mourning into dancing ... sorrow into joy

March had arrived.

Winter seemed to have gone on forever - but in March, things started growing, and we began to think about anything and everything that had to be done in the next month a LOT which kept us busy even when we were standing still.

We caught ourselves finally starting to breathe a little easier and we watched one season roll into another with hopes of plenty of moisture mixed with just the right amount of sunshine to keep our spirits afloat.

On this beautiful, yet somewhat stormy day, half of the blue tagged black ones were spending their last few hours at the Windy M. The blue tagged black ones that held Clayton's spirit and Royal's presence here all winter long we're being sorted and separated for breeding and spring pastures. 

 I'm not sure what the best part about this day really was except that we were all together.  Even the rain couldn't keep us from counting, sorting, and pushing with a sense of peace in our souls.

We worked together trying to beat the clouds, but before we knew it - the flood gates of heaven opened up and let loose.

It was the warmest kind of rain you could hope for. The kind of rain you don't really mind, and in fact, the kind of rain you find yourself rejoicing about because it's giving life to the hillsides and canyons all around you with spurts of green popping up everywhere as if each drop was a sprinkle of Miracle Grow.

Drenched was an understatement.

This day marked something in the souls of all of us. Something that is hard to put words to. I can only speak for myself, knowing that in the midst of the mud and muck, and soaking wet everything - God's presence saturated my spirit with a hope of things to come in a way that I wish everyone could experience. The kind of hope that turns mourning into dancing, and sorrow into joy.

Yes, one step at a time ... this is how we overcome.

the shadows of home.

I had to walk. It had been a long weekend and I needed the cold air to brush up against me and the breeze to blow over me - maybe even through me. I needed the first-calf heifers to watch me make my way down the road from home to them. I needed to see the view from a different angle. Don't we all need to see the view from a different perspective at least once a day?!

They were at one of my favorite places. The place that I can stand and see the river, the train tracks, the foothills covered with a blanket of snow, and when I remember to turn around, home. Home being the highest point and often the place I can't see past.

This is feed ground that gives me a different perspective. The place I can go and forget about my floors that need to be mopped, or the piles of sweatshirts and jeans that need to b be washed. The space that my heart usually needs on the days where the to-do list doesn't seem to get shorter, but increases with each tick of the second hand.

And so I walk. I keep my distance. I watch the protective mamas guard their babies with every ounce of strength they have. They watch me and I watch them - with this appreciation and admiration of sorts for all that it takes to be that mama that we all want to be. The brave one. The careful one. The one that is enough.
I sit down in the brush on a flat rock and watch ... and as the shadows grow longer and the temperatures drop a bit, my soul quietly waits.

My feet push against the dirt. They climb through the barbed wire. They head toward home.

Yes, when the shadows lengthen to the point that shadows are all there are, I head for home. I make my way back to my calling. The place I'm needed most and the place I need most as well.

The fresh air and different angles did their job. The sun sets, and I step back into my role as mom, wife, housekeeper extraordinaire with a refreshed spirit.

I'm made for this.

There's no doubt about it.

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.

the snow day I don't want to forget.

The phone rang early. It was an automated call saying that school was canceled. I stared up at the ceiling as I rested my weary head back into the pile of pillows on our bed, breathing a sigh of relief, but also praying that the day about to begin would not be too much to handle. It was still dark and I knew the day would bring various amounts of hard - even if it was a day off - but hopefully some sunshine would show up with it too. Yes, I thought to myself, sunshine would make it better, even if it was hard.

Snow days were beautiful and a whole lot of "easy" when I lived in town. I remember them as a child. The ones where dad would make pancakes, we would gear up for a sledding adventure on the hill to the south of our home, and my sister and I would drink more hot chocolate than necessary. The only work that might have been required was the shoveling of the sidewalk & driveway, and dad always did that in little time. The work that had to be done was not an all-day chore, and fun was at the top of the to-do list. Living in town changed everything about snow days really, and especially because my dad was a teacher.

In town, there were no cows to feed. There were no troughs to break ice in. There were no calves to warm up or barn stalls to muck out. But here, 20+ years later, on a ranch in Eastern Oregon far from town and the nearest neighbor, I've found myself appreciating (but more often cursing) snow days for different reasons.

Thankfully, the appreciation almost always outweighs the cursing - especially when the sun is shining. And although there is little time for movie watching, cookie baking, or pancake making, it's the most beautiful kind of hard anyone could ever want to live.

On this particular day in February, the sun glistened in ways that one dreams about or maybe only sees in the movies.  There were sparkles and glittering light bouncing off the soft, white blanketed hillsides in all directions, and the blue sky seemed to be as clear as the prettiest of marbles and the deepest of lakes.
It was cold, but yet a warmth covered us like a wool hat - one that whispered to our souls to stand and soak in the beauty that we're so fortunate to call ours.

After the chores around the barn had been done and before it was time to feed, the boys gathered up their sleds and chased each other up and down the hillside below our home. The hillside that changes with each and every season was now a playground. A playground with rocks to dodge and trails to make, and a beauty all of it's own.

The hour we spent climbing, sailing, rolling, and soaring through the powdery snow was perfect in every sort of way. Perfect in that we took the time to enjoy the gift of sleds, gloves, and respite from the hard. The hard that was still there waiting for us. There were calves in the house later that day with frozen ears, and the barn was full before the end of the day. It is a  kind of hard that is your lifestyle - built around work and survival.

The thing I hope my boys remember from now until forever is that even when it's hard, there is still time for fun. Taking time for fun is always worth the seconds that might seem wasted.  Yes, even when it doesn't seem like there is any time to spare, there always is. I'm learning that with each season God makes time in our days when we're supposed to count and see the gifts of the mundane, and even the precious. The moments that make up our days are gifts that are begging to be counted.

To work well on the difficult, dark, and dreary days, I think it's essential that one rests and plays and has fun when the opportunity arises on the most beautiful of days. Hard days and beautiful days can coexist. In fact, I think they're meant to. The bouts of laughter, and spurts of joy, and reflection of sunshine that come with fresh powder seem to always reflect goodness when we let it. Jesus - reflected all around us.

This is a snow day I want to remember forever. A day where the blue and the white, with flecks of gold and glitter, were as close to heaven as we could possibly get. The day where the work was still there, but the fun seemed to make it less of a job and more of a joy. A day that kept us coming back for more, even when the sun stopped shining and the blue turned to gray just a few hours later.

A day that Jesus whispered to our souls that He was there.

That's He's always there.