Somehow October had slipped away, and with it, the lofty aspirations I’d once held to get my mountaintop fences let down before the introduction of the impending winter. The feeling in my gut on this cold early November morning didn’t feel like a good way to start the day. The frosty chill in the morning air and the dark, low-hanging clouds that hid the top half of the hills to the east did nothing to change my dour outlook on the day.
The surprisingly mild and uncharacteristically wet weather of late September and early October had brought some mixed blessings. The bone-dry range country of my home hadn’t seen a drop of rain the entire preceding summer, but the late rains resulted in some unexpected green on the mountain. The unusual fresh green feed acted like a giant bovine Velcro mat covering every draw and hillside. Rather than being chased off the mountain by cold weather and a dearth of good feed, the remaining cows had little interest in heading for home.
An unusually large contingent of them seemed perfectly content with their current location. Green grass seems to have that allure to cows. And, in most cases, I’m grateful for it, but I needed to get the cows home so I could wean the calves and get on with the business of preparing for winter. At this late point in the season, their contentment only added to my frustrations.
As I trudged along with the morning chores, I pulled my phone out from my back pocket to check the text messages that had been buzzing at me all morning like a pesky summer fly. The usual suspects were in play. I had a couple pairs in Sherfey’s corral up the Birch Creek Road, and I needed to check in with my wife before she headed home from school later that afternoon.
Then there was one from Danielle, my neighbor from a mile up the road. She was planning on taking her pack of dogs on a side-by-side ride up to the top of the mountain. She knew she’d be up on the ridge where a good portion of my allotment boundary fence still stood, awaiting my arrival to drop it down before the big snows hit, and she wondered if I wanted to tag along to check things out and maybe eliminate one of the chores she had often heard me complain about. I knew it was a golden opportunity, but I already had my day mapped out, and with some unfinished office work and the two or three new tasks that had been added to the list, I respectfully declined the offer.
Since Danielle would be making her day trek with only the companionship of her passel of pups, I suggested she text me or my wife if she ran into any trouble or at least when she returned home so we’d know that no calamity had befallen her. Later that day, just about the time the sun was slipping below the hills on the west side of the valley, my wife and I each received a simple two-word text, “I’m home,” informing us that we had no need to worry about her safety or her whereabouts.
Later that week as Dani and her husband, Terry, voluntarily helped us with some sorting, weaning and shipping, she mentioned, in passing, that she and her dogs had spent a pleasant autumn afternoon on the mountain that day. I casually noted that it was a shame I wasn’t able to accompany her because I would have liked to let some of the fence down before any more snow hit the high country. As nonchalantly as if she were simply brushing her hair from her face, Dani noted that she was sorry she hadn’t been able to get to all of it, but that she had let down a good portion of the fence since it had seemed like a nice day to walk and savor the quiet solitude of the mountain with her dogs.
A week or so later on a Sunday evening, my wife and I were making the three-and-a-half-hour drive back home from visiting our son and our almost-2-year-old grandson. They were both doing as well as could be expected following the passing of our daughter-in-law nearly 18 months earlier, but in spite of the genuine joy I received from the visit, I couldn’t help but feel the minor angst from the light shroud of melancholy that hung on my shoulders as I thought about them and our other children and grandchildren. I counted my blessings, but at that particular moment, I couldn’t shake the burden of worry as I thought about some of the trials that some of my kids and their families faced.
As the Sunday night freeway traffic began to thin and the lights of the cities and towns grew dimmer in my rearview mirror as we drove closer to the familiar stillness of the sagebrush seas of our home country, the silence of our drive was interrupted by the light and gentle buzz of my phone. I glanced down and caught a glimpse of the familiar South Dakota area code and name of a good friend who made it a habit to check in on us every few weeks. In what I figured to be a slight reprieve from the dull pain of the troubles on my mind, I eagerly answered the call.
My dear old friend didn’t drive the troubles from my mind with some light, pleasant conversation as I had hoped. Instead, he made me more acutely aware of my duty to my family when he informed me that he simply wanted me to know that he thought of us daily, and that he routinely included us in his earnest prayers, and that he felt like he needed to reach out that night.
My worries didn’t magically disappear, but a more profound, if common, miracle took place that night. My burdens were eased as he willfully stepped in and lifted off of my shoulders that portion I couldn’t quite carry alone.
In vain, I tried to hold back the tears as I drove on through the dark night. I came to the comforting realization that even though I regularly fail to recognize God’s hand in my life, His presence is always there, nonetheless. His angels have never shown themselves to me in a flash of heavenly light and the blare of trumpets, but rather in the common, everyday goodness of those who choose to heed his call to do and to be good.
Like the simplicity of the humble circumstances of the birth of the Savior of the world in a barn outside an unremarkable inn in a small town of little significance, the grandest of gestures are born of the most humble and simple acts of charity.
May we all share that light and lift those burdens in whatever ways we can.
Merry Christmas.
