goat farm field trip

There are several ways to kill an animal. I know this not because I do, but because I have witnessed my share. The fields, woods and lake beside my childhood home made the best hunting grounds. My dad strung gutted deer in the garage and cleaned almost dead fish on the counter. My mom beat the eagles to the rodents and snakes creeping to close to the house. And not to be outdone, Muffins my cat would willingly offer her catch with the family, but that's another blog. None of these compared to what I witnessed on that goat farm north of Poughkeepsie.

He picked me up at LaGuardia Airport and we drove the beautiful Taconic State Parkway to the Culinary Institute of America in historic Hyde Park where our summer home (a dorm room) was nestled beside the Hudson River. Only married a few years, we were to spend the next two over 600 miles apart, and I was glad to finally be where he was. I had a front row seat to his training, sat in on classes, ate dinner with his group, and even got to go on a field trip.

I piled into the backseat of a car with the future givers of fine eats. I was quite, taking in the conversation, mostly because they all already knew how to boil water and add milk to cereal. I was relieved when we arrived on the farm. After a brief history lesson in goat farming pedagogy, we made our way into the barn where the young goats and mothers were fed. The farmer continued to talk as if conducting a live documentary. He calmly walked a kid before us and in a motion as smooth as my grandmother casting on to knit an afghan, he strung the hind legs and hoisted it up. In the next moment, a sharp knife severed its trachea and esophagus. I was startled and looked around at the others, making sure my response matched theirs. But it didn't. It couldn't. I wanted to look away, but I knew I needed to see this. I knew I was being taught a different lesson.

This goat was for a Jewish family so it was Kosher slaughtered. The blood had to be drained. The blood is the life (Deut. 12.23). It dripped onto the ground. He skinned it. They shared methods of preparation. He explained the different cuts. They exchanged recipes. The blood slowed. I shrank behind the group and stared at the straw on the ground. I understood what I had seen.

Jesus was bound and hoisted up onto a cross. His blood spilled onto the ground and his life drained. This punishment was meant for me, but He took it upon himself. And this was the plan before the earth was even made (1 Pet. 1:20). His blood to buy my pardon.

Some experiences get etched into a memory and viewed like a reel in a View-Master. A little blurry and just out of grip. But this one, this Upstate New York goat farm has me wrapped up in replay and each time, I am reminded just how precious is the blood. Of Jesus.

 

 

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skiing and other attempts

 

I am hoping my first attempts at blogging are better than my first at downhill skiing. I wanted to ski so badly probably for all the wrong reasons. The chair lift, the cool goggles, the white-wash wall of snow raining down upon unsuspecting cross country low-lifes at the bottom of the hill. So, I tried. I turned in my 15 bucks and permission slip and loaded the bus. With my purple snow pants zipped to my chin and knit zigzag scarf double knotted, I clipped in my toes and hit the bunny hill. I watched how others grabbed the tow rope and bent the knees. Piece of cake. Only it wasn't. After being dragged up the hill like those little phones on wheels (the ones where the eyes orbit creepishly), I was ready to make my descent. Again, I watched others as they weaved back and forth to their snow-plow grand finale and couldn't imagine it to be too difficult. Wrong again. I applied the falling method of stopping as snowplowing with cross-country skis prooved quite ineffective. So desperate to be a 'ski-ER' was I, that I continued this abuse until permanent damage was done to my tailbone. I liken it to the wear the nub on the toe of a roller skate gets during couples skate.

I'd like to say I wised up after that and stuck to the fresh powder trails through the undulating hills of the Northern Michigan woods, but it gets worse. The chair lifts beckoned me and I was rendered powerless to their lure of adventure. Who lets a junior high girl in cross country skis on a lift?! But that's another blog.

I never did fill the zippers of my Columbia jacket look-alike with lift tickets nor have I ever owned Scott goggles. Even so, I managed to compile a very long list of adventures (and adventure attempts). It's how I learn. It's how I never run out of bed-time stories for my boys or life-lessons for my students. It's where I learn the perfect, unconditional, adventureous love of Jesus. On every trail, bunny hill, tow rope, and chair lift adventure, I have learned of His faithfulness and strength, humility and holiness. And the lessons he crafts out of these adventures are making me into the very same.

 

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falling and thoughts on falling

Judging by the title, one may assume I have climacophobia (fear of falling...googled it). But I really don't. Not really. Just quite a history of it brought about by mysterious failures on the part of gravity, of course.

It seemed to be functioning normally when my brother and I road our bikes around the forbidden gravel pit. Silly rule. Those dump trucks and diggers could easily see my bright red and silver super awesome BMX bike, AND I had way too many skills to fall into a rock quarry pit.

We were getting ready to ride down Big Gravel Mountain when up pulled the Blue Van. I guess we thought if our tricks were totally rad, our parents wouldn't notice where we were. "Watch this!" and down Paul went. A 'superman no-footer tabletop' trick later, he was at the bottom. My only thought was, "How am I going to beat that?" Their words were strange monosyllabic shouts discouraging me from any attempt to mount my bike while on the mountain. "Pffff, I got this!" It didn't take long for anyone, including me, to see this would not end well. If my memory serves me correctly, I pulled off a 540 liquid sword cliff-hanger with a rocket air tail-whip but somehow the bike landed on me, I landed on my back, and my wind landed somewhere over Pickerel Lake.

Falling is seldom pleasant whether from a bike or otherwise. Fallen relationships, careers, hopes...they incur pain. But in our fear and skepticism of absolutes, I can safely say, always and every time we fall, Jesus knows and cares. He know when a sparrow falls and how much more valuable than a bird are we! (Matt. 10:31). Jesus gives words like persevere, hang-on, continue. His words give life. His life is why I continue to get on my bike and ride.

I am still falling off my bike. I'm still attempting tricks I probably shouldn't. And words of wisdom are still offered by my parents - and complete strangers - But that's another blog. 

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