Our whole
farming adventure is so plain. Hands-on
and earthy. So very simple. We feed the cows and chickens. Muck the stalls. Water and weed the garden. Add fresh well-water to the bass pond if it
hasn’t rained in a few days. Check the apple orchard and grape vines for
invading beetles or caterpillars. Nothing truly noteworthy happens during our
daily routine . . . except that all of it is so quietly miraculous.
Bird nests .
. . with their tiny eggs . . . so perfectly tucked into odd nooks and crannies
in the barn.
Sunshine
streaming through open stall doors as daylight dawns over the eastern ridges
each morning.
Sleepy
calves nursing one last time before they snuggle beside their mothers on soft
grass each evening.
There’s really
nothing witty or sharp to Tweet about.
Nothing
spectacular to display on a Pinterest board.
No great
revelation to unveil in a book or preach from a pulpit.
Just simple,
unembellished miracles.
The kind
that leave your hands tired and your heart completely at rest.
When calves are born at Kirkhaven,
There isn’t much to see . . .
Just tiny, shiny, sleepy heads
With wibbly-wobby knees.
There’s no loud celebration,
No cheering revelry . . .
Just mama softly lowing
A lullaby for three.
One day it will be different . . .
On hillsides green and free . . .
With romping ‘cross the grassy brae . . .
And mooing ‘neath the trees . . .
And venturing in pasturelands . . .
And grazing peacefully . . .
But now there’s nothing newsworthy
To blog or tweet or see . . .
There’s just this newborn miracle,
With cow and God and me.
Yetta and her newborn calf . . . sweet little Patience . . .
