I pitched a hissy fit earlier this week about being left alone in the manure and mud of cow tending. Help and offers of help arrived and I calmed down. Then a day like yesterday comes along and I remember why I love being on the farm with the animals.
Our young bull, Bully, came to live at Sabbath Rest Farm nine months ago and we are seeing the results of his first week on the farm this winter. His first baby, Noel, was born just before Christmas and she is a lovely black heifer. Yesterday when Michael and I went to feed in the early morning, there were two cows ready to calve, one of them a first time mama. All day long I shuttled back and forth between the house and the fields watching them in labor, worried about the new mama. Often first time cow mamas have difficulty birthing their babies and need assistance.
When the birthing time got close, I called Gary and asked for help checking the heifer. When we got to the low pasture, Fanny was there but not the heifer. As we stood and watched, Fanny’s baby was born. Gary turned to me and said, “No matter how many times I see that, it is still a miracle to me.” And, it is. Being present at birth is a reminder of the wonderfully mysterious natural order that brings new life to this tired old world in the dark of winter. I can imagine the Wise Men from the East having the same sense of awe and wonder as they saw the Christ Child for the first time.
We went looking for the heifer, worried that she might be in trouble. Our fences are not the best in the world and she had gone into the woods. We drove up to the high pasture and I walked the woods as Gary drove the fence line. We found her and walked her back to the barn. David and Diane came in case we needed help pulling the calf. As Gary drove to get ropes, David checked the heifer as she was laying down in full labor. The calf was coming so he pulled the front legs and helped it come quickly, pulling the membrane off the baby’s face so he could breathe. Immediately the new mama stood, began licking the baby giving him his first bath and the baby made his first sounds. Instinct... a mystery and a marvel... helped mama do what she had never done before, tend her baby and helped the baby breathe and stand.
I wonder if it is instinct that leads us to the Source of our Creation, our Mother and Father who brought us into being. Everyday, sometime during the day or night, I find myself turning towards God, searching for the comfort of loving care and presence. The Wise Men followed a star trusting that its light led to a new incarnation of God. I follow the signs of life around me and know that God is present in the birth of new calves and the tender care of their mamas. I see Bully come and help bathe the new baby, welcoming him into the herd. I see the babies lie next to their daddy and snuggle up to him. I feel the assurance of God being next to me in my daily life whether I am in the midst of manure or miracle. God is in my heart, my head and my understanding. Thanks be to God for instinct, birth, new life, darkness and light, winter and cold. All are a part of the miracles that surround me here at Sabbath Rest Farm.
Fanny’s baby was a little bull who we named Frank for Frankincense for the Twelfth Day of Christmas. The other baby bull was named Murray (Christmas). Ain’t life a hoot?
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Aprons...
Yesterday my theme song was “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen”. As I did my stable chores, hauled wagon loads of cow, donkey and horse manure through mud up over my ankles, I sang my solo loudly and not very sweetly. To add insult to injury, it was another grey rainy day. The animals are grumpy and bored with the weather so I am their twice a day entertainment. Junie B pretends to nip me with her ears laid back. Biscuit head butts me. Dixie nips Biscuit. The donkeys kick each other. Only Ferdinand, the gentle bull, seems immune to the vagaries of mood.
The mood swings in weather are producing mood swings in me, too. In the past week, we have gone from snow covered ground with temperatures in the teens to muddy thaw and fifties during the day. Just about the time I adjust to one weather reality, another change comes along.
After a long winter’s nap, my muddy mood lifted as we began to prepare for a farm family covered dish supper. Black and pink eye peas, turnip greens, cornbread, ham with cherry sauce, sauteed Brussel sprouts, dirty rice, stewed tomatoes were accompanied by conversation, laughter, the sound of baby Grayson laughing and trying out his new word, mamama. I was not the only one with post holiday blues. We all needed a lift last night. My solo was transformed from trouble to “I’ve Got The Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart”.
As we stood on the porch seeing everybody off, I remembered Mary Lynn telling me about her grandmother’s apron. Women always wore aprons around the house as they worked. Some aprons were sash tied and others were wrap arounds. Aprons could have pockets to hold treasures and trash. When company drove up, aprons were hurriedly removed unless they were close friends. Aprons dried tears and wiped smudges from faces. And when beloved ones drove away, aprons fluttered in a silent goodbye. Aprons were a useful comfort in times of trouble and in daily life.
I’m going to pull my aprons off the hook in the mud room and move them to the kitchen so I can grab them to wear during the day. It will be my concrete connection to all the women who have gone before, my grandmas, my great aunts, women I never knew and women I knew well. Those women sang the same songs I do and lived their lives with courage and joy. When Biscuit shakes her head at me, I’ll shake my apron at her. When we wash dishes after a shared meal, I’ll wear my apron. When my mood sinks beneath the mud or I celebrate the sunshine, when I cry tears of joy or sadness, I’ll wipe my face with my apron and move on along.
My soul’s apron is music. Whether I sing trouble songs or joy songs, music protects and enlivens my spiritual journey. This morning I will play the piano for worship, accompany one young woman as she sings a solo and another as she plays her clarinet and my apron will flutter in joyful accompaniment. I give thanks for music this morning and will sing “Love Lifted Me” not “I Was Sinking ‘Neath the Waves”. My apron is fluttering in joyful thanksgiving.
The mood swings in weather are producing mood swings in me, too. In the past week, we have gone from snow covered ground with temperatures in the teens to muddy thaw and fifties during the day. Just about the time I adjust to one weather reality, another change comes along.
After a long winter’s nap, my muddy mood lifted as we began to prepare for a farm family covered dish supper. Black and pink eye peas, turnip greens, cornbread, ham with cherry sauce, sauteed Brussel sprouts, dirty rice, stewed tomatoes were accompanied by conversation, laughter, the sound of baby Grayson laughing and trying out his new word, mamama. I was not the only one with post holiday blues. We all needed a lift last night. My solo was transformed from trouble to “I’ve Got The Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart”.
As we stood on the porch seeing everybody off, I remembered Mary Lynn telling me about her grandmother’s apron. Women always wore aprons around the house as they worked. Some aprons were sash tied and others were wrap arounds. Aprons could have pockets to hold treasures and trash. When company drove up, aprons were hurriedly removed unless they were close friends. Aprons dried tears and wiped smudges from faces. And when beloved ones drove away, aprons fluttered in a silent goodbye. Aprons were a useful comfort in times of trouble and in daily life.
I’m going to pull my aprons off the hook in the mud room and move them to the kitchen so I can grab them to wear during the day. It will be my concrete connection to all the women who have gone before, my grandmas, my great aunts, women I never knew and women I knew well. Those women sang the same songs I do and lived their lives with courage and joy. When Biscuit shakes her head at me, I’ll shake my apron at her. When we wash dishes after a shared meal, I’ll wear my apron. When my mood sinks beneath the mud or I celebrate the sunshine, when I cry tears of joy or sadness, I’ll wipe my face with my apron and move on along.
My soul’s apron is music. Whether I sing trouble songs or joy songs, music protects and enlivens my spiritual journey. This morning I will play the piano for worship, accompany one young woman as she sings a solo and another as she plays her clarinet and my apron will flutter in joyful accompaniment. I give thanks for music this morning and will sing “Love Lifted Me” not “I Was Sinking ‘Neath the Waves”. My apron is fluttering in joyful thanksgiving.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
