawdust for Junie B’s stall and needed me to come pick it up. “While you’re here, look at the stray horse in my pasture.” I drove the mule through the pasture to the gate in the fenceline that separates our farms, headed towards Gary’s sawmill. As I shoveled sawdust into the bed of the mule, Gary told me about the horse. We assumed the horse belonged to another neighbor since he was wearing a halter. I walked out into the field towards an old, skinny, battered horse who raised up his head and walked to meet me. I petted him and he stood quietly as I scratched his ears and chin. His blonde mane was a contrast to his tan body. Poor soul... Before I left the sawnill, I asked Gary to let me know what happened to the old horse.
A few hours later at supper time, Gary called again. “You want two horses for free?” Our neighbor was swamped trying to care for five horses with coyotes running them at night. His sixty hour work week left him little time to care for them and he was struggling financially to feed them. The drought has fried our pastures and he had no hay. He wanted to find good home for the old gelding and a three year old filly. After supper with mama, Michael and I drove over to look at them.
The filly stood in her stall, her head hovering over the half door, and the old gentleman horse stood with his head snuggled up next to hers. Friends... more than friends... companions of the heart. J.J. began to tell us their stories. The fifteen year old gelding, Dakota, had been his trail riding buddy for eight years. J.J. put his young son up on Dakota’s back and the old horse stood patiently as we talked. His long lanky frame filled the space between us as we listened to J.J. The filly, Dixie, was a dark bay with a sweet face. She was small and delicate, friendly and shy at the same time. How could we say no to these two who needed a home?
We came back, got the stock trailer and drove back to J.J.’s barn. He loaded them up and followed us back to settle them in to our stable for the night. It was hard for him to let them go even though he knew he was doing the right thing. He kept giving us instructions... Dakota likes a certain kind of bit... keep them stabled until they have a chance to settle in... introduce Junie B to them while they are in the stalls... they have had their shots and are wormed... After a final pat, he drove home leaving us standing in bemused shock at our newly acquired full stable... Junie B, the donkeys Shirley T and Blacknosed Kate, Dakota and Dixie.
Like other strays before them, these two have settled in at Sabbath Rest Farm and have been welcomed. Vince and Tina came and brought treats. David and Dianne came. Dianne is in love with Dixie. Formerly afraid of horses, she now gets it... the heart connection between human and horse. Mama, the Queen of Strays, loves looking up the hill to see them grazing in the pasture. Gary came to help pull a wire from Dixie’s hoof. His gentling voice calmed her as we doctored her. And Junie B has a family now.
The first morning I took Junie B to meet Dixie and Dakota as they stood in their stalls. Nickering, nuzzling, neighing, nipping... the getting to know you ritual for horses is exciting to watch. After lunch, I let them all out together. All three ran together up the hill, kicking up their heels, laughing, running in body and spirit. Home, sweet home for Junie B who needed companions, and for Dakota and Dixie who needed sanctuary. Tears blurred my vision but my heart saw clearly the joy...
I wonder if this is how Jesus felt when he began collecting his ragtag band of strays? Hotheaded fisherman, despised tax collector, the doctor, the women... I am one of Jesus’ strays, brought home from wandering in the wilderness, claimed by a Love that will not let me go. Today I give thanks for all of us strays who have found sanctuary for our souls. We are no longer strangers in a strange land. And I pray for all those who still wander, searching for their heart’s ease in a world full of strays trying to find their way to a home. I am grateful for Sabbath Rest Farm, home for strays of all kinds, four legged and two legged alike. I am blessed.