Yesterday was wet. Just wet. Wonderfully so. We got a little actual rain, but most of the day was just heavy mist, and we basically were inside a cloud. We couldn’t see the highway down past the hayfield, and the tops of trees were obscured, and the drops settled, all silvery, on everything. It almost looked like frost, everything was so spangled.
Spiderwebs and blades of grass, mundane on other days but be-jeweled in the mist, drops of water hanging like jewels on the fine threads of the spiderwebs. Roses and rosebuds, and spiderwort, gathering the mist, holding it on leaves and petals and stamens. And then, if you looked closely enough, the whole world reflected upside down in the drops of water, the sky, the flowers, the grass. It was dazzling.
Right now, our society is weighed down with all sorts of mental ills, and the self-care “movement,” if you will, is thriving…It would appear that the best solution anyone can suggest for the chronic anxieties and depressions and just generally not getting along well with life is that people need to love themselves more. For as long as the self-care solution has been being promoted, it is obvious that that isn’t the problem. We don’t have a problem with people not loving themselves enough. The problem is that we as human creatures are tuned to love ourselves, and to love ourselves too much. We don’t need encouragement in that vein.
We need, rather, encouragement to look up from all of our – in the big scheme of things – petty problems and look to the Creator God who loves us. Sometimes we find reminders of that in the tiniest, most mundane yet spectacular ways. Like taking a walk in a cloud. Gazing on the littlest, least-important things that God clearly cares deeply about. And then realizing that if He cares about the flowers of the field, the birds of the air, the mists on the meadows, He must care that much more about His human creatures.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on March 6, 2024
The longest part of the year is officially over. And it flew by. Just yesterday it was October and the trees were losing their leaves, and then it was November and Thanksgiving and we were shipping calves. Now we are standing on the brink of springtime, watching the first calendar day of spring approaching from not even a calendar page away, and the first 50 calves are already skipping blissfully through their short first days of life. We are ready for springtime.
There’s a saying I heard from my father-in-law, that has stuck with me: “Well summered is half wintered.” In other words, livestock that have had been through the summer with plenty of good grass and good water have a healthy fat layer and ample energy stores and are well equipped to face the coming winter. Half the struggle of winter is already taken care of. If, however, cows struggle during the summer, with stricken pasture and bad water, they will continue to struggle and the hardest season will be even harder. They will be bags of bones halfway through January.
2022 was a rough summer, with too little rain and too many grasshoppers, resulting in incredibly poor winter pastures. We were not well summered. Cows looked rough and rougher still as the winter wore on, and the extraordinary cost of feeding hay to get the cows through the winter added up. Cattle prices in the fall just added insult to injury. This time last year, calving season was getting off to a not-so-great start, with a number of odd and unpredictable losses, with a cluster of birth malpresentations and birth defects compounding that. March came in like a lion, indeed, bringing much needed moisture but in the form of calf-killing storms. So, we looked ahead to the spring and the summer with a sense of foreboding. Another summer like 2022 would have been devastating. Springtime was anticipated with dread.
“Well summered.”
I have pondered that saying a lot, actually.
Because it really doesn’t have a lot to do with the hard seasons themselves, but has everything to do with what leads up to those hard seasons. It is so tempting to coast during the easy times, so that we are less than equipped when things get tough.
We do that in marriage, by failing to put in the work to build up our marriage when things are easy and then being taken completely by surprise when our marriage struggles hard when life gets hard.
We do that physically, taking our health for granted while we are healthy, neglecting it rather than working to preserve it, and then being surprised or devastated when our bodies give out.
We do that spiritually, starving our souls, failing to feed ourselves through God’s Word and fellowship and solid teaching when life is easy, and then being shocked when our faith falls apart when life falls apart.
And there are a million other examples. What we do in the good times matters, and it changes how we handle the bad times.
But there is also another facet of this illustration: Sometimes the anticipated rough seasons aren’t as rough as anticipated, or perhaps the preparation was sufficient to offset the challenges. Maybe both. That’s when things are just extra, especially good, and the future is anticipated eagerly.
What a difference a year can make. Going into this winter, we were incredibly well summered. In spite of some wild weather events, the pastures were green and lush leaving plenty of forage for winter, dams caught quite a bit of good water, we actually had a hay crop and full stackyards, and the cows were sleek and fat as winter approached. And they are still sleek and fat. They could have handled much worse of a winter than we experienced. But God was an extra measure of kind, and the winter we had was the sort of winter that would make South Dakota too expensive a place to live, if that was our normal fare. But it was still winter. We still had cold snaps that put stress on the livestock and their keepers, stretches of days that made us extra, especially thankful for being well summered, but also extra, especially thankful for the winter we were given.
And here we are, standing on the brink of springtime. Winter isn’t over yet, and we can get snow until June, but what is generally the hardest part of winter is behind us. There is a bit of green starting to show under the cured grasses of last year, and a few brave little things are poking up out of the soil in the garden. The calves are thriving in the gentle weather, their healthy and maternal mothers unusually capable for first-time mamas, and a new season is just ahead, just around the corner.
Springtime coming looks sweet.
We were not just well summered. We are well wintered. Well wintered, and ready for spring.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
Originally published in Down Country Roads Magazine, Nov-Dec 2023
As the year wraps up and as the daylight hours dwindle, as the nights lengthen and the sunlight grows weaker, we gather ourselves in and gather ourselves together for a season of merrymaking, with all of its traditions and tastes and sights and sounds that bring us into a festive spirit.
Sadly, this season of wonderful merrymaking has lost its glow for many. Our cultural expressions in this season of the year obscure the true meaning and poignancy of this time. The beginning of November is a tipping point – Suddenly the year is almost over. Some shudder at the thought of winter being at our doorstep. Some of us are bracing for a calving season that isn’t too far away, and savoring the temporary slow-down, and maybe regretting how busy this time of year can be. Some roll their eyes at the wanton waste and foolishness of much of our festive cultural expressions. With Thanksgiving followed ironically and hotly by Black Friday and Cyber Monday, it is no wonder there is some weariness as the holidays collectively approach. Shopping malls are packed out like no other time of the year, and money that we don’t have is spent on gifts that have no meaning. Parties and festivities wear us out. Preparations drag us down.
The wanton lavishness of many highlights the bitter lack of others. Waste on the one hand highlights poverty on the other. Joy of some highlights the grief of others. Even our own joy can highlight our own grief, intermingled in our hearts. Our memories of good times are mingled with sadness at the empty places at our tables, at the missing ring of that certain laughter, the missing voice singing carols. Loneliness is the bitterest pill at this time of the year.
But all of those things are an argument to enter into this festive season with even more enthusiasm, even more sincerity, with eyes to see the One from Whom and to Whom this entire season is due.
The the older I get, the more I love the stretch of the calendar from Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Year’s, not for how our culture participates, not for the parties and the shopping and the frivolity, but because of the wonderful sense of gravity mingled with grace and joy. It is a time we have set aside culturally for the expression of thanks to our God before we enter into the Advent season, the glorious countdown to Christmas morning and our celebration of His entering into His Creation.
The older I get, the more it matters to me that I continue to express the traditions I grew up with, things that fostered a thorough experience of this whole season, from the songs to the foods to my cherished creches to the simple exchange of humble gifts, to the church services and the cutting of a Christmas tree. The older I get, the more the liturgical calendar speaks to me, the more the Advent season weighs joyfully on my heart. The older I get, the greater my desire to build traditions that my husband and I will pass down to our own children one day. It is a time of sweet nostalgia, vivid remembrances, joyfully looking back on traditions that are part of the fabric of our Christian culture and our families’ cultures, and joyfully applying those traditions now.
We don’t know what next year will bring, so how good it is that we are invited into a time of holding one another close, of opening our hearts and our homes, of celebrating and remembering and thanking God for all His gifts, the ones we understand and the ones we don’t. The time of thanksgiving after the season of harvest puts our hearts in line with what comes next, and if we cooperate, we are reminded of how little we need and how much we have. All the tastes and the smells and the sights and the sounds of the season invite us to enter into a spirit of joy and festivity, at the darkest time of the year. Simple traditions remind us of the past, of God’s enduring faithfulness over the decades and centuries, as so many observances and customs span generations and oceans and cultures. Traditions don’t have to clutter the landscape at this time of the year, they don’t have to add to the chaos. Instead, they can foster our heartfelt participation, and remind us of what is truly important.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
It’s the little things. Truly. My own cow’s cream in my coffee. My own chickens’ eggs for breakfast. Sunlight through the open barn door while milking Posey.
It’s the little things. That really aren’t so little after all.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
Days like this. Goodness, days like this. Up well before the sun and making pie crusts by 6:15, a solid little ride moving cows to their winter pastures, and spending the afternoon baking and baking and baking. Apple pie, strawberry pie, peach raspberry, and wild plum. The house smelled amazing. We had a lovely evening at the Reinholds’ pie auction.
I’m thankful for this life and lifestyle, I’m thankful for family and being able to work alongside my husband, and I’m thankful for ministries like Rainbow Bible Ranch, and being able to play a small role in their work.
And I’m thankful for pie. With butter crusts.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
Posey and I had a breakthrough yesterday, and this morning I milked 5 quarts of milk from my pretty little cow. What a lovely task, truly. In spite of the dirt and the muck and the hands cramping. Head leaned against her warm flank, chickens and cats waiting for treats, Josie checking on me from time to time, and Posey’s contented and comfortable sounds, while the white milk hisses and foams into the bucket.
And her cream in my coffee in the morning? Divine.
Support Song Dog Journal and share to social media!
Song Dog Journal 