Tell it to Jesus...

Some days just do not go as planned… Yesterday, for some strange reason, I decided to feed the cows first. Woody jumped in the Kubota with me and we headed towards the pasture. The new calf, Little Ferd’s first baby, was running around with his tail held high in the air. I fed them sweet feed and watched them for awhile, counting heads to make sure everyone was there. Tilly is beginning to look old but she can still clear a path for herself to the feed trough with that regal crown of horns. Sassy is as sassy as she has always been and Biscuits and Gravy (so named because she is milk gravy creamy white with red and black speckles) was anxious not to miss a morsel of feed. Sitting with the cows always slows me down, quietens my internal discourse, and connects me to my childhood. When I got back up the hill to the house, I walked down to the stable to muck stalls and put out hay for the donkeys and horses. After feeding Bud the Barn Cat, I let the horses out then opened the donkey stall. My stomach lurched towards my throat as I saw Shirley’s face. Blood was gushing from her eye, the upper eyelid was hanging and the lower eyelid was ripped loose. I quickly put the donkeys in the small holding pen behind the stable and ran up to the house to call the vet. An hour later a nice young man drove up and we went to work on Shirley. He gave her some happy juice, deadened her eye and began stitching her up. She stood patiently, a little drunk, as I held her head up for surgery. Two hours later she walked towards the pasture, wobbly but in no pain. I, however, was coming down from my ER high and beginning to feel the aftereffects. Michael called in the afternoon and I tried to tell him some of the details but his vagal nerve response kicked in (and a waiting client) so I cut it short. Mama came to check on Shirley and me but she stayed up at the top of the hill and called down to me. I called Diane but she was on her way to meet a friend and caught in traffic so she was distracted. Leisa was sympathetic but by then I had realized the gory details were not particularly appealing to those who were not there for the ordeal. Where could I go to lay down all these feelings and the worries? As I sat and drank my afternoon cup of hot tea, an old hymn title came to mind… Tell It to Jesus. I went to my piano, opened my old hymnal and found it. As I played and sang those sweet words from my childhood church worship, a calm settled over my frazzled self. In the singing, tears began to flow, not just for my fractured day, but also for those I love who are struggling with illness, old age, the death of a beloved grandchild, uncertain futures. “Are you weary, are you heavyhearted? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you grieving over joys departed? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do the tears flow down your cheeks unbidden? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Have you sins that to men’s eyes are hidden? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do you fear the gathering clouds of sorrow? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you anxious what shall be tomorrow? Tell it to Jesus alone.” Dear One, Thank you for listening to me yesterday… all the gory details, all the memories of other emergency runs. For those I love who are in the middle of their own fractured lives and sorrows, hear the prayers of their hearts, oh Lord. Make me in your image, one who hears and loves and lifts up when life is more pain than pleasure. Amen.