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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