Jesus loves you

Roosters

Once there was a farmer named Bob who had a rooster named Larry. A farmer named Larry became Bob's neighbor. Larry bought a rooster and named him Bob.

(Later, Bob --the rooster--became a nuisance. So his owners turned him into soup.)

Bob the rooster checkin up on his free range hens. "Hello, Ladies!"

Goat Shank Redemption

With the farmer away on business, the goat wrangler and I got a second chance at goat milking triumph tonight. The goals: No escapees, clean milk, redemption.

The last time we milked, three animals put their dirty hooves in the milking pail and we returned to the house with an empty metal bucket. But we did end that episode with a full field of animals behind a locked gate--which was no small feat given the runaways.

This time, my milking partner secured the rope around the milking stand headpiece and held the goat's feet while I milked.

(She also produced a little pickaxe from her pocket and dug small tunnel-like holes beneath the milking stand feet as an added safety precaution to ensure those goats weren't goin anywhere...)

OK, that part didn't happen. I got the snaggle horned white goat half milked before she rammed her horns against the headpiece and we had to let her go.

The next goat let me milk her out completely. My friend took the goat back to the field and it darted off with the rope still around its neck. Attempts to recapture the goat and get the rope failed. (We still get points for having the goat behind the fence this time).

A grain bucket lure-shake only brought all the animals in stampede, so that idea was dropped with the bucket --as one of the goats stood on its hind legs to reach the container my friend held above her head.

Then we thought about h-a-y...just in case the animals were like children and had a reaction to hearing the word said aloud...

We brought in a bale of timothy hay, separated it into succulent sections in the large metal trough and watched the animals scooch each other aside with horns and hips to secure a better feasting angle.

I snatched the rebellious goat's rope when he looked around for a more profitable opening and the wrangler removed the rope from his head.

We win! Another victory! Thank you, Jesus!

War and Prayer

I had a dream the other night that it was the end of the world. Bombs exploded in the distance, dust darkened the air, and emaciated people ran barefooted with ashen faces, ragged clothes, and hopeless eyes.

Orphans came to me in desperation. There was no food. My heart broke for them.

Before I became despondent, two goats wandered into the scene. I sat down and began to milk. The children drank and drank the goats' milk, and I never thought this skill would be so useful.

My dream had a comical ending. But its beginning made me think of Middle Easterners who face the horror of war daily.

There is something more needed than physical food in this world. It is the hope that comes from prayer.

Prayer is powerful. I can't go to the Middle East right now to be with those people, but God can use my prayers to give them strength to persevere. Blessed Mother, be a mother to those people now. Amen.

Treehouse Saint

"St. Anthony spent the last months of his life recovering from illness in a treehouse from which he continued to minister to all who sought his counsel." -- holy card from the shrine of St. Anthony.

What a man! What a saint!

Lake Jumper Fully Alive

A dream came true today. I jumped in a lake.

For weeks I'd hoped that a friend would invite me to swim; there are no public beaches here. And today she did. I dove right into Pennsylvania's largest natural lake and felt fully alive. 

I was also thirsty and she gave me water to drink.

Towel-less and she draped me.

God provides everything.

Thank you, Jesus.

Praise the Lord!

Goat Milking Triple Play

The sun was still a couple of hours from its decline over the horizon. The flies were in full frenzy. And the next-door neighbor was perched upon his mower--a nightly ritual--to trim another quadrant of his vast yard.

I swung the metal goat milking pail in my right hand as the farmer's wife poured grain into the green bucket to feed the goats as we milked them. We wore baseball caps to keep the bugs from our eyes and squirted some sanitizer on our hands. We were set for success. 

The gate opened and two of our friends escaped. We didn't panic. One went straight for the grain; the other stood aloof and contemplated which clump of it's-always-tastier-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence grass to chomp first . 

We needed to return one goat to the pasture in order to milk without stress.

Fortunately, the farmer's wife is an experienced goat handler--well at least a couple months more than me. She quickly fit a rope around the the snaggle horned white goat's head and coaxed her back into the pasture. Phew!

The multicolored goat raced to the wooden milking stand; I shut the headpiece to keep her still and we started to milk her.

That goat's milk bag was still a third full when she decided to pull her head from the headpiece, stomp her foot in the milk pail and make her second escape of the evening.

It's not the first time this happened, but the lead rope was still around the other goat's neck in the pasture and this goat had decided the grain no longer suited her refined taste. She casually chomped grass and cleverly played a game of side-step and run as we attempted to catch her. 

An occasional rooster crow broke our thoughts as we stood still for a moment and contemplated strategies of capture. 

I walked a wide circle around the goat and moved with an uneven booted foot swagger in a zigzag pattern to lead her to the farmer's wife who stood poised with the rope on the other side of the trailer, which stood between the milking station and the fence. I thought if we lured the goat between those barriers, my friend could lasso her.

The goat got close to my milking partner, but darted again. We tried a few rumbly shakes of the grain bucket to no avail.

A short time passed before we resorted again to the grain and the finicky goat decided she'd like another tiny nibble. Like a football player and streak of lightening, my farm friend tackled that sweet little animal to the ground. I roped the squirmy runaway while the goat wrangler raised her arms in victory like we had just scored a touchdown for the home team--which we definitely did. 

Meanwhile, the neighbor watched. I saw his profile when my friend went down for the sack. The 78-year-old lifelong country man outfitted in a white cutoff muscle shirt that exposed his tanned arms pumped his gnarled fists in the air in solidarity, and laughed as he rode off on his mower.

We were equally amused by him and joined the crow of the roosters.

Next, we milked the second goat not even half way before she also stuck her foot in the bucket and backed off the milking stand for some tasty grass --she was smartly roped, however, and didn't go far.

Just for fun, we milked a third goat that we don't normally milk because she still nurses her kids. And just like the adage "third time's the charm" she stuck her foot in the pail.

There's no need for a football forearm workout when one's a goat milker. But a victory dance is quite appropriate when all the animals are back behind the locked fence --even if there's no milk.