The Cows

Psalm 46, Psalm 90, Psalm 121

When I go for a run while visiting my parents, I pass by a small herd of cows. They live on a small farm that was once isolated outside the city of Harrisonburg. As I run up the street with suburban house on my left and the cows on my right, it becomes a study in contrasts. The houses bustle with early morning activity and ritual as the children bundle out for the coming school buses, with parents urging recalcitrant teens into moving or suffering the threats of walking should the bus leave them, shepherding small ones from dashing into the street in front of bleary-eyed morning commuters, and getting themselves ready for that commute themselves. The cows eat the dew-damp grass, mostly ignoring me, except for the calves who raise their heads to watch this running creature trot past. 

The cows embody shalom, but the humans?

Lately these visits to check on my parents are not embodying peace of any kind. Lately these visits home are to handle the next dip in the road as Mom and Dad deal with rapid aging--what happens after a year of grief and ill-health that came from the grief. I feel like a tired 48 year old man, but soon enough like a scared little boy whose mommy and daddy cannot be there for him, then back again to a grown son taking care of his needful parents. 

The morning run is more than daily exercise. It is prayer. It is prayer for hope, help, healing. It is prayer of complaint, anger, and frustration. It is prayer of assurance, comfort, and praise. Sometimes it is all of these things in the same mile. 

It is a muddle.

Then I pass the cows. 

For a few moments, it is just me and the cows. They are so calm. They are so quiet. Nothing seems to get to them. They just are.

To just be.

When we pass through crisis moments, there can be no deeper longing--to just be. We want release from all that would tear at us, from all that niggles at our consciousness, and from all that hurts us, scares us, and wears us down. Having a moment to do nothing more profound than breathe fills us with calm repose. To have a moment where no one is speaking is blessed stillness--one wherein God is. 

My route carries me past the cows three times. Each time is a moment of renewal, each a reminder that all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.

Stanford anthropologist, T.M. Luhrmann, commented that in such times, faith can lead us to declare, “God is a relationship, not an explanation” (“When God Is Your Therapist,” New York Times, 4/14/13). We hunger for a reason for everything, but what we find is that God meets such questions with astounding silence. Job cried from his ash heap for a reason for his suffering, God gave him creation poetry. Isaiah cried out, “How long, O Lord?” God responded, “Until its done.” The disciples wanted Jesus to tell them when, where, and who, Jesus responded, “Do not seek the seasons.” But in each case, God also said, “I am with you.” 

That is all that really matters. We want to know why, but what good would that actually do? Explanations do not really alleviate much of anything. A parent tending a sick child may know all the reasons for the child’s illness, but that does nothing to quiet the hurt, fear, and suffering of the child. It does nothing to quiet the parental soul who would willingly, immediately jump into the child’s place if it could be done.

But God is there. God is there with love, compassion, and grace. And also with strength, wisdom, and counsel. It is hard--maybe the hardest thing any of us can contemplate doing--but our task is to fall still and let God be God. 

The cows embody this stance. They just are. They eat their grass. They feel the warm sun. They follow its light across the pastures, adding flavor and experience to the grass. The grass will be there. The strange creature running past will stay on his side of the fence. All shall be well. 

I return to my parents’ home. It is what it is. I am who I am. They are who they are. 

And we are all beloved by God.

Peace is possible. Real peace. Full peace. Shalom.

Look at the cows.