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Freedom?

The Sad Tale of Phineas the Steer

The bell in our driveway sounded an alarm. Jumping out of bed, Judd hurried to the door and flipped on the porch lights. Beyond the edge of artificial light lay quiet darkness. No visitor at the door; no car in the drive.

“Must have been a deer,” Judd mumbled as he crawled back into the warm bed. After several more alarms from the bell (“Probably deer,” we assured ourselves), silence reigned, and we both fell blissfully into dreams.

The next morning as we filled our bowls with granola, Judd glanced out the kitchen window. “Hey! There’s a cow on the porch.” Setting his bowl on the counter, he grabbed the phone to call the Troyers who live across the road.

I ran to the front door to get another view. Sure enough, it was Phineas. The Troyer’s steer was greedily filling his mouth with some of my Creeping Jenny. Rushing out to say “Good morning,” I startled Phineas who quickly turned away and galavanted across the yard.

Stopping midway in our yard, he appeared torn between returning to his new-found friends, my donkey and goat, who were secured in their pen or going back home.

My two” captives,” Donqui and Buster, watched in awe and jealous curiosity at the spectacle Phineas had created.

By the time Phineas’ owners, Dan, Caleb, and Josh, had arrived, Phineas was ready to go back home. Cantering across the road, he followed them through their yard back to his own pen.

A short while later, when I went to do my morning chores. Buster the goat greeted me with more than usual enthusiasm. As I unlatched the gate, he lowered his head and pushed between my legs and the gate.

He was free now just like that naughty steer, he seemed to think. I watched as he mosied around, picking up bits and pieces of leaves, nibbling on the rose bush, tasting the tender grass just outside his pen. Ah! Freedom.

All night long Phineas had taunted them. They had witnessed freedom, and it was tantalizing.

If I left the gate open for Buster to come back while I poured grain into the feeders and tossed out some hay, I was not sure where Donqui’s heart would take him: off to freedom with Buster, or to the newly poured grain. I HAD to lock the gate and trust that Buster would soon tire of his freedom.

While Buster was nibbling grass and leaves in the yard, Donqui dined on new grain and fresh hay. It only took a little coaxing from me for Buster to finally make the decision to come back into the pen. Safe, content, fed, protected, Buster had made a wise decision.

Phineas’s decisions over the next week were not wise. After calls from various neighbors, Troyers came to the hard decision that no fence was going to keep the free-spirited steer from wandering around our little community. Phineas had become intoxicated with freedom.

Phineas’ fate was sealed because of his decision to be unshackled from the standard rules of farm-life: pens and fences have a purpose. Now he was headed to the sale barn, where many way-ward animals eventually find their demise.

Little decisions we make can create problems, sometimes fatal problems. The desire for freedom from rules that seem to restrict us can entice us away from the security of what may seem dull, old, or too restrictive, into an open, lawless, or forbidden field of opportunity.

Buster the goat chose well. Phineas the steer did not. Buster lives contentedly in his secure pen. Phineas is hamburger.

Freedom is not lawlessness; freedom is liberty under law. (quote from Teri Gasser)

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carpe diem

The beautiful bench that once adorned my cabin has been relocated to our new home.

 When it arrived here, its pink flowers, green ivy, cream backdrop looked foreign to the room in which it was placed. It did not belong there.

 For many years, the bench was the centerpiece in my little cabin across the road, a place that had hosted countless hours of deep discussions, friendship building, as well as solitary quiet for many souls. The cabin stood for hospitality as well as solitude and silence.

The bench was placed in the room that has replaced the cabin in the last few years. This room has taken on its own ambiance; it is a testimony to change: a new season and a new place. As much as I loved the old cabin, I was in the process of relinquishing the past the cabin represented . . . without realizing it.

I delight in the memory of what was.

I remember how God had inspired the idea of making the old dusty granary into a “cabin” where others could come, find rest, fellowship, solitude. That cabin was hallowed by God’s presence in His people who came, shared a cup of coffee/tea as they shared their lives, or in those who came to be silent, alone, and listen to God’s voice of comfort, direction, or restoration.

And, although I find comfort in the memory of the past, I am forced to deal with the present. By the time Sara called me last week and asked if she and Josh could use the cabin as a schoolroom, I was prepared, ready to relinquish my dream.

Despite our fondest dreams, time has a way of moving beyond what once was and is no longer. For days, the bench invaded my space. The bench that I loved sat in front of me demanding that I deal with it. Deal with the idea that what I once felt was my calling to offer a place for solitude and quiet may be different today.

The bench has found a home in the guest bedroom.

Change has a way of becoming either our friend or our enemy.  We are forced to either deal with it, deny it, fight it, or acquiesce to its force and become passively fatalistic.

I choose to deal with the idea that, despite changes in my life, God is still walking before me and inviting me to listen and watch for the next steps He may direct.

What comfort! God is in charge of time: my time as well as the time of our nation and the time of our world.

Footnote: The cabin will still be available for guests who want to spend some time in silence, prayer, and solitude. For scheduling call Troyers at 785-537-0828.

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PRAYER MEETING with the COWS

I skipped down the path to the old barn where Daddy was doing the evening milking chores. I loved that whole scene: the soft glow from the old ceiling lights, the lowing of cattle, the scent of fresh milk, and the very essence of what farming with animals is all about.

Born in Center County, Pennsylvania, I was four years old when my family bought a dairy farm in New York State.  On that farm, my life was magical. Fields to roam, barns to explore, and the tightly structured life of a dairy farm all fit together into a cocoon of beauty and pleasure for me.

 And then there were the animals: chickens, ducks, horses, cats, and a new puppy. And, of course, the main characters, the dairy cows.

Nothing is more beguiling to me than the gentle, expressive eyes of a cow. We somehow communicated when those gentle cow eyes gazed into mine.

At four, I discovered how to get a barn full of those beautiful eyes to focus on my little inconspicuous frame. 

I had invented a plan. After the ladies had been milked and were still in their stanchions nibbling on hay I would wait patiently for Daddy and our hired man to leave. I wanted to be the only human in the milking barn.

As soon as the barn was empty of other humans, I became the person in charge.

Grabbing an old scoop from an open feed sack by the back steps, I filled it with the sweet grain that was like candy to the cows. Walking up and down the aisle in front of those huge questioning eyes, I shook the familiar scoop of grain and handed out little samples of grain in each of their feeding troughs

Soon all those beautiful eyes were carefully watching me. I had captured a grand audience.

What next? According to my limited experience, this would be easy: when bodies are gathered together informally as this was, we could have a prayer meeting!

But, I needed a sermon.

Digging into my repertoire of learned homilies I came up with what I thought would be appropriate:

“Ladies, Jesus loves you and He died for your sins,” I explained in my loud preacherly voice. A row of innocent eyes peered back.

“Okay,” seeing no response I went on to the next agenda, “are there any prayer requests?” Again, no response. 

The day my little prayer meetings ended was the day I had an unwelcome intruder. I think we had just started the prayer time when, from somewhere in the middle of the barn came a loud, “Moo.”

Startled, my eyes opened wide. “Who said that?” I shouted accusingly looking down the line of unbowed heads.

From the shadows, my daddy stepped forward, chuckling.

Oh, the embarrassment! These little meetings had been a secret between me and the cows. Now the secret was out.

I was done.

Of course, my little escapade became a family story for years.

Seventy-some years later, I fondly remember my little “prayer meetings” with the cows. I still talk to animals as though they understand me.

But since then, my biblical education has grown beyond that of a four-year-old.

No, my cows did not/could not know this Jesus or the Truth my little four-year-old heart wanted them to know. But they knew me, and according to the charge from the Garden, I was/am the one standing in the gap.  

I long for that day when the Second Adam will return to set things right again, and when the creation (cows included) will no longer be under the curse brought by the First Adam.

I will save my salvation messages for the people for whom Christ died until one day the Curse under which this fallen world limps along will be broken.  

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“Here All the Time.”

There are two ways to reach the rocky road that leads to the pasture. One is through the barnyard which usually means going through several gates; the other is around the top of the barn, past the double sliding doors, along the roof of the old stable, through a wooded area, and upward to the open pasture.

I had been busy and was stuck in the mundane existence of daily life. My world had become smaller, duller, and ordinary. No great inspiration compelled me to do my daily prayer walk or even expect my regular quiet time to inspire me. I was experiencing a gray world, one of those times when life was just Boring.

Then I took a walk.

I had decided to take the trail past the top of the barn.

The same old, gray world met my senses.

However, rounding the stable walls, my gaze fell upon something I had never seen here before: A lush, ivy-covered hillside had replaced the rocky soil of the forest. Hidden in a crevice was a low, stone grotto. The air I breathed was soft and perfumed.

At the side of the trail, a white-robed figure emerged and quietly walked toward me, stretching out his hands. Though I had never seen him before, I instantly recognized him. He was loving, though somehow fierce; inviting, yet not safe; gentle, yet strong.

I stopped and dropped my head. My eyes filled with tears, my heart with shame. His soft voice cut into my soul: “Yes, Nancy, I have been waiting here for you for a long time.”

The shock woke me from my dream. I lay in the darkened bedroom in a mixture of awe and worship. “I wait,” he said, “sometimes in surprising places to remind you that I am always here. Always. . . if you open your eyes to see.”

Os Guinness uses the phrase a world without windows to describe today’s culture that has denied the supernatural. Only what we can see, taste, and feel with our senses is real. And when that world is harsh, gray, or painful, it is all we have.

My life was charged with Reality in the next few days, weeks, and months after that dream. I had had the kind of encounter that wakens the soul in expectation.

However, I also move and have my being in that world without windows, and it is easy to fall back into a dazed existence, one where I feel no need for God in any area of my life. I grow blind, once again, to the world that Gerard Manly Hopkins so aptly describes as “charged with the grandeur of God”! (see https://www.bartleby.com/122/7.html)

These days, as I walk past the bend in the path and look at the wooded hillside, I sometimes look for that grotto and that stranger. I remind myself that, even though I can’t see Him with my eyes, He is there. He is here. He is waiting for me to see.

God, show me the Real beyond the walls of this world. I want to know that you are here, invading my world with your Reality and power.

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Identity Confusion . . . in the barnyard

I stand at the gate to the barnyard and giggle. I have called and they are coming, rushing up the hillside from the pasture. The chickens are always first, assisting their little legs with flapping wings. Then comes Buck, the goat, running and bleating loudly. Donk, not wanting to look too eager, takes his time, stopping occasionally to check out the reason for being called away from his dinner of grasses. And then comes Jemima, the duck, quacking loudly and waddling as fast as she can, but far behind the barnyard crowd.

Jemima is the one who tickles me. She, in no way, can compete with the others . . . on dry land.  I did notice her jump into her little swimming pool one day when the chickens approached to get a drink. Facing them and moving around the little pool to ward off their approach, she was definitely the queen of the pool. But, on dry land, she is the bottom of the pecking order.

She seems to be in confusion, though, as to who she is. Mostly she identifies with the goat. She works hard to stay by his side but gets left behind all too often   She would also like to hang out with the chickens who systematically reject her. She is not quite sure how to be one of them.  I know and the other barnyard occupants know, she is a duck and will always be a duck.

I find it hard to identify with her dilemma. There is something about reality that we cannot change: a duck is a duck. I feel for her. I may get another duck to help her with her identity problem, but as she matures and becomes content with her own clumsy webbed feet (that can paddle very nicely in the pool), her love for rain when the others run for cover, her ability to scoff up more grain than the chickens with her rounded beak, she just might be happy being a duck.

 

 

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A Divided House

I have two chickens and two cats. The chickens hang together; not surprisingly, the cats do not. Whenever I hear hisses and growling from the garage, I know Bob has probably invaded Missy’s space. Or, sometimes, it is after he has intentionally stalked her and jumped out from the bushes as she walked by. Bob is having fun; Missy is never amused.

But, in general, my little farm is quite the “racially” mixed environment. The duck, the goat, the chickens, and the donkey move about the barnyard in a happy little community.

When I go to the barnyard, I will be greeted by the whole community:  one duck,  two chickens, a donkey, and a goat. We usually walk together as I open the gate and join the menagerie. We may go down to the pasture gate, where I check the fences,  or they follow me to the hen house to gather eggs. It pleasures me to  spend this time with them.  I love harmony.

Yesterday, when I opened the door to the nesting box in the chicken coop, I was greeted by another creature who had attempted to join our little community. When I opened the door to the nesting area and peeked in to see if there were eggs in the nest.

What I found was a large black snake snugly coiled in the closest nest. Its tummy was full of eggs, hewas content and had no intention of leaving. For those of you who know my propensity to take in all strays, no, I did not name it and invite it to stay. Finding an aluminum pole on the roof of the little shed, and after a wrestling match with the stick and the visitor, I  dismissed Mr. Snake from the pen. Hanging from the pole before being flung to the wind, his long black length dotted by oval shapes.

Yet, with all of the activity going on, my little menagerie simply watched, not in the least dismayed.

Did they understand the situation? Aren’t animals in general skittish when they see a snake? Did the chickens not realize that snake was consuming their eggs?

Ah, yes, of course. I was there. They trusted me. I was in charge and had handled the situation. They did not blame each other for the snake’s existence in their midst, although it could have been avoided, I suppose, if they had been more astute about protecting their own environment. But that is just my own reading of the situation.

I love peace, community, trust, encouragement. Thriving  on it, I become distraught when the community begins to fall apart because of disharmony.

Sadly, in our Christian community, we have become so divided that we are unable to trust or encourage each other. Although we have a common Caretaker, we act as though we are in control. We appear to think that one side will get rid of the Snake, while the other side is feeding it, depending upon which side is RIGHT.

And, yet, the truth is that we all desire to be right, we all want the snake to be gone. But we can’t agree on where the snake is or how to get rid of it.

Is this not where the Caretaker comes in? He knows where the evil is and how to get rid of it.

So, what do we barnyard occupants do? What is our weapon? Do we continue to act like my cats? Or do we join hands in PRAYER to our Creator to give us the wisdom (James 1:5) to understand, to give us the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22) to work together, and faith (Hebrews 11:1) to believe that our Caretaker can take care of this world that he has  created.

 

 

 

 

 

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Why Would I Leave the CHURCH?

A better question might be: Could I leave the Church? This imperfect, sometimes questioning, sometimes unloving, always searching, yet redeemed soul. Could I be free to leave the Church

No. I have been sealed by the Spirit, bought by the blood of Christ, adopted into the Body of Christ which IS the Church.

And, God help me, why would I want to leave?

I have just finished reading Searching For Sunday; loving, leaving, and finding the church. The author has recently left this world in a very sudden and tragic illness leaving behind two little ones and a devoted husband.

As I read, I learned to love the searching and cynical, but honest and compelling young woman.  Her struggles led her down paths in those early years of questioning that I wish I could have walked with her. I, too, had questions. I was not as intelligent as she was, but I desperately wanted to know things that baffled my mind.

So how is it that we ended up taking diverse paths?

I recently asked dear friends who have been walking and talking through a myriad of books with me if they would like to tackle Rachel’s book. We were completing God Space and it was time to be thinking of our next focus. The choices were Os Guinness’ book, Impossible People, or Searching for Sunday. The gals chose the former and, instead, gave me the assignment of reading the latter and giving them a synopsis.

So, here I am, trying to understand the heart of a progressive and influential young woman, distinguish my own thoughts from hers, understand her influence, and, at the same time, blend that into our purpose as a group: How do we interface with our culture in a redeeming lifestyle?

Rachel is not the only one I have learned to love who has taken divergent paths from mine. I long to find the common ground. I must stay with the biblical interpretation that has formed the core of my beliefs. I will explain this in later blogs.

Meanwhile, what does it look like to stay connected with those I love? I have a current barnyard illustration:

Recently I bought a goat from my grandson, Joshua, to be a companion to Donk, my lonely donkey. Buck-the-goat is a handsome, but small little guy.  Prior to his arrival, I had been gifted with a white duck who had instantly been rejected by my two red hens.

Within a matter of a couple days, I noticed a strange bonding had occurred. The white duck, Jemima, had attached herself to Buck. Her white little body now walks in tandem with a somewhat larger brown body. No matter where Buck goes, she goes with him . . . except when the brown body jumps up on the three-and-a-half foot stack of tile that is his “goat perch.”

Jemima settles at the base of the stack and patiently waits for Buck to return to terra firma where they can once again walk in tandem. I can hear her saying, “I can’t go there with you, but I will wait for a time when we can find common ground again.”

I guess that is what I am saying to my friends who have gone to a place in their thinking that I cannot go: “I can’t go there with you, but I will look for the times when we can walk together. And I will be proud to meet you there.”

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A Confession

I confess I have acquiesced to something I never thought I would. Yes, Donq stands alone in the barnyard today accompanied only by two red hens.

For several months, since we had placed the chicken house inside the barnyard to protect my two red hens, I have had to protect myself from the ire of one of the other occupants, Goatie Oatie.

When I shut the chickens in the hen house one evening, Goatie seemed to think that I was giving them special attention and he wanted his share. With a little jump and a toss of his head, he warned me that he wasn’t happy.

As the days went by, his threats became more physical, and I had to carry a stick or a whip to remind him to keep his distance.

Finally, one morning, he had cornered me in the donkey stall, ramming, butting, and threatening. The stick in my hand was breaking into pieces, and he was showing no signs of backing off. My legs were throbbing from where his horn had contacted its target. Thankfully, Dan, returning from his morning prayer walk, saw my predicament. Climbing the fence, he managed to grab Goatie’s horn, allowing me to slip out of the pen.

Years ago, the creature-lover that I am, would have found a way to accommodate his naughty behavior. However, in this somewhat fragile, old-aged body, I could find no alternative. To give him away would not be kind. I would never be able to justify the harm he might bring to others.

And so, Goatie Oatie went to his doom.

Alas, in my retirement years I am finding that hard decisions must be made. May I remember the good years and find grace and determination when decisions must be made.

I confess: I ordered the end of Goatie Oatie’s life.

I also confess:  this stage of life has given me pause to think of the bigger decisions that must be made in the backyard of our community and world.

Must we acquiesce to the badgering and “ramming” of our society? Are we allowed to say “enough” when our rights have been trampled? Must we stay silent or be accused as bigots, racists, homophobes, xenophobes if we take positions that are truthful and loving?

I loved Goatie Oatie. I fed him, talked to him, got him his necessary shots, even took him for an occasional walk; however, his aggressive behavior I could not tolerate. It had become oppressive and dangerous. 

Perhaps, righteous indignation has overcome my sense of tolerance in greater areas of my life. May God give me the grace to find the necessary words and actions to defend my rights as an evangelical Christian today.

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A Sad Confession

I confess I have acquiesced to something I never thought I would. Yes, Donq stands alone in the barnyard today accompanied only by two red hens.

For several months, since we had placed the chicken house inside the barnyard to protect my two red hens, I have had to protect myself from the ire of one of the other occupants, Goatie Oatie.

When I shut the chickens in the hen house one evening, Goatie seemed to think that I was giving them special attention and he wanted his share. With a little jump and a toss of his head, he warned me that he wasn’t happy.

As the days went by, his threats became more physical.  I had to carry a stick or a whip to remind him to keep his distance.

Finally, one morning, he had cornered me in the donkey stall, ramming, butting, and threatening My legs were throbbing from where his horn had made contact. The stick in my hand was breaking into pieces, and he was showing no signs of backing off. I called loudly to my son, Dan, who was returning from his morning prayer walk Catching a glimpse of my predicament, Dad hopped the fence and managed to grab Goatie’s horn. With great relief, I slipped out of the pen.

Years ago, the creature-lover that I am would have found a way to accommodate his naughty behavior. However, in this somewhat fragile, old-aged body, I could find no alternative. To give him away would not be kind. I would never be able to justify the harm he might bring to others.

And so,  Goatie Oatie went to his doom.

I confess: I ordered the end of Goatie Oatie’s life.

I also confess: this stage of life has also given me pause to think of the hard decisions that must be made in the backyard of our community and world.

Must we acquiesce to the badgering and “ramming” of our society? Are we allowed to say “enough” when our rights have been trampled? Must we stay silent or be accused as bigots, racists, homophobes if we speak our minds?

I loved Goatie Oatie. I fed him, talked to him, got him his necessary shots, even took him for an occasional walk. But, his aggressive behavior I could not tolerate. It had become oppressive and dangerous. 

Perhaps, righteous indignation has overcome my sense of tolerance in other areas of my life, and I am finding it necessary to use words, instead of sticks, to defend my rights as an evangelical Christian today.

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A Surprise Visitor

The wind howled outside, and icy snow pelted our double glass door. Judd and I sank a little deeper into our matching brown recliners and enjoyed the warmth of the wood stove.

I had decided earlier not to go out in the snowstorm to check on the barnyard menagerie. I could see from the dining room window that the chickens (my two new red hens) had already disappeared into the coop; the absence of Donqui and Goatie at the gate was evidence they were already settled snug in their stalls. All was well and there was no need for my mothering. Yes, I could have shut the door to the coop, but who would be out prowling tonight for food in this storm, I reasoned.

Suddenly, we heard a tap-tap at the glass door. Looking questioningly at each other we both sat up straight. Was that heavy ice hitting the door now? I leaned out of my chair and strained to see what was there.

“NO!!” I uttered in disbelief. One of my little red hens, Hickety, was tapping at the door. What in the world!? I whispered. How had she managed to get up the steps of the deck and crawl behind a protective sheet of plastic that temporarily hung over the outside of the door? And besides, how did she know how to find us?

Stepping to the door, I spoke to her through the glass. “What are you DOING here?” Tap-tap-tap, she responded. As soon as I opened the door, she gingerly made her way inside.

Hum!! What to make of her behavior? Obviously, she was trying to communicate something. She had never done anything like this before.

Not knowing what else to do, I put my coat and boots on, scooped her up in my arms, and headed out into the snowy night to deposit her back in the barnyard to her coop.

The other red hen, Pickety, was also out of the coop wandering around in the middle of the storm. Once Hickety was back in the coop, it was not too difficult to persuade Pickety to go back home to her nest.

To this day it is a mystery. Why? How? Why not ever before or ever again?

< p class=”has-background” style=”line-height: 200%;”>A few weeks later we had one clue. Anya, our beloved friend-and-animal-caretaker, who was covering our chores while we were visiting family in another state, had discovered a possum in one of the nests of the coop. image1 (1)

Perhaps, Hickety was telling on him and we just did not get the message.

Oh, the stories our animal friends could tell if they just knew English.