Category Archives: Faith

Lola and My Boy

I named her Lola and had my son put a little red tag around her ankle.

After losing a little chick from the meat flock just a few weeks prior, I didn’t want to lose Lola too. The tiny red band around her yellow leg flopped loosely and she joined the rest of the all-white flock at the feeder.

She was tiny. But she was scrappy.

I liked how her little body would push its way into the sea of white and fight for a place at the feed tray.

We’d purchased the thirty chicks as a summer project after my son raised a small batch for 4-H. They fit perfect on our little farm. They fit perfect in my son’s farmer life. And they were going to fit perfect in our stash of freezer meat.

I didn’t think Lola would make it. When I saw she wasn’t thriving, I thought she’d succumb like the little one I’d named Emily just a month before had. That’s the way of life after all…the sad facts of it…but Lola kept on and she made me smile when she’d shove her little white body to the feeder and climb on the backs of her flock mates to find a spot to eat.

I thought I’d keep her.

She could hobble around with our laying flock and look cute.

She’d be the odd-shaped fat girl in the gang of our lean working hens and she’d remind me of the fight in all of us. The instinct God writes into our cells. To live. To survive.

To grow.

But she didn’t. Along with the rest of her 28 pen mates, Lola stayed too small no matter how much my son increased their feed. The first batch had been fat, robust, healthy and happy, but this batch was two weeks past our scheduled butcher date and still not up to a weight that would bring an expected yield.

We talked to folks who raised chickens. It was a weird summer they said. Chickens weren’t growing to their full weight. Blame all the rain we had this summer.

It was getting cold outside and my Lola and the rest of her pen mates just weren’t growing any bigger so we decided it was time. We needed to butcher before it got any colder and my son and I did what we’ve learned to do…sharpen our knives and turn on the music while I put my big girl in charge of the littler kids and get to work, side by side doing what families have done for thousands of years.

“Mom what do you want me to do with Lola?”

He asks me quiet and tender after we’ve clasped hands and thanked the Maker of life for the gift of these lives and asked for the provision of kind hands that do their work gently and sure.

“Oh right. Lola.”

I tidy my table and give him the let’s-get-to-it look.

Lola.

We’d picked up the chicks on one of the last days of radiation. They came home with us in a feed-store box on the morning we’d had a date with laser beams.

Lola reminded me that just like my husband had that morning and every morning prior for seven straight weeks…

…sometimes we have to fight to live.

Lola reminded me that even though we’re tiny and part of a big flock…

…we can still find our way.

Lola reminded me that sometimes we just have to use the strength we were given and it’ll help us. Sometimes…

…we just have to push a little harder.

Lola reminded me that our shepherd has his seal on us and that we’re easy for Him to find. There’s no doubt…

…He knows exactly which one we are.

Lola’s red band on her scrawny little ankle reminded me that sometimes we just need a little extra attention…

…to make sure we’re growing.

So as I worked shoulder-to-shoulder with my son whose shoulders are wide now like his daddy’s, I thought of the summer and the season and the past thirteen years…growing as a Mama. Growing as a child of God.

How does the time go so fast when you still feel so small?

How do I forget how much I grow every day until one day I look at the man I’ve grown up with and realize it’s been twenty years and four children and a houseful of prayers and a faith that leads upon waters without even thinking?

I’ve moved my truck to where we are so we can hear the radio and there comes the song. It used to play in the headphones of my Walkman and as the pretty girl sings time after some time you’ll picture me I’m walking too far ahead…

I realize my boy is the age I was when we all fell in love with that song.

We’ve walked ahead some.

And like my boy, we’re growing too.

Every year, every child, every friend, every prayer…

…every tear…

…He holds them in His hand right there where our names are written in red.

Time after time.

“Mama?”

We’re about halfway through with the task and the smells from the house are of broth and winter provision and I know what he’s going to ask me.

“Let me go look at her first before I decide, son.”

We walk to the pen and he finds her, small still but as big now as the rest of the chickens with her there.

I think of our season…

…the extra years I’ve been given with my husband. The shed full of hay. The house full of children.

I think of what Lola has taught me. I think of how I’ve grown without even realizing it. How, in the scrappy fight to stay alive and keep thriving, I’ve felt the band of the one who’s marked me with His seal.

“Mom, it would be real hard to incorporate her into the layer hens. They probably wouldn’t let her in right away and she could probably die out in the cold.”

She’s not a keeper chicken. Her breed can develop fatal health problems if they’re kept past butchering age.

Lola is a meat bird bred to grow fast and then die.

To keep her would stress our farm and stress her, most likely to the point of death.

I realize all these things as I look on her little white form, -her little lesson-giving shape- and my farmer mind wins practical but can’t stop my soft side from releasing a tear and smiling thankful.

“Could you take her tag off son?”

“Okay?” His voice is quiet and his hands are bloody from the work he does so his Mama doesn’t have to, and in his blue eyes that were just baby eyes but are growing now into man eyes I see the asking. Are you sure?

“She wouldn’t survive son. She was a good chick. But it’s her time. This is what we got her for. This is her purpose. Just take her tag off. And please don’t tell me if you know it’s her when she comes through.”

He goes into the pen and I go back to our tables, hosing them off and getting ready to process the next chicken that my man-boy will gently and humanely send into eternity.

Lola had grown into her purpose.

And as I worked with my son in the chilling autumn evening, I realized that as he grows into his purpose, and my husband grows into his purpose, and you grow into your purpose…

…I’m growing into my purpose too.

A little flock of ducks flies over, their wings whooshing and their calls quiet. Their v-form heads due south and the sun slips behind the spruce trees.

We finish our work, wash up the knives, rinse down the table, and take one last look around the barnyard.

My son…the one I first held in my arms yesterday it seems…I ask him if he wouldn’t please move the truck back up to the house.

“Me?”

The surprise and excitement hit his face in a scared little smile he works hard to contain and I nod, smiling.

How long before he knows his purpose? Later that night, it dawned on me that, at twelve years old, my boy is two-thirds of the way through his trek to adulthood.

But now though, as I watch his nervous face maneuver my truck the twenty feet that must seem like a mile to him, I realize his purpose for now is the same purpose we all share…

…to keep up the fight to thrive…

…to push through the struggles…

…to rest in knowing who we belong to…

…and most of all…

…to just keep growing.

…I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received…Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God’s possession…

Ephesians 4:1, 1:13

Heartbeats and America Man

Life is Messy and Things Aren’t Always So Little on this Crazy Little Farm

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“…for every animal of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills. I know every bird in the mountains, and the creatures of the field are mine.” ~Psalm 50:10-11

We’ve had our little farm just three years. Not long in the grand scheme of things. But you’d be amazed what a mama can learn in three years, especially when it comes to animals. And kids of course.

An especially poignant day comes to mind when this mama found herself in the surreal situation of stuffing the way-back of the Ford Expedition full to the ceiling before sunup one morning, cages and kennels teetering while she drove through the early morning dark, her children’s faces in the rearview, solemnly brushing the lint off their white fancy shirts as they combed their hair and their coon skin caps and quietly practiced their showmanship routine.

Guinea pig shows will do that to a family. You see, this raising animals gig ain’t for the faint of heart. I said it after my kids raised the roof and cleaned house with their little pig herd, winning ribbons and prizes and honorable mentions as I just sat bewildered, shaking my head slowly. I told the judge then and I maintain it now, you just never know what road you’re gonna travel once you become a mother.

And that’s the way it is with farm life too. We’re little. We have pets on the barnyard, not dairy cows or beef cattle. Our little herd of mini horses and goats are just fun family members who fill our table talk and empty our checking account. We’re not pros, heck we have to pray for strength and fortitude before we even butcher up a few chickens. Big ranchers are tough and strong and get thrown off bulls and cut their hands on barbed wire. We’re what you’d call a much softer, fluffier version of that. Think petting zoo but not quite as cute. That’s us. With some guinea pigs and a two-toed rooster thrown into the mix.

Large scale farmers or not though, we’ve still learned a peck about life from these crazy animals. In fact, I’d venture to say I’ve learned more about life and love and how this whole operation works in the three little years we’ve had this crazy farm than I probably did in all the years before. You see, when God made animals, He gave them to us humans to take care of. And yes, some animals are with us just for companionship and keeping our feet warm at night, and that’s a wonderful thing. But there’s more to it too.

The way I figure it, as long as this big old world keeps spinning, and no matter what happens on it, there will always be animals. Always. For friendship, for work, for transportation, for eats. Where there are people, there will be animals. And as long as there are animals, there will always be a need for people who know how to care for them. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re learning how to care for animals. And in learning how to care for animals, we’re learning a whole bunch about how to care for people too. These are just a few of the tidbits we’ve garnered:

Life is messy. Farm life isn’t like what we see on TV. The farms on TV have us thinking barns clean themselves, manure evaporates, animals quietly graze on grass all their livelong days and no one ever gets sick. Or when they do, a quick visit from the vet fixes them up lickety split.

Life, real life, is messy.

And you’ll more than once find yourself standing in a pile of poop, wondering how you got there, and having no other option than to just take your shovel and get after it. But after a few times of mucking, it’ll get to become a little more familiar. It won’t be so alarming after you’ve been through it once or twice. You’ll get better at dealing with the poop. And you might even start to figure out ways to head off big messes. But it’s still going to always be there. In life, there’s poop. You just gotta learn to deal with it.

Life is unpredictable. You learn to deal with messes and may even get good at it. But then, in farming, and in life, something’ll get thrown at you that you have no idea where it came from or how to deal with it. The pony will get sick and you’ll find yourself giving him shots in the neck twice a day for two weeks straight even though you can barely calm the shaking in your hands. Or the hedgehog will develop a very sudden onset of Wobbly Hedgehog Syndrome one morning which will force you to ask your husband twelve hours later, if he wouldn’t mind just getting it over with by gently sending the poor animal to the hereafter while you and the kids run into town. Things happen that’d you’d never even think of when you woke up in the morning and the older you get, the harder it is to deal with sudden happenings, but the easier it gets too because when it comes down to it, isn’t that real life? Interruptions. Surprises. Messes. Unpredictable.

Life needs our attention. When you’ve got critters, you study them close and you study them long. You come to know what an animal needs from you. You understand more than anyone else on earth what they need for food, shelter, routine, training, affection. That animal has specific needs as an individual. You are the person that’s been commissioned to meet the needs of that critter. If I don’t study the critters on my barnyard, if I don’t know what they need, I’ll wake up one morning to a loose animal, a sick animal or a dead animal. It’s my job to give them my attention.

This life needs our attention.

Careers, worship, recreation, sports, education…all contain one common thing: people. There are people under my roof I need to study close and I need to study long. They have needs that only I can meet. I’ve been commissioned. I need to know how they learn, what their favorites are, what makes them thrive, what makes them shrivel.

Who needs your attention? Study them close and study them long. Make sure they’re warm and fed and sheltered and that they have your affection. We don’t want our people lost, or sick or spiritually dead.

Life needs our commitment. As I write, it is six degrees below zero. Yesterday it was 15 below, the day before 17 below zero. It gets dark at 4:30 p.m. This will go on for months, at least four, usually more like five, depending on our weather pattern. The animals on our barnyard don’t comprehend these details, but they have a keen understanding of when they’re too cold, when their water has frozen solid, when it’s chow time and who brings these things to them. Life isn’t a joy ride. It gets ugly, it gets messy and it gets cold. You have to do it anyway. Because you committed to it and because there are critters, and people, who need you.

Take care of the outcasts. Every herd has an outcast. That one who’s never invited in, who tends to stand off alone, sometimes by choice, but most times because they’re driven off.

My little horse is an outcast. So she eats first on our farm. Every day. She still bristles though when I want to come in close. Her first instinct is to want to run. But when I use my soft voice, and gently reach out to her, she’ll come in close and let me hug her neck. She stands still and her eyes go soft. She’ll blink, almost in puzzlement. Then she’ll sigh. She receives my love. She knows that I love her even though something in her just wants to run. Even though she feels outside of the herd, she knows she is safe with me.

I’m an outcast. Somewhere, somehow, aren’t you one too? Don’t we all sometimes feel like we don’t fit? Like we want to bristle? To run? And if you don’t, trust me, someone you know does. We’re walking and talking with folks on this planet every day who’ve been run off, who aren’t invited in, who are just plain scared of the herd. Love them. Jesus told us to. You might help heal their heart. And you’ll both have a friend forever.

Kindness usually works. When an animal is mean, it is usually because it is scared or sick. Sometimes people are mean. They are usually scared or sick too. Don’t be mean back. Kindness usually works.

It doesn’t always go the way you’d hope. Death is part of life and even though we hate it, we’ll have to say goodbye to those we love. It will almost break your heart in two to see an animal you’ve loved, tended to, syringe fed, kept hydrated, administered shots to – lying there lifeless, eyes dull, no more movement in their once-strong muscles. It will break your heart in two to see the tears rolling down your children’s chins as they look on that same animal. But it will happen. It’s part of life’s natural process and seeing death in our animals helps us appreciate life with our people all the more.

Life requires help. It might be in the form of getting the sweet neighbor boys to do some work for you, or hiring a babysitter, or someone to mop your floors, or asking your best friend to go for a walk. We aren’t an island and this life wasn’t meant to be solitary and we need people. Especially during the extra messy times. When we try to walk it alone we walk it hard and in the hardness bitter is born. We need help.

It takes two. When I carry one bucket I’m a weakling. I slosh the water all over my pant leg and into my boot and bring a half empty haul to the trough. When I carry two I am strong like a teenaged boy and deliver full buckets to the barn. It’s uneven with one. Heavy. Too much to carry. It takes two. It’s balanced with two. God wasn’t kidding us when He said it right there in Ecclesiastes 4, “two are better than one”. Friend. Family. Spouse. Neighbor. Pair up with someone. Get a buddy. Share the load. In this life, it takes two.

There’s more. So much more.

Like how I’ve learned so much about my obedience to God when I train my misfit mini horse. How some animals will listen to certain people but treat others like poo on a shoe. How maddening that is, in animal world and in people world.

How sneaky little goats make you think they’re the cutest thing in the world and then you turn your back and they cause a ruckus that raises the roof, much like the willful and exploratory two-year-old.

sun bathing ruby

How a rabbit will warn all in the hutch of oncoming danger. They look out for one another and will even let kits from another nest nurse and move into their nest if need be. They instinctively take care of the helpless.

Some things are just good plain fun to watch and bring tranquility. Like a flock of chickens. Talk about boring and tranquil entertainment. And even then, there’s the blessing of eggs. Life doesn’t always have to be serious and industrious. We sometimes need a little boring entertainment. A place to sit. Something goofy to watch.

And when we do, even in the boring…

…we’ll find blessing.

All images and content © Cassandra Rankin, This Crazy Little Farm

{{{Author’s Note: Life is Messy was recently selected as the first prize winner in the Inspirational category for Writer’s Digest’s 83rd Annual writing competition and will be published in their collection of all of this year’s winners!! Exciting news here on our little farm!}}}

Favorite farm posts:

Meet the Critters

Little Emily the Three Dollar Chick

Good Morning Rooster and a Moose on the Barnyard

Touching the Hem

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How do I almost always forget?

How is it every year, on July 20^th, I almost forget the day that I woke up full of determination and nerve, packed a clean change of clothes, -steely and sure of my plans- and did something I knew I needed to do?

Something I’d been pondering for months…years even, if I’m honest with myself.

Eleven years ago today I gave my life to Jesus and I walked my thirty year-old body down the aisle at church and I told Jesus and I told my minister and I told a group of folks that loved me that today was the day I wanted to be baptized into the family of God.

And how is it that still…at almost forty one years-old and eleven years of walking with Him…how do days remain that I still need Him to remind me that He loves me and that I belong to Him?

Just then a woman who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak. She said to herself, “If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed.” Jesus turned and saw her. “Take heart, daughter,” he said, “your faith has healed you.” And the woman was healed from that moment. (Matthew 9:20-22)

When does it happen that I’ll just automatically remember?

When does it happen that I won’t need Him to remind me?

When does it happen that I’ll quit defaulting to that lost toddler in the grocery store…scared and alone, looking frightened toward the eyes of the bigger people…the stronger people…the more important people…hoping one of them will show me the way back to the one who holds my hand daily?

When does it happen that my first knowledge, my only knowledge will be not one of insecurity, but one of sureness? A child yes…but a child strong. A child found. A child whole. A child healed.

He reminds me.

He reminds me that is who I am.

His Word reminds me over and over again that what I was then isn’t who I am now.

And every time I remember that day, that day I woke and decided it was time to quit looking…time to quit searching…time to put what I knew into action and make it what I know…

He reminds me that yes, I still belong to Him.

Why do we forget?

Is it so that, in forgetting, we remember the dark days? The days before we were found?

Is it so that in our forgetting, we’ll remember and understand the man who pleaded “I do believe; help my unbelief.”? (Mark 9:24)

Is it so that in our forgetting we’ll remember how unworthy we are…a foreigner…a stranger…a sinner still?

But doesn’t it happen always…suddenly…softly…in our forgetting, we catch that familiar and assuring glimpse of Him…that reflection…that image…that holy Word right there in red…

…and we reach to touch the hem.

And we remember all over again.

The old struggles…the sins we hate…the hurt we hide…the load we carry…the sorrows we bear…

…even in that old habit of forgetting, when we belong to Him, we remember.

We remember all we have to do is reach out to Him.

And He’ll remind us.

He’ll remind us that He healed us then and that He heals us now and that when the shoulders striped took the sin stained, He showed us how forgiveness is forever and that love is for always.

And when our worn out fingers touch the frayed and noble edge of His robe and He takes our face in hands scarred and tells us…all over again…maybe for the millionth time this time…

…aren’t we reminded, maybe even a little stronger this time?

That our faith has healed us…

That we are His daughters…

That we belong to Him.

Me, I touched His hem today.

And today…He reminded me yet again.

That yesterday…today… tomorrow…

I belong to Him.

And that always…always…

…when we are His…

…we are whole.

How deep the Father’s love for us,
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

Credits:

How Deep the Father’s Love for Us, Lyrics written by Stuart Townend

Photos: Flowers, Show Hope, Cross Rock, copyright Cassandra Rankin, This Crazy Little Farm

Thirty-Five Cents and a Tank Full of Gas

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I pulled out of work onto the highway and instead of turning right toward home, I turned left, toward North.

He was North.

And while it was only a Tuesday, and even though I’d just seen him on Sunday… and even though I had to work the next day…and even though I didn’t have anything with me but the clothes on my back, a quarter tank of gas and thirty-five cents in my pocket…I turned left anyway.

I pointed my little car North and I went to where he was. To where he was working hard, pounding pick axes and hefting dirt and swinging shovels and digging ditches…

…and thinking of me. Scan3

But when I got there an hour and a half later, he wasn’t there.

My knock was quiet on his motel room door and even though I’d never been there, the gas station attendant’s directions brought me right to it and once I was in the parking lot I knew exactly which room I’d find him in. After all, it was the one I’d been sending sweet cards and drawings and pictures to for over six months. His home away from home, his abode where he’d spend hours on the phone with me, chatting into the night, me listening to the stories about his work crew, their roughneck lives and his foreign part of the state I’d never once seen.

I knocked again and only after a third time knocking did an elderly man answer the door, his smile big from around the corner of the white dingey steel.

I was surprised at this face that was not my young man’s face, my happy-go-lucky, smiling man’s baby face. This wasn’t the face of my guy who worked so hard all week on the gas pipeline in the wilds of northern Michigan, earning the paychecks that brought him back to me and all of our dancing fun on the weekends.

No, the elderly, sinewy man who answered the door stretched his goofy smile even wider when he got full sight of me on the step to his motel room.

“Well hey Cassy, you’re lookin for Matt ain’tcha?” And he opened the door wide.

I’d been pretty sure I had the wrong room, but once he said my name, I realized this was the roommate I’d heard all about. This was the man my man spent his weeks with, ate his dinners with, slept in the same room with each night and drove to the same worksite with each morning.

“Smitty! Hey, good to meet you! Is Matt here? I thought I’d come have dinner with him.”

Somehow, that goofy smile got even bigger still and the little man of muscle leaned against the door.

“Well no. He ain’t here. Actually, he left about an hour ago. He headed downstate.”

What?!

In all our dating months, he’d never come home mid-week. Ever. He was a leave for work as late as he could Sunday night and come home the second he got off work on Friday kinda guy. The schedule was always the same.

Always.

A Tuesday trip home? What for?

Smitty must’ve read my thoughts.

“The boss had an errand downstate. Needed a tool. Matt jumped in the truck with him. Said he was gonna tag along. See his gal, take her out to dinner maybe. He was headin down to see you darlin.”

My heart leapt.

Isn’t it the unexpected…the out of the ordinary…the off the pattern times…aren’t those the times we really learn how a person feels about us? Aren’t those the times when we really learn who we are?

A midweek trip.

To see me.

He must really love me as much as he says he does.

But then my heart sank too.

Because there, in the pocket of my little blue and white striped short sleeved dress, I held all my worldly treasure.

A whopping thirty-five cents. And I’d barely breezed into this run down motel on the fumes from the itty bitty gas tank of my itty bitty Chevy Spectrum.

How was I going to get back home? There was no way I could get back downstate with no gas and no money. And how was I going to see my guy that I’d traveled so far to surprise?

Again, Smitty must’ve read my thoughts.

“Let’s see if we can’t get those boys on the mobile. Boss keeps one in his truck.”

Today, my trip could’ve been texted, tweeted, and on Facebook before I’d even left. Then, though, the smart phones consisted of a suitcase crammed full of spiral cords that led to a spy movie-looking device that sometimes worked but most of the time didn’t.

This time it did.

And after Smitty got the boss on the phone and told him he had Matt’s little gal here at the motel, he handed the phone to me and said “Here’s your boy.”

“Hiiiii honeyyyy….” I sounded like a junior high girl to him I’m sure. “Surpriiise?”

I was so sheepish. Here he was, in the truck with his boss, and here I was, in his motel room with his sweet old roommate. How in the world, the one and only time I decide to surprise him with a visit, -the most unexpected thing in all the world for this nice and steady predictable guy- how did he pick that day to morph into Don Juan surprise lover and swoop downstate to surprise me?!

I was the unpredictable one. I was the one who did things spontaneously and without thinking and threw surprise parties and blurted things on impulse and evidently drove two hours on a whim to see my sweetheart.

He was the one who was steady.

mackinaw

But now, today, here he went and blew all that to the wind and swooped me off my feet the moment I heard of his rash romanticism, – that somehow coincidentally, collided with mine- his careless abandon to his workweek schedule and that was the kind of stuff in movies so I knew to be quiet and just let him have his handsome hero moment and say just the right words that would top off the frosting in my heart and push me right on over to a knee buckling swoon.

“Cassandra how much money do you have?” The first words out of his mouth came firm and knowing and his voice sounded a bit like I imagined he’d sound if he were addressing his four year-old niece. How did he know?

The record on the romantic movie music in my mind scratched to a halt abruptly and my voice got even meeker than it was when I’d first held the phone, a mumble really, and I muttered into the receiver.

“Thirty-five cents.”

The silence was heavy and the toddler in me fiddled with the telephone cord and imagined I’d just gotten caught pilfering cookies out of the cookie jar and my face turned a little red and tears sprang into eyes that’d just been sparkling with thrill and now I was embarrassed.

“Put Smitty back on the phone.” And that was the end of our conversation.

As I stood there awkwardly, still in the doorway to a motel room that was neat and tidy but smelled like two men and their work boots lived there, I listened to one side of a man-talk between Smitty and my man, and I was sure it had just then been decided that his girl had proven herself too irresponsible and reckless for a hard-working, task minded young fellow such as himself.

“Alright buddy, we’ll see ya in a bit”, I heard Smitty say and then he replaced the heavy beige phone receiver to its cradle and turned toward me, his white smile sparkling still.

“C’mon darlin, your boy wants me to get you set up in a room. Didja eat yet? How about a Coke? Here lemme grab ya a Coke.”

And Smitty pulled a pocketful of change out of his weathered blue jeans right on into his weathered hand, a hand rough and missing fingers and tender as he fished a soda out of the vending machine on the sidewalk and placed it gentle and friendly right into my hand.

Within three minutes Smitty had me all set up and had gone back to his room, giving me my space and I sat on the edge of the bed in my very own motel room, alone in a town I’d never been to before, freshened by a drink of cold Coca Cola, knowing my guy was on his way back to me just as soon as he and the boss finished their errand downstate. It would be a long wait, and a lonely wait, but he would be back for me soon.

My man had taken care of things, and in his quiet, direct, and steadfast way, without saying much at all, he’d taken in the situation and got to doing what needed being done.

And as soon as he got back, he filled my car up with gas, my pocket up with some money and he took me out to dinner. chevy

And I never did spend my thirty-five cents.

Some twenty-two or so years later, twenty years of marriage, a cross-continent move, four children, a strong and growing Christ-following faith and half a lifetime built high onto the foundation of that long-ago spontaneous trip, I laugh as I find myself, once again, going to where he is.

He doesn’t know I’m coming this time either.

He won’t be surprising me at the same time I’m surprising him though, because I’m not meeting him at a motel, but at an appointment he can’t miss. It’s his radiation appointment, his daily 9:15 morning session with a narrow beam of poison that is slowly killing off the cancer cells that dwell near his ear, right on the side of his face.

Today’s the 22^nd of 33 sessions and the side effects are starting to wear him down. He’s tired and he’s sore and eating tears him up so he doesn’t and never did I think my strong robust man who still shovels but for fun now would be in danger of losing weight. But poison in your body takes an appetite away and sores in a throat kill the taste and he just can’t eat.

It hurts badly.

But he knew it would.

Back then, when they told him the options, he knew the risks, but in his quiet, direct, and steadfast way, he didn’t say much at all, just took the situation in and got down to doing what needed to be done.

And when we find ourselves alone in a town we’ve never been to before, -a strange new world with paths we’ve never walked- not much in our pocket except a handful of faith held in our worn and weathered hands, the One who takes care of things lets us know we’re not sitting alone. He’s coming back.

He’ll be here.

And He is.

And isn’t it the unexpected…the out of the ordinary…the off the pattern times…aren’t those the times we really learn how a person feels about us? Aren’t those the times when we really learn who we are?

When the prayers keep coming…when the love keeps showing up…when in quiet moments I feel held and sure…

He must really love us as much as he says He does.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?…No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. ~Romans 8:35-39

The unexpected surprise of sitting here on this new path in this new town has shown me how loved we are by our people.

By one another.

By our Lord.

And halfway to surprising him at his appointment this morning, I realize I’ve left my purse back home with the sleeping children and their watchful grandmother.

His smile is big when he pulls in and sees me there waiting and I tell him, not so embarrassed this time though.

“It seems I’m still that little girl who came to surprise you and only had thirty-five cents in her pocket. I forgot my purse can you believe that?”

“How much money have you got this time?” He smiles as I bring out the change in my pocket.

We count it up. Forty-five cents.

“More than twenty years later and only ten cents more?” He laughs.

And when we’re done with his appointment he fills my heart with some chat and my pocket with some money.

“Boy. I musta sure been cute back then, showing up with an empty gas tank and thirty-five cents.” I pocket the traveling money he slides across the console and hop out of his truck.

“Yeah. You’re pretty cute now though too.”

I kiss my big strong man, my baby faced man who’s starting to get sores from the three weeks of beams aimed at his handsome and happy face.

But he’s not saying much. He’s just doing what needs to be done.

And He’s trusting the One who loves him even more than I do.

And whether now, or someday far in the future, we’ll both leave work.

And we’ll turn North.

On that day, He won’t surprise us by being gone.

It may be a long wait but it won’t be a lonely wait.

On that day we’ll leave this foreign land and we’ll turn toward where He is.

On that day…

…we’ll head home.

Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we’ve come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say…

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

{{Never Once, Matt Redman}}

The name of the LORD is a strong tower… ~Proverbs 18:10

Little Emily the Three Dollar Chick

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It wasn’t the dying baby chicken that pushed the tears on out and sent them spilling –on again, off again- all morning.

Or maybe it was.

I’d never had a chicken of my own before.

They stink, really.

But in the big cardboard box, there she wobbled, one third the size of the other five, and my heart went out to her.

I named her Emily.

Silly, they told me. To name a chicken.

She was one of our meat chickens.

Raised for the auction.

Headed for the fair.

Destined for the freezer.

I knew all that.

Still, I named her anyway.

And when she seemed a little cold I wrapped her up and put her on my chest as we watched a movie.

They laughed and called her Edible Emily and said I couldn’t keep a meat chicken for a pet. Told me to claim one of the layers out in the coop.

I can too keep a chicken if I want.

And after that, she was just Emily, Mom’s chicken.

Isn’t there a little fragile in all of us…a fragile that needs to be held close to a big and strong warm chest?

She was so small the other chicks would trample her so we put up a divider in the pen and don’t we sometimes get trampled most by our own?

The ones that look like us, talk like us, do the same things we do…aren’t they the ones that sometimes forget to look where they’re walking and in doing so, they sometimes walk straight on over us?

My friend with family that’s breaking her heart…

…the quiet person at church who’s attended for years but still leaves feeling lonely and outside the happening group…

…the mama who feels unappreciated and invisible in her own home…

…can’t we sometimes feel crushed by those we share this life with?

So when I greeted the day and the strong legs were replaced by a wobbly heart, sad over the weight of it all, -the weight that crept on over winter and made the clothes tight, the weight of a too-short summer filled to Fall with farm work needing done, the weight of yearning for a day…a break…some time…some attention- it was easy to let weighty tears slip on out when I saw my chicken was hurting and I asked my husband if he wouldn’t please end little Emily’s suffering.

One little three dollar chick, dozens just like her at the feed store, one of forty-two critters here on our farm…and the snot is running like I’m saying good bye to an old friend.

Just a silly chicken.

But don’t our red letters say not even a little bird falls without our Father in Heaven knowing it?

So when my men folk take my weak bird and tenderly and mercifully send her into eternity, somewhere my heart stirs and I know that my Father knows I’m wobbly today like my chicken.

As they bring me to her grave and I look at the cross in the ground constructed by my son in honor of my chicken, -two sticks and some duct tape- I’m reminded that one day the burdens that crush on the days that we’re weak will be no more…and I’ll be in my eternal home.

I’m reminded that, on hard days, days like today, I don’t have to carry the weight.

He carries it all.

I’m reminded that because He carries it, my legs can stand up and walk strong.

That I may be just one of a huge flock, but He knows me.

He knows you.

He sees.

We are not invisible.

We are growing strong.

And someday soon…

…we’ll fly.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. ~Jesus

Luke 12:6-8

Thank you for the lessons sweet Emily, Mom’s chicken.

June 5 – June 19, 2014

More posts about the small critters round here:

Patrick Hugo the Craziest of All

Meet the Critters

Fountains and Drains and Project Renovation

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So today was day two of Project Room Renovation, which meant it was Ceiling Day. I lined my little work crew of four out on their various chores and set myself to the task of making our ceiling pretty.

As I cut in the edge of the ceiling with my perfect Apple Core white and my fancy new angled brush, out of nowhere it hit me. Like it was right there in my ear, I heard the criticism she gave of my last painting job, years ago telling me what a mess I’d made of it, how unevenly my paint was at the line where the wall met the ceiling.

I’d worked hard on that paint.

I had a toddler and a baby in the house when I’d painted that wall and it was my favorite wall in the house.

Until she said that.

I know she loved me and she probably had no idea how her words would affect me, but after hearing her say that my eyes wanted to always drift to the sloppy lines that I’d just learned had ruined the whole job.

And today my mind started to do the same.

My hand shook as I tried to make the edging perfect.

There were drips.

There were smudges.

And pretty soon it started to look sloppy and pretty soon my heart did too and then there I was…a wrought out mama up on my son’s wobbly little red step-stool remembering all the criticism, all the words negative, said from this friend over the years who didn’t even get it how her saying these things “in love” hurt, and I know it shouldn’t bother me…and I know I should focus on all the positive things she said instead…and I know we’re supposed to take every thought captive…

…but don’t words sometimes just stick to a soul?

So when I took a little break today and stumbled across some wisdom right there on a good friend’s Facebook page, it stuck to my soul too.

She said “Be a fountain not a drain.”

There it was.

Right there was the reason I’d been standing on the stool agonizing over the crispness of the paint on my ceiling.

I’d allowed the words of another to be a drain on my self-image and in doing so, it was a drain on my heart.

By allowing the draining words from one friend be so big, I’d made the fountain words of another friend small.

The fountain friend who always had kind words and got watery loving eyes when she’d come visit and sit and rest with me and make me forget the piles of dishes and the topply bookcases and the soccer ball-sized tufts of dog hair and the unmatched anything.

I’d forgotten how she always made me feel that it wasn’t the furniture in a home, or the messes in a home, but the people in a home that made a house a home.

I’d forgotten how much she loved it here and by loving it here she helped me love it like I should.

In the busy of raising babies and toddlers, in my thirst for a perfect home, she’d come, and with her words over our coffees, she’d turn on a sweet fountain and before I knew it, I’d be refreshed and reminded that the perfect home I longed for was the one right where I lived.

Who am I a fountain for?

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. (Proverbs 16:24)

My words can point others to God, and toward the best that He has for them, or they can do just the opposite.

Who, even without meaning to, have I hurt, or made feel less than worthy, with my words?

On Day One of Project Room Renovation, I’d taken on a duty usually reserved for my husband. Trying to complete PRR while he’s at work has been tricky, especially so when it came time to do the job he always loves to do: clean brushes.

We clean brushes in the tub. And after three brushes, a couple rollers and several trays (my work crew LOVES to paint!) I found myself trying to wash tools in a milky white bath of paint water.

The drain was plugged.

So I did what any brave and courageous wife would do.

I decided to save the nasty for my husband to fix when he got home from work.

And then I remembered how hard he’d been working all week and that my goal was to not bother him with any aspect of this project, so I did what any REALLY brave and courageous wife would do.

I unclogged the drain.

I’m able to speak about it now, but yesterday, as I dug through the things of nightmares, -things stuck to hair that could only have been shed from a sort of septic monster- I was sure that the only speaking I’d be able to conjure would be to apologize to my poor husband who has so bravely attended to this macabre duty for twenty years and has never once thrown up, cried in self-pity, or screamed in horror.

I’m a tough ol’ broad who can weather a LOT of gross stuff in life, (I’m a mama to four AND we live on a farm) but dealing with that drain took a lot out of me.

My words can keep someone stuck. Or my words can help someone grow.

I can love someone all I want but if my words don’t build, if my words don’t refresh, if my words don’t tell them YOU ARE PRECIOUS and YOU ARE IMPORTANT and YOU ARE GOOD and YOU ARE ENOUGH and JESUS LOVES YOU…

…even the strongest of us will be weakened by a drain.

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. (Ephesians 4:29)

I have the power to build with my words.

You have the power to build, to be a fountain.

Our mouth, our words, they have the power of life and death. (Prov. 18:21) How are we using them?

How many I Love You’s does it take to unclog a drain?

How careless can we be, especially with those we know well, those we love the most? Yes, we all need to be able to take some harsh words now and then. But does that give us a license to just open up and let loose with our mouth the first things that come to our minds?

That kind of showering is a drain.

And drains get stuffed up. Drains stick. Drains are an ugly, stinky mess to unclog. The backflow of a drain can cause a quagmire.

And quagmires can be hard on a soul.

But the other kind of showering?

The tender kind and the encouragement kind and the yeah, it’s a mess but I love you and you’re more important than any old mess anyway and it’s gonna be okay kind?

That kind of showering will shower right on over a soul and speak life. Those kinds of words will fountain up and make us want to take our not-even-close-to-perfect lines and go on and use the water from one fountain to water another…with our strengthening …with our positive…with our gentle…

…with our love.

I want to be that kind of friend.

I want to be that kind of fountain.

~Your words have supported those who stumbled; you have strengthened faltering knees.~ Job 4:4

Father may we speak words of life to others. May we be a fountain for hearts everywhere. And may we forgive others when they are not. Help us remember that you are the one who really sees us, knows us and loves us and that until we are with you, we will sometimes fail, and others will fail us too, and we won’t always build with our words. But help us Lord, to keep trying always. Help us to be builders. Help us to be like you.

In Christ’s Name, Amen.

Strong Men

Get Used to It

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So I finished writing a little book yesterday.

Actually, I finished it back in October, but yesterday I finished finished it. I finished my edits and proofreading and cuts and adds and rewrote that dreaded twelfth chapter and I got it to the point where it’s finished enough that I’m excited for other eyeballs to see it.

That kind of finish.

If it’s going to go anywhere other than the top drawer of my filing cabinet, there will be more finishing I know. Little changes that I had completely missed in the editing were flying off the page and crash landing on my eyeballs last night in the printing.

So really, it’s not finished but…yesterday, in my mind, I finished my little book.

And it felt kinda weird.

Kinda sweet and sorrowful and fulfilling and grown up and juvenile… all at the same time.

Because who hasn’t wanted to write a book right?

Since high school I’ve wanted to write one. Since being married I’ve wanted to write one. Since moving to Alaska I’ve wanted to write one. Since being a mama I’ve wanted to write one. Since becoming a Christian I’ve wanted to write one. Since people tell me to I’ve wanted to write one and then doesn’t a woman just get busy in the days of growing and loving and raising up a life and a family?

But if you’re like me, having a mind that constantly yearns to write, you think in blank pages and the thoughts you think form in lines, sometimes tidy and sometimes flung but always, always that white page with words. It waits ready on the backdrop of the brain.

Even in the busy, the writing is always there.

My husband doesn’t share my love for words. The page in his brain has grids and lines and drawings and things solid. His page holds work and touch and nature, and reading is okay for a day or so…but let’s put the book down and get back to real life now.

He has a lot to say but he would probably never set out to write a book. His mind mixes the letters and mixes the words and writing me a card is a beautiful finish for his writing hand. Oh he’s smart. And he has a lot of words. He just likes to whisper them soft or laugh them together.

Not everyone knows how to organize and compartmentalize their words. Sometimes when you are one who puts down words, you forget, not everyone is. Sometimes words don’t always have to be written. Sometimes they just need to be lived.

So when he reads mine and doesn’t have a lot to say but his eyes water tender, I know that means the words I put down are good words. I know he loves them. I know he loves me.

And when the world wants to go and tear down a woman for doing marriage and life the way she believes best, haven’t we forgotten? Forgotten that sometimes, the way of this world, this culture, is not always the best way but that there’s a page and there’s a Word and it is compartmentalized and it is organized and it is grace…and it is good.

But we’ve taken those words and we’ve made them bad and we’ve used them to stifle and degrade and make ugly what He wrote beautiful when He said For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.

How could that ever be oppressive? How could the beauty of two souls uniting in flesh and being seen as one unit of two individuals before the maker of this universe ever be scorn worthy?

Or is it the submit part that causes the ruckus?

Maybe this one: Everyone must submit to governing authorities. Can’t we agree though, that there needs to be submission to the authorities? Don’t we appreciate the organized and compartmentalized word of the speed limit that keeps, if not all of us, most of us, traveling along safely together and collision free?

Or maybe it’s this one that causes all the trouble: Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ. Is it because we think the other person should be doing it all that this one offends? Any person married more than a year understands that marriage is a two-way street. There is no My Way or the Highway in a healthy marriage. There just can’t be. So why would we have such a hard time with the idea of submitting to one another?

Maybe those aren’t the submission verses that get everyone in a twist and make normally nice people turn into name-calling, mud-slinging opinion ranters.

I betcha it’s this one: Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.

Ah, yes. There’s the issue.

We women don’t like to hear that we’re not the boss. That we don’t wear the pants. That we don’t keep him on a short string. That our roar isn’t as loud as we think it is, that our You’ve Come a Long Way baby might mean something different than what we want it to mean. We might not even know exactly what it means, but we don’t.like.the.word.s-u-b-m-i-t.

Period.

One little word will get this nation in an uproar.

So what if I didn’t? Submit. What if I didn’t voluntarily place myself under the leadership of my husband? What if I didn’t want to play by the rules and I wanted to scorn those women who read the words and love the Word and are an example to this world of how to live it out?

What if instead of letting my team captain be the team captain and my coach be the coach, what if I went gang busters unsubmissive and decided I didn’t want to do MY job of being on the team and building up the team and leading the team right from where I was positioned? What would happen then?

Submitting doesn’t mean we’re just sitting on the bench, folks.

And us Christians? Those of us who follow what the Bible says about marriage right there all through the New Testament? We understand that if it’s not your belief too, you won’t understand what it means to be on this team and so you’re certainly not going to follow the Playbook. But we don’t hold it against you, because really, we look forward to the day when you’re on our team too. We want you on our team. We love the coach and we know how much he loves you and spends this season recruiting you as one of his best players.

But if you decide in your mind that the game’s just that, a game, a made up bunch of scrimmages, well, that’s okay. Because we’re gonna keep at it anyway. We’re gonna run the race and we’re gonna play the plays and we’re gonna use it all up for that coach and our team because it’s not just a game.

And those husbands he puts on our team? Those leaders he gives us, each wife her own team captain? Guess what their job is?

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies.

There’s a whole lot of words in that job description. But we forget that part sometimes don’t we? The coach tells husbands to be just like Jesus. And what did Jesus do for his church? He died. He thought so much of his bride that He made himself little and he died for her in order to make her beautiful and blemish-free.

I can get behind a leader like that can’t you?

Wives, our husbands are the team captain, the lead player, the ball kicker and the quarter back of the family. If the team is going to take a hit, he’s to be the one to take it. If someone’s body is to be bruised, he’s the one to withstand it. He’s to take his big and his strong and make sure his team is safe and able to play well and that they’re all doing what the coach wants them to do.

And as his woman, we’re to be right there beside him. Running with him, ready to take over a play should he need a rest, willing to take the field should the team need it, helping him determine exactly what it is the coach said, and always, always to be a cheerleader and encourager to him and the rest of the family team.

That’s submit. Simple. Not ugly. Not oppressive. Not door mat. It’s the breakdown of the team and everyone has a job and when everyone’s doing that job it’s like a dance on the field and it makes sense and it works. It works because the words in the Word says it will work.

And when my husband, my non-word loving husband who has come to cherish the words of his coach and has come to quietly love the words his wife puts down and call her his wordsmith in secret, when he hears that the little book I’ve been working so hard on all these months is finally finished, he has some words for me.

He tells me congratulations.

He pauses and picks them carefully. He knows this is a time for some words. He has learned that a writer heart needs more than “fine” and “good” and that when a piece of that heart is splayed open out there on the page, a soul can squirm until it hears just the words it needs to know that it really is finished. He has learned to put his words together and whisper what his word lover needs to hear.

“How does it feel honey?”

I tell him the feeling is odd, finishing something you always wanted to do. Taking paths different than the ones you originally thought you’d take. Having it be done.

“It’s a weird feeling, finishing a book” I tell him, ready now to move it off the desk and get on with the day and just let it sit awhile, this heart still a little squirmy and insecure with the idea of feeling like a writer, doubtful at the thought of maybe even being a writer.

He’s not done with his words though. He’s the captain and now he’s the cheerleader and he may not love words like I love words but he loves his wordsmith and he knows his job is to help make her feel radiant and make her be radiant so he simply says “Well babe,”

“…You better get used to it.”

I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. Song of Songs 6:3

OCTOBER 2013 012

Scriptures cited: Genesis 2:24, (Romans 13:1-2) (Ephesians 5:21) Ephesians 5:22-24 Ephesians 5:25-28

Cassandra Rankin

Life is Messy and Things Aren't Always Little on this Crazy Little Farm

Category Archives: Faith

Lola and My Boy

Heartbeats and America Man

Life is Messy and Things Aren’t Always So Little on this Crazy Little Farm

Touching the Hem

Thirty-Five Cents and a Tank Full of Gas

Little Emily the Three Dollar Chick

Fountains and Drains and Project Renovation

Strong Men

Get Used to It

On the Ice

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