and just a two snow days later ...

The sky changes slowly, but quickly at the same time. I often wonder how life can be quick and slow at the same time, but that's what each day is really. Slow in some ways and quick in others, and then before you know it, the day is over and you're hoping for another one to come either in the same way or completely opposite. 

The turn of the wheel, the unloading of several bales, the calf that won't come, the cow that won't go to the barn, the temperatures that drop, and the four-wheeler that maneuvers perfectly in the deep, powdery snow.  All of it makes up the moments we call "today." Slowly and quickly God reveals these life-changing/life giving instances that shout "I've got this" when we're not sure which way to look.

So when the sunshine leaves, and the temperatures drop, and the beautiful blue turns to a cold and dreary gray, we choose to trust that He really does have this day, these moments, and all the quick, yet thought out decisions that need to be made.

And just as we trust the God that makes all of this possible, the cows and their new calves trust that Ian will be there.  They know that he will show up to give them feed, that he will check their babies and be the "husband" they don't have beside them as their new babies enter this world when the temperatures drop and more snow comes. They know and trust that not much will go unnoticed when it comes to their welfare and survival, and I believe deep down, they're so very thankful.

He shakes his head and then covers his face with his hands. He's frustrated. You can see it from a mile away. There is a dead one - frozen in the tracks made from the feed truck yesterday. He was too late, and the mama wasn't quick enough.

That mother  - that won't have anything to do with him. She runs away - circling back to her baby, avoiding the care he has to offer. The care that will help her survive. The care that is similar to the care we run from as humans. The care that says "I promise to help YOU ... trust me."

He tries all that he knows and pleads her to follow his lead. I watch him and see myself. I see my stubbornness in thinking I've got this all on my own. I watch her friends in the distance. I wonder what they think and if they're shaking their heads just like I am as I hear myself whisper, "Just go!" ... "Go where He's taking you." ... "Say yes, even if you don't think you're cut out for this." ... "He knows best!"

I'm talking to her, but really, I should have been talking to myself.  How many times have I been just like her? How many times have I ran the other way or even circled back to that which I need to leave behind?  How many more times will I fight against that which is probably best?

This gray afternoon in February was harder than most. Not just because of the death and new life minutes apart just feet from each other, but because I saw myself in that mama - pushing hard against the best, thinking I knew better and that I didn't need any help.

Thank you stubborn, grieving mama - for reminding me to accept that which I can't change and trust that sun will come out tomorrow when I follow His lead. Fighting the hard doesn't make the hard go away, it just makes the hard harder.

Lessons learned.

Life fought for.

Another "snow day" in the books.