Epiphany in the Snow (part two)

 The Dawn's Early Light by Montana Silversmiths 

When the cowboy returned, after what seemed like hours to the reverend, the calf was dry and lifting his head. “You done a good job there, Reverend," encouraged the cowboy. "Let’s get some milk into his belly. Might be a fittin’ time to say a little prayer.” 

It was tedious work, dipping his fingers in the milk and dribbling a drop at a time into the calf’s mouth.

“May I try?” asked Reverend MacGregor.

“Sure.”

He pulled off his collar, and at first, he was awkward. Soon, his trousers and jacket were damp and stained. But eventually, the chalice was empty and the calf dozed. Both men sat back, exhausted.

“With a little learnin’, Reverend, you’d make a good cowman.” 

Pearly dawn was peeking through the windows when the men were awakened by the bunting calf, wobbly, but on his feet. Reverend MacGregor rubbed his eyes, confused and then dismayed when he saw the bloodstained altar cloth and the overturned sticky communion chalice.

“Storm’s over, Reverend. I reckon I better get this fella home for some real grub. May I beg one more favour of you? Would you mind him while I get my horse? I forgot to mention, Reverend, I helped myself to the church’s stable last night, too.”

“It’s quite fine, son.” And suddenly, it was fine, gloriously fine.

Only a moment later and the cowboy returned with his horse. He slung the calf in front of the saddle and turned to shake the Reverend’s hand.

“I’m much obliged for all you done, Reverend.”

“Do you have a name, son?”

“I’m Josh.” He mounted and urged his horse forward.

“Merry Christmas, Josh. The Lord be with you.”

Josh’s eyes shone again. “And also with you, Reverend. And also with you,” he added in a whisper.

Touching his hand to his hat, he wheeled his horse into the pristine, newly fallen snow.

* * * * *

The inspiration for this story came from the bronze shown above and two prints by David R. Stoecklein called "Hero of the Storm" and "Winter Save." 

These are my favourites of all the cowboy art I've seen, for each image represents the determined and courageous spirit of the true cowboy and of the ultimate Good Shepherd, who will risk everything for the safety and well-being of those in His care. 

Merry Christmas!

Epiphany in the Snow

(I wrote this story for a contest, and here it is, in two parts. Jesus appears to us in the most unlikely places, in unlikely ways. It's up to us whether we recognize Him or not.)

The Reverend Simeon MacGregor was about to snuff out the last candle on the altar when a muffled knock thumped on the church door. 

So late? And tonight, of all nights? 

He shuffled to the entry and opened the door to a flurry of icy air, and in the candle’s glimmer, huddled a man, a cowboy, his slicker pulled up around his neck. Icicles hung from his mustache, like gleaming ivory, and he carried a sodden bundle in his arms.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Reverend, for the late hour, but I saw your light still shining. I’d be much obliged if I could warm up this little fella.” Snow slid from his shoulders with wet splats and dripped from his brim onto the heap in his arms. 

“Come in.” Reverend MacGregor was hesitant. A creature in God’s house? And a cowboy, possibly a scoundrel? 

Spurs jingling, the cowboy followed Reverend MacGregor to the potbelly stove that served to heat the tiny, isolated country church. He knelt, settling his burden on the floor and removed his sodden slicker.

“I been followin’ a cow since early mornin’, a late calfer. I found her, ‘bout half mile west, in the bush, strugglin’ to give birth. I pulled this little duffer, but his mama was a goner.” An icicle dropped from his mustache. “I can’t take a dead calf home to the boss.”

While he spoke, the cowboy was rubbing the wet calf with his soaked slicker. Reverend MacGregor peered into the flickering shadows, already knowing the only suitable thing in the church was the linen altar cloth. Setting aside candles, he removed the embroidered fabric from the altar.

“Here, son.” 

“Why, thank you, sir.” Together, they massaged the little beast with the precious cloth. Wisps of steam wreathed the cowboy’s shoulders.

“So, Reverend, what’s kept you at church so late?”

“We had a candlelight service before the storm struck. It’s Christmas Eve, son.”

“So it is.” A light danced in cowboy’s eyes for the briefest moment. “If you don’t mind, Reverend, there’s something I need to do. This little guy’s mama is lyin’ out there, and I need to get some milk ‘fore she stiffens up. Sorry, sir,” he said, seeing the appalled look on Reverend MacGregor’s face. “Could you keep warmin’ him while I’m gone? Oh, and I have nothin’ to fetch the milk in.” 

The Reverend ran his fingers through his silvered hair. He hobbled to the altar.

“This is all I have.” He turned, and the cup in his hands glinted in the candlelight.

“That’s a mighty fancy cup, Reverend.”

“It’s the communion chalice. You’ll take care?”

“You can bet on it.” The cowboy pulled on his slicker, nestled the chalice in a deep pocket, and disappeared into the blizzard.

To be continued . . .

My Christmas List

It's ironic, or maybe the magic of Christmas, that as I type this, Karen Carpenter is singing "Merry Christmas, Darling" on satellite music and crooning out her wish to be with her sweetheart for Christmas. It's a sentiment that many of us share during this season, to be with those we love during this special time. Of course, many of us have other things on our "wish list," ranging from electronic gadgets to a little bling.

One of my favourite poems of all time, and certainly of the Christmas season, is C.S. Lewis's "The Nativity." Lewis, in his earthy, honest manner, admits his own shortcomings and draws from the humble creatures, his own Christmas list.

Among the oxen (like the ox I'm slow)

I see a glory in the stable grow

Which, with the ox's dullness might at length

Give me an ox's strength.

Among the asses (stubborn I as they)

I see my Saviour where I looked for hay;

So may my beast like folly learn at least

The patience of a beast.

Among the sheep (I like a sheep have strayed)

I watch the manger where my Saviour is laid;

Oh that my baaing nature would win thence

Some woolly innocence.

Fra Diamante's "The Nativity" 1465-1470

May we all be blessed with a generous measure of strength, patience, and innocence, now and always. These holy gifts will shine more brightly than all the sparkly bling we could ever hope for. They're always in style and fit well, though maybe a little awkwardly and confining at first, until we become accustomed to their fine quality and feel.

Merry Christmas from the Ranch!

Sunrise, Sunset

Here in the north, I've always thought the most spectacular sunrises and sunsets occur in the months of December and January. Fiery scarlets and golds to porcelain pale blues and mauves. 

Yesterday was no exception.

From the rising of the sun . . .

. . . to the going down of the same . . .

. . . the name of the Lord is to be praised.  ~ Psalm 113: 3

Yesterday's sunrise was brilliant and crimson. Most people have heard the old adage, "Red sky at morning, shepherds take warning," and believe it heralds ill weather. Even Jesus referred to the saying in Matthew 16:3. "And in the morning, it will be foul weather today: for the sky is red and lowring."

He was referring to the ability to read the weather, but remaining stubbornly ignorant of signs which help to discern the political or spiritual climate.

How is it relevant to our own lives? Do we see "a red sky in the morning" and descend into doom and gloom for the bad day that's sure to come? Sometimes, we are determined to be miserable and spin into despair anyway, even without any evidence of descending disaster. It's human nature.

But no matter the weather, no matter the circumstances we find ourselves in, no matter what the day brings, the name of the Lord is to be praised. We praise Him because He is good, not because our lives are good and everything is wonderful. Life is hard, and sometimes it hurts.

Give Him the glory due His name.  

Today . . . after yesterday morning's gorgeous red sky.

Cowboy Up!

Last week, we made our annual trek to the Heritage Ranch Rodeo and Farm Fair in Alberta. As always, we had a wonderful time visiting with friends and family and admiring the livestock and work of skilled artisans. Can't forget, either, the fun of taking the GrandGirl to the petting zoo and the kiddy rides.

If you've never been to a ranch rodeo, you might not know it's not like the Calgary Stampede or PBR. If you enjoy high-powered events and drama, you might think a ranch rodeo is akin to watching grass grow. But that's not to say it can't and won't get a little "western."

Medicine Tree Ranch Rodeo - Saddle Bronc

The events at a Ranch Rodeo . . .

Team Sorting

Team Branding

Team Doctoring

Wild Cow Milking

Wild Horse Race

Bronc Riding

Finally, there's the Working Ranch Horse Competition, a test of both the cowboy's horsemanship and the horse's cow savvy.

Medicine Tree Ranch Rodeo - Ranch Horse Competition

                                                                                       

                                                       Each event reflects the everyday activities of the working cowhand. Four people to a team. Sixteen teams, coming from ranches across Western Canada. Some ranches have been in operation for 150 years, and most of the ranches are large, some approaching a million acres.

Yet, there is no ostentatiousness among the cowboys. (How's that for a big word?) Meaning, there's no snobbery among these humble, hardworking men (and women. Several very capable women compete at every rodeo.) They are simply doing their jobs to the best of their abilities, with consideration toward treating the animal gently and efficiently, with the least amount of stress.

Heritage Ranch Rodeo - Team Sorting

A hallmark of the competition is cowboy etiquette. No one cuts in front of another competitor. If lassos become crossed, one or both cowboys will drop their ropes, even at the risk of losing the event. A cowboy will give a helping hand to an opponent to avoid a wreck, for each regards the other man's safety as if it were his own.

All to say, the cowboys I know and work with are among the kindest and most mannerly people I've ever met. Sure, some spit or cuss a bit, and many enjoy a cold one at the end of a long day, but every man would give you the dusty shirt off his back if you needed it. Often up before dawn, doing a half-day's work before breakfast, they ride and work in blistering heat and bone-chilling cold. They don't ask for much from life: a good horse, a patch of grass, and well-broke-in boots. 

They're God-fearin' folk, too, and there's nothing more to-the-point than Cowboy Church, where we come as we are, because if we are honest, we know we're all smeared with a little something unpleasant, and the finest three-piece suit won't hide it from the eyes of God.

I'm proud to call these people my friends. 

Heritage Ranch Rodeo - Team Branding

By the way, the Gang Ranch from the interior of British Columbia took first place in this year's Heritage Ranch Rodeo.

Hats off to Wacey, Matt, Curtis, and Ryan!

There's a little cowboy in all of us, a little frontier. ~ Louis L'Amour

A gentle and quiet spirit - equine style

Earlier this week, it was time for our 127 brood mares to have their semi-annual "beauty treatment."

They get their hooves trimmed, a dose of dewormer, and what every female enjoys, a pregnancy test, which in the equine world, consists of a long-armed palpitation and an ultrasound.

It's noisy and chaotic, but there's a rhythm to the process, as the mares are gathered in, sent along an S-alley to a "squeeze" chute so they can be held steady while the vet does his part, and then each mare is hoisted onto a "tip table." The farrier restrains her with soft ropes and trims her feet while his assistant administers a squirt of dewormer.

It takes only a few moments to do each mare, but these girls aren't handled much, so they don't all appreciate the equine version of a "spa day."

Some charge into the chute like true drama queens, whites of their eyes flashing. Kicking, head-tossing, pawing. Doing all they can to throw their almost-one-ton-of-weight each through the steel chute and hopefully escape their fates. I fought the impulse to give each one a comforting pat, for I'd be missing fingers, I'm sure.

They don't understand, in their horsy heads, that what we are doing is for their good. They'll feel better. They'll be healthier. And we'll know whether or not to expect a little bundle of joy come spring.

Sometimes we humans find ourselves in turmoil and tight situations, too, and we respond much the same way as the panicked mares. Kicking. Fighting. Our puny minds can't comprehend that Someone is doing an important work, albeit unpleasant and confusing, that will ultimately be for our benefit.

"The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials." - Chinese Proverb

There were a few mares that came into the chute and squeeze like ladies to the manor born. Although trembling, they cast their gentle eyes on us in trust and faith. They were no more comfortable than the distraught mares, but they accepted their situation quietly and serenely. They were through the farrier's hands and back to the pasture in no time.

May we always be as calmly accepting of the Lord's "beauty treatments" which always serve to conform us to the image of His Son. His care often requires a little painful chiseling and whittling to rid us of our nasty bits, but those same Hands always bring goodness.

He makes everything beautiful in His time. Ecclesiastes 3:11

The Last Roundup

Last Sunday, we had the privilege of helping a rancher neighbour move his cattle from summer pastures to the home ranch for the winter.


I didn't ride along, but drove our truck and trailer behind the herd for 23 kilometers, following the rancher's wife and her truck full of grandchildren, who took turns riding behind the herd, doing their share.

Everyone gets a chance to help.

A spirit of bygone days, of camaraderie, and the day was topped off with a hearty ranch-style supper in thanksgiving to all the cowboys and friends and neighbours who came to help. And not to mention, gratitude that the herd was brought home safely, with no wrecks.



And there's that other Last Roundup to look forward to, when we'll put aside our hats and boots for the last time and the Big Boss will gather us in to the Home Ranch. Here, in the voice of a faithful horse and written almost 100 years ago . . . "The Last Roundup."

"I've been on my last big roundup,
I've finished the long day's work,
For the many men who have rode me,
And who know that I did not shirk.

This spring I'm not in the remuda,
For now I am useless to stride,
I've given the best that was in me
In many a long day's ride.

I once was the pride of the roundup,
Proud and polished and sleek;
Have served my time and I'm tired
And blemished and old and weak.

. . . And I'll be in another roundup,
That will lack the dust and the din,
And I'll go on with the trail herd,
When the Big Boss gathers me in."

Curley Fletcher, Rhymes of the Roundup, 1917.

Up the long hill.

I said I'd never do it . . .

This morning we woke up to dense fog, and the air had a decidedly frosty chill. My flowers haven't been frozen yet, but they are definitely looking weary with small and shrivelled blooms. One more day of wind and the leaves will be gone from the trees.

Aside from the fact I needed to make something to take to quilting group tomorrow for our coffee break, it was just the kind of morning that inspires me to fill the house with homey fragrances. Light a fire. Wear a sweater. (Sometimes, I have to say, our quilting day is one HUGE break, and we just drink coffee, eat, and gossip. I mean, we share our concerns with each other.)

I made Oatmeal Shortbread, recipe courtesy of Ginny, one of my quilting friends.

A little autumn,
   a little Thanksgiving,
       a little Christmas.

      A lot delicious.




3/4 cup all purpose flour
2/3 cup quick oats
1/2 cup corn starch
1/2 cup icing sugar (or confectioners sugar, to some of you)
3/4 cup softened butter

Combine the dry ingredients, then blend in the butter. (Or use your KitchenAid mixer.) Work until you have a nice soft dough. Shape into a ball. Refrigerate if necessary, to make it easier to handle. Roll to 1/4 inch and cut in shapes. Place on ungreased baking sheets. Bake at 300º until edges are lightly browned.

Or you can do this instead. Add 1/3 cup chopped dried cranberries. (Or chopped raisins or dried apricots or currants or nuts.) Pat or roll into two 5.5 inch rounds 1/2 inch thick. Mark eight wedges on each round. Prick with fork. Bake 30-40 minutes. Enjoy.

What did I say I'd never do? Post recipes on my blog. I didn't want people to think I'm one of those stereotypical farm women who spend all day making fried chicken and apple pie and quilts.

But I do. And I love it.

"Come said the wind to the leaves one day, Come o're the meadows and we will play. Put on your dresses scarlet and gold, For summer is gone and the days grow cold."

A Children's Song of the 1880's

Beware of busy nothings . . .

Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. - Jane Austen

Here at the ranch, we brand calves the Old Fashioned Way, cowboys on horseback, twirling lassos, and red-hot branding irons. It’s dusty, dirty, and the fragrance is reminiscent of a barbecue. Of course, that depends on the talents of your chef.

               

A few weeks ago, at our last branding of the year, I noticed there were six branding irons in the “pot." (It's our one concession to technology, a propane torch heating the irons instead of a “real” fire.) 

Why so many brands, I wondered, since only two irons are required to compose our brand? (Some days, I have time to ponder random thoughts, depending how handy the cowboys are at roping.)

I watched the brand handler. He replaced the just-used irons at the end of the pot and slid the next set of irons closer to the flame.

Ah, so there’s always a set of hot irons ready. Makes sense. 

Considering this, then, I wondered where the old adage "too many irons in the fire" came from. (Obviously, I had too much time to think that day; the cowboys must have missed a lot of loops.)

What would happen if the branding pot was cluttered with too many irons, not just those of the ranch, but all the irons represented by the cowboys helping at the branding. And pile in a few more, just for good measure. How about those of the neighbours? And maybe some famous historical brands?

There’s gonna be a wreck.

Too many irons in the fire and they won't heat properly, so brands will be botched by using a cold iron. In the chaos, that calf might end out sporting a Rafter Lazy M instead of a Circle P. And if the grass doesn’t get set ablaze first, some unsuspecting cowboy (or helper, like me) might get the left hip of his Wranglers scorched.


Right spot. Wrong critter.


It seems to be the norm nowadays to have many irons in the fire, and the more, the better, and that busy-ness is a virtue that is synonymous with godliness. I'm not denying there are tasks and responsibilities that must be done, done well, and regularly. We all have families, jobs, school, homes, or farms.

(Is this where I mention the many organizational books on the market that are supposed to help keep our lives simple, but really give us more time to cram more stuff into our day?)

How much is too much? When is it time to draw back, delete that which is just so much busy work or just plain old time-wasting? What really matters in the light of eternity?

Keep traditions alive, but choose those things that will leave a positive mark, not a botched scar of weariness, irritation, and disappointment across your memories or the memories of your family.

  It's not so much how busy you are, but why you are busy.The bee is praised; the mosquito is swatted. - Marie O'Conner

Maybe it’s time to let some irons cool. The world won’t spin off its axis if we whoa up a bit on our going hither and yon. Take a few minutes . . .  or hours . . . to smell the roses . . . or at least get a good whiff of branding smoke. 

Less is always more.
Finding simplicity is sometimes difficult.
Pull some of those irons from the fire, before someone gets burned.

    Beware the barrenness of a busy life. -Socrates

A murder . . . or . . . 
embracing a happier state of mind 


A few weeks ago, I saw a murder  . . . of crows. It's the  term for a gathering of the raucous black birds, and according to James Lipton, author of An Exaltation of Larks, the expression dates back to 1450 as "mursher of crowys." By 1476, it had evolved into "murther of crowes." Whether or not the phrase was inspired by the folkloric belief that crows were harbingers of death, or if it's a poetic creation, or if it's simply a translating mistake, it's an etymological mystery.

But, one thing is for certain.                                 
Gathering crows herald the coming of a new season.


Today's warm breezes are the last sweet breaths of summer.


Soon frost will lace the petunias and fringe the edges of the water dugouts. The air will be tinged with woodsmoke and the sad, sweet scent of moldering leaves, reminding me of my childhood, of first days of school and the fragrance of new crayons and Macintosh apples, of still-crisp white blouses and sharp, unchewed pencils. The softness of misty morning fog.

                                            
I'm in a season of being a grandma to two wonderful and beautiful girls, of painting, writing, and keeping The Cowboy happy, whether it's baking an apple pie or going with him to take salt to the cattle, but most of all, of bending, like a willow, to the demands each season brings, from the urgency of calving time to the dark days of winter.


It's all part of the cycle of life. Seasons of rainfall that bring refreshment . . . or flooding. Seasons of sunshine that produce a harvest . . . or drought. Spells of sadness or joy, lively years with children or the quietness of the empty nest.

“To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.”  George Santayana

I'm sure we'd all love a perpetual spring or summer, to never have to face the driving snows and bitter cold of winter. And likewise, there are times we'd love to return to our past, to sunnier, happier days. But to wish back the past would be like hot cocoa on a summer day or a robin in the snow. Everything has its rightful time.

A new season replaces the old, and maybe it won't be better than the last one, but it will be different, with a fresh opportunity to see the hand of God, to be part of the plan He spun into motion at the touch of His finger, just as He's touching the leaves today, gilding them with gold and scarlet.                                      


I hope you'll join me as the seasons come and go here at the ranch. The coffee's always on. 


Goodbye, crows. I know you'll be back.