Today I ask myself, why in the world do the girls want to hear my long-winded memories of farm life and the life lessons that the livestock shared into my heart? You all are kind to make such a request, sensing some of my happiest days were spent alongside my sheep in green pastures with a canopy of stars overhead. Cold, wintry nights of trudging through the snow to check on laboring ewes with my faithful Shetland Sheepdog, Foxxy, and our rag tag tomcats, BeeBoo Kitty and HagBag. Carefully we would pick our way through the dustings or drifts to find what warm and wooley surprise would soon greet us in the hayscented barn, surrounded by other ewes, looking on proudly and motherly, much like I imagine the Madonna Mary looked upon her own new Son who would change not only her life, but the lives of all who will call upon His Saving Name.
June 2012> Some of you remember a letter that I emailed to you recounting an adventure about wild dogs and my sheep, but tucked away in that story was a little nugget, a story within a story as it was, about a little Banty hen named Henny Penny. Henny Penny was nothing special to look at in her normal chicken form. She was as plain a Jane as you could find in the poultry world. Her feathers were a dull and dusty black, lackluster really, and her head was a gold tone, similar to a cheap, metal-cast ring that has been subject to dish washing repeatedly. She was even small compared to the other hens; they were not particularly nice to her. We had a couple other game hens who were just dumb clucks, and a few Black Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds, too fancy and full of themselves to care much about the common riff-raff Banties. But Henny Penny was a mothering champion. When other hens laid, set and hatched 6 to 8 chicks, Henny Penny would fill a nest with 14 or more eggs! I cannot even recall a brood that left one or two unhatched "blanks". When a hawk would soar overhead and its shadow fall heavily upon the chicken yard, everyone would squawk and run for shelter. Those big old fancy hens would tumble over each other to jump through the little square doorway into the chicken coop, their petticoats a flying! Ha! Their little ones would be cheeping in panic and be running in circles wondering where mothers that had been so near only seconds ago, had suddenly gone. Henny Penny was a ground stander, not ignorantly so, but just in a stubborn "somebody has to do it" attitude. She could fluff herself out to 10 times her normal self. She would call to her little ones and they would dive under her protective recesses like olympic swimmers. But not only her 14. It didn't take long for the other chicks to realize that Henny Penny always had room in the inn. She would expand her feathers and wings to accomodate everybody else's wee ones. One time as kids we were standing the sidewalks in downtown Cleveland, Tn watching the Christmas parade go by. Our cousin Brett was with us four. It began to rain a cold soaking drizzle. My Granny was a large bossomed, full-bodied gal. She had the best of all things and on the outside would have reminded you of the Black Leghorns or Rhode Island Reds, full of fluff and finery, but on the inside she had the heart of Henny Penny. I remember she opened up her Aigner all-weather dress coat and said,"Come children get inside". In I ran, my 2 brothers, my baby sister, and then it only took Cousin Brett a moment to dart in as well. My grandmother laughed and laughed. I have to tell you, when Granny Hazel would laugh, she in fact sounded like an old hen cackling. My mother looked over at her and remarked that Granny reminded her of Henny Penny. I guess this memory flooded me this week as I was reading Job 39:13-18. When you put it up head to head with Matthew 23:37, it is easier to decide which bird to imitate when you assign the persona of Henny Penny into the understanding. Read those Scriptures listed and blog me with your thoughts. :)
July 2012> Livestock Life saving: I was in a reflective mood this weekend. Just recalling some special near-death events growing up on a farm. You know, care of another, sacrifice, and leaping into areas of unknown outcomes is a stalwart of maturity and even contains hero-like qualities; even if later on you merely shake your head and say you just did what you had to do at the time. One such occasion involved a yet to be born lamb. My dad was the go to guy on the farm, fondly named The Moonlight Meadow Farm. I recall one instance when our purebred ewes were lambing. Lambing is when they are having lamb babies, birth, and ewes are female sheep (pronounced U's, though I had a 4-H secretary that asked without fail whenever I stepped into the office, "How are your little e-wees ?" LOL). I had 3 purebreds to start off my flock: Fuzzy and Wuzzy 1/2 sister Southdowns and Marshmallow who was a Hampshire. Hampshires have strong dark faces and leggings of black similar to baseball socks. Southdowns are a much smaller breed all white and wooley, perhaps 1/3 to 1/2 the size of Marshmallow. Wuzzy was my favorite of the sisters, her head was more rounded and she was a petite little thing. Fuzzy had more of a retangular head and was less friendly, though still good natured. Marshmallow was big and gentle. I loved taking hold of her ear and just sliding it through my hand. It felt like a giant, velvety soft corn shuck. Marshmallow was having her first lamb. Dad and I would get up and go check on her and the others every couple of hours through the night, and as the time grew close and labor eminent, we would go to 1 hour rounds or just stay in the barn with them. I didn't want to miss the big event. But as nature and God has it sometimes our timing is not in sync with the beast's. We arrived to find a partially delivered lamb from Marshmallow. Only its head was out. **Squeamish/graphic warning** Its tongue was hanging from the side of its mouth, its little eyes closed, the head was hanging limply, lifeless. Lambs are supposed to be born in a position similar to an olympic diver. Their head is supposed to be on outstretched front legs, tucked down, so they can make a smooth "forward dive" into this world. But unfortunately sheep, like people, sometimes have a less than ideal birth delivery. The lamb can be born breach, backwards, upside down, sideways, and in Marshmallow's case her lamb's legs were folded backwards in the birth canal, such that the lamb's shoulders were then hung on her pelvic bone and were not going to move in that position. I let out a squall when I saw the distressed lamb and mother. Pop being more practical, but no less troubled, went to work. My dad is an engineer and as such I guess he just knows how a production line is supposed to work. We were new to sheep raising and these things don't really come with a idiot-proofing manual. I do think he probably engaged in around-the-barn talk with my 4-H advisor and maybe this kind of situation had come up...I saw him take vegetable oil and grease up both his hands and arms. Then gently, ever so gently, he eased one hand into Marshmallow, and spoke words of encouragment and comfort to her, as he surveilled the situation. It is a blide "look". One must totally go on feel, cause you sure don't have room to look in there. But he could tell its little legs were folded backwards. Dead or alive, the lamb had to come out, or Marshmallow would die too. So he had to carefully back the lamb up to give himself some maneuvering room and then he brought one leg forward at a time. I don't even think I took a breath while he did this. Poor ole Marshmallow had her necked outstretched and was panting like a dog that had been running. After my dad got the lamb in "diver's position" he just carefully pulled on its two front legs to ease it on out. Marshmallow had been in labor a while and did not even have the umph to help out, timing of contractions had come and gone. There laid my dead little lamb. Perfect and beautiful, peacefully laid on the clean straw of the stall floor. Marshmallow turned and looked exhaustively and sadly at it. Pop stared at it. I stared at it. Then I looked at dad and emphatically said, "Well!!!! Aren't you going to do something?!" Poor man. What could he do? It was as though I had no recall of the recent delivery event and spoke to him like he had been standing around twiddling his thumbs. With that he stood up, picked up the lamb and began swinging it by its back legs in a semi-arc, back and forth. And after 3 or 4 swing patterns, slimey secretions (amniotic fluid) dripped from its nose and mouth. Still lifeless, my dad closed its little mouth, and gently put his mouth over its nose and began to blow his breath into its lungs. He alternated swinging and blowing for a few minutes and then the lamb gave a weak cough and opened her eyes! Marshmallow gave an immediate "bleat" which is a gentle "baa", and turned toward her lamb. Dad carefully laid the lamb next to mother sheep and she began the fast and fascinating task of briskly licking the birth products from the lamb, which stimulates the little one to make heat and revive. Dad looked utterly poured out and exhausted, but so proud and especially relieved. Reflecting back now I wonder who he hated failing most, me or Marshmallow, to have to look into our eyes and tell us he was sorry for something that really he had no control over.. But that day he was spared the tumultuous task and instead we rejoiced. I cried and cried with relief. He was just quietly regrouping and then chuckled that laugh that I now know is his coping mechanism, but to us as kids he would say "Well honey, what are you crying for? Didn't you trust your old man would get the job done?" We named the lamb...well what else except Mini Marshmallow. We called to her as "mini". She thrived and grew and one day became a momma herself. Our earthly dads are supposed to be a picture of our Heavenly Father. Some are poor examples. Some give up. Some don't care. But whatever our petition, whatever our distress, whatever our need, our Heavenly Father is our "Help in very present time of need". He looks at us when we pray in relief and thanksgiving, half unbelieving that He is so good and capable to step in and set a situation right, or to wrought a healing that medical experts say cannot be done, or gently wipes away a tear from a broken situation that we refused to turn over to Him, or when we stamp our foot and shout at Him, "Well! Aren't You going to do something?!", and He says to us, "Well, honey, what are you crying for? Didn't you trust your Old Man would get the job done?"
September 2012> My days of sheep and 4-H began in Jefferson County, Tennessee, in the community of Talbott. The locals would often enunciate this as "Tall-bert", kinda like Blount countians say "Murrville", but its all good. We lived in a three-bedroom basement rancher, that sat on the corner of the rural lane. The faded red barn could be seen in the distance behind us, and only a few yards beyond that was the train track, which afforded me the frequent opportunity to wave at the conductor and follow the caboose until it was out of site. If you stood on our front porch, there were hilly fields are far as you could see. At one end of our home was a shallow hill with a weeping willow tree that bent to the breeze and its many tentacles would sway with the wind's playful passing. I suppose that is where my love for weeping willows first took root. I loved to stand under its branches and feel the tickle of her many leafy arms swirl around my head. The formal living room of our home with the typical butterscotch-colored carpet of the '70's had one entire wall dominated by a huge picture window, which also looked toward those endless fields. The really neat thing about that room was it had a long couch that was a sleeper-sofa. We would get such hard thunder storms there and feel like we were right up in the bolts of lightning, since we were on somewhat of a knoll. On those scary nights, mom would open out the couch, we would grab our pillows, blankets, and must-have stuffed animals and all pile in together. The lightning would flash the monsterous silhouette of the big oak tree across the paneled walls and we would all instinctively duck and clutch our covers under our necks. You would think fussing and cover hogging would be an issue with 2 parents and 4 children all crammed in there, but it felt to us like the safest place in the whole world. We had another awing site meet us through those windows, one cold January day. I had recently acquired a Shetland Sheepdog puppy. She was tri-colored and dainty, and being the 1970's , my dad called her "Foxxy Lady"; yes, with 2 x's. She was registered and to be our helper with the sheep. Mind you this was not a working farm; it was my 4-H project, but every great farm must be properly accessorized. I also had a no nonsense tomcat we called "Honda". I named him that because he had the loudest purring that sounded like a motorcycle revving its engine! We considered the name Kawasaki but thought it would be too hard to holler that every time we called for him. Mother thought Harley sounded too rough for our classy cat; so Honda it was. He had the softest mink-like black fur and pretty white highlights on his paws and face, much like Sylvester the Cat from the Bugs Bunny Show. As tolerant as Honda was with 4 children (2 were toddlers), he did not care much for Foxxy, in fact not at all. He growled and smacked her little puppy face more than once, when she would bark into his whiskers and try to nip his heels to move him in a certain direction. So on New Year's Eve night when the rest of the world was ringing in the year with firecrackers, and we were enjoying the view from the livingroom picture window, ooowing and aahhhing, our ears were deafened to the terrified cries of Foxxy Lady. I guess it never occurred to us that she would be frightened. We had always had hunting dogs, who never flinched with thunder, gun blasts, or firecrackers. When others were awaking to a new year filled with hope, our's began with tremendous sadness; Foxxy had run away. We called and called for her! We searched our own barn, the neighbor's barn, and everywhere in between. Mom loaded all of us up and we drove for hours and hours with the windows down in the station wagon, heater on full blast, straining our voices to be heard by our little Sheltie. I cried and cried. It seemed to me that she was never coming home. I was bundled up and sitting on the back porch stoop, grieving and moping, when Honda began to rub against my legs, and purr loudly. I thought he seemed happy that she was gone. I picked him up and cried into his fur. I told Honda that he was "the bravest and smartest cat, and that I knew that Foxxy pestered him alot, but would he please go look for her? Cats know things that people just don't. You are a good hunter. Please go find her and bring her home". He just continued to purr. The days passed and nearly a week passed. The weather became sharply colder and the sky was filled with the gray heavy clouds of a coming snow. My cat was nowhere to be found for a couple of days, but dad said not to worry because they bed down in the hay and enjoy being cuddly warm. One late evening it began to spit snow. That's what we call just beginning to flurry. Oh the excitement of a real snow coming! We all ran to the picture window to watch every flake fall, and fall, and fall. Soon the ground was covered white. The field before us looked like polar bear fur and the glare of the moon gave a silvery cast to the whole scene. And while our eyes were trained on the beauty and serenity into the late hours of the night, as though we could see forever into the distance, a dark object could be seen starkly against the purity. We strained to see what it was. Indeed it was coming our direction, slowly plodding its way thought the snow. It was on a direct and determined path. After many minutes of supposing what it was, we could just make out the shape of a cat, a black cat. Then another few steps and we could discern it was Honda. What in the world is he doing over there in that field in the freezing cold?! Then a wonderful sight topped the knoll from behind where Honda had just left his tracks......FOXXY!! She was daintily picking her steps on the frozen carpet. Honda was several paces ahead. He never turned to check on her or pause for her to catch up. He looked aggravated and inconvenienced. We cheered for him and cried for her. What joy and relief! He was well rewarded and she was hugged tightly. Honda had left the warmth and comfort to go after her. He never again slapped her face, and she never again barked into his whiskers. I have a sneaking suspicion that he gave Foxxy a set of ultimatums, if he were to bring her home. But after that dog-cat adventure, the lion was able to lie down with the lamb. In life we all have a picture window from which we observe the the day to day scenery. Some days bring us storms or the cold, others heavenly glimpses. But if we set our eyes into the distance, we just may see our Saviour coming for us or answering our prayer to bring our loved one back into the safety of our fold. On those days, the weeping willow has its mourning turned to gladness.
January 2013> Sometimes it is not a "farm" story that you get, but instead the ramblings of fond memories from my childhood. I always thought who would want to hear tales from someone else's family? Everybody has their own special memory, right? But as I grow older (not that much older lol), I have come to realize that stories engage not only the hearing of others, but their hearts as well. Stories inspire us and encourage us to be overcomers, or maybe just make us laugh until our sides split with gladness. In Revelation it says that we overcome the enemy by the Blood of the Lamb and the testimony of the saints. So victory is two-fold: what Someone else did for us, and what we did ourselves. So this morning I am thinking about the coming rains. The weather service is forecasting flooding next week with the anticipation of much rainfall, and so I guess my mind was flooded with the recall of a time when we had tornadic conditions and a flashflood. Yes, this event took place at Rabbit Valley. Don't you just love that name? It always makes me think of The Big Valley starring Barbara Stanwyck as Mrs. Barclay, a classy woman who new her way around a ranch, dressed in those mid-length black split skirts, and conducted all aspects of life with an authority that exuded to others confidence and comfort in her life's position. I find too many folks feel the need to put on false aires and feigned humility; with Victoria Barclay, what you see is what you get, a tough cookie who dispenses wisdom, love or correction, but you better not come against her property or her children. My Momma is that way, but not in a split skirt because she is a petite thing and those semi-pants only make her feel dumpy and short-legged, her words. No our 4-H farm was not the sprawling ranch of the Big Valley, we didn't have hired hands nor a fence line so expanse that we had to climb in the saddle to ride the perimeters. We were average folks; we didn't even have the wardrobe of that famous show. I remember my sister helped herself to a pair of scissors and with great intent shredded a perfectly good pair of yellow school pants into something that looked salvaged from Robinson Cruisoes shipwreck. She called them her "adventure" pants. My youngest brother liked to wear his superhero pajama shirts around for most if not all the day. I and my brother next to me in age, middle and high school grades and of the age that being cool was important. And though I doubt very much that the sheep cared, I would go to the barn and field in full make-up and fashion accessories. On this particular day the clouds blew up suddenly and we knew a storm was coming soon. So I went on to the barn to put out the sweet feed, batten down the hatches and secure the gates. The wind was at first whistling, but soon began howling and there was a thunderous threat in the distance. I hurried not wanting to get caught out in the cloudburst and having all my carefully painted makeup drip and run down my face. As I came down the hill from the upper field I looked up into the sky and was mesmerized by the sudden exodus all clouds in the area; they just couldn't seem to get out of there fast enough. Giant tumbleweeds of white fluff were tripping over each other to vacate our skies and closing in quickly behind them were the blackest of black outlaw clouds. As I picked my pace up to a half jog I saw those invaders draw together and form a column of spinning rotation and heard the roar of a speeding locomotive, but at this farm location we lived nowhere near a train track. Indeed it was a tornado coming and I was witnessing the pre-event chaos. I went from jog to full run into the house, screaming as I burst through the front door. "Mom! Everybody get to the basement NOW; its a tornado!!" We took those basement steps two at a time. The three siblings crouched into a concrete corner, Mom and I sneaked to a basement window so as to peek out at its passing. It was loud and quick, accompanied by torrential rain. As we watched in fearful fascination a full sized cedar tree down near the bank of our little creek was twisted up by an invisible hand and thrown down. We could hear the nails in our roof straining to withstand the terrible force, and they did. The surviving trees were littered with trash and debris that in a few more seconds would be all the proof seen that we had been visited by the tornadic. We ventured from our sanctuary of safety to take a survey of damage. Being the oldest, my brother Derek and I headed to the barn and upper pastures to see what was what. The ducks were the first back out on the scene. We got them as duckings in our Easter baskets earlier that year. Cleverly I named mine, Smart Duck", I think Derek named his "Terry Bradshaw" the famous football player, but then again, maybe that is what he named one of his chickens. It was not the first or last animal to have the name of one of the Pittsburgh Steelers bestowed upon it. The ducks didn't have far to go to swim and splash and sift their bills, because the creek was beyond its banks. On a normal day,in the lower pasture, the creek could be stepped across with a single wide step, but where the fields were seperated in two, the creek was wider and would require hopping from stone to stone if you were our little brother, splashing through if you were our sister in adventure pants, and one big running leap if us. The sheep usually just waded across as it was not but a few inches deep in summer and more during spring rains. Derek and I made it across with the usual leap, but I guess coming back down from the upper field rounds, water from farther up the valley had been racing our way unbeknownest to us and when we returned we were met with a deep, raging, near whitewater river annomaly. What to do? It was three times its normal width and boiling with a deep, angry current. As we stood there contemplating whether to wait, or go downstream and look for a more narrow spot to cross, a chicken passed by us squawking and beating the top of the water desperate to stay afloat. Add this piece of information to your repetoire: chickens do not swim, they drown. Derek let out a squawk of his own, "Mean Joe Green! We have to save him!" And save him we would. We ran downstream as though we were trying to intercept and tackle the actual football player. We knew if he made it past the barbed wire fence there would be no hope for him; the endzone would really be his "end". The bank gets higher on that end and just as Mean Joe the chicken was ready to pass, I jumped in. Echoes of the National Weather Service message "Don't get into flashfood water, turn around don't drown" seem an appropriate caution, but at that time, and in that moment, saving my brother's chicken was all I was thinking about. The water was silty from the banks of the neighbors' farms upstream in the valley, yucky,muddy, debris-littered water, which as my mother pointed out later was no doubt filled with germs from livestock manure. But I wasn't thinking about those things either. The instant I landed in the water Mean Joe was upon me, and I do mean upon me, literally. That dumb cluck was so thrilled to have a solid structure to get up on that it flogged my head and face, beating me to death as it accomplished safety and then I half in reactionary reflex and half intent wrestled that chicken into my grip and threw it to the bank, where upon I could hear Derek cooing and comforting the ruffled- feathered, creek-soaked and terrifed fowl, "Ohhhhh pooooor Mean Joe, are you going to be ok?" Forgotten for my herotics and left to climb the muddy bank to save myself from the swollen waters, I dragged myself to the grass and lay back in exhausted relief. Only to have my brother stare at me and then begin to laugh, which quickly became whooping and hollering and near breakdown. He pointed and announced that my hair was filled with mud and weeds, even my teeth had seeds in them, and masscara was all over my face. Talk about adding insult to injury. Victoria Barclay never had to put up such irreverence, but then she never saved a chicken named Mean Joe Green in such an unceremonial way.
July 2013> Well, this evening, I am bringing you a story only loosely akin to my usual farm fare. But I have gone back to the scene over and over in my mind and I think it bears out to share with ya'll. This story is about ducks; I know you have heard of my special feathered friend, Smart Duck, aptly named I must say again, ha! This tale is not about a named duck, nor perhaps even "special", not at least on first glance. In fact, this Mallard Momma was about as average as any duck out there, appearing if anything stupid and clueless, backwards and naive if we assiged human comparisons to her. I was tooling down Alcoa Hwy, a very busy 4 lane hwy between Knoxville and Maryville. It is populated with a busy interstate exchange, numerous hotels flanked with equal numbers of eateries, gas stations, mini-marts, and of course a long fenced stretch monopolized by the Air National Guard, McGhee-Tyson Airport, and hubs for Fed Ex and UPS. When I say "tooling" I really mean I was playing Alcoa motor speedway keeping pace with the other busy drivers at he 3:00pm commute time. I was on my way to pick up my youngest son from school that hot May afternoon. Enjoying some of my Rod Stewart belting away I suddenly found myself in a horrible situation! In an instant, from out of nowhere, came a Mallard Momma, who along with a dozen or more fuzzy ducklings, decided to play chicken with me and every other driver on the highway. Even as I type this, those feelings of angst, mortal helplessness and disbelief wash over me anew. You know those feelings. Its like even though I am driving 60 miles an hour, suddenly everything goes into slow motion so that every movement is captured for replay. I was in the right lane and there she was too, in the right lane having come from where? Through the airport fence? Had she hitch-hiked from up the road and been let off in such a poor location? I don't know. All I could do was slam on my brakes and pull to the right shoulder and attempt a go-around and hope that everyone behind me would follow the leader. To my left, cars were already swerving and stopping and pulling into the grassy middle. None of our responses were wise, given that is what contributes to fatal crashes. I started crying out in my closed up air conditioned vehicle, "NO! Oh no no no..." But was Momma alarmed by all the activity around her? If she was I couldn't tell. She waddled with confidence and purpose. Clearly she had a plan and it didn't seem to matter that a divided highway, dump trucks, or Hell stood between her and her destination. I could see her beak open and knew she was quacking for her babies to follow her lead. In a knee-jerk response I did a foolish thing, which in retrospect I would never do again...I laid down on my horn. I did it more because something needed to be done, and I guess I thought it would get the attention of the other drivers. But something amazing happened....instead of scattering 12 ducklings it caused them to rush up in under their mother. Now instead of 13 or so individual targets for the vehicles to weave around, perhaps not seeing all the little dot-sized fuzzies, they could see one big blob of Momma en al. Getting past the action, I headed on to school and wailed the whole distance, praying that somehow God would have mercy on her. I admit, I even fussed at God, verbally stamping my foot at Him, for letting her do such a thing. My husband called me on the cellphone and I had moved into the hipcupping cry from prolonged tears. He sounded half-humored in his tone, but he dared not laugh. He could tell I was not going to be able to move past this, so he told me to think of nature; survival of the fittest. That same family could be completely gobbled up by a hungry fox or wolf, and we would feel a little melancholy but chalk it up to being nature, so I should just think of the cars as large mechanical wolves. That only barely helped. We do an unjustice when we assign human feelings and rationalizing to the limited faculties of animals. Dumb animals do dumb things, and I could not get over the wanton disregard of this mother duck; no appreciation for the eminent danger and poor choice she had embarked upon. Why not try a stunt like that at dawn when the traffic is less? Why cross at all? If she was an Alcoa Duck Pond duck, why go to the wrong side of the tracks to nest your eggs, and then expect all the world to come to a complete halt for her poor lack of planning? I tried to think postively and said maybe she made it to the grassy median, but then remembered that was just the first two lanes, she would still have to make a step of faith right out into the Northbound lanes to where ever she had planned for her parade. My middle school son hopped into the vehicle and found a mother who normally says with enthusiasm, "Hi! How was your day? Tell me all about it", instead with L'oriel's blackest black mascara running down her face. I relayed the horrific scene to him, and he informed me of what he thought we needed to do. "We have to go back home the regular way Mom and see if she made it." Oh how I did not want to that thing. Mental visions of flattened ducks nearly sickened me. But, I did it, first with a cautious glance, then a full out look, and even craning of the neck. No sign of her could be found. No fuzzy soldiers left behind or were evidenced as collateral damage. As often happens, I found a spiritual lesson in this, and though a duck doesn't necessarily think like me, in some instances I probably should think more like her. If God were that duck and I am the duckling...am I as willing to follow Him at all costs? Do I step out in dire circumstances, not looking to the left or to the right at the dangers, and instead follow Him in determined faith? Do the cares of the world or the voice of the Enemy screaming at me cause me to run nearer the Father/Mother or do I allow those things to scatter me, and position myself to be picked off by the Wolf? Do I listen as intently to His voice directing my steps as those wee ones pinpointed her's above Delta engines, Mack trucks, and car horns? Though to this day, I am amazed that she survived my lane, let alone 4 lanes, I have confidence that she made it. Sometimes we have to let the why's go, and, well, just go. In this impersonal world, we are not an average duck. We are a unique people, not left alone to get along as best we can in our frailty of flesh and limited understanding; we are victors. He has given us The Helper, the Holy Spirit, to lead, guide, and direct us if only we will turn not only our ears, but our hearts to Him. If we will do this, we will finish the journey, the race, well. Then He may look upon us one day and declare we are not only good and faithful servants; not just lucky duckies, or even like Smart Duck, but indeed wise ducks.
August 2013: Here is the original story that got this whole ball rolling. I sent this story of encouragement out via emails~ When we were growing up we spent a number of years on a small farm. It was mostly developed from one 4-H project after another. I raised sheep, and had a smattering of ducks, chickens, rabbits, and other warm creatures of feather or fur. My daddy brought home a cage of what we always referred to as game chickens. Man could those little roosters get into all kinds of scrapes. Their sweet little momma hens would rub their beaks in the dirt to teach them to scratch up worms and bugs, make soft clucking sounds of nighttime reassurance, and walk them all over the place for family field trips. We had one hen in particular that my Pop called Henny Penny. She wasn't a particularly pretty hen. She was small in size and sort of a dull, dusty black with an equally dull collar of bland gold feathers ringing her neck. But could she ever set a brood of eggs! Other hens would lose heart and abandon their nests in the heat of summer. Not Henny Penny. Those who did have a brood would start with 8 or 10, a few days later we would see them with only 6, then 5, then 4 sometimes none. Not Henny Penny. You see Henny Penny would fight for her little ones. If a hawk was swooping nearby she would sound a mighty alarm "SQUAWK!" and all her little ones would make haste to take refuge under her small but determined wings. She maintained a brood of 14, sometimes 16+, and if other hens' chicks were close by in the threat they would find welcome under her wings as well. That was a far different mentality than the other hens who were very busy eating their own grain, preening their own feathers, and goodness gracious, just let some mixed up chick from another hen get to close and they could expect a quick and decisive rebuke in the form of a swift peck to the head. I had a lot of respect for Henny Penny, even liked her. She died on her nest defending her unborn, unhatched eggs, refusing to budge and save herself from a fox. Miss D and Tiny were much the same type of sheep that Henny Penny was chicken. Though I suspect if they were human they would have abhorred Hillary Clinton and Oprah in much the same way I do, they understood one concept that is not unique to the human race, nor applied only by Christian people; it takes a village to raise a child. Miss D was a mixed-breed sheep, which meant she produced market lambs solely. Her young 'un's were always predestined to the dinner tables across the Southeast. She was large, with a no nonsense air of regality about her. The other sheep followed her lead. If she wanted to go into the barn and eat they all went with her. If she wanted to eat from a particular trough, the others moved out of her way. She commanded respect and seemed to be wisdom walking around in wool. Tiny was her number 2. If Miss D had been Moses, Tiny was Aaron. Tiny had a strong black face. She was a lot prettier than Miss D who was, after all, rather homely. She did not have her height, nor her regal disposition, but she was tough. She would stand her ground and stomp her foot. If a dog or too playful child came within a prescribed Tiny zone, she would immediately stomp her foot. The ground would shake. We would always giggle at her. Sometimes we'd send our little sister into the field to "collect wildflowers for Momma", or throw a ball for the family Sheltie to "go fetch" which always seemed to have to roll near Tiny, thereby eliciting a stomp. She paid no attention to our mocking. In many ways she was the gatekeeper and she allowed or disallowed. One terrible Sunday afternoon, we heard all manner of chaos taking place in our field. We jumped to our feet and Daddy grabbed his pistol. When we made it to the field which surrounded a pond and was edged by hedges and hedges of blackberry bushes, we saw a most frightful sight. A pack of wild, marauding dogs had invaded our field and even though I am certain Tiny had stomped and stomped they didn't seem to understand who they were messing with. Miss D, playing no small part of her own, had gathered all the other sheep, and particularly the lambs of spring, and had them backed into the blackberry bushes just as far as she could shove them. And then she stood there, regal as a queen whose tower was under siege, between her subjects and the attackers. She had many bite marks and chunks of wool that had been plucked from her coat. Still she stood. She refused to run as a common sheep might have. Tiny for her part was nearer the pond. She was of the mentality of divide and conquer. I suppose if sheep can understand strategy, she was trying to draw some of the pack away from the sheep herd. She had 3 dogs near her, 2 snarling and leaping toward her. The other was a reluctant participant. He stood by barking like a pack cheer leader. She stomped and they would reel with delight. They continued to nip and dodge, taking turns with her so that she was forced to defend from dual fronts; she finally became frustrated and lowered her head and would butt at them. Sometimes she would land a good blow with her hard, cur head, and it would infuriate her enemy. Ultimately they became too much, and backed her to the pond and she was finally forced to run into the pond. For those of you who have no sheep experience, wool works much like a sponge. As she began to swim out front of the dogs she began to go down down down. The dogs were better swimmers and they overtook her. They were not better swimmers than my Daddy is with a gun though. And one after the other he shot them dead. But poor old Tiny could not be seen. I cried out, "Dad you have to save her!!!" It fell on unhearing ears. Not because he was uncaring, but because in that split second my dad had already begun racing to the pond, dove in, and swam to about where he thought she would be. I held my breath. I looked to Miss D and she was unflinching, strong, regal, observing. Up came my dad and he was swimming with all his might with Tiny. She was 4 times as heavy as she might have been because of her wool. They made it to dry land. He eased her gently down and she laid there a bit. I rubbed her strong, black face. She was in shock. Miss D seeing that the threat was over hobbled over to us on her own bruised legs and looked down at Tiny and "baaa"d, then turned and walked away. I thought she was saying her goodbyes. But no. She evidently was telling Tiny "Thanks. Now get up from there and rejoin me over here". To our surprise, Tiny indeed mustered the will to live past that event and that day. She took some time to heal, but did. It is with some sadness that I must tell you that a few years later, both she and Miss D gave their lives defending the flock. Yet it seems an appropriate finish to their character and ultimately their legacies. Even now some 27 years past, I easily recall their names, their faces, and yes I can even weep a tear over their memory, I was not raised a Christian. I did not join Christ until I was nearly graduated from the university. I doubt my mother ever prayed for my heart to be turned to Christ, maybe someone's mother prayed in proxy for me. But when I look around me, I can see God in so many things, and much like Jesus' parables, can draw from my own living and surroundings to expand, explain, declare, and exalt His Name. All of you have your own stories; these are just a sampling of mine. I see the overlay of this tale in 3 dimensions. Like my own Dad, He is protector, even going after that one sheep. He intervenes when the enemy is upon us, and He shoots to kill. He is a comforter and healer to the fallen, the weak, the sick. I have seen my dad deliver sheep CPR literally blowing life into a weakling lamb's lungs at birth. And God the Father breathes life into us. We as mothers are much like Henny Penny. We gather to pray for each of our chicks, and when one you doesn't come to our MIPI meeting, it is one less mother fluffing her wings over the wee ones that we have been given charge over. As leader I find myself in the role of Miss D (the homely part for sure) and Tiny often. You do not see me praying for you apart from our group settings, with a watchful eye your direction. Your lambs are now my lambs. I find I stomp a lot at the enemy in warning. I muse that I am his problem, not the other way around. Sometimes, in love, I may stomp at one or all of you, seeing that we are distracted, disheartened, overwhelmed with the cares of this world, even absent from time to time in body, soul, or spirit from the group. It is always about preserving the flock. My dad did not stand in the field night and day to do the job himself but he could have, Miss D had Tiny, Tiny had Miss D, and like the children's story, I guess Henny Penny might have had it all to herself, but where she lacked help from others, she made up with in determination and God-given wings that were evidently made of spandex and particularly a heart for little ones. God has given each of us this Moms In Prayer group, one another, and His Holy Spirit, such that we never must go it alone if we so choose. You are missed when you are away, the group working harder with fewer on bended knee. Please when you can, when you will, join with me in prayer as a part of this flock called, Moms in Prayer.
October 2013: This tale is short and sweet. It is a funny recall that every October 31st I bring out of the memory closet and dust off to enjoy in my heart~
October 31st, All Hallow's Eve. In those days I was not a Christian, and I heartily took my place among the costumed doorstep beggars, shouting, Trick or Treat, with my younger brothers and sister. We lived out a distance from town on our family farm in Rabbit Valley. Even if we set the obvious spiritual connotations of this day aside, living out in the country on a dark and spooky night leaves you ultra-aware and on pinpoint much of the time. But just for one short moment I cannot set the spiritual aside. The home in which we lived, and the property was a playground for demonic activity. The world pleasantly labels such as being "haunted", but that is a gentle term for the horrific terror that we were oft subjected to. I could write a book about those occurrences, and one day, perhaps, I will; simply because there is much misinformation out there, particularly for Christians who play with darkness, and engage with familiar spirits. I do not pull punches on the truth related to Halloween and I know we have committed a disservice to the church by introducing gray by way of Hallelujah hoe-downs and trunk or treating. If I rename Satan "monkey" he is no less Satan. But I still giggle at one October 31st trick that was played on me. To this day I do not know specifically who did it, but I have very strong suspicions that it was a group of guys from the FFA. I being a 4-H gal, who was recruited into FFA (The Future Farmers of America) to add a winning dimension with my sheep project, was always playfully at odds with my cattle raising agricultural brothers. One of my rites of passage included having to chew a jaw full of Red Man tobacco. They thought I wouldn't be able to do it, but I had already cut my teeth once so to speak. Just the summer prior, I had popped a ball of Chattanooga Chew into my mouth to try my chance in a tobacco spitting contest at the Tri-State Fair. I placed a respectable 4th. One of the coolest things about FFA, besides the incredibly cute farm boys, was learning parliamentary procedure. I was picked up, thrown over more shoulders than I can count, and dunked in the cattle troughs always with the freshest, coldest water just run or presented with a handful of sweet feed to ingest without question. They fondly nicknamed me "the goat roper". Upon returning from a night of trick or treating, under a moonlit sky, as we drove down the winding gravel driveway, we could tell something just wasn't right. I could see something kind of blowing in the field very close to the sheep and along the fence line. Well as we drove further, our car lights beaming onto the barbed-wire fence, we could finally make out little pieces of ripped toilet paper, bits really, stuck on every single barb, flapping in the country breeze. My momma said, "Ut oh, it looks like we have been rolled". We got to the house, parked, and piled out. Mom and I went down to the barn just to make sure nobody had messed around. I know why the Lord always sent the disciples out in 2's, you're just braver when someone is next to you. And like I said in the opening to this story, we had good reason to need our bravery boosted. With fall leaves blowing about and the tall dry fescue crackling in protest, we went out into the field to check on the sheep. We didn't have to go far. Just like the Bible says, sheep know the voice of their shepherd, ever bit as much as I called each of them by name. They were incredibly docile and trusting, except when strange dogs would enter the property. Evidently my FFA guys took full advantage of that, because when I called, "Baaaaabbbbiiiieeeeesssss!!" (babies) they came running to me in the dark, but in the moonlight I began to laugh and laugh. My girls looked like beauty queens wearing their homecoming sashes. Well, not really sashes. Though our yard had not been rolled, the sheep had. In those days, perfume and dye sensitivities, had not impacted the toilet paper market yet, and my flock had been "rolled" in Charmin shades of light blue, powder pink, and pale yellow. It was a hilarious prank!! What wasn't hilarious was having to walk the fence line the next day and pluck tuff after tuff of bits of toilet paper in shades that coordinated with the sheep. But it was still funny. The sound of a pick up truck driving way up on the main road which hugged the valley ridge, echoed down to where I was, as did the incessant horn honking, which assured me that the victors were gloating. I really don't think they should be all that proud, they evidently don't even know the difference between a sheep and a goat. LOL
September 3, 2014-**true story
This morning I was downstairs in my basement bathroom applying my "face" for the day just shortly before 7am. The rest of the household was perfectly quiet at that time, except for our spastic hamster, Malcolm, who resides in the bathroom at the far end of the hall, next door to the sleeping occupants of our 3 bedrooms. We have recently painted one of the bedrooms, so now the door when opened makes that dull unsticking sound, and our bedroom also always makes that sound, though to a lesser degree. I heard the subtle (not so subtle-Ha) unsticking sound as one of them was being opened, and I began to hurry my process. All while getting ready I had been praying and periodically the refrain "and the gates of hell will not prevail...we believe" from the Newsboys song kept jumping in between my mentioned names. Today is the day that I lead a Moms in Prayer group and one of my gals has been severely, spiritually oppressed and attacked and I was praying in extra measure for her. Seconds, later I heard the faint creaking of steps walking across my den and heading to the kitchen. Picking up my pace a bit and pondering who was ahead of our usual morning schedule I heard the unmistakable sound of my husband's wooden chair being drawn away from the breakfast table and then being pulled back up to sit for the meal. Now any of our chairs can make that sound, but I just seemed to associate that with my husband at the head of the table. I gave a last quick touch and bolted up the stairs figuring cereal and bowls we ready to be thrown on the table......but no one was there. I checked the other rooms to see if perhaps my son had ventured out early. No. My husband and both sons still sound asleep. I walked back into the kitchen and said "Good morning Holy Spirit". We know that God inhabits the praises of His people and I had been praising Him. And its not that if he is at my house, He can't be at your's. We grow accustomed to the fact that He is with us all the time, but this morning He reminded me that today Nicodemus, I am coming to dine with you. Its the obvious, I know. But it has brought me such joy and gladness all this day. It echoes how as a mother we similarly say to our kids as we tuck them in, "Good nite. I love you. Sweet dreams. If you need me, you know I am just across the hall". How obvious. I've been across the hall now for over 20 years, but I still like to remind them, and myself. This morning, He tucked me in too.