The simple
silence of walking to the barn in the dark.
The soothing
rhythm of milking my sweet cow Moo.
The
uncomplicated routine of greeting chickens, opening barn doors, and filling water
troughs.
Every dawn,
as the
rising sun pours warm rays across Kirkhaven’s eastern pasture,
it feels
like a fresh new miracle
that I am
here.
Things feel
right and good on the farm in the morning.
Two years
ago, my husband and I would have never dreamed that we would be mucking stalls,
chatting with UT agriculture specialists about pasture maintenance, and
ordering bovine vaccinations online. Who
would have ever THOUGHT that WE would be farmers? My husband is an architect. I am a teacher. What did we know about gardening and
greenhouses and cows and chickens and pastures and wells and ponds?
Nothing.
We knew
nothing.
But God
knows everything.
He knew that
we were broken and grieving.
He knew that
we were afraid to move ahead . . . in any direction.
He knew that
we would absolutely thrive doing the very thing that we never imagined.
And He knew
that stepping into the unknown . . .
struggling
with doubt and fear until hope is born . . .
depending
upon Him because resources were too small and the task was too big . . .
hearing the
still, small Voice of His Wisdom and His Truth above a daily din of continuous
clatter . . .
studying
hard . . .
working hard
. . .
praying hard
. . .
resting
gratefully in the goodness of His wondrous, amazing grace . . .
was what we
were BORN to do.
The learning
curve has been very steep. There have
been days when we wondered if it would work out at all. We have made mistakes. We have seen hardships. We have been disappointed. But building Kirkhaven Farm has been
good.
Very
good.
There is
something poignant . . . something rich and life-giving and real . . . about drawing
sustenance from the land. I have always understood
that eggs came from chickens. I realized
that milk and beef came from cows. I appreciated
the fact that fruits and vegetables I bought at the store were grown in a
garden or orchard somewhere. But
academic facts have grown to a different kind of “knowing” as I have collected
eggs from chickens I raised from hatchlings, canned jellies and jams from
fruits I picked myself, eaten fresh garden vegetables that I grew from seeds,
and enjoyed a cold glass of creamy goodness from my hand-milked cow Moo.
“Knowing
about” is sterile and academic. It can
be gained through study. Through
mentoring. Through meditative revelation. It can earn you fame and fortune. It can cause others to be jealous of what you
have gained. But it cannot give you the
vital, real kind of life that truly knowing offers.
“Knowing” .
. . instead of “knowing about” . . . is very, very precious.
The touching
kind of knowing.
The
dirt-on-your-hands and poop on your boots kind of knowing.
The laboring
over and laboring with and laboring because-of kind of knowing.
The costly
kind.
The intimate
kind.
Like God
knows us.
His birth in
a stall.
His childhood
in a small town.
His work
with His father as a carpenter.
His ministry
on the dusty roads and lake shores and hillsides and big cities of Israel.
His death on
a cross.
The
been-there-done-that-have-the-scars kind of knowing.
The real
kind of knowing.
As I go
about my daily chores at Kirkhaven, stewarding the bounty that lives and grows
here, it is becoming very real to me how very shallow knowledge is . . . but
how very deep knowing is. One of my
favorite Bible verses often drifts through my heart and mind as I work:
Be still
(cease striving), and know that I am God;
I will be
exalted among the nations,
I will be
exalted in the earth.
The Lord
Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
Selah
Psalms
46:10-11
I have often
commented about how my quiet, farming lifestyle has helped me enter into the “be
still” part of that verse. Nothing else
I have ever done has helped “still” my heart more than farming. But now I am seeing that farming has helped
me enter the “knowing” part of that verse too.
Be still. Cease the hand-wringing striving that is born
of faithlessness.
And
know. The
dirt-on-your-hands-and-poop-on-your-boots kind of intimate participation in God’s
Kingdom life.
I know my
chickens.
I know my
cows.
I know the
dark, rich dirt of my vegetable garden.
But to know
God . . . intimately and deeply and richly . . . to touch Him . . . and to work alongside Him . . . even when it's messy or hard . . . is the greatest treasure of all.
