Titania

The one thing that people invariably ask me when they see my sheep for the first time is, “Can you really tell them apart?”

I never cease to be amazed and tickled by this. It’s like asking the mother of a blonde-haired brood if she really knows who’s who. I want to laugh out loud and exclaim, “Well, for starters, the boys have horns!” (The girls do, too, incidentally, but they are such dainty little adornments that you really don’t notice them at first.) And how on earth could anyone with eyes mistake that exquisitely placid expression of Beatrice’s for the pert little inquisitive one of Hermia? Isn’t it quite as plain to everyone else that Benedick looks just like Kenneth Branagh and that Harry is dignity itself and that Sebastian has an almost dog-like friendliness about him? Titania with her fastidious little nose the color and sheen of wheat-colored velvet and that adorable widow’s peak of wool that grows down over her forehead? And what about Ophelia—honestly, if you didn’t know better you’d think she made up those gorgeous eyes of hers daily with mascara and eyeliner.

But I have an advantage over the casual acquaintance of my flock: the keen and unmistaking eye of Love. I love my sheep. I love them to the point of utter distraction. The slightest bleat sends me dashing to the back porch just to make sure everyone is alright and happy. I know where each of them likes to be scratched and who likes apples better than pears and which one is most liable to pick a fight when they’re hungry. And who they’re going to pick a fight with. And when I call them of an evening, and they lift their heads from the bit of earth they’ve been grazing, recognizing my voice and my form and then come at a run, I seriously wonder if there’s any finer compliment in life.

I love my sheep so much that people laugh at my supposed neurosis in measuring and mixing grain and my insistence on ‘horse quality’ hay. When a cold ran through them at the change in the weather last fall, I was the Florence Nightingale of the barnyard, administering tinctures and vitamins and herbs to anyone who so much as sniffed. I’ll go over the pasture with a fine-toothed comb checking for wild cherry (a real no-no) and hand clip treats of cedar and pine for them from the family farm to bring back as a surprise.

My little flock is a lovely, living, daily parable. Predictably, all of the verses in the Bible that have even the slightest reference to sheep have come more alive to me in the last year than ever before. I’ve become fascinated with the differences between the Eastern shepherds, which are the pattern of our Bible stories and allegories, and the more contemporary Western approach. Jesus wasn’t just embellishing his narrative of the Good Shepherd and His sheep in John 10 with a few pretty, humanizing details. When He says that the He calls His sheep by name, His audience knew exactly what He was talking about. According to Phillip Keller in A Shepherd Looks at the Good Shepherd and His Sheep, the modern, industrialized mind cannot conceive of the bond that these shepherds have with the individual members of their flock:

A…remarkable aspect of the care of animals in these countries is that each one is known by name. These names are not simple common names such as we might choose. Rather, they are complex and unique because they have some bearing upon the history of the individual beast.

Hermia, Titania, Sebastian and Harry

I’ve had the unique opportunity this past year of looking at things from the shepherd’s perspective. I have experienced first hand the joy that comes of a sheep learning its name, learning to trust me, learning to look me in eye without a shade of fear in those gorgeous limpid depths of theirs. I have an inkling of how Jesus feels when His sheep run to Him not only for protection, but for the sheer pleasure of His presence. And I will never, never forget the first time that my sheep actually followed me.

It was several weeks after we had brought them home, and I was just beginning to smile rather sadly upon my preconceived notions of ‘pet lambs’ as a naïve delusion. After hand-feeding them grain and spending hours in the stall with them, talking quietly to accustom them to the sound of my voice and consciously avoiding the perceived threat of direct eye contact, they still seemed rather indifferent and afraid. One evening, however, just about the time the sun met the tops of the pines fringing our west pasture and the light became diffused with a dusting of gold you could almost touch, I went out to call them in for the night. I rattled the grain scoop. I called them again. I could see them all, grazing beneath the pecan tree, a portrait of ovine contentment. Suddenly one of them raised their head—Hermia, I’m sure it was—and looked right at me. A bleat and an answering “Blah!” And suddenly, with a tender thundering of little hooves they were coming at a run. I turned towards the barn and they fell in behind, scampering and capering and clicking their heels and bobbing their heads, as lively as my goatlings could ever be. And I walked on, cooing and soothing with the voice they had at last learned to trust, feeling about ten feet tall.

“Lord, is this something of what it must be like for You?” my spirit whispered.

But I knew without saying that it was. This wonderful, beautiful acknowledgment of Love; this sprightly little parable Peace, It went straight to my heart, stamping an image, a moment, that will be with me forever.

My name is not only known to Him—it is precious to Him. He is not only acquainted with but passionately interested in the details that make up my life. Nothing is too unpleasant a task for His ministering hand. He cares for me every bit as tenderly as I do my flock of seven—every bit and a universe’s worth of more. And when I follow Him, my joy is second only to His.

He does not drive us from behind, goading us on as the Western shepherds do, with dogs and commands. He leads. He calls us by name with a voice that is our soul’s sweetest music. And in the voluntary compulsion of Love, we follow Him. And what follows us? Goodness and mercy, all sufficient and all encompassing, all the days of our lives. Green pastures and quiet waters and an unfailing Presence in the valley of the shadow. We shall not know the meaning of want.

My sheep had to choose to trust me. They have to remember who I am when they see me coming with that odious dosing syringe, dripping wormwood. Through all the ordeal of hoof trimming and shearing. Through the winter barrenness when I portion out the right amount of hay—neither too little or too much—for their sustenance. And in the coming plenty of spring when I limit them from one pasture and choose for them another. Because with all the ear scratches and loves and apples and goodnight kisses, comes a whole lot of stuff that’s not as much fun in their opinion.

I doubt that Jesus could have chosen a more tender, a more infinitely attentive symbol for His relation to us. For me, as I go about my barn duties, from mucking stalls to picking up the wheelbarrow an impish Sebastian has just overturned, to running a careful hand over everyone as they go out to pasture, it is a mercy that is new every single morning.

out to pasture

originally published 2008 on YLCF

It’s been a day of gorgeous indolence, a true gift after all the glad hustle and bustle of the weeks previous. I sat on the couch by the fire and nursed the cold I sustained through late nights and early mornings and too much sugar and running out barefoot into the frost-touched grass for just one more branch of holly…and did nothing but catch up on my journal and think long and lovely thoughts.

My heart has been gloating over all the sweet bounty of the season today, and the goodness of God in the midst of it all. I have among the jewels in my memory chest the vision of thirty something-odd of the best beloved folks packing into our house on Christmas Eve; the bright image of a host of little faces screwed up with abandon over the serious business of a peppermint stick in an orange and the poignant stab of my thirteen year-old nephew’s polite but unprecedented, “No thank you,” when I offered him one–the first to break rank with childhood. I have the memory of a walk with my Daddy and the dogs between Christmas breakfast and Christmas lunch, and of playing old Christmas duets with my brother at the piano and making a merry mess of it and laughing at ourselves all the way. I have the gift of a sister home from away and a mother who cries on Christmas night because it was all so fun and we were all together again.

So today I’ve just been soaking it in, not too sorry for the aforementioned cold that enforces an already validated pause. I just love the day after Christmas–and this was a perfect one. There was an absolutely majestic sunset tonight–we watched it over our tea with growing delight as it deepened from a glitter of gold among the pines through every shade of apricot and orange into a fiery splendor of crimson, spanning the pale sky in streaks of wild color. The finest sunset of the season, a glory that reminded us with joy that this was just the second of twelve glad days. And then, just as the last flame had vanished from the sky and the animals patiently gathering in the barnyard told us it was time to pull on our overalls and get into our coats for the nightly ritual of bedding down, the lights flickered and went out, leaving us in the candlelight of the two tapers on the coffee table and the cheery glow of the Advent wreath in the window.

“This should be interesting,” Philip grinned. “And kind of neat.”

With one of my candle lamps and the two holly-trimmed hurricane lanterns that had graced the front walk, we made our way across the darkened lawn with Caspian frisking in the shadows and a waxing gibbous sifting a thin dusting of silver over our way. The animals all greeted us at the gate as usual. But they were unnerved by the darkness of their comforting barn. And the sheep, at least, were none too sure of the flickering lights we bore to dispel it. We hung the lanterns in the stalls as we worked, from the hay drops and perched atop mineral boxes, and I sang and spoke low to the frightened darlings as they alternately followed me as a body and dispersed in sudden panic. The goats were fine once they realized that grain was still forthcoming and hay was in the offing, and they munched some of their Christmas apples with as unperturbed a satisfaction as ever, their breath showing in fragrant puffs by the light of the lantern. But the sheep were too terrified to enjoy their evening repast, dropping some of their loved apples down into the straw untasted to be trampled underfoot by the others.

What a parable, I thought. The Light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not–I’ve always thought that one of the most heartbreaking verses in the Bible. A Light not only incomprehensible, but feared.  I’ve heard it mentioned again and again how the first words out of an angel’s mouth when greeting a human being was always, ‘Fear not,’ and watching my poor frightened flock I saw an image of the terror of the unknown and unfamiliar, even couched in perfect safety.

I knelt down in their midst, calling to them softly by name, soothing and stroking as they drew near, a ring of lovely ovine faces illumined by the glow of the lanterns, their tender eyes and smooth velvet noses blooming out of the murkiness beyond. And then I was struck by another image altogether, a picture so precious I caught my breath and smiled. This is what the barn must have looked like on the night of Jesus’ birth, perhaps the light of an oil lamp scattering the shadows of the stable rude and lighting up the faces of the friendly beasts that gazed with wonder alongside shepherds and Mother and Father. That sweet tilt of Hermia’s head, so gently touched with gold, went to my heart, as did the soft muffle of Benedick’s breath in my ear and the rustle and clucking of a hen in the next stall. It all just gave me such a moment of transport, a flicker of knowing.

Let us go then, even unto Bethlehem…

The barn was beautiful by candlelight. And even though the babies protested noisily when we took the flickering lanterns away (any light was better than none!) we came merrily back across the lawn, lanterns swinging, to the music of utter silence in the world around us. Wrapped in an almost heavenly calm.

I was even a little sorry when the lights came on a few hours later.

And so, Merry Second Day of Christmas to you all!! And here’s a little wassailing song for the day–the names of each family’s farm animals and household were traditionally inserted into the carol, and so we had fun with this one last Christmas. You can listen for the names of some of our friendly beasts…and there’s even a mention of Philip!

Gloucester Wassail

Traditional English

My home smells like gingerbread and fir once more, and a gloriously-spangled tree, ‘the prettiest ever,’ has joined the Advent wreath in the den. My few ‘permanent’ decorations—the crèche on the Empire chest, the mantle swag of vintage glass balls, the stockings above the kitchen fireplace, have taken up their yearly residence, and yesterday I put some festive touches on the barn. Philip watched me with a grin on his face as I swung the paper chain along the center beam and hung little red wire cones from the posts filled with silky silver-green branches of long-leaf pine. I knew what he was thinking—but I had decorated in much the same way last year and everything was just out of reach of my impish Nubian goats, Puck and Pansy. Surely they couldn’t have grown that much since last Christmas!

I wasn’t in the barn when Puck and Co. came running in from the pasture for their mid-afternoon siesta, but Philip was, and he nearly doubled over with laughter at the sight. Puck took in the paper chain and the delectable treat of pine boughs dangling overhead in one glance, and in a moment more the ‘decorations’ were gone. He did share a bit with his sister, Pansy, Philip tells me, and Sebastian the sheep managed a nibble or two. But in Puck’s mind, Christmas has really come again, with the goat version of sugarplums sprouting magically from the ceiling.

Caspian has taken up his vigilant guard at the foot of the Christmas tree, just to make sure that none of those gingerbread men, you know, jump off. And the five house cats, Josie, Lucy, Oliver, Pip and Wemmick each have their own favorite ornament, and they show their love by batting it off the tree and scuttling it around the floor between their paws. Maudie and Balliol, the barn kitties, doubtless remember the birds’ tree in the yard from last year, for they were only too eager to lend their aid as Philip strung the colored lights over the cedar along the fence. I’m going to have to hang the birdseed pinecones really high this year!

Next week the ‘candy shop’ will open in my kitchen and Philip will doubtless come home at night to a very floured and sugar-dusted wife. But what loved recipes—every one a memory-laden favorite: Mince-pie cookies! Martha Washington candies! Russian tea cakes and ginger hearts! Butter toffee and caramels! I’ve gotten to the point after ten Christmases in my own home that I can’t even look at new recipes for I’m not willing to give up anything that I make every year in exchange. And there is absolutely nothing more satisfying to me than gifting my loved ones with the fruits of my kitchen—whether around my table, nibbling cookies by my fire, or by way of presents themselves.

The week after next is when I will begin ‘bringing in the greens’, decking the chandeliers and the pictures on the walls with crowns of holly and ivy. I am very old-fashioned about most things, and Christmas in particular, and waiting to decorate with live greenery, which our Southern climate supplies in such munificence, is all part of the glad anticipation of the Advent for me. There is something so very immediate in the prickle of a holly leaf, and I cannot help but think of the old legend that tells how it was used for the crown of thorns, and that it never bore its scarlet berries until the drops of blood flowed from the Savior’s brow. I love the keenness of cedar boughs, all the more vibrant after a good hard frost or two, and their fragrant promise of ever-living things. And the loyal glossy green of the boxwood, twined into wreaths or thin circlets atop my hurricane globes, speaking to me of love and friendship and of the dear friend from whose garden I clipped it.

Christmas is the brightest and best season of the year for me, the most joyous time of all at our dear little farm-in-the-city. No matter what the year has held, no matter what challenges and longings and frustrations may lay behind us in the months that have gone without recall, the blessed now of Christmas returns with its Glory and its Joy just as fresh and amazing as that first starry night in Bethlehem. The miracle of God with us overwhelms me more every single year. It is the life in all sweet the trappings and memories that I love about this season and the lodestar that lures me on into an inscrutable but irresistible future when this Christmas is but a memory itself. I always feel, in the midst of it all, that the scrim twixt the temporal and the eternal is thinner this time of year than at any other, and that the unspeakable realities on the other side are hovering so near, near enough to touch had I but the eyes to see them. Angels’ wings whispering close at hand; the ineffable fragrance of a Rose newly-sprung; the clear, piercing light of the Day Star and the sudden gilding of dawn over a frozen landscape.

But as I love it best, I feel I am more subject to temptations unique to this season and unique to me. The pull to over-do, to live beyond the means of time and energy that God has given me. To forget—even momentarily, but no less tragically—what we’re celebrating in the drive to do it honor. To exchange happy bustle for ‘huffing about’. I am determined not to waste a blessed moment of it this year—but I know that I can’t do it alone. I need my friends to remind me. I need my husband to raise his eyebrows with a smile when I talk about adding one more thing to the irresistible list of projects and Christmasy things I want to do.

I need Jesus. To keep me grounded, centered. Starry-eyed, if you will, as I sit in contemplation of a glittering Christmas tree or at my piano lingering over the carols I love best with a lump in my throat. To keep my heart so tender to the staggering verities of His Word and of what this is all about that I still weep over the same verses in my Bible that have stabbed me every year with joy and pain. To keep the wonder of a Love I still cannot fathom though I’ve been steeped in it my whole life.

To keep me. So that I might keep Christmas.

God bless you all as you welcome Him this season, in your homes and in your hearts.

And here’s another little gift, in the same vein as before. Two songs that I love dearly. I hope that you enjoy them.

Now the Holly Bears a Berry

Sans Day Carol, Cornish Traditional

Noel Sing We

15th Century English Carol

My post in the YLCF series on typical days of the members of our team. I chose Monday.

Monday at the Farm-in-the-City

photography copyright Griffin Gibson 2009

I simply cannot believe that it has been one year since we brought all these lovely animals home to live on our farm-in-the-city. When I go down to the barn in the morning, or leave it at night, I often pause and look around me, just trying to remember what it used to look like—even feel like—before the occupation of the ‘friendly beasts’ that reside there now. Truth be told, there always was something just the least bit uncanny about that old barn before it came to life again last spring. I’ve always felt intensely, almost eerily, aware of the agricultural past of this place, and of the long-ago presence of people that originally loved and worked it, out there among the stalls and hay drops and the leftover implements of a once-thriving farm. The house has been reclaimed in every corner: the hearths are haunted with the memories of my own friends and nights of stimulating conversation; the dining room has seen ten years of book club meetings and Christmas Eve celebrations and dinner parties; the parlor where, as the story goes, family wakes were held, has rung with music and laughter and song. We’ve even sanctified the precincts of the front hall with a wedding.

But the barn remained rather aloof to me, untouched by the warmth of daily living. A pulse unquickened; a melancholy witness to a once-useful past. Even after we had cleaned it out and began wiring it for electricity and preparing it for its yet-unknown tenants, I just never felt quite like it was mine. And I never was too keen on being down there by myself.

Something happened, however, the night we installed our baby goats, Puck and Pansy, out there with their Great Pyrenees babysitter, Juno. Even though the said babies stood at the door to their stall and screamed in protest at being left behind when their Mamma went back to the house, even though I stood at the window with tears streaming down my face at their distress, there was a quiet, almost brooding joy. Life breathed once more in that rugged old barn, weathered by a century-and-a-half of life-giving labor. The people who hewed those massive timbers and hammered together those hay drops and fashioned that hand-carved manger in one of the stalls—all the generations of them—would probably smile in bewilderment at our utterly indulgent approach to animal husbandry and all these pet goats and sheep and chickens. But I like to think that they didn’t love their beasts any less than we love ours, and that for all the life-sustaining work the original occupants of that old barn once knew, they received in equal measure a gentle hand and a tender eye. I know that the people who built this house were good, God-fearing Methodists. Surely they caught the significance of the verse in Proverbs that I’m longing to paint somewhere as a motto in the barn:

A righteous man regards the life of his beast.

I had no idea what I was getting into last spring. Something great and tender and terrified rose up within my heart when the one day-old Puck was lifted into my arms for the first time, and I realized that his very survival, and that of his pretty little sister, Pansy, was entirely dependent on me. The bottle-feeding of baby goats is an experience that I wish everyone I love could have. And for all my neurosis over milk temperatures and feeding times and correct angles of the bottle, there was a bonding that took place such as I never could have dreamed of. Those little goats (so big now!) really think that I am their mother. And I am not even going to try and describe how tenderly I love them back. You would be hard-pressed to find a more spoiled pair. And when they come running towards me across a pasture, or caper after me with heels clicking and long Nubian ears flying, I have to marvel that there ever was a time that I knew not the charm and beauty and utter endearing impishness of a goat.

My sheep came home in May, at two months old. Three little rams and three little ewes, snowy-golden white and scared to death of Philip and me. Their lovely eyes registered, if not abject terror then at least a rather alarmed suspicion, and things stayed that way for a good several weeks. It wasn’t until the day that they finally recognized me as their shepherdess that they began to open their lovely little ovine hearts, but once they did we were literally overwhelmed with the compliment of a sheep’s affection. I have always thought that sheep were beautiful creatures, and always smiled over all the Biblical comparisons of God’s people to sheep. But I had no idea that they were such warm-hearted, fascinating animals. Or that they would all come running to the gate to greet us in the evening, or to see Philip off in the morning, with such friendly little nuzzles of velvet noses. Or that you just can’t know what it means to be trusted until a lamb looks up at you from a posture of ruminating contentment with a perfectly untroubled gaze of lucid, limpid confidence. I know that gaze well, now, but it never ceases to move me.

They all have names from Shakespeare: Hermia, Ophelia, Beatrice, Harry (Henry V ), Sebastian, Benedick, and, the little sister who joined them last September, Titania. And, yes, I can tell them apart. And, yes, they all know their names.

In the midst of all our preparations last spring, I asked God to send me a Great Pyrenees to be a livestock guardian for our little flock, as we had decided from the counsel we had received and our own study that there was no better, more benevolent guard dog on earth. Well, God didn’t send me a Great Pyrenees. He sent me two, in an inimitable gift of His lovingkindness and wisdom. Our lovely Juno, and her adopted sister, Diana, are an amazing team—with absolutely no livestock experience, they took to their roles with an alacrity that would have surprised me had I not known the breed better. Juno is gracious—as any true lady would be—not to flaunt her exquisite lineage, though you can see it in every line of her face, every inquisitive, thoughtful shade of those speaking dark eyes of hers. But what Di might lack in connections, she more than
makes up for in the beauty of her dog-heart. Once you have looked into the wells of love that are the eyes of a Pyr, you simply cannot doubt the God-endowed vocation of these dogs. It really has, quite literally, blown us away. To see these girls from day one, take to patrolling the fence lines and dividing the pasture guard with a wordless communication has been a miraculous thing to witness. And the gentle, bonding love they have for their charges! They are kindness itself with the goats and sheep, and I have only had to issue one correction about the chickens—and that over a play bow to the rooster (who was definitely not playing!) on the part of the fun-loving Diana. I am so proud of my girls. And I love to remind them of what they already know right well—that they were sent to us by God himself. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.

So the barn is alive again. At night, just before we turn out the lights, we love to stand and listen to all the now-familiar evening sounds: the restless remonstrance of a hen settling into her roost and the contented clucks that follow, the munching of hay from the stalls and the occasional happy grunt of a goat or a sheep, the peeping of a brooder-full of chicks, the creaking and settling of the barn itself. All the grueling hours of labor we poured into restoring it are forgotten, along with the nagging fear (at least, on my part) that we really couldn’t take all this on. All that remains, in such moments of quiet enjoyment, with a Pyr nose lifting under your hand and a great white tail calmly thumping against your leg, is the joy at the goodness of God, surpassing even the dream of it.

This piece, originally published last spring on YLCF will hopefully give an account for my long silence around here…a condition I hope to remedy!

I love how Catherine Marshall put it:

Dreams carried around in one’s heart for years, if they are dreams that have God’s approval, have a way of suddenly materializing.

And I can definitely say that this has been a Spring of ‘sudden materialization’. So sudden I feel I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath before one beautiful change follows on the heels of another. Spring itself is a season of change, of course: new things stirring to life; old, spent growth disappearing under the inexorable greening of bud and leaf and blade. Here in the South our Spring flirts for a while, courting us with balmy days in mid-February and then turning a diffident shoulder of frost and gloom again till one hardly knows whether to trust in the promise of April or not. But there can be no doubt on this gentle afternoon, soft with the sweet pale haze of awakening trees and scented with apple blossoms: Spring has really arrived. And with it, a fine crop of heart’s desires.

Ever since Philip and I set up housekeeping here on our farm-in-the-city we have dreamed about the animals we’d love to welcome and raise. That is, in addition to our five cats, fourteen hens, rooster and best-Australian-Shepherd-in-the-whole-wide-world. We’d entertained the notion of cows because Philip’s grandfather had been a cattleman and we wouldn’t be so completely in the dark. Highland Cattle received more than a passing consideration, owing to the fact that one of the shining points of our vision is promoting historical or endangered breeds. We installed good, sturdy fencing and sketched out a plan for our barn, an original structure and sorely in need of renovation. We started scrutinizing the Market Bulletin for animals and supplies. We entertained our Aussie with glowing descriptions of his life as a real farm dog. And then everything began to slow to a halt. For a couple of years, something always seemed to waylay the plan: trips and travels, droughts, sprained ankles, surgeries, unexpected expenses. I really began to wonder at times if it wasn’t just a pipe dream after all.

Since Christmas, however, my heart has been stirring on this theme more ardently than ever, and towards the end of January I determinedly ordered a whole box of books on farming and livestock. And thus it was that Philip came home one day and found a lovely volume lying on the kitchen table: Living with Sheep.

I came upon him after he’d been reading it for a while, leaning against the counter, completely engrossed in the engaging text and gorgeous photographs, very much as I had been not a few hours before. He looked up at me with shining eyes.

“Let’s get sheep!”

I blinked back at him as if it were the first time it had occurred to either one of us. As if we hadn’t started dreaming about it on the first day of our Scottish honeymoon. As if we hadn’t longed for it as an unattainable wish all throughout our sojourn in England. Truth is, we’d been scared off by our own ignorance, not to mention the simple fact that we didn’t know of a single other person in Georgia that raised sheep. And for a super-cautious, obsessive-compulsive little soul like me, that spelled terrifying, no matter how much I wanted it.

But suddenly, standing there in the kitchen, grinning back at my husband, I knew that we could do this. That old familiar flame of aspiration began to glow and spark within me; Philip’s eager enthusiasm sealed the deal. God’s timing on this dream seemed to materialize right there between us. And so I devoted much of the month that followed to reading and educating myself, talking to shepherds on the phone, emailing like mad—basically scratching up all the information I possibly could. And literally, within the span of a few short weeks, we went from the germ of a dream to the cusp of fulfillment. Through an intensely exciting series of events—interesting only to me, I am sure—I made the discovery of a marvelous breed of sheep native to our area, historically important from a heritage point of view and remarkably hardy and tolerant of our climate due to hundreds of years of ranging feral in the Southern fields and forests. A flurry of emails, a frenzy of waiting—and, suddenly, six lambs, yet unborn, had my name on them. Quite an honor when you consider that there are only around 2000 registered such animals in existence!

It’s in the details that I know my God is in this, and blessing this dear, crazy undertaking. I’ve seen Him guide and provide in countless ways—I could fill several posts with the recounting but I’ll spare you!—and I know that He’s working out some purpose of His, even if it’s only the stretching of my own faith. I’ve been forced to trust Him at every turn—the path we’ve set our feet to is uncharted territory, and there’s a very scared little girl deep down inside of me that shrinks from change of any sort, even that for which I’ve longed and prayed. But it has been so endearing to see how He cares about these dreams of ours; how He plants such lovely and challenging goals in our hearts and then provides all we need to attain them. Even when we’re cowering in the folds of His garments like frightened lambs ourselves.

This time last year I was becoming an expert on punting options in Oxford and driving distances to obscure literary places of pilgrimage preparatory to our journey abroad. This Spring I am a connoisseur of pasture grasses and organic fertilizer options, having our soil tested and discussing the results at length with our extension agent, and basically betraying my ignorance to every clerk at every Feed and Seed north of Savannah. It’s been very humbling, and I can’t tell you all how many times I’ve had to swallow my pride and say, “I have a really dumb question…”. But my prayer this April is the same as it was a year ago: The Lord grant you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed…

My lambs come home in May; the two little bottle baby Nubian goats that Philip promised me are sleeping out in the barn with their tummies full of warm milk; the lovely, majestic Great Pyrenees dog we brought home to be a livestock guardian is patrolling her barnyard and lingering by the fence for loving words and ear scratches. Down in the basement a host of newly-potted starts are dreaming of a whole garden to grow in, and out in the yard roses and grapevines and brambles are sending forth tender, tentative growth in prelude to an absolute explosion of fruit and flower. Even the hens are clucking among themselves of the new quarters we’ve promised them in the barnyard…

Change is sweeping, and it’s good, for the Lord is good. There will be a lot to adapt to in the coming weeks and months, but soon these changes will seem as if they have always been and new changes will be looming. Through every change He faithful will remain…

February 8, 2007 

That’s what I was doing yesterday afternoon. Playing nursery-maid to my biddies, on a blanket in the backyard with my tea on a tray. Fortunately my work was of a portable variety, and thus I sat, surrounded with pencils and notebooks and papers that kept rolling over the lawn on the light gusts of wind, while the girls wandered up with inquisitively cocked heads from time to time to see if I just might have something tasty for them to sample.

And why, you might ask, was I engaged in so singular an occupation?

It had very much to do with the fact that Fort Poulet has been in lockdown since last week, when an attack by a hawk took the life of my most beautiful hen. (And if you don’t think a hen is beautiful, then all I can say is that you’ve never taken the time to look at one. ) I truly grieved over her. It was a small tragedy in our domestic kingdom, and has caused us to re-think our policies of chicken-raising. For a week we kept them confined to their house and their covered run. And for as many days they were so traumatized by the incident that they barely made a peep of protest, only peeking their little heads out of the hen house from time to time in a timid, furtive manner.

But our hens are used to ranging free. And I have come to the conclusion that a chicken has an eight-day memory. For yesterday morning they were standing at the gate in a huddled mass, stepping over and slipping under one another, in a rather patient, ambling endeavor to be the first in line when I should come—as they doubtless expected I should—and let them out into the yard.

I couldn’t stand it. The day was a mad imitation of spring—so unlike this chill grey one in which my little sitting room fire is so welcome—and all the wild birds were winging and whirling overhead, dipping low over the lawn and trailing their flying notes behind them. The woods beyond were alive with the music of warblers and visiting blackbirds, and a few cocky brown thrashers strutted up and down outside the chicken run picking up bits of stray grain and corn. It’s no wonder that my girls yearned for freedom, with every other bird in the world—or, at least as far as they could see—reveling the liberty God had given them.

I scanned the sky with shaded eyes. I walked around the house and scrutinized the bare craggy limbs of the trees. I examined the fence posts in my range of vision. And then, with a very sincere prayer for divine protection, I went back and swung wide the gate. They all toppled out, halting tentatively at the threshold of grass for a moment or two as if it were the brink of destiny, then scuttling merrily from feeder to waterer to the fresh corn I had just thrown out for them. After a few moments they all repaired to a favorite spot underneath one of the hen houses, each settling into a luxury of dust-bathing with what could not be mistaken for anything but clucks of contentment.

I kept an eye on them through the windows as best I could yesterday, starting each time a robin’s flight cast an ominous shadow over the backyard. I put them up when I laid down to take a little nap after lunch. And when I let them out again they were more giddy than ever, and daring enough to wander far and wide over the backyard as they are wont to do.

I considered for a moment. It was a magnificent afternoon; there was a certain balminess even in the cool air that bespoke of spring. The sunlight warmed me through my wool sweater and everything around me implored me to come out and enjoy this gift of a day. So I hunted up a picnic blanket with a water-proof backing—which always minds me of Eleanor Lavish’s ‘mackintosh squares’—and made a pot of tea and gathered up my books and papers. I can work just as well on a blanket in the yard as I can at a desk, and, besides, the house seemed suddenly and unbearably stuffy after the bracing beauty of the outdoors.

A lovely (and productive, though that’s not as of much value) session ensued. I scribbled madly. I chewed on my pencil and sipped my tea. And I exchanged cordial greetings with my biddies as they chanced by. It was, after all, owing to them that I even considered such a treatment of a February afternoon. No great, swooping shadow portended danger; no bird of prey threatened their security. And when I put them up for the night they filed contentedly in to their run—a safe haven rather than a prison.

We’re not sure what we’re going to do long-term. (I just heard the hawk screaming overhead, and the girls, in their run today, all went hustling into their house!) As much as I’d like to sit in the yard every afternoon , I don’t think that’s a reasonable solution. We’ve had many suggestions, lots of advice, and a few ideas of our own…I’ll let you know what materializes…

But I take my hen-raising very seriously. It gives me infinite joy to care for God’s creatures (which is why we have so many animals and are only accumulating more! ), and chickens are no less amazing and wonderfully-made than any other. A little brainless, perhaps, but endearingly so. And always a delight. It calms me just to see them wandering happily over the backyard, enjoying their lot.

We’ve got to come up with something fast—I mean, obviously, the hawk is one of God’s creatures, too, and is only doing what he was designed to do. But he’s just going to have to do it somewhere else. Perhaps I could send him an eviction notice? Any ideas?

January 20, 2007 

The bluebirds are house-hunting this morning. I had to call Philip and tell him, describe the way one female in particular kept poking about the hole of the house on the side of the water oak outside the kitchen window, nosing in and out as if unsure, tilting her head in examination, while her brightly-colored husband waited patiently on the roof for her to make up her mind.

“He’s probably thinking about all he’ll have to do to make it suit her tastes,” Philip laughed, in obvious sympathy.

She flew away, and in a flurry of indecision came back again. Then together they were off, no doubt spurred by the lengthy list of potential properties about this place, the crisp blue of the male’s feathers a flying spot of joy on the morning air. 

We do try to make the bluebirds as welcome as possible around here. There are at least half-a dozen houses for them perched on fence posts and nailed to trees. They had always been a longed-for sight for me before I came to live in our dear old farmhouse—I could count on three fingers how many times I had caught a glimpse of a bluebird up until that first summer when we were married. Then I felt positively giddy at the abundance of them—flocking in the yard or along the drive by the dozens, flitting back and forth from fence rails or lower branches of the walnut trees, always their lovely blue an absolute miracle of beauty.

It’s no wonder to me that from ages long past bluebirds have poetically represented happiness. My heart literally leaps up with it each time they flash by. And there’s a particular little pleasure of my own in the fact that we’re so liberally endowed with them. They are—always have been—a small emblem, a living image, of the happiness we’ve known here.  

We realized last night that it was eight years ago today that Philip asked me if I wanted to live here—he had proposed the night before. :) I didn’t have to think about my answer—despite the fact that this house had been a confirmed bachelor pad for the previous eight years, bearing all the marks of such. I wouldn’t answer any differently now. Truly, ‘my boundaries enclose a pleasant land’.

Philip said he’s going to stop on the way home and pick up some cedar for more bluebird houses. It looks like the housing market’s going to be booming this spring.  

After a gentle nudge from my sister-in-law, I realized it had been three weeks since I’d shown my face around here! It has been a delightful and busy November, and apart from keeping house and preparing for the holidays, my spare time has been predominately employed in a most ridiculous scheme…Not to mention the fact that I have temporarily assumed the moderation of the Young Ladies Christian Fellowship…

Rathen than attempting to describe the splendors of this lovely autumn we’ve been enjoying, I thought I’d just post a few pictures that my husband took:

 Along the eastern fence

 Looking towards the carriage house

My favorite bit of our morning walk

   The hickories have been beyond breath-taking this year

And just a few technical notes in closing–

~I’m sorry for any difficulties with the ‘Contact Lanier’ box. It’s never really worked properly!!

~I’ve actually updated my Links page and I’ve *thought* about updating the Gallery…but no promises…

~And for those of you experiencing a long space with lots of arrows before the text shows up, this site is best viewed in the Firefox browser…

I hope that everyone is having as gorgeous an autumn as we are in the Great Southland!