Lucy Webb

So many years ago, it seems.   A little boy had a dream.  I couldn't tell you exactly what it entailed but I'm thinking it included wide open spaces, green grass and black cattle dotting the horizon.  So when the opportunity arose to begin the process of fulfilling this dream, he took it.   Buying a schleppy calf hardly seemed like something dreams were made of but he forged ahead with the small investment.   The years have flown and many seasons later the dreams of our youngest son must be carried on by his ever willing parents.

Selling our home made us think twice about the reality of keeping these very fine bovine.   One cow turned into two and this year were both expectant mommas. But so far so good.  As the drought has been in full swing, feeding our small herd hay began early in the summer.  The blessings bestowed upon us were eye brow lifting.  Given the opportunity to take these expecting mommas to a place where drought was but a word affecting someone else, blessings overflowed.  The apple trees among the lush grass, were heavy with apples. The apples became a tool used to settle "Sawyer's Cow" (really her name) and "Yos" to the point of approachability.  Okay.  I realize we are talking about cows but the big momma cow has been skiddish for quite some time.  The dog days of summer in the pastures of a place our boy loved, were certainly good for their disposition. 

Sawyer's Cow calved recently. The very first day of it's life, my "fine figure of a man" was able to put his hands on this small, long legged sweetie.  Making sure her mouth was warm, he petted her with welcoming hands.  Welcome.  So glad to meet you!  Momma stood back and let this happen as if to silently approve of the attention.  Never in the five years of calving has she ever allowed us to get anywhere near her little ones.

With winter setting on we knew it was time to relocate our two plus one, one still on the way, herd to papa and grandma's for wintering.

All I can say is I'm sure God was with us when we gathered and hauled them.   Because new grass creates a need for vaccination in the cow world, we held them in a nearby corral for a couple of days so we could accomplish this needed task.  As we attended to their daily needs, their ears could be seen from across the field, peering over the board fences, expecting us.

On day three we put them through a test.  Actually maybe we were being tested.  Tested for knowledge and emotional stability to run them through the chute and vaccinate.  Working cattle has been a way of life for both my fine figure of a man and myself off and on through our years.  Today we were officially adults.  Alone, together, in our task we knew we had to stay focused and push through. When the first pass didn't work out, we calmly recirculated them through the small pathway to the squeeze and got them the next time.  The highlight of our evening came when my sturdy man flipped the calf and checked gender.  The sweet little feminine face of our newest addition should have already told us what we confirmed at that moment.  We have another heifer.  Pleased. The dream continues and grows.

After running them across the road to their wide open spaces, we regrouped.  This would have been a moment when we would watched them find their favorite spot in the big field and linger.  But cold had overtaken us and home seemed appropriate. Our mission, complete.

 Knowing my man hadn't thought about a name for our new babe, I started communicating my thoughts.  Yes, he always loves that (LOL).  Because both cows have a name associated with their previous owner, it seemed natural that the new one follow suit.  Sawyer's middle name was Hayes.  And he could tell you the presidents in order because he loved memorizing facts.  So my thoughts were if it was a bull calf to name it after our 19th president of the United States, Rutherford B. Hayes, but calling him Rudy for short.  However, with this new information we needed a new name.  "What was Rutherford B. Hayes' wife's name?"  Turns out...her name was Lucy Webb. So there ya go.  Welcome little Lucy Webb!

Happy Birthday~

Happy.  It would indicate great joy.

 Elation.  Birthday.  

The day of birth into this world.  Right?  

The indication of celebration.  Gifts.   Cake.  Candles. Singing perhaps.  

It all fits.  

But what do you do when the birthday doesn't signify one year older.  

When the birthday is simply a memory of the one celebrated.

"The plan" wasn't all I thought it would be.  Maybe it was a half hearted way of patching together a day to make it look doable.   So we worked because it seemed right.  Our lunch was at a place marked acceptable and maybe even fun for our loved one.   Sipping coke in the parking lot seemed natural.  The haphazard dinner plans were warm and fuzzy.  Even the quietness of our new home seems to have taken on a whole new feel.

The words of family and those who loved him are like a cloak of sweetness.  Covering with the warmth of love and prayers.

Today presented itself with a unique opportunity.  Maybe today was the day Sawyer asked God to give me a special gift.  Perhaps.  To give me a taste of why I am on this earth.  To remind me that heaven awaits and I need to bring others with me.  And so it went...given the opportunity to witness His love.  That was the gift on this special day.   This was the gift that replaced the "happy birthday Sawyer" gift I usually buy for myself.

He really was a wonderful child.  Why?  I guess it's not a question I spend a lot of time asking.  The memories.  They are sweet and ones I'm so happy to have.   Do I miss him?  Every day.  Always and forever. Happy Birthday my sweet boy!  Till we meet again!💜

Reflection On High

Darkness covered the morning on this early Saturday.  We left the warmth of our home and set out to meet the hunting crew.  The roads and mountains, finally open after the long months of closure due to the brash of forest fires.

The destination.  One of our most favorite spots.  One of tall timber, steep mountain faces and an abundance of mulch from years of growth and the cleaning of trees that comes with each season.

The extra quiet morning brought an awareness of noise within the forest.  The chirping of the birds.  The scurrying of the chipmunks.  Errant patches of snow held promise for winter weather.  The fresh moisture in the air and the coating of the vegetation from the recent rain soaked these undeterred hunters.  The fog, settling amongst the trees, hindering visibility in its usual patchiness.

Being in the high mountains sings to my soul and brings thoughts of reflection and spiritualness.  The debris that covers the forest floor reminds me of the cleaning of our souls.  The tree, standing so erect and true has no use for the occasional dead needles and branches.  As this shedding of these living trees gives way to a healthier tree so it is with our own baggage that is so desperately unnecessary to tote.   But as the debris lands on the ground, over time it becomes mulch for that tree, so our own sordidness gives us a mulch to grow and stand tall in Christ if we chose to let Him use it.  Further, the process can lend itself as fertilizer that can be used to help others.

So while the day was about the heart of the hunted, I love it when the clean, fresh mountain air acts as a filter for feelings that arise. The stillness of these high mountain places works as a healing salve on the deep crevices of my sorrow.