It was late evening. The light was gone from the sky, but the air seemed to breathe a hue of compassion, illuminating the scene. The cattle were gently grazing around me. The grass was rich and thick – a lush summer’s growth, one that keeps the cows busy for many days. The sound of a mouth of foliage being torn from the plant reminded me of what it was to have happy cattle. The jaw of the bovine casually crushed the plant as the noise of chewing began, adding to the cud already in tow. A shuffle of hooves, slow movement as another sweet spot of the edible plant was found. An aroma of livestock, something reassuring to the farmer, emanated from the ground around where I stood. Black Angus bodies, my herd of cows surrounded me, accepting me as part of their circle. We had been many miles over the years, from one pasture to another, from one season to the next. There were bitter memories, loss of life, and struggles that come with raising animals. But there were the many wonderful thoughts upon which to reflect, from watching the miracle of birth to seeing a momma instinctively nurse a newborn for the first time. Standing there, amongst my extended family, one couldn’t help to feel blessed beyond measure.
These all played in my mind as the dusk slowly faded into night, and I awoke from the dream – my heart was gladdened. A gentle peace rested upon my soul.
To stand in that place in the dream was the recalling of many times in my journey. Surrounded by those gentle creatures to whom my care upon which they depended allowed for a certain feeling of satisfaction. That comfort in knowing that all that you strived to do, all those many tasks and chores to manage the farm were working – that alone emanated a certain peacefulness. Knowing that the barn is full of hay for the coming winter, that the fields are rich with grasses, a result of preparation long before the warm weather arrived, to planning the birth and rearing of the next crop of calves – there were many facets to what goes into creating that pastoral scene of peaceful solitude. To dream of that moment, that snapshot in time was a reminder of the reassurance God provides to those that serve Him faithfully.
Much like farming, our spiritual lives don’t happen by accident. It takes effort and determination to keep one’s mind centered on Christ. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something that can pull us away from our focus. All we have to do is wake up in the morning and we are almost instantly hit with something that will surely try to pull us away from our prayers or devotions. That sense of urgency that something needs to get done needs to be put aside no matter how grave or essential it is. The need to give God our first priority is as vital as storing those crops for the coming winters or, as in Joseph’s time, the famines to come. Preparing our minds for the day is as essential as a good hearty breakfast.
Many days after work, I would come home and change into my farm clothes, then escape to the barn to find solitude in the herd. Regardless of the time of year, if they saw me approach with a feed bucket, they would come running. The older cows led, the younger, for the elders knew what the bucket meant. As time progressed, the younger calves would quickly learn and follow suit. Once fed, they would return to the grass or the hay, whichever was in season. Then, in their respite and time of rumination, we would all relax and allow time to pass. Around us, the world would continue to spin – the geese flying into the pond on their journey south, the deer would pace through the undergrowth of the nearby woods, or the songbirds would welcome the coming dawn. Yet, there in that bucolic setting, a certain clockwork of life flowed, and the handiwork of God was always present.
As the sun would set or rise, the sky above would paint many colors that the waters of the ponds would reflect. The mirror’s looking glass would ripple as the surface was broken by one of the animals wading in for a drink or the splash from the Kingfisher diving in for a meal. The Swallows would skim along the surface as the steam would rise when the night’s air would begin to cool. Everywhere, the sounds of peepers and bullfrogs told of the coming night.
Meanwhile, a golden glow emanated from the farmhouse’s windows across the pasture. Inside, my wife and children would prepare for bedtime, and my focus would shift to my family. After we all had our showers and were ready to snuggle in our favorite reading chairs, we would blissfully read them a bedtime story. As they drifted off to sleep, I would gently rock them, singing softly the old songs that came to mind. There were many a time that we would fall asleep together, the chair slowing to a standstill, the night’s preparation complete. Sweetly and softly tucking them into bed, we would then resign to finally find rest in our own abode.
As the last prayers were spoken and the lights were extinguished, sleep came quickly and peacefully.
In this mindset, I awoke from the dream, for there was no reason to interpret what had been said or found. It was clear. It was as if God was saying, “My Peace I give to you, and may my Peace be with you.” For it is in God alone that we can find the ultimate tranquility.
And in this, we can always say, “Thanks be to God
“He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth.” – Psalm 104:14
A petite young boy, barely four years old, stood just within the entrance to the pasture. His tiny frame had easily crawled between the bars of the tube gate that was shut to keep the herd of cattle confined within. The firmament overhead was an azure blue, clear as far as the eye could see. Before him stood stalks of green, as tall as trees. The sun felt warm on his demure frame. He was smaller than most children his age. To know him, one would understand why. He was lucky to be alive.
For two years, at the tender age of one and then again, at two, he had contracted double pneumonia. Each time, he barely survived extended stays in the hospital, camping beneath a clear plastic tent as oxygen was pumped into its confines. Many prayed for and over the child. Most feared that he would succumb to the illness, but God had other plans. Like the countless stalks before him, a multitude of prayers had been lifted up in his name, supporting, strengthening, abiding in one another until they found their mark. He eventually healed, but his body suffered the ravages, growing more slowly than other children his age. So, as the sap began to flow in the trees, he felt a renewed strength start to flow through his veins. There seemed to be something that beckoned him to leave the old farmhouse and to wander out behind the tractor shed. Something beyond those palisades of fencing and outbuildings – an openness that smelled of freedom from the bondage of death.
The white cotton shirt beneath the little overalls wasn’t enough to remove the chill of the breeze that wafted the tops of the grasses that swayed before him. A deep, rich aroma permeated the air – it spoke of earth and nature. Earlier that morning, he heard his grandmother speak of prayers being answered for him and how God was great. She went on to share how millions of prayers were being lifted up for their country, seeing as something called the Vietnam conflict was being fought. He didn’t understand the words “prayer” or “war” or what a “world away” meant. It sounded scary. She saw his countenance drop and quickly comforting saying, “nothing to be bothered with, my son. It’s far, far away.” She explained that prayers were people’s way of speaking to God, “like you and I talking now.” But the word “million” made no sense at all. Like the blades of grass before him, too numerous to count, a million was a number that was beyond his comprehension. It was only an entity unto itself, like a living organism, something through which he could only understand if it was tactile. The boy wandered deeper into the tall grass.
A childlike faith, dread of nothing, guided his path as he made his way through the forest of green. Cows making their way had unknowingly prepared his path. A baby cannot know sin, just as there is no reason to Baptize such. So, it is with fear. The child only felt the hand of the comforter. It wasn’t a stranger to him. He had been with him before – like the long empty days when he was held captive in the hospital bed. There were times when he would look to the foot of his bed and see the shadow of one that watched over him, and those suffocating feelings of abandonment would drift away – a love unseen would flood his soul, and sleep would come once more. He was there now, the comforter, walking, holding his hand, watching over him once more. They continued on. The boy followed wherever the trail of grasses led. Surviving the illness had instilled in him a sense of hope, knowing that with each new day, each fresh breath of life, there was always something to look forward to. The Apostle Paul put it like this, “And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”[1]
To understand a faith like this, one must erase all the preconceived notions that cling to us as we traverse through life. It takes an unfettered faith, one that clings to God as a drowning man does to the one trying to save him. As Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”[2] This faith, the belief in something unknown, but yet, it was known, that guided the little child. For each new turn, every new wrinkle of light gave hope, a tantalizing offer of something else to come. For a child, heaven is as believable as the friend that talks to them when no one is there. Anything is possible when you can dispense with what we come to know as the natural realm of reality. Matthew describes Jesus calling the little children unto him, saying, “He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”[3] This faith, this pure belief, guided the little farm boy past the herd of gentle Herefords to the small brook that ran past the farm.
The breeze gently blew the leaves overhead as the little one found his way to the gurgling waters. Before him flowed a small tree-lined creek. Large river birches and pin oaks shaded the oasis below. The bank was worn away where the cows had trod to reach the life-giving sustenance. The little boy sat down on a rock, resting as he wondered about the beasts that soon followed him to the watering hole. He was at home with the herd of cattle as he was with being alone. The animals sensed a purity, a being so gentle, they couldn’t help to wonder. They didn’t speak but gathered, at first hesitantly, realizing the child wasn’t a threat. Then, one by one, they meandered on down to the water and began to drink. Calves followed their mothers, some sniffing at the little boy, their muzzles tickling his neck, causing him to laugh aloud with a cherub-like voice. The sound would cause them to jump, skittering a step away, but continuing on as accepting the tiny human’s presence. He did not know how long they gathered, only that as they departed, he followed like one of the herd. A rumble within his tummy soon reminded him that the grass that the cows were eating wouldn’t suffice, that he needed to return to grandma’s kitchen where the pleasant aroma of something good cooking surely awaited.
Like an old friend, he motioned goodbye to his newfound friends, the cows, and climbed back through the gate’s bars. Somewhere off in the distance, a Redwing chirped as it headed to the pond nearby. A tiny puff of a cloud whisked past as the little boy kicked at a dirt clod in the trail leading back to the house. The dust drifted onward, like his feelings, from one happy sugar cube of thought to the next. His days were filled with what some might call loneliness, but to him, it was just another day in the life he had been given. It was there, alone in those oceans of grass that loneliness and isolation were supplanted by imagination. It would become a voice within that would carry him through all the days of his life. There was nothing for which to compare, and as it was, he was glad to be alive.
The worn stretched to the point of threadbare T-shirt that he wore underneath his faded, denim bib overalls depicted the man. Victor Phillip Tron was a quiet man but labored as a farmer until the day he died. He never complained about his work, other than that last day, when he told Mildred, his endearing wife of 52 years, that he just didn’t feel well. She would later recall how grandpa seemed to drag about that day and that she told Victor couldn’t eat his supper until after he had fed the dogs. Begrudgingly, he obliged and returned to eat his last supper. He would die that night in his sleep.
Victor Phillip Tron, wearing his next favorite shirt, the winter flannel. Taken in the living room of the farm house, on the edge of New Harmony, Indiana. (note, the work boots, taken when he was preparing to head to the milk barn one chilly winter afternoon.)
To know my grandpa Tron, you would have to understand the schedule he kept. As a dairy farmer, working on K.D. Owens expansive farm, managing the milking barn, Victor kept a 4:00pm, and 4:00am milking pattern. This meant, when we saw him first thing in the morning when we children arose at the first light of dawn, Victor had already put in half a day’s work. Often, we sat while grandma prepared the morning meal at the breakfast table, us still in our night clothes, grandpa in his weary old T-shirt and overalls. The smell of bleach from cleaning up after the milking emanated from grandpa. He would always meticulously lather with Comet at the bathroom sink, from his hands up to his elbows. It was the same cleaning agent he would use at the barn where he processed the milk twice a day. The cleanser had soaked into his skin so that his calm demeanor was always acquainted in my mind with Comet. To this day, I cannot open a can of the cleaner without my mind immediately drifting back to that dairy barn and grandpa so many years ago.
The daily schedule, 365 days a year, twice a day, eventually would wear on him. By the time I had come around, grandpa was nearing his late sixties. He had a slight stroke at one point near the end so that his speech was hindered. A voice barely above a whisper, he would sit on the front porch after his afternoon nap in the living room and tell jokes. They still didn’t always seem funny when we could understand him, but it didn’t phase him one bit. He would carry on some tale, and when he got to the punch line, unbeknownst to the rest of us grandkids, he would rear back and slap his leg laughing hysterically while we grinned, trying to enjoy whatever grandpa was reveling in at the time. If nothing else, his jovial aspect of sharing was enough to make you grin ear to ear. But these moments were few and far between, for mostly grandpa Tron sat and listened, smiling or nodding. For this reason, those few times that we saw him joking were the precious jewels in our collective memory.
Doyle Hines (maternal grandfather) and grandson, Timothy W. Tron, 1963, New Harmony, Indiana – Doyle wearing the T-shirt and Overalls mentioned in this story.
When I was a small child, Victor would wear his overalls to church on Saturday morning. Grandpa and Grandma were Seventh Day Adventists and strictly adhered to the Sabbath, starting at sundown on Friday evening to dusk on Saturday. Later in my life, not many years before he passed, someone bought him a light brown suit which he traded in, at the bequest of my grandmother, to be sure, for his comfortable bibs. That was the same suit he would be buried in on December 2nd, 1977. That was the same year we lost my cousin Michael Kaiser to an accident. Michael was electrocuted to death when he, my other cousin David Paul, and his father, my Uncle David, were putting up a new T.V. antenna at my Uncle David’s house. Unfortunately, the antennae hit the power line before the transformer. Being the tallest of any family member, Michael took the lethal portion of the shock. His heart continued to beat all the way to the hospital in Evansville, pumping blood out the ends of his fingers and toes, which had burst because of the impact of the bolt of electricity. There was nothing they could do to stop it.
Grandpa was there to see Michael laid to rest, next to the spot where he and grandma had planned to be the first in Maple Hill Cemetery on the edge of New Harmony – “it wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he would whisper.
Michael was only 21.
Michael and my mother (Rita Hines Tron Wiscaver) in the kitchen of the old farm house on the edge of New Harmony, Indiana.
Michael’s death impacted all of us. Grandpa didn’t talk much after the passing of Michael. We all felt a sense of guilt, none more than Uncle David. But nobody blamed David, or his son, David Paul. But self-imposed blame can be like a cancer. Their lives would be touched with struggles that one has to wonder if they weren’t still carrying that burden all those many years since.
But, there were always fond memories of Grandpa. Like when he taught us how to milk the cows by hand. He would easily squeeze out a gentle handful of rich, creamy froth into the stainless-steel bucket. Occasionally, the odd barn cat sitting behind the cow would catch an unexpected mouthful and, satisfied, walk away, wiping their chin with tongue and paw. Grandpa would chuckle at the sight, and we kids would nearly roll with laughter.
Victor taught us that the cream that settled at the top of the glass jar of milk in the fridge was best when shaken before pouring into our drinking glasses. The Ovaltine was resting at the bottom, waiting to join the frothing liquid to make a treat nearly indescribable in earthly terms.
He would walk with us out into the lane and teach us to call his cattle – his girls, he would say. Grandma swore that he named after all of his old girlfriends. “Suuuuuuuuk-cow,” he would holler with a high tenor shout. His voice would echo off of Sled Hill and back, answered shortly by distant lowing. His girls never missed a beat to come to the milk barn. We would wait for them to wander down the long, tree-lined lane, and one by one, we would follow the parade, in tow behind grandpa. Each cow knew her stall and would go up to the concrete trough to wait for Victor to harness them into place. He would then pour a scoop full of the sweetest smelling feed imaginable in front of their muzzles, which they would instantly begin nuzzling their noses into the rich grain.
Tim at Denton Farm Park, May 2021 – seriously trying to be serious.
Victor was a man of few words, but he loved to whistle. We all knew when he had found the mother-lode of berry patches, though. Back in the day, we would all pile into the back of the pickup truck and head for the fields to pick blackberries. When Victor’s whistling stopped, we knew he had found more blackberries than he could gather. The trick was to find where he was hiding.
But the most cherished memory would be catching him and grandma sitting at the kitchen table before breakfast. There they would read the Bible together, sharing in God’s word, starting their day together in the Lord. It wasn’t something they advertised. It was who they were – people of God.
Not many days go by that I don’t think of those days more and more. Recently one of the students on campus asked me if I could be 20-something again, would I? Of course, my answer was no, thinking that they were attempting to portray me as someone at college, doing all the college things. But truthfully, if I could go back in time, it would be way before then, to those distant days of my youth when all my grandpas and grandmas were still alive. There, I would ask so many more questions. There, I would sit and record as much as was humanly possible for my age. There, I would cherish once more those words of wisdom and wit. There once more, I would ask them to lead me in the ways of the Lord evermore.
But to know all of this is to know that someday soon, I will be able to do just that, but for all of eternity.
And once more, that soul in the worn T-shirt and those bibs will be like an old friend greeting me home.
As the coming holidays approach, Thanksgiving and Christmas, there seems to be a sense of melancholy that has begun to permeate through the din of the incessant roar of this tumult our society has become. In my mind, there is a desire to reach back in my memories and dwell upon a time when life was simpler when the so-called advances in technology had yet to be developed. Because of the threat of lockdowns restricting these beloved reunions, those distant memories have become even more cherished. One such date that comes to mind coincides with a memory that our family holds dear to their heart.
It was the late 1960’s. Back then, we survived without non-stop news coverage, without updates from our social media accounts, and without the fear of dying from a virus, let alone anything else that existed at the time. It’s not to say there wasn’t death nor dying, for there had yet to be the advances we have today in the fields of heart disease and cancer. Both of these maladies took many lives before their time, and still do today, but not nearly as severely as in those days. No, we feared not because we had a faith that was the bedrock of our existence.
That faith was taught to us through our elders, passed down from one generation to the next – a thread of belief that was built upon an unending truth – Christ is indeed the Savior of the world. So, it is in this vein that once more my heart reaches for a well-worn story that is based on an actual event whose legacy has lasted for many years in our family. It is like the cup of an instant drink, void of the liquid to make it real – once the hot water is added, the story being recalled becomes the sustenance that warms our being. Like that beverage, the Spirit enters into our soul, and we are warmed from within to that which is without. Herein lies the beauty.
Looking back through the shadowy fog of time, those distant memories are like the passing clouds overhead. They are here but for a moment, and then cross over the mountaintops before we realize they are gone. As we near the season of holidays and family gatherings, it seems that those ancient days of yesteryear are ever more treasured. Like the value of a tattered cloth that once was held in the dying grasp of a loved one, its price to most would be nothing, but to those who knew its connection to the soul of the other – it becomes a priceless object.
That year when the snow fell around Christmas would become one such moment in time for me.
The classic event which unfolded is still known to this day, by all that attended, as the Sled Hill Christmas. Of all my childhood holiday experiences, it will forever be the most memorable in my mind. To read the entirety of the original story, you can find it online at https://timothywtron.dreamhosters.com/sled-hill-life-more-abundantly/ But this article looks at that event from a different perspective; one of how the warmth of a loving family and faith carried us through what may have been considered just another dark winter.
Like a revival, a truly epic event can only unfold when it is least expected. So it was that overcast December day so many decades ago. Several of us grandkids were staying at Grandpa and Grandma Tron’s house, there on the outskirts of New Harmony, Indiana. The town itself was in the season of slumber. Farming was still the driving industry, and the fields were now silent in their winter sleep. The hay had all been stored in the barns and the silos were filled to capacity with grains and silage to last until the next growing season began. A feeling of hibernation overtook one’s soul, making those opportunities to warm by the woodstove or to huddle close around a cup of hot chocolate all the more permanent upon the creature within. Gathering with others was the only natural thing to do in a time such as this – it was who we were, it was what we were. In those precious slices of time, we fellowshipped without knowing that’s what it was called. Visiting with others when the work in the fields slowed was just as natural as splitting your firewood by hand – we all did it.
Tron House, New Harmony, Indiana.
When those first few snowflakes began falling the night before what would become the day to remember, we went to bed not expecting anything more than just a typical Midwest December dusting. When we awoke the next morning to the sounds of someone rattling around downstairs in the kitchen, it was as if Christmas had come early. Jumping from underneath the multiple layers of quilts, which weighed nearly as much as another cousin, we raced down the icy narrow stairs from the unheated upstairs bedrooms down to the kitchen where the pot-belly woodstove in Grandma’s kitchen was already red hot. We shivered and shook the remnants of chill from our bones, as our bare feet fought to find the warmth emanating from the scant linoleum floor by the stove. Excitedly, we peeked through the threadbare kitchen curtains that hung over the sink. The window faced grandma’s kitchen garden. Outside, the world was no longer the muddled gray of winter, but instead, was a brilliant whiteness, even in the pre-dawn, early morning hours.
About the time we had settled down around the table, after getting out of our bedclothes, Grandpa came in from the morning milking. We could hear the creaky old porch door slam behind him as he walked down the long back porch, from the barn end, up to the door of the kitchen, where he paused and took off his boots. The confines of that narrow passage clothed in clear plastic, a feeble attempt to thwart the cold winds of winter. The repurposed material was clouded with age, giving off a soft sheer grayness within the tomb of the veranda’s confines. The oft sound of rippling plastic slapping the screen made thoughts of warm summer nights, fresh tomatoes, and fireflies come to mind. Needless to say, those were but a distant rumor as the snow continued to fall.
With all eyes upon his entry, the vacuum of anticipation cut the air, like the cold wind that followed him inside. Snowflakes fell off his outer coat confirming what we already knew. Before he had time to take note of his unexpected audience, the questions began to roll off our lips.
“How deep is it grandpa?”
“Does it look like more’s coming?
“Where are the sleds?”
“Were the cows cold?”
He turned and smiled, looking toward grandma. Victor Tron never was a man of many words, So, when he replied with, “It looks like it’s gonna be good,” rest assured, that was all we needed to know. Grandma already had his breakfast ready, along with ours, and we sat down for an unusually early start of our day. We all instantly grew silent when grandpa bowed his head and reached his hand over to grandma. She grabbed his outstretched weathered hand with hers and we all joined hands and bowed our heads as grandpa said the blessing for the breakfast meal. In my mind, I can still hear that strained voice, barely above a whisper, thank God for what grandpa said was an abundance of blessings. Before us was a meager meal by worldly standards, but to us, it was Heaven sent. For we knew, even as children that every bit of it was from those two pair of withered hands that grasped one another in a love that never ended, even upon their death.
Victor Tron Sr.
Grandpa’s first milking was at 3:00 AM and he usually finished up around 5:00 AM. His second milking was at 3:00 PM, every day of his life. He never took a vacation that I could remember. Usually exhausted from rising early, he would routinely drift off to sleep no matter where he sat, so finding time to talk with him was rare. He milked the cows until that night he died peacefully in his sleep, never to milk again. What we didn’t know as children, was how precious those few moments were with him when we were able to visit, especially that snowy morning on a cold December day so many years ago.
As soon as we were able to clear the table and bundle up, we were headed out the door. Eventually, someone asked if we could check out sled hill. An okay was given and like a herd of young calves heading for new pasture, we bolted out the back gate. Past the woodpile where grandpa’s ax and splitting log were shrouded in snow we raced. Heading for the opening to the lane, we quickly found ourselves wading through the knee-deep snow toward the iconic destination; Sled Hill. Past the milking barn, the bullpen, and Ms. Wolf’s house we trudged. Each one of these structures held a plethora of memories and stories that one could sit for hours and share. Like a life of living, their collections, like the holdings of stockpiled hay for the winter, waiting for one to return and use for the giving.
The bushes along the Labyrinth were blanketed in a sweet frosting of white. Our panted breaths billowed before us and were quickly whisked away in the falling snow. In our rush to find out how well the sledding was going to be, we didn’t realize how hard the snow was continuing to fall. Nor did we realize how deep the snow had already gotten since sunrise. In the overcast grayness of the day, it all seemed like a dream, even when it was live.
Labyrinth, New Harmony, Indiana
As the story, “Sled Hill: Life More Abundantly,” conveys, the rest of the day was a multitude of adventures and excitement. With each passing moment, the tempo of the day’s delight reached a fevered pitch. The enthusiasm of the children soon bubbled over into those of the adults, igniting in them the feelings of youth. Gone were the aches and pains of age. The adrenaline of living purged those boundaries of limitations that had kept them hostage. Soon, parents, Aunts, and Uncles were joining in the merriment of sliding down the hill so aptly named.
As the sky began to darken as night approached, the thrill of the day and the feeling of being one with something greater than ourselves overwhelmed us. Fearing that it would end in darkness, the men created torches on the fly from used old tin cans (which we also used as drinking vessels), nailing them to poles and placing them along the sled run, all the way to the top of the hill. What started out as child’s play quickly turned into a major production. In essence, a cow pasture had turned into our own ski-slope far removed from any mountaintop.
When the last vestiges of daylight gave way to darkness, there along the sled run was a perfect row of home-made flaming lights shedding an ambient glow of warmth. Off to the side, a pile of wood was set afire and a massive bonfire became the gathering spot between runs down the hill. There we regained strength to carry on from food and drink the family had brought in at a moment’s notice. There, the entire family that was able to make it collected. The sentinel image that remains with me to this day was seeing both grandpa and grandma’s faces glowing in the reflection of the firelight. To know that grandpa had a milking coming at 03:00 AM, and yet, he was here foregoing precious sleep, standing alongside us kids around the bonfire said something more that than words could fathom. Even then, the whispers of the children could be heard, “Look, even grandpa and grandma are here.” The statement was a confirmation of the significance of that moment in time, one that made a profound statement on all that were present.
That night, once our bodies had been worn to a frazzle. There was barely enough strength to make it back to the house. As we pulled off our wet, nearly frozen clothing and briefly warmed by the fire, a numbness of exhaustion began to overtake us. The enormous featherbed never looked so welcoming. Shortly thereafter, after our bedtime prayers were said, there was little more than the sweet, “Goodnight children,” from grandma as she tucked us under the pile of quilts before we fell asleep.
For once in a lifetime, there was no sweeter sleep.
As the snow continued to fall outside that night, there was a warmth within that was more than physical – a love that transcends all understanding. There was something created that day that would last forever in the hearts of those who had been privileged to experience it. It became an inexplicable thread of life that would weave its way into our souls which would become part of who we were. The similarity of a feeling such as this can only compare to that of Christ’s disciples.
Like those followers of Jesus who had walked and talked with Christ after his resurrection, they too had a story to share. One that was so inexplicable, so earth-shattering that they would live the rest of their lives pursuing the mission to share it with all that would hear, even unto the point of death. It was who they were.
As we go forward in this holiday season, let us come together as a family, and may the hope of Christ, and Christmas be with you, until the end of time. May it someday become who you are as well.
My little body could barely see over the dash of that ancient truck as we rattled across the pasture that cold frosty morning, checking the cows in my grandpa’s herd. Trees stood like stark skeletons along the fence lines guarding against the frozen winds. The ground was covered with a heavy frost that pitter pattered curious mounds of fluffiness from one edge of the field to the next. Below the dusting of white lay grass still green from the summer growing season. It was early winter, and several of the fall calves were struggling with the recent span of bitter weather we’d been having. Grandpa headed the nose of the old Ford slowly into the midst of the herd. As I peered through the side window by breath fogged up the glass causing the cattle beyond to appear as ghostlike images. We were surrounded. The tires made crunching noises on the frozen grass as we carefully pulled ahead. Fearing he might hit one of those massive red and white Hereford bodies, my little hands grabbed the dusty dash bracing myself. To my amazement, the cows parted like clouds passing the peak of a mountain, steady and sure. Mommas with babies in tow, all bemoaning their plight as they slowly moved aside, watched us as we passed. Awestruck with their size, it perplexed me how they could be so easily persuaded to move without any force. Unbeknownst to me, they knew my grandpa and his vehicle well enough that just the sound of him rumbling down the gravel road to the gate would be enough to draw them closer seeking sweet feed or hay. Now, in their midst, surrounding my the heavy breaths seen with each puff, there was no fear on either side of our consciousness, their or ours.
The familiarity of each was comforting. Like old friends, we felt at ease with one another.
Inside the warm cab of the truck, the smell of leather, sweat, and accumulated oil-covered, diesel-laden rags made for a memory of its own. When the aroma of the cattle surrounded us, the two melded into one forming a panoramic odor unlike any other. The multitude of riches that embraced the senses were too wonderful to forget, the visual, aromatic, and audible.
Grandpa would point to this or that cow and tell me about them, as if quoting from a playbook of their lives and how he might have to do this or that to one of them, none of which made any sense to a four-year-old. All I could understand was that we were “Working the Cows,” as grandma would say, as she proudly shooed us out the back door of their farmhouse as she began to clean up from breakfast and then began preparing the day’s meals. “You men go work the cows, and I’ll have dinner ready for yuins when you get back.” She spoke “Wabash” as we said of folks in that area of southern Indiana. We would eventually return later in the day to rich, tasty smells of freshly baked bread and cakes, along with delectable foods that only now come back to my memory; blessings long passed.
When grandpa had planting or harvesting that would keep him in the fields for hours and days-on-end, grandma would find ways to entertain us. It wasn’t past her to dig up a few fishing worms, throw them into an old Folgers Coffee can, grab a cane pole and then tell me, “Son, let’s go fishing.” We’d walk together hand-in-hand down the lane in front of that old farmhouse to the big pond at the end of what seemed an endless trail. Together, we’d sit on that old wooden dock, bait the hooks, catch the fish, and then joyfully bring back the same coffee can full of bluegill.
One overly productive fishing expedition, Grandma, said we could eat the fish or feed them to the cats. Our coffee can was overflowing with our catch. I looked around at the plethora of cats. None of the feral beasts had ever allowed me to pet them nor to make friends with them. Now all of a sudden, they seemed so helpless. A voice inside me spoke, and immediately I felt the urge to provide for those poor old hungry barn cats, so we opted for feeding the needy instead of worrying about trying to filet the tiny fish. Before the fish hit the ground, the cats had emerged from their hiding spots, blanketing the catch of the day. Within a couple of minutes, the entire feast was devoured. Not one crumb or scale was left behind. My joy was in that moment, watching those cats savor the morsels we had brought home while having had the fun of catching them. Our work had a purpose, and each action was accounted for in the results that awaited.
Lesson after lesson of life played out before me on that farm.
Years later, on the other side of life’s fence, I can look back and see how God had prepared me for the journey. Each snapshot of those moments was special. They taught me everything from interactions with other beings to the frugality of existence. The sheer isolation made you appreciate anything that came to life either live or inanimate. From the round river rock pebbles that made the gravel road to the tall blades of grass in the pasture that grew like a forest in the summer, there was a world of exploration and fascination to keep a young boy entertained for days on end.
But the fondest of all were the times Grandma would read to my from her Bible, often in the evening after the meal was done. Those precious words and stories made me want to know more about this Son of Man called Jesus. I would beg for more, even as I was being tucked into bed for the night, as Grandma kissed me goodnight. There safe and sound in that warm feather bed, I’d drift off to sleep, like in the warmth of the cab of that truck with Grandpa, all cozy and warm. There was a feeling that God was wrapping his arms around me and that there was nothing at all in the world to fear.
We’ve hunkered down for the long cold spell ahead, or at least for the next couple weeks. We are facing some of the harshest weather we’ll likely see all winter. Instinctively, we find comfort in the minute details, the planning, research and review of the past and future events. Today, my daughter and I spent most of the day in the tiny office of the Trail doing just that. Sheltered by the warmth of the heater nearby, we worked independently of one another on separate projects. Every now and then we’d come up for air and share in the moment, sometimes joking, sometimes peeking at the other’s work.
Outside, the wind chill made the air feel like single digit temperatures.
Many places around the world share these cold, bone-chilling climates, we are not alone.
This time of year, in Triberg Germany, the ancient customs of long, bitter winters have created a global niche; the Coo-Coo Clock capital of the world. Forced to remain indoors for long periods of time in their tiny mountain chalets, the woodworkers of old would turn their talents inward, creating tiny cogs, wheels, and artifacts that would make amazingly entertaining timepieces. Through their one-of-a-kind artistry, their mountain traits, customs, and lifestyles would be portrayed in what they produced; all because they sought to stay warm within their remote mountaintop homes.
Outside I could see the wind blowing the tree branches. Part of me could almost feel the chill run up my spine. I shivered inwardly and returned to my work.
Inside, there was more than the physical warmth, it was a feeling of being with someone you loved, as any parent knows, the unconditional love of a father for his son or daughter. For a few moments today, we were back in the studio of my barn, painting, and drawing on our own artwork. Nearby, the old woodstove provided the woodsy aroma of fire along with the heat that kept the freezing winds outside at bay. My favorite painting music would be softly playing in the background; Alan Jackson, Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, Mountain Heart, Dailey and Vincent and many more. Outside, in the barnyard, the cows would be working on the latest hay bale, and then finding a warm, comfortable spot to lie down and ruminate. A rooster would crow now and then to remind us of the world beyond as the wind might rattle a loose piece of tin to confirm.
Up in the studio, we’d lost track of time until either our stomachs would remind us of the hour or the day would turn into twilight and we’d have to find the lamps to turn in order to see. Someone would grab another log and pitch into the stove, maintaining the red-hot furnace in the corner of the room. We’d take little breaks and warm our backsides to the heat, waiting until you couldn’t stand it any longer then jumping away before your skin caught fire; a warmth that would reach down into your bones.
There was a gentleness to those memories; too far and few between to come to expect. Rather, those were once in a great while treasures that were separated by long painful stretches of third shift work that tore my body and mind to pieces, leaving shards of my being along the rocky path. Sometimes, the mere thought of those precious memories were all that kept me going.
Thankfully, the long, arduous, painful stretches of third-shift are over. Once again, we are slowly finding time to be together to revisit those almost forgotten feelings of kindred spirit. Once again, I’m able to be the father that I almost wasn’t.
The Bible speaks of how we are to teach our children in the way, “You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way when you lie down, and when you rise up.” -Deut. 11:19 But if when we are absent, they are left to seek Him of their own accord. Too many times, they become the victims of our best intentions; to make more money so that we can shower them with all their needs.
Sadly, we lose sight of what they need most, which is precisely what we fail to give them; ourselves.
We still await the sale of that farm and our precious studio loft in the barn.
Meanwhile, we take with us the most precious piece of that experience, …ourselves.
(This was taken from my journal entry of last weekend)
The air is full today.
As I sit here on the freshly mown lawn by the fire I can hear a plethora of sounds, smell the rich fragrance of the blossoms in full bloom and see the movement of life all around me. We await the rain that sits foreboding upon the tree lined horizon. The soil, turned and ready, holds the seeds that have been tucked away, eager for the arrival of the life giving moisture from which they will burst forth toward the light. In a way, they are like children who have been tucked in bed for a long winter’s night slumber on Christmas Eve, knowing Saint Nicholas will soon be arriving; then bursting forth at the first hint of morning light; one seeks a gift while the other will provide the gift of life, food.
All around the farm there is not one moment or sight that does not go rewarded. I can hear the supper’s meal sizzling in the foil on the fire while the Cardinal dashes by, eyeing me as he passes, obviously curious as to why I’m here. This is his domain and I am an unwanted guest. When yonder window pane beckons, he attacks the red bird image, sometimes so boldly that he knocks himself silly. The smell of the sausage returns my thoughts to food being cooked over the open fire. Wandering wisps of smoke follow the slight breeze toward the pasture where the cattle lie now reposed from a day’s foraging. The calves are all sated as they lounge in the green grass, blades of life that just a few days ago struggled to break the trance of the brown landscape of the relentless artic chill.
Squirrels chase one another up and down the hickory tree, nails and tails flying as they go. The skittering sounds of their whimsical games upon the smooth tree bark blend with their squeals of taunts to one another. We once sought them for supper; today we are bent preparing the good earth for an eventual hopeful reward. The delicate balance of seed, soil, water and sunlight will determine the ultimate harvest. It is our task to try to make them all balance out at the right time. So much has been given, but so much more will be asked of us; so says the good book.
Today, the air is so full and rich with all the senses being rewarded no matter where you look. This morning’s azure blue sky has now faded to gray as the coming storms shadow the landscape with an overcast haze. The transition was barely noticeable as we spent the day as a family, working together, collecting the fuel for the fire from the fencerows, plowing and disking the garden, then cooking our supper underneath the outdoor sky. We’ll sleep well tonight for the work of earth and hand not only makes the back weary but likewise rewards the soul.
