Well, brrr. It is somewhere in the icy realm of 25 below, with wind chills somewhere yet further than that. I’m thankful for our furnace, and my heated blanket, for a handful of black-and-white border collies who like to share body heat.
And we say, “Yeah, it’s cold enough.”
“Cold enough,” for the record, involves what I call work pajamas, so named when my husband noticed my clothes didn’t change a whole lot from in bed to out of bed. I informed him that I have my sleeping sweats and my working sweats. Because nice thick sweats are way more comfortable underneath insulated bibs than are stiff, cold jeans.
“Cold enough” is lingering a little longer over that cup of coffee, and it taking 45 minutes to muster the courage to bundle up, watching the thermometer creep upwards to a hopeful 4 below. Suddenly the house desperately needs tidying, and the spice cabinet needs organized.
“Cold enough” is when it takes 15 minutes to layer up — long johns and vest and bibs and sweater and coat and scarf and ski mask and hat and hood and gloves — only to realize you drank too much coffee and have to strip back down.
“Cold enough,” is when the smallest wind burns and bites any exposed skin, and your toes are cold before even leaving the house. Maybe you strip back down when you realize you forgot your second pair of socks. It is stomping the fire out of your feet after chores, and feeling the life come back with a vengeance.
“Cold enough” is a welcome mug of something hot, wrapped tight in chilled hands.
It’s when all the chicken eggs crack, one by one, when they hit the even colder air of outside the coop. It’s when eyebrows freeze and ice covers eyelashes from frozen breath. It’s when the front of my coat is frozen with droplets of milk after milking, from the spray of the milk zinging into the bucket. It’s a wonder Posey isn’t giving ice cream.
Yeah, it’s cold enough.
It’s breaking ice multiple times in a day, and my husband taking an axe with him anywhere he goes. It’s stomping blocks of ice out of the water pans, and feeding extra to everything to fuel their little furnaces.
It’s vehicles choking to life and clouds of exhaust in the frigid air, and clouds of breath from every nose and mouth.
It’s the dogs sticking inquisitive noses out the door and promptly changing their minds, or running through the snow packing a paw, ice caked between their toes. You thought you wanted a walk? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Yeah, it’s cold enough.
And rather understating the case, I’d say.
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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on January 3, 2024
And just like that, we are standing on the threshold of a new year.
For better or for worse, last year is gone, done, nothing to be added or subtracted, and a brand-new year is just beginning. For some, it is exciting to look ahead to the future, gleaming with possibilities, while for others it feels like more of the same, and maybe is discouraging to look ahead and see nothing changing. It is bittersweet to see the last year pass away, with all of the joys and sorrows, successes and failures, regret at what we didn’t accomplish and gladness at what we did. It is easy to fall to the negative in all those things, seeing the struggles much more clearly than we see the joys. It is easier somehow to remember everything that went wrong, and to forget all the things that went right. But here we are, standing on the threshold and peering ahead into an unsullied year. And many of us, maybe most of us, catch at least a little of a sense of excitement.
Seasonally, it is a refreshing time. A dusting of snow underfoot, brisk breezes to nip the face, glorious watercolor sunsets we only ever enjoy in the dead of winter, and trees reaching up their bare branches into the pale skies. By South Dakota standards, we are halfway through our winter season, and spring is on the horizon, or just over it. The days are getting longer again, releasing us little by little from the long, dark evenings. Seed catalogs, colorful reminders of the joy and work of summer, have been perused, and in no time the seed starting will begin in earnest. Chick orders are being placed, and heifers are looking heavy, starting to waddle in their pregnant-ness, and could calve in as little as six or eight weeks for us, imminently for others. The lull in the ranching calendar is truly short lived, and a lot of folks are gearing up for the impending rush that will launch us into a new cycle of work on the ranch.
I admit, I love the start of a new year. I love the process and the discipline of reflecting back on the last year, seeing the ways in which God provided, the joys that He brought, the ways I have changed and grown, skills I have learned, people I have met, opportunities that were presented. And there is a sense of relief in being able to identify things that I truly wish to change, and to look ahead with hope and optimism and with trust that God isn’t done working on me. We get so caught up in our routines and habits, it can be hard to think outside the box we have built for ourselves, to shake some cobwebs off our thinking and our dreams and get to work doing something better, something new.
The New Year provides just that opportunity, and the freshness of the year gives permission.
Some people scoff at the idea of setting New Year’s resolutions, probably because so often those resolutions fail within a week or three of the New Year. Some people see failed resolutions as training in failure, but I think that’s just an excuse, and I think there is benefit even in an uncompleted or imperfectly kept resolution.
I think a lot of resolutions fail because they are poorly thought out, poorly conceived of. Maybe they are arbitrary, just another thing to add to the to-do list, without any real reason behind it. Maybe they are overly specific, so that they are almost impossible to keep, or under specific, so we can easily talk ourselves out of them. I think a lot of resolutions fail because they aren’t really honest about what our struggles are, what our habits are, and we don’t solicit help from our family and friends, and we don’t invite accountability. I think resolutions fail mostly, though, because we are complacent in our comfortable habits.
Personally, I like to think of goals, rather than resolutions. I find the exercise to be a beautiful reminder that life is a process. We don’t get to skip the work and reap the benefits. Without being intentional in our personal, spiritual, physical, and relational development, growth will be inconsistent at best. Growth takes work, it takes sacrifice, and sometimes it takes some backsliding and incomplete successes and downright failures. And that’s okay.
Sometimes the very act of setting a goal in our sights is enough to at least keep us pointed in the right direction. We might get off, we might fail, but we can reorient towards that goal and get back on track. It is hard to make changes without specifics, without something concrete to be working towards.
So, I love to use this season as a time to write my lists and set my goals, and I take the time to evaluate, dream, and ask questions. What would a richer faith look like? What would greater trust in God look like? What would time better spent look like? What benefits would that reap? What would a sweeter marriage look like? How can I grow in love and forbearance and patience? What is something I want to learn? Something I want to do better? A way I want to grow?
New Year’s resolutions and goals don’t have to be complicated. Honestly, it is probably better that they aren’t. But having a vision and goals can help to infuse hope and optimism into the New Year, and help us to begin well.
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Adapted from my devotional article for last year’s Advent season.
On the first Sunday in Advent, Christians across the globe light the first of the five candles, the first of the five thematic reflections leading up to Christmas Day. The Hope Candle.
Hope.
What a beautiful word.
What a misunderstood word.
What a misused word, flung like a threat, or uttered timidly, with ironic hopelessness.
We all need hope.
I look around and see war, death, pain, suffering. I see a culture that has turned its back on God and His Law, I see rampant immorality and acceptance of things that would have been considered wrong even just a few years ago. I see illnesses that even the most elite scientists can’t figure out how to cure. I see the butchering of children in the womb, the desecrating of the beauty of marriage, the destruction of countless innocent lives for the greedy schemes of the very people who should be the protectors, the guardians. People running to drugs, alcohol, sex, pornography, anything that can numb the pain of meaninglessness. It is a world rife with hopelessness.
Because without Biblical hope…life truly is meaningless.
Over the years, I’ve heard pastors talk about how Biblical hope is so contrary to how we so often use the word. Biblical hope is not an “I hope so” sort of hope. It is a confident expectation.
Which immediately begs the question…a confident expectation in what? In whom? For what? Where does our hope come from and for what are we hoping?
Hope without something or Someone to hope in is meaningless, isn’t it?
The Psalms are full to bursting with verses reminding us of where our hope is found, and in Whom we can have that confident expectation.
Lamentations 3: 24-25 reads:
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul who seeks him.
And 1 Peter 1: 3-4 rejoices:
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope though the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in Heaven for you.
We hope in God. We confidently look to Jesus’s perfect life and death as the means to being forgiven, justified before God. We look forward to an eternal easing of suffering, we confidently wait for the day when the difficulties of this life will be comforted. We hope in our Savior, the God-Man Christ Jesus. The Jews waited for His coming, hoped in the promises of a faithful Heavenly Father, fulfilled two thousand years ago, and we remember that coming and now we wait for His Second Coming, when “[God] will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
And it just gets better. Revelation 22 reads:
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lambthrough the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.
And he said to me, “These words are trustworthy and true. And the Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets, has sent his angel to show his servants what must soon take place. And behold, I am coming soon.”
That, friends, is our hope. Jesus is coming soon. We enjoy this Advent seasons, reveling in God’s plan brought about in the person of Christ, born as a Baby in a manger in Bethlehem, but without the future hope, that living hope, that hope of something more, this season is meaningless. The Baby Jesus means nothing without the hope that comes from Jesus’s death and resurrection. And His death and resurrection mean nothing to us if there isn’t the hope of a future resurrection.
Hope. What a beautiful word.
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What a world of difference a week makes! Barely more than a week ago, we were contending with perhaps the parting onslaught of winter, snow amounts we haven’t seen in a long time; we were cold and wet and muddy, feeding animals that were less than comfortable and covered in a glaze of ice and glistening icicles. We were bracing for the aftermath, hoping and praying the toll on the little calves wouldn’t be too high. The wind howled, snow fell from a heavy sky and swept skyward again in the gusts. Eyes were blinded by the unbroken sheen of windswept white. We staggered around, floundering through drifts to do chores and feed animals, then tumbling inside to warm up chilled hands and toes and face.
This week, it is a whole different world. A hopeful one. Almost overnight, the first frost of green touched the hills, the first green we have seen in months and months of staring at dismally dry pastures in a parched part of the country. Every day the green is deeper, richer, and more. Calves sprawl in the sunlight on warm ground, no longer fighting mud and snow, or race wildly around in a frenzy of fun. Their mamas graze contentedly on the fresh grass, no longer clamoring for hay to fill hungry bellies.
Dams that were dry now have water in them, and the sky is the blue that only comes in the springtime. The wind is gentle, the bite of winter a thing of the past. The bluebirds are back, and the clear, sweet voice of the meadowlark soars high above the rest of spring’s many songs. While we were checking cows, I heard a familiar and strange call, one of those sounds that goes straight to my heart, and searched the sky – Sandhill cranes were making their way north from the sandy dunes of Nebraska, in a shifting V of flight. And yesterday the killdeer were pantamiming along the driveway. Spring is here at last.
My garden is beginning to awaken, with the promise of color and delight and beauty. Lupine and catmint and lavender and chives, verbena and painted daisies and hollyhocks, yarrow and purple coneflowers, all are emerging eagerly from the warming earth and spreading joyful leaves. The green shoots are so good to see, and the thriving of things that survived the winter!
The line between inside and out is deliciously blurred, with windows thrown open, beckoning the spring into the house, sleeping with the wind stirring the curtain by my pillow. Evening jaunts down to lock up the chickens can be done without piling on coveralls and heavy coat, and the first sunburns of the year have marked the welcome change of the seasons. What a glorious free feeling, to have set aside heavy muckboots and heavy coats in favor of lighter, to be unencumbered, moving easily and unhindered!
What a difference from last week, or the week before. What a wonderful difference. It is a spring that is good for the soul.
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The meteorologists have downgraded the severity of the storm for today and tomorrow, which is a blessing! Plenty of moisture but without the winds, we’ll take it! Local power outages have been restored, and all in all things are going well. I don’t know what they’re expecting as far as additional snow totals, but the winds aren’t supposed to be as wicked as anticipated. Temps will be pretty miserable tonight and tomorrow morning, but it sounds like it should be better than initially thought.
The pups went with me to do chores this morning and they promptly regretted it. They abandoned their solo floundering and followed along in my footsteps, the snow more or less up to their ears. As heavy and deep as the snow is, I had to stop a few times on my way down to take a breather, and on the way back up my tracks were mostly drifted over again. The wind howled so I couldn’t hear anything else, but I’d occasionally check behind me and there were the pups, trotting along obediently right behind me, completely frosted over except little holes where their eyes were.
The chicken coop is snug and actually feels warm (which it should, with 29 birds in there), and the girls were busy about their egg-laying by the time I got down below. The chicks in the barn are likewise toasty and comfortable and our barn cats are well-situated.
Checks went well up north this morning, and when Brad got home I went out to help him feed hay to all the cows on our end. Gate-getting isn’t a job to be laughed at, that’s for sure. It actually saves a lot of time, as silly as it might sound. Down in the hayfield, we had locked a bunch of dry cows up with access to water and a windbreak, and they were making good use of the buddy heat method, but looked pretty annoyed at their situation. However, up in the timbered pastures it was delightful to look down into a draw or sheltered spot and see a group of excellent mama cows with their calves tucked away in the plum and chokecherry thickets. They couldn’t have been more snug if they were in a barn. The calves surged in waves in front of the tractor, like little black dolphins in a white sea. It made me laugh.
The stackyard was impressively drifted over, with drifts as tall as the bales of hay, and even with non-blizzard winds all tracks filled in just about as quickly as we could make them. The fourwheeler barely made it up to the house.
We’ll hang tight for a bit before venturing out to finish up everything, but my snowshoes are staged by the door for my run down to the barn. It’s a great day to take advantage of a warm house, hot tea, and a good book. And a few puppy cuddles.
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What a beautiful morning to wake to! We have gotten a solid 13 inches of wet snow here, based off my measurements on the back deck, and could be getting about a half inch an hour for the next 12 hours. The trees are cloaked and lovely.
We’re thankful for all the storm prep we did the last few days and are anticipating a worsening of conditions as the winds pick up, which they already are. Snow is falling a little heavier than it was at sunrise. Brad and Dave are out feeding everything before it gets much worse, and we already know of live calves that were born in this storm, which is very encouraging. Cattle are safely bedded in sheltered locations and yesterday’s tucking in appears to have been a success. We are very thankful!
Other than feeding and other normal chores, we’re set up well to hopefully be able to just keep food and water in front of animals and then more or less stay tucked in ourselves to ride out this blizzard as it worsens over the next few hours.
The pups are already intensely stir-crazy at 8am, busy disemboweling their toys and turning the living room into a jungle gym. They’ve gotten a stern talking to already which resulted in approximately three and a half minutes of quiet. The cozy ambiance is rather disrupted by the sound of bodies hitting the floor, snapping teeth, trampling of feet, and the occasional puppy or puppy toy flying through the air. This could be a long day.
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