February
I sat in the long hallway outside the ballet classes where my daughter had her biweekly lessons, and, like most of the other poor souls waiting in those uncomfortable hard-backed chairs, I was tapping merrily away on my phone. This time I was texting a farmer contact from Spokane. We had decided to trade chickens for ducks in the spring, and we were working out the details.
“You don’t happen to want any goats—lol!” she texted.
I laughed inwardly. Not really. I had dreamed of having cows, pigs, geese, ducks, turkeys, dogs, orchards, and vegetable gardens. I had never dreamed of having goats. Didn’t both the meat and the milk taste . . . well . . . goaty? Weren’t they escape artists?
Even so, a little part of me sparked at the idea. What hobby farmer didn’t want more animals? Even if they were goats.
“Lol, yes!” I texted back, not really serious. Then, giving myself the out I was sure I would take, I added, “I would need to talk to my husband.”
Two days later, my phone dinged as we hustled our five kids into our minivan for our Sunday drive to church. Somewhere between finding matching shoes for the five-year-old, and a coat for the nine-year-old—
“No, not the farm coat with all the holes and dirt, the town coat.”
“But, Mom, why?
“Because I want you to look like we take care of you.”
“You take care of me.”
“I know. But I want you to look like it . . .”
—I managed to read the text. It was from my farmer contact. It said something like this: “We’ve been praying and would like to gift you one buckling and two unrelated doelings. It is our heart to sow into your area.”
I stared down at my phone, frowning. This was getting serious. “We’ll read, research, and PRAY,” I texted back.
March
Gravel crunched under my tennis shoes. The crisp cold morning air made my eyes water and the tip of my nose pink. The sun shafting through the Douglas firs along our half-mile driveway lit the moisture in the air. I was out for a dearly needed prayer walk in the quiet hour before the house turned to a bustle of homeschool needs.
I wanted the goats. I didn’t want the goats.
I had a habit of filling my plate and then jettisoning things because I just couldn’t handle it all. Was this a repeat of that habit? Could I take care of them? And my kids? And my homeschool? And my chickens? And my garden? And my writers’ groups? Would I still write? Should I say no? Should I say yes?
“I think this is from You, God,” I said, praying about the goats. “But I’m scared I’m just going to quit. I’m scared I won’t be able to handle it.”
I waited, heart stretching to hear the voice of my Good Shepherd, trying to surrender my will so that I wouldn’t put words in His mouth.
“It’s going to be hard,” I whispered, and I thought of the video games I wouldn’t have time to play, and the movies I wouldn’t have time to watch. I thought about cold mornings under the stars, feeding, watering, and milking.
In my waiting stillness, I felt God settle an understanding into my heart. It sounded something like this: I’m not concerned about your comfort. With these words came the knowledge that He was okay with the loss of video games, and movies, and sleeping in, and loose scheduling. He loves me and is happy to bless me with oases of rest when I need them. But the discomfort of tightening my schedule was part of how he wanted to refine me.
The next understanding that settled sounded something like this: Your issue isn’t actually an over-filling issue. It’s a character issue. With these words, I saw my habitual struggle with new eyes. I could walk in all the blessings God intended to pour into our farm. With Him, I could do anything. What I lacked was consistency. He was going to use these goats to develop consistency—stick-with-it-ness—in my character.
“Oh,” I said, breath congealing on the air before me. And I smiled. “It would have been easier if it was an over-filling issue. I could have just said no. Jesus, please help me let you work on my character.” And then, eyes hot with tears, “Would you make me a good shepherd like you?”
April
The coronavirus pandemic has turned the world upside down. There are no more ballet classes to wait for. Not only am I homeschooling, but now my friends who told me they would NEVER homeschool are schooling their children at home. Our small business has taken a financial hit—not devastating—but still . . .
And I’m getting goats next month.
Two years ago I read A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23 by Philip Keller. In a middle chapter Keller, a shepherd himself, explained the comfort of the Shepherd’s staff that the psalmist writes about in Psalm 23:4. It is a comfort of nearness. Of connection.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me…” (Ps. 23:4 NASB)
Keller explained that a shepherd would often walk with his staff touching the side of a favorite sheep as he led the flock through valleys toward the high “table” lands where he had prepared forage for them the year before. This favored sheep would happily pace itself with him, leaning into the touch. The Lord used this example to help me understand His loving connection with me two years ago, and as I have prayed through getting goats, and the uncertainty of COVID times, it has given me comfort.
A lot is happening right now that I never anticipated. But what has surprised me has not surprised my Good Shepherd. He has a plan, a way for me to go, and it is good. Through this trial, He has put into my heart a desperate cry only answerable by Him, “Teach me to be a good shepherd like you, Jesus.” And as I step out these things He’s called me to, things that scare me, I trust that His connection with me will lead me through, to the high-lands, where the spring grasses are green, and the air is fresh, and the view is wide and unhindered.
S.V. Cozby is a writer, hobby farmer, and homeschool mother of five. She currently leads two writers’ groups and serves on her church’s prayer team. She has just published her first book, titled, A League of Extraordinary Writers: A Young Christian’s Guide to Writing Fiction.