Dad and our friend alternated months working on the boat; the one NOT on the boat handled the dairy. They would "swap off" the next month, and so on.
The dairy was a two-a-day operation. Once each morning and once each evening, the cows would make their way across the field and crowd up around the milking door. They were pretty insistent about being fed and milked on time. On the rare day we were late, we could hear them "bawling" clear out on the road.
I was expected to help Dad whenever he needed any assistance with the milking. I wasn't called on to do this too often, and, despite my grumbling about having to get up early or perhaps miss an after school activity, it really was no burden. While Dad got the equipment up and running, ensuring it was clean and ready, my job was to climb way up onto the feed floor, essentially an attic-like space filled with feed. I would make my way around the room, shoveling the feed into the tops of tubes that led down to where the cows would stand when being milked. I usually had to do this twice for each milking. When not shoveling feed, I helped with the cows.
The only time I really had a problem with all of this was one Sunday morning.
Even as a teen, Sundays were MINE. My "day of rest." My day to worship, attend Sunday School, and, in the afternoon, participate in youth activities before evening worship. We teens had such a great time being together, we often went out to the Dairy Queen after evening worship.
Nobody messed with my Sundays.
But one Sunday, the cows did.
I awoke early that Sunday to the sound of my Dad calling my name, telling me to get up because he needed my help with the cows. For a moment there, I was completely disoriented; wasn't this Sunday? But then, when my head cleared I KNEW it was Sunday. I pulled on my jeans and shoes, buttoning my shirt as I headed downstairs, but I griped all the way down the stairs . . . and all the way out to the farm. I whined about losing "Sunday time" to the cows; I was emphatic that we HAD to finish in time for me to get to church; I was oh-so-righteously ticked off at Dad for making me do this "on a Sunday!"
Dad didn't say a word all the way to the farm. He just let me rant. But, once we arrived and were walking toward the dairy barn, Dad turned and stopped me with a palm to the chest. I stopped walking (and, finally, stopped talking).
Dad said, "Do you hear that?"
Of course, I hadn't heard anything other than the sound of my own voice for several minutes. But as I paused, then, to listen, I did hear something.
"Yeah," I said, "It's the cows bawling."
And he then asked the question, the one that REALLY shut my mouth: "Do you know WHY they're bawling?"
In all the time we had been doing this, I had never once stopped to wonder . . . well, ANY thing about the cows. Sadly, I had to admit that I had no idea, really, why they were bawling. Somehow, in my youthful mind, I just thought they were ticked off that we were late.
Well, no.
"They're bawling," said Dad, "because they're in pain. And they will stay that way until somebody milks them."
I was just like those folks in this week's Lectionary selection from the gospel of Luke: I couldn't see past my own well-ordered world view to the actual living beings who were in need.
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http://lectionary.library.vanderbilt.edu
READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 16 (21) (August 25, 2013)
Jeremiah 1:4-10
Psalm 71:1-6
Isaiah 58:9b-14
Psalm 103:1-8
Hebrews 12:18-29
Luke 13:10-17
I hope to see you Friday morning at Lectionary Breakfast. We're still having a great time discussing the scriptures over a great meal at "The Egg and I" in Waco. Join us if you can.
Enjoy the week!
Steve