Irregulars

I miss Elder-Beerman, as I knew I would. My bank account, however, is much better because of the closure. 

One thing I always bought there were jeans. Elder-Beerman didn’t put Calvin Klein jeans on sale often, but when they did, I usually bought a few pair. There was something special – magical, even – about the Calvin Klein jeans sold at Elder-Beerman. Though I was nowhere near the size in real life, I could somehow always fit into size 6 Calvin Klein jeans from the downtown department store. I know well that there was something mismarked about this dreamy denim, but it was the only place in town where size 6 actually suited me. 

This is also likely why they were the ones on super sale: they were flawed.  

Faulty. 

Defective. 

Irregulars. 

Last week I had to work with a tent rental company to set up for an approaching field day. I had both children with me, and together we walked the field test plot with map in hand and marked the areas where certain size tents should go, what grass walkways should be left free, and how many tables and chairs to set up at each location. I thought this would be a fun day for the kids to join me, out in the middle of a corn/soybean maze on a beautiful July day. They were certain to burn some energy. 

I waved the three large trucks into the test plot field and parked them. Three men unloaded out of each one. I imagine the rental company has a high turnover rate, as I never work with the same group annually. The men that unloaded from the trucks were as different as they come: one was clean-cut, shirt tucked in and a belt, while the vast majority of the others looked as though they just rolled out of bed. Dreadlocks, tattoos, ripped jean shorts, cut off shirts, piercings, this small group had it all. Because I’ve been in this situation before (standing in the middle of a field, with no one around but truckloads of strange men I’ve never seen before), I thought nothing of it. 

But then there was Caroline.

“Mommy. What wrong wit dat guy?” she asked me in her outside voice while she pointed very directly. I wanted to cover her mouth and stick her back in the car, but instead, I squatted down beside her, getting on her level. Quietly, but firmly I responded, “Honey these are mommy’s friends. They are here to help me set up all these tents and all these tables and all these chairs. There is nothing wrong with him. He just doesn’t look like you.” 

She studied the group intensely as they began unloading supplies. I’m certain she was thinking, “Mommy sure has some shady friends,” but she never said another word about it. 

That afternoon lasted longer than it should have. My map was off by about ten feet so we had to change tent size for one location. They brought the wrong tent for one stop, so their manager had to drive another down from an hour away. But the team I worked with was very kind. They were precise and calculated, measuring everything twice before setting a single stake. They were efficient, like worker bees zipping around and wasting no time to raise the big white tops. They were respectful to myself and my kids as we walked every bit of that field with them as I described my needs for the event. 

I drove home that evening thinking about Caroline’s comment and her concern. The man didn’t look like anyone she’d been around before, with gauged ears, dirty clothes, few teeth and covered in tattoos. His lifestyle was obviously different from ours. However, his specific and special talents lie in working quickly and doing all the heavy lifting to help other people. That is not something I do on a daily basis. This man does. 

Then Sunday rolled around and things seemed much clearer. 

Sunday’s sermon was about how God has irregulars that play a special part in meaningful moments. In fact, God often chooses insignificant people to teach us some tremendous lessons. 

A quote from the sermon, by David Jackman, 

“The apparent unsuitability of the great men of God in Scripture is a recurrent theme which finds its peak in the selection of the twelve by Jesus...They had none of the pedigree or accomplishments which today would be considered absolute necessities.”

I believe that the blonde man that helped us set up for our event last Monday was one of those irregulars. He didn’t say much, he simply took instruction and got to work. I don’t know how long he’d been setting tents, what the row of bullets tattooed on his calf means about his life experiences or if he has any little ones at home, keeping him on his toes. 

I do know that he served as a wonderful vessel to have a brief, but meaningful conversation with our 3-year-old about not judging others who look different than us. 

Especially if they have a bleeding skull and inmate number tattooed on their forearm and they're holding a 12-inch steel stake. 

Find Your Canna Lily

Caroline and I had a girls’ day on Saturday. We traded in our farm clothes for dressier attire and spent the day at the Indiana Angus Auxiliary annual meeting. It was a such a special day, just she and I, and other gals who are passionate about the Angus breed. The roll call question was simple: What is your favorite thing about spring?

Bright colors, fresh flowers, sweatshirts rather and bulky coats, new baby calves running around…these were all answers ladies and girls responded with. My answer: getting the kids outside without a 45-minute bundling process and also airing out the house. 

Spring is such a time for new beginnings, fresh starts, and new life. It’s no wonder so many call it their favorite season. Spring also offers boundless opportunities to learn from even the smallest teachers. 

A friend of mine gave me a box of canna lily bulbs a few weeks ago. On a warm day recently Caroline (the talker), Cyrus (the observer) and I (the worker) dug up an area around our beloved supper bell to finally plant the bulbs. I used a shovel and Caroline used her bare hands to dig the space. Would you care to guess which method was most productive? Nonetheless, we got all the bulbs in the ground and Caroline was ready for her first bath of the day by 9:30 AM. 

Since that day, we’ve worn a path to the dinner bell. Not to ring it, but rather to check on the flowers. Every day, we walk out and inspect the soil. It is still dark as night; no green to be seen. If you think a watched pot never boils, let me tell you about flower bulbs that never break through the soil and a curious 2 ½-year-old. Caroline insists they’re hungry or thirsty, so we fertilized with cow manure and I’ve convinced her we’ve gotten enough rain that I don’t need to carry a watering can to the bell. 

Still, we wait. 

It’s been a teaching process, for both of us. I’d like to think the whole process is teaching her patience as we wait, responsibility as she cares for something she started and persistence as we continue to monitor the progress with no signs of change. 

But it is teaching me a whole lot more. 

From Caroline and the canna lilies, I’m learning about being intentional with time and care. 

Her daily to-do list isn’t long. In fact, in a day she is only expected to brush her teeth, clean her plate and check on her little brother 659 times. But now that she planted something in the warm soil, she is quite committed to its care. And she makes a point to go out of her way to check on their progress, without fail. She has added this chore to her to-do list and has marked it off daily.

These are not our canna lilies, 

but I do hope they turn out this beautiful. 

Considering we planted ten bulbs, 

my expectations may be a bit out of whack. 

Story of my life. 

What if I, too, was that intentional with my time and care of something? What if I carved out mere minutes from every single day to check on a friend, send someone a kind note or offer encouragement? What if I cared enough about something's – or someone’s – success that I made it a priority in my daily routine? 

Sadly, I find my housekeeping falls to the wayside often because I don’t make it a priority. I sweep the kitchen floor daily but don’t ask the last time I dusted the mantle. 

I can get lost in marking off the next event, meeting or to-do in my work with Sankey Creative that I often lose sight of my objectives for the business I began. 

Finally, Cody and I pray together daily, but I don’t know the last time I asked my husband if there is something he’d like for me to pray about on his behalf. How sad that I don’t even know what that might be? 

What could be your canna lily? The one thing that you care so much about, that one thing that you want to see succeed, that you’re willing to check on it daily?

Growing your faith? Sustaining a marriage? Creating a space you enjoy coming home to? Your career aspirations? Your five-year plan? Your land? Your garden? Your store? What about your spirit?

I encourage you to find your canna lily. Plant it. Nurture it. Wait. Then watch it grow in great love and care. 

Sometimes children slow us down, make us late or complicate a simple task. 

But more often, children show us a better way to live. 

The Tradition

The house was locked up tighter than Ft. Knox and lights out. 

Caroline was sound asleep in her crib and her chest was moving up and down (at what age do parents stop checking this?). 

Prayers were said, and I was so, so close to sleep. 

That's when I heard my cell phone buzz on the nightstand. 

A text from Cody, two time zones west: "You may need to keep an eye on 301. I think she's starting.”

Keep an eye on 301? My eyes were about to shut for five straight hours, I thought to myself.

Work Hard, Rest Hard

And so, the last three months have been as such. It has only been at night, when the sun settles somewhere far past Indiana, and it is dark and cold that the cattle calm enough to focus on what they’re all supposed to be doing this time of year: Calving. 

The good news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors without getting bundled up. 

The bad news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (if you have the stamina). 

The worst news is Cody can access those cameras from his phone, no matter where his travels take him. 

My phone is my alarm clock, and my alarms are set as follows when I think something shows signs of calving overnight: 

The wake schedule is basically 
like having a new baby in the house.
And I wonder why my under-eye 
cream doesn't seem to be working. 

I haven't always answered the call of duty, though. On one particular night in late February I slept through three texts and four phone calls from Cody. He went on to contact a neighbor for help, while I slept soundly in the house. We have amazing rural neighbors. 

The months of January through March have been comprised of spot lights cutting through pastures, warm gloves and late night texts between husband and wife, and not the exciting kind. These are the kind of texts that silently say, "We're in this together, even when hundreds of miles apart." 

He sends me shots of the beautiful countryside he’s seeing from coast to coast and advice on how to handle difficult situations at home, while I send him photos of the newest calves to hit the ground and video of our sweet Caroline. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

Each morning and evening (and sometimes overnight) I come in the house and unbundle. Usually exhausted, sometimes frustrated, but never questioning the work. I was raised this way and Cody was, too. Caroline – the greatest and slowest farm hand I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with – already has the farm life engrained in her. I have to bribe her out of the barn with goldfish crackers.

Sometimes she watches me struggle to move a rogue calf or pen a pair and seems to say,
"Dad would have had this done thirty minutes ago."

In our dining room hangs a poem given to us on our wedding day. The gifters - my in-laws - no doubt knew the bride and groom well, and all that they (we) were about to embark upon.

The Tradition

Some folks just don’t get it.

They think owning cattle makes no sense.

It takes too much time, too much equipment,

not to mention the expense.

But the fondest memories of my life

– they might think sound funny –

were made possible by Mom and Dad,

‘cause they spent the time and spent the money.

You see, the most important lessons

helping values grow so strong,

come from loving cattle

and passing that tradition on.

In less than a month the grass will be green, temperatures will be warming, and we’ll be able to look across our pastures and see a flurry of black calves (plus two red ones) running with their tails up, exploring the bounds of the farm. 

Cody’s travel will slow and he’ll be home regularly, which means I’ll probably need to start cooking full meals again. 

The sleepless nights will be a tired memory that paid off with a healthy calf crop. 

And we’ll pass The Tradition on.

Until then, 

with every wake up call or 

dark trek across the barn lot, 

I'll Just. Keep. Swimming. 

Building Strong Children

It's been a bad week, huh?

We'll never understand the reason behind Sunday night's tragedy in Law Vegas, and frankly I wondered if I even had anything to write about this morning. Sunday night has left me sad, uninspired and wanting terribly to just be with my family in our living room. 

Then I saw someone on Facebook share a video showing exactly what the shooter's hotel room looked like when he opened fire. It was a virtual tour of the setting he was in when he made a horrific decision. 
I don't want to see that. 
I don't want to be in his element. 
I don't want to hear about his life, his buying history or his girlfriend. 
I don't want to know anymore about him. 
He was a terribly broken human being. 

I want to think about moving forward. 

This quote has been on my mind all week. 
(As I write this, it's only Tuesday. Jesus, take the wheel.)

"It is easier to build strong children 
than to repair broken men." 

- Frederick Douglass

So starting now, 

lets focus on building strong children. 

This means setting an example in how you treat other people, whether that be at the school pick-up line, on the sports field, at home or in a restaurant. 
This means setting an example in how you use your words to encourage, discipline or guide.
This means setting an example in how you honor your spouse, your parents and others that you consider family. 
This means setting an example in how you take care of yourself; your body, your mind and your faith. 
This means setting an example in how you take care of things around you, leaving things better than how you found them. 
This means setting an example in how you make choices, taking into account the the things that matter, against the ones that don't. 
This means setting an example in how you determine and honor your priorities. 
This means setting an example in how you spend your "free" time. 
This means setting an example in how you value your daily work. 

Who knows? Maybe it won't be only children you influence by living well. Those around you may begin to emulate your example, one by one, building a character of integrity in a world that desperately needs it. 

People on this earth are broken, some certainly more so than others. Let's commit today to do everything in our power to grow a population that values one another. By being kind, extending grace and loving one another, let's show the rest of the world that we value human life. 

Even when it brings us to our knees. 

Kitty's Special Music

Hello. Welcome to this week's confessional. Something has been on my mind.

When I was in high school I went to a small church tucked inside the confines of a tiny Indiana village. I say village because it was too small to warrant a town; it had only three streets. 

General store next door

The old church had many empty pews on Sunday morning, but you could count on the same familiar faces being there every single Sunday. It was a small, but dedicated, bunch. 

I went there by invitation from a friend. I knew no one on the first Sunday that I joined them, but by the time I moved to Purdue I knew nearly everyone. I'm not saying that to brag; there were maybe 20 people in the congregation. They taught me not only the words to, but to believe the message in, Because He Lives. 

Alabama sings Because He Lives

My friend and I brought the average age down greatly. We were 16 and 17 years old, and many of the others could have very well been our (great) grandparents. You can imagine the joy on their faces when we'd come through the doors. One woman in the church even bought my monthly devotional for me; the one where the Peril of Prosperity entry came from. Twelve years later and I still carry it around. 

Though I haven't been to that church in more than fifteen years, there is one woman I remember well. 

Her name was Kitty. 

Kitty would always come in on two wheels on Sunday morning, barely beating the clock that hung at the back of the church. She played the organ beautifully and took full advantage of the acoustics in the tiny rural church. She sang loud as she played, and rarely seemed to look at any kind of music book in front of her. When the service was over, Kitty seemed to leave as quickly as she'd arrived. 

Often we would have "special music" by Kitty. The minister would actually say it that way:
"This morning we'll now have special music from Kitty."
Kitty didn't need a microphone. She was quite small but her voice was large. And high pitched, with a hint of scratch in it? Is scratch a musical term? It is hard for me to explain in writing, but some how Kitty's singing actually reminded me of a cat.

My friend and I always kind of giggled to one another, and maybe participated in an elbow jab to the ribs, when the special music started. We always knew where it was headed. 
 
Kitty's music was special, indeed. 

I admired Kitty for standing in front of a group and belting out her love for Jesus. It was true. And real. And quite loud. 

I was reading the paper last week and saw a face I hadn't seen in years. 
In the obituary section was Kitty. 

I read about her life and dedication to her family, community and church. She was an organist at church for 47 years, but not the one I went to. She was an organist at the tiny church I write about for 20 years. Finally, I understood why she'd rush into our church service then leave so quickly; the woman served in many capacities on Sunday morning. She also created and directed a community choir. She was in charge of Good Friday services. Kitty was a faithful servant through music. 

I sat back in my chair after reading about her life, and thought about my short association with her. 

I felt shame that I giggled at Kitty's special music. Because Kitty's special music was how she used her God given talents to to serve and love the Lord. Her special music was how she shared her gift. Who was I, at 16 and barely able to tap out Mary Had a Little Lamb on a keyboard, to smirk each time she sang? If I could go back in time, I would rewind seventeen years and stop Kitty after church to thank her for her special music. 

I learned from Kitty last week, by reading her obituary.

God gives us certain talents, gifts. Things we can do, create, extend or give away to others that no one else can. Edwin Elliot once said, “By being yourself, you put something wonderful in the world that was not there before.” I believe that very much. There will never again be music in that church like Kitty's. 

Use up those talents and gifts. Every single one of them. Wring them out and get every last drop. Find those things that make you uniquely you and extend them to the best of your ability. Worry not what others may think of your volume or boldness or the ways in which you give. Sing it, live it and scream it to the rafters.

I've heard that the meaning of life is to find your gift, and the purpose of life is to give it away.

Kitty did, every Sunday. 

Reasons to Wear Perfume

For the first time since I became a mother, today I’m wearing perfume.

It is not for a special occasion, special person or special day, but rather, very ordinary events that unraveled my morning well before the beautiful sunrise struck Indiana.

I came in contact with the feces from three species before 6:30 AM: bovine, feline and Caroline. Because of this, I’m wearing my fourth outfit of the day – hopefully my final. Until I get home tonight and have to feed cattle, again. Hopefully, after that: pajamas. Six changes of clothes in 12 hours isn’t bad for someone not in diapers. Right?

For the record, CJ is on outfit number three and I 

packed four more to cover the next eight hours. 

I have this strange smell of amoxicillin and acid reflux swirling around me, and despite holding strands of my hair under the bathroom sink faucet and using Bath & Body Works White Citrus hand soap as shampoo, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I have two strategically placed bobby pins in my hair holding back certain parts that have dried, not clean, but crusty. I did a spray-and-run of Lysol and perfume before leaving the house to cover all germs and smells. 

After giving CJ her infant Tylenol, I licked my fingers, rather than wash them, hoping that the sweet relief she gets from the stuff will somehow alleviate the pain her mother recognizes as “Thursday”.  Despite the .05 mL of drugs ingested, I can still feel the pain.

On the way to daycare I asked CJ to behave, to be kind, to take a nap and to eat her food. She promised fifty-percent. That’s the most I can hope for from a 7-month-old. At least she’s honest.

I listened to praise music on full blasters all the way to work because I figured it was the only way to keep myself from cussing the morning; it’s hard to say bad words when worship music is filling your ears. I came into the co-op parking lot on two wheels, leftover Mexican food in one hand, computer bag in the other, stopping every three feet to check the bottoms of my shoes. Something was lingering and it wasn’t amoxicillin, acid reflux, Lysol or perfume.

Damn barn cats.