Sally Gerard

I’ve started a lot of stories that heavily involve horses. I’ve finished some of them and had one published. Some of my best writing is in horses, and as a writer, I have to look at that. It isn’t that it bothers me, it just is me. Horses are some of the best people I know. They don’t dance around issues. If something hurts, they tell you. If they aren’t happy, they tell you. If they need something, they tell you. If you’re mean to them, expect a kick or a bite.

But if you treat them with respect, care for them, talk to them, feed them, and brush them, they will devote themselves to you. They will listen to every single word you say, and they will respond to the gentlest touch. Horses have been known to stand between danger and their person, to keep away an aggressor, to refuse to move because they’ve sensed the mountain lion on the ridge you want to ride under, and to stand quietly breathing while you sob with your arms wrapped around their neck.

When I see my horses out the window, my spirits lift. When I put out hay in the early morning light, my soul is fed just watching them come in to eat. When I take a walk out in the pasture and they follow along behind me, I am not alone. And when I ride, oh how I soar up out of all the troubles that were weighing me down.

“In the company of accepting horses, I felt humbled but hopeful. As they always had, the animals welcomed me into their herd irrespective of anything but the spirit I conveyed with my hands and my voice. They reminded me that my true value rested not in a job title or a surname but in my heart.” (M. Midkiff)

Glen Campbell’s song, Less of Me, always speaks to me at some point each year, reminding me of some simple things. I sing the song most Sunday mornings as I play my guitar as a sort of worship time. Singing it recently, one line stood out: “Let me serve a little better those that I am striving for.”

When you strive for something, and it usually is some thing: a promotion, a skill, a recipe baked to perfection, you expend a lot of effort toward that goal.

You battle against all opposition, struggle with any resistance, sweat bullets to reach the top of the mountain. But what does it look like to strive for someone? Who am I striving for? I can certainly name individuals. I can list groups of people: family, students, underdogs of all kinds.

It is an epic battle, struggle, and strain because so many obstacles fall into their paths. But the song reminds me that I can just keep moving to serve a little better, to be a little kinder, a little braver, a little meeker, a little bit more cheery, and to praise a little more.

In my head, I tell myself that I should not be so affected by what is going on in the world. I’m already about as social-distanced as it gets. I already stay at home most of the time, unless you count walks down the road, runs in the pre-dawn on the same empty roads, checking cattle, or noting that the UPS delivered something in the U-Haul truck because the UPS truck has been broken down for months.

I’ve been diligent about anyone coming on the place and disinfecting and not having physical contact. But the occasion to do that is rare anyway.

But I do note certain things: I miss meeting my girlfriends for coffee once every couple of months. I miss going to pizza and ice-cream with our good friends. I miss having a meal out when I don’t have to plan and cook. And I miss the idea of gathering around a table to share a meal.

I have nothing to complain about and everything to be thankful for. And I hurt for those who’ve lost jobs and homes and livelihoods, and who have lost family members. And I shake my head at those with no respect for the health of others. And I pray and hope and am reminded every morning by the stars in the sky that we are created for all that is love and to do what is good and right and what lifts up and does not cast down. As our local TV station keeps repeating in commercials: “Do what is right, even when it’s hard. And be kind.” Be kind. Be kind.

Instinct is something we are born with and do without thinking. Cows know when the birth of their calf is close. They wander away from the herd, finding a quiet, private spot as contractions begin. Some walk around and then lie down to bring their calf into the world. Others stand, working with gravity as their calf more plops into the world. Either way, as soon as those hind hooves emerge, Mama Cow is up, lowing to her calf with a gentle humming intensity, as she licks him off quite vigorously.

Meanwhile, the calf seems somewhat stunned as that tongue lashes over his wet body, head to tail, and within minutes begins to try to stand. Wobbly and uncertain, something drives him to balance on four spindly legs, all the while Mama’s tongue continues to work, often knocking him down again. But always with that low humming sound he soon learns to recognize and repeat back to her.

Once up, he totters around searching Mama Cow until he finds a teat and tentatively tries to suck. There are hits and misses and tumbles back to the ground (that tongue again) until he finally manages to latch on and drink his fill.

Satiated, the calf curls back to the ground to sleep, Mama making sure he’s cleaned off. She stands by or folds up next to him, putting her own needs off for hours until he’s strong enough to follow her to the stock tank or to feed. It is amazing to witness. Every. Single. Time.

Pixabay Rain Storm

A good old-fashioned thunderstorm is so peaceful, somehow, to listen to and watch. The fields, pastures, trees, and plants are soaking up much-needed moisture, which we’ve been too short on all winter. Completely unexpected, it brings blessing and grace to our parched land.

An answer to prayer, I give thanks. I think about the constant barrage of requests I offer up to God each and every day, waiting for answers. I weep and cry out as David did:

“Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my sighing.” Psalm 5: 1 (Whining?)

“My soul is in anguish. How long, O Lord, how long?” Psalm 6: 3

“Arise, Lord! Lift up your hand, O God. Do not forget the helpless.” Psalm 10: 12

“Look on me and answer, O Lord my God.” Psalm 13: 3

And yes, just as the Psalmist, I continue to cry out to God. Why? Because my soul knows, “The fool says in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” Psalm 14:1 I, too, take refuge knowing that God is with me in the struggle, that the answers I want may not be what come, but the one who knit me together from the dust of stars and knew me before I was born will never leave me, will always love me and in God’s care, I am never helpless.

Like the never-ending wait for this pressure rainwater, God’s arms will wrap around me, and you, in love and grace and all that is good.

April weather, like always, has been filled with extremes. One day it is almost 80 degrees and the next it is 25 with a twenty mile-an-hour wind and snow. Walking through the fog, I was thinking about all the ways we are living in a muddle right now and how it feels like we’ll be stuck in it forever.

But then I read about the gracious, loving, and creative things people are doing to stay connected, to reach out, to be a light in the dark places. One woman wrote about how her neighbors are leaving gifts in each other’s mailboxes, like homemade cookies or breads. A friend of mine’s little brother was in a terrible wreck and the day he got to come home from the hospital, the community arranged a drive by parade to welcome him home.

There are still those who don’t take this pandemic seriously, and they put others at risk. I can’t do anything about that, but I can call my neighbor and check in. I can text my children dumb jokes. I can send care packages to siblings and to others I hold dear. My light may need some new batteries, but it is better than being in the dark.

The fog will clear and we will again find ourselves under blue skies, and at tables across from each other sharing coffee and conversation, and breaking bread together.

Pixabay.com

Hearing a good story read out loud is so comforting. It takes me right back to elementary school when we were allowed to sit or crash on the floor, close our eyes, and be transported into another world. Some of my favorites were: the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books, Pippi Longstocking, Little House on the Prairie, and Ramona and Ribsy. To this day I still love to hear stories.

I listen to Levar Burton Reads, after watching Reading Rainbow with my kids. I have umpteen-bazillion audio books, and I can’t stop listening to Sir Patrick Stewart read a sonnet a day on Twitter.

My students are no different. From 6^th grade through high school, they’ve been coming to my live hour requesting me to read to them after I shared one story for Read Across America. And I’m enjoying it too. Right now, we’re reading A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness. I love the story, even though I know it is terribly sad. It is ultimately about hope, and don’t we all need a bit of that now and again?

Take some of this stay-at-home time to read to each other and maybe even record it and send it out into the world for others to enjoy.

I’ve gotten a kick out of the stories I read about Zoom meetings where someone’s husband or child or other household resident walks through a meeting saying something inappropriate or wearing something inappropriate. As an online educator for the past several years, I’m used to digital meetings and the funny things that sometimes happen. It’s life, isn’t it? We’re so used to plastering on a face to take to work and now many people are only dressing from the waist up.

I do get dressed each and every day, in clothes that allow for my online work and my outside work. My students are used to my ball cap at times, my down vest, my Carhartt if I just came in from chores or checking cattle and didn’t have time to shuck it at the door and, for the most part, I’m sitting in a chair. That means they don’t see the calf poop on my knee or the sticky stiff drying yuck from whatever I rubbed up against, but it wouldn’t matter if they did because it’s real. They want to know that I’m real.

In my live room, I see their kitchens, their family in the background, I hear their pets or their newest baby sibling crying. I see out their windows into their yard or neighborhood and they see outside mine to the lilacs or the bird feeders or the pasture. One good thing that’s come from COVID19 is this tendency toward being real, being human, showing the struggle: the kid’s hair matted from sleep as they sit in their PJ’s working in front of a computer, parents trying to help-families eating together and maybe even cooking together, doing puzzles, making crafts, having crazy dance parties, Zooming with grandparents, friends, and relatives.

Real people get annoyed with each other. Real people have ratty old favorite sweat shirts. Real people accidentally walk through “important” meetings and yell, “Has anyone seen my pants?” Real people find ways to be positive, to connect, to protect, to love, to pray, to dance, to watch old TV shows, to laugh and cry, to be afraid and have faith, to mourn and to find joy, and to reach out to those in need, those alone, those distraught, or those who can provide that little bit of comfort we all need. Be a light, won’t you?

“Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.”

This quote by Mother Teresa may hit home for many of us right now. We need to love those who are before us right now a thousand times a day and not get tired. While we are more confined, in many ways, then ever before, we have to figure out how to fill our lives with truth, beauty, and goodness. Who are you checking in on by phone or other method? Who is right there with you that you may already be getting tired of or frustrated with? How can you love them?

There are so many little things that matter. Find ways to brighten days. Read out loud, put on music and dance, play a game of Yahtzee, or step out onto your deck or into your back yard and breathe, walk, look at the stars, or fill a sidewalk with chalk drawings.

Where is there loneliness or pain that you can help by reaching out? Smiling? Sending an actual letter? Love is most genuine in those tiny acts of compassion. Love came to me this week in a simple bag filled with fruit, and two homemade cinnamon rolls.

Cathy, Sally, Susan

Today marks another year since our little sister, Cathy, was brutally taken from us. This past couple of weeks, on my run, the Pandora channel I listen to kept repeating We Are the Champions. Every time it played, I could see her shouting it out at the top of her lungs next to me.

And then my sister Julie sent me a photo of Cathy, me, and Susan, together in some unknown location. I don’t remember the place, but seeing her face made me smile. She’d have plenty to say about this COVID situation and more than likely a stern lecture (with some choice language) for those who go about selfishly, paying no attention to social distancing.

I saw a movie the other night. There were three sisters and one had been missing, presumed dead, for several days. The younger sister kept calling her missing sister’s phone just to hear her voice message. It was a comfort. I did that too, for a long time. But now, Cathy’s voice is gone from that number and it simply says that the voice mail box is full and cannot accept any more messages. Maybe I’m not the only one.

I miss her. She had a way of saying things flat out, no beating around any bushes. Her heart for others, compassion for those in need, and her staunch defense of the underdog is probably driving God nuts.