Just call me Shepherdess

This piece, originally published last spring on YLCF will hopefully give an account for my long silence around here…a condition I hope to remedy!

I love how Catherine Marshall put it:

Dreams carried around in one’s heart for years, if they are dreams that have God’s approval, have a way of suddenly materializing.

And I can definitely say that this has been a Spring of ‘sudden materialization’. So sudden I feel I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath before one beautiful change follows on the heels of another. Spring itself is a season of change, of course: new things stirring to life; old, spent growth disappearing under the inexorable greening of bud and leaf and blade. Here in the South our Spring flirts for a while, courting us with balmy days in mid-February and then turning a diffident shoulder of frost and gloom again till one hardly knows whether to trust in the promise of April or not. But there can be no doubt on this gentle afternoon, soft with the sweet pale haze of awakening trees and scented with apple blossoms: Spring has really arrived. And with it, a fine crop of heart’s desires.

Ever since Philip and I set up housekeeping here on our farm-in-the-city we have dreamed about the animals we’d love to welcome and raise. That is, in addition to our five cats, fourteen hens, rooster and best-Australian-Shepherd-in-the-whole-wide-world. We’d entertained the notion of cows because Philip’s grandfather had been a cattleman and we wouldn’t be so completely in the dark. Highland Cattle received more than a passing consideration, owing to the fact that one of the shining points of our vision is promoting historical or endangered breeds. We installed good, sturdy fencing and sketched out a plan for our barn, an original structure and sorely in need of renovation. We started scrutinizing the Market Bulletin for animals and supplies. We entertained our Aussie with glowing descriptions of his life as a real farm dog. And then everything began to slow to a halt. For a couple of years, something always seemed to waylay the plan: trips and travels, droughts, sprained ankles, surgeries, unexpected expenses. I really began to wonder at times if it wasn’t just a pipe dream after all.

Since Christmas, however, my heart has been stirring on this theme more ardently than ever, and towards the end of January I determinedly ordered a whole box of books on farming and livestock. And thus it was that Philip came home one day and found a lovely volume lying on the kitchen table: Living with Sheep.

I came upon him after he’d been reading it for a while, leaning against the counter, completely engrossed in the engaging text and gorgeous photographs, very much as I had been not a few hours before. He looked up at me with shining eyes.

“Let’s get sheep!”

I blinked back at him as if it were the first time it had occurred to either one of us. As if we hadn’t started dreaming about it on the first day of our Scottish honeymoon. As if we hadn’t longed for it as an unattainable wish all throughout our sojourn in England. Truth is, we’d been scared off by our own ignorance, not to mention the simple fact that we didn’t know of a single other person in Georgia that raised sheep. And for a super-cautious, obsessive-compulsive little soul like me, that spelled terrifying, no matter how much I wanted it.

But suddenly, standing there in the kitchen, grinning back at my husband, I knew that we could do this. That old familiar flame of aspiration began to glow and spark within me; Philip’s eager enthusiasm sealed the deal. God’s timing on this dream seemed to materialize right there between us. And so I devoted much of the month that followed to reading and educating myself, talking to shepherds on the phone, emailing like mad—basically scratching up all the information I possibly could. And literally, within the span of a few short weeks, we went from the germ of a dream to the cusp of fulfillment. Through an intensely exciting series of events—interesting only to me, I am sure—I made the discovery of a marvelous breed of sheep native to our area, historically important from a heritage point of view and remarkably hardy and tolerant of our climate due to hundreds of years of ranging feral in the Southern fields and forests. A flurry of emails, a frenzy of waiting—and, suddenly, six lambs, yet unborn, had my name on them. Quite an honor when you consider that there are only around 2000 registered such animals in existence!

It’s in the details that I know my God is in this, and blessing this dear, crazy undertaking. I’ve seen Him guide and provide in countless ways—I could fill several posts with the recounting but I’ll spare you!—and I know that He’s working out some purpose of His, even if it’s only the stretching of my own faith. I’ve been forced to trust Him at every turn—the path we’ve set our feet to is uncharted territory, and there’s a very scared little girl deep down inside of me that shrinks from change of any sort, even that for which I’ve longed and prayed. But it has been so endearing to see how He cares about these dreams of ours; how He plants such lovely and challenging goals in our hearts and then provides all we need to attain them. Even when we’re cowering in the folds of His garments like frightened lambs ourselves.

This time last year I was becoming an expert on punting options in Oxford and driving distances to obscure literary places of pilgrimage preparatory to our journey abroad. This Spring I am a connoisseur of pasture grasses and organic fertilizer options, having our soil tested and discussing the results at length with our extension agent, and basically betraying my ignorance to every clerk at every Feed and Seed north of Savannah. It’s been very humbling, and I can’t tell you all how many times I’ve had to swallow my pride and say, “I have a really dumb question…”. But my prayer this April is the same as it was a year ago: The Lord grant you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed…

My lambs come home in May; the two little bottle baby Nubian goats that Philip promised me are sleeping out in the barn with their tummies full of warm milk; the lovely, majestic Great Pyrenees dog we brought home to be a livestock guardian is patrolling her barnyard and lingering by the fence for loving words and ear scratches. Down in the basement a host of newly-potted starts are dreaming of a whole garden to grow in, and out in the yard roses and grapevines and brambles are sending forth tender, tentative growth in prelude to an absolute explosion of fruit and flower. Even the hens are clucking among themselves of the new quarters we’ve promised them in the barnyard…

Change is sweeping, and it’s good, for the Lord is good. There will be a lot to adapt to in the coming weeks and months, but soon these changes will seem as if they have always been and new changes will be looming. Through every change He faithful will remain…