And the Cow Jumped Over the...Barbed Wire?

Though living on a farm has its lovely little joys, I must say I was reminded this week as to why I will be very thankful when I no longer live on one. At least, when I don't live on one populated by cows. And ridiculously stupid cows at that.

For those of you who have never been to my home, we live on a forty acre farm that our landlords rent out to owners of cows to allow their cows to graze before leading them off to the Happy Hunting Grounds (otherwise known as Longhorn Steakhouse). Our wonderful friends who lived here before us brilliantly put a fence up around the house for a semblance of privacy. Before that, the cows could literally walk right up to the window and scare you to death. While they can still do that on the living room end of the house (I can't tell you how many times I've opened the window while sitting on the sofa and found myself being stared at by a cow), it was not pleasant to be awakened in the middle of the night by mooing by your bed. This fence is rather ghetto and is made up of a mixture of fence rails and barbed wire. It runs around the perimeter of the side yard and back yard and finishes by the barbed wire wrapping around the humongous rusty old water tower that hovers above our house like something out of War of the Worlds. (And which is populated by a family of noisy owls and gives me numerous nightmares regarding renter's insurance).

This past Wednesday, my lovely friend Jenn and I were sitting on the couch and getting ready to watch some American Idol when I happened to look out the back window. There was a cow inside the barbed wire, munching on the grass. Not a big deal…the cow wanted a late night snack…wait…INSIDE the barbed wire? I jumped up and looked closer: sure enough, that cow had somehow slipped under the barbed wire and was in my backyard! 

The best shot of the barbed wire I had.

(By the way, that barbed wire is in three strands, placed no more than two feet apart and about two feet off the ground; that cow must have army crawled under it…kinda wish I could have seen that part). But now I had the irritating issue of a large, lowing, cow as white as the moon in my backyard. At least the front fence was closed…Or was it? I suddenly recalled seeing it hanging open on many occasions (so help me, my cats have opposable thumbs and unlatch that thing when we’re not looking).

I raced around to the front gate and slammed it closed, just as the cow came thundering up. I said a prayer of thanks as I imagined myself chasing this lumbering cow down Big A Road, waving at it stupidly. But how to get it back in the pasture? I went around to the back fence and fought with the latches that secured the fence rails in place but couldn’t get them to budge. The cow stood as far away from me as possible, standing by the fence I had so recently slammed in its face; I’m sure it felt like it was in the slammer. I had a fleeting thought of, “Well, Jon’s at his night class, but he’ll be back later, and he’ll be able to figure out what to do with this animal,” when I looked in the yard and realized why that would not work: our satellite was in the cow’s line of vision like radar. Yeah, we had to get that thing out of there pronto. Don’t mess with my American Idol.

I went back inside and walked out on the back porch. Thinking I might be able to befriend it (hey, I’ve seen Charlotte’s Web), I carefully and quietly tip-toed to the corner of the house so I could peek around and see how friendly this cow looked. Maybe it would sweetly follow me to the barbed wire, and I could somehow convince it to go back to freedom. Yeah, right. As I peeked around the corner of the house, I couldn’t see it at first. I thought it may have somehow hopped the brick wall back into the pasture, but I suddenly realized it was so white, it was blending in with my white house (cut me some slack: it was nine o’clock at night). When my eyes finally focused on it, I let out a little “Oh!” That doggone animal’s ears perked up, she (or was it a he?) let out a moo like a battle cry, and hightailed it…straight at me!!! I haven’t run that fast in awhile; don’t laugh: cows are huge animals.

My sideyard - where the animal hid in wait for my unsuspecting noggin to creep around the side of the house.

We finally got in touch with our good friend Jason, who, like a real trooper, came over straightaway…armed with a machete. I reminded Jason we were not making burgers. He assured me it was for smacking-on-the-rump-purposes only. I’ll be darned if Jason didn’t have that fence open in two seconds flat after I had fought with it for fifteen minutes. Now there was a huge, five-foot gap in the fence for the cow to lumbering…well, lumber through, but now we had to convince ol’ Bessie to actually go THROUGH it. She lumbered over to the farthest corner of my backyard, and Jason bravely walked over to her, making all those good Western noises like they do on Bonanza. The cow wasn’t cooperating. Jenn & I were great help, by the way: I steadied the flashlight while she kept the fence propped open. Hey, we had done all we could. It was time for man-power.

In the blink of an eye, that cow bolted, and we all breathed a sigh of relief that it was going to head out…except it headed straight towards my satellite. I halfway closed my eyes, expecting to see that dish go flying straight up to the moon, Alice, and wondering how I could explain to Dish Network that they should come and replace it at no charge. But the cow didn’t stop there: she headed straight at Jenn, who I must admit, stood her ground and didn’t budge. (I would have run like a sissy). The cow ran straight past Jenn, straight past the hole in the fence the size of Manhattan, and suddenly swan dived through the barbed wire again…through a hole that was less than two feet tall. (Sometime get Jenn to do her impression of the cow diving; it’s pretty accurate and awfully funny). So my yard was my own again, the satellite was still intact, and I got a good story out of it. Just watch out next time you come over: the cow left a few land mines in her brief stay with us.

The "S" Word

Anyone who has been in a meaningful relationship for an extended period of time knows that when fights occur, they are usually over the absolutely dumbest things imaginable. My darling husband and I have know each other 9 years and married for almost 5 of those, and let me tell you: we've had some doozies. But last weekend, it all hit the fan...over a sock. That's right, a sock. Let me tell you about this one...
(And for the record: this is not husband-bashing. I really did learn something about myself that I wanted to pass on because I thought it might benefit you). 

I'm involved with the puppet ministry at our church, and I was part of the skit last Sunday. It had been noted that I needed to find something to cover my arm because it could be seen underneath the puppet, and this ruined the "magic." So, Jon had graciously offered up one of his socks for me to put over my hand and arm to blend in with the black backdrop of the puppet stage. It just so happened that the only black sock Jon owns that is long enough to go up to my elbow is one of his dress socks. In his exuberance (and in trying to get out the door on time to church), Jon pulled out his pocket knife and said he was going to cut a hole for my thumb to stick through for maximum movement and grip. I, being the Scottish tightwad that I am, said, "NO! Don't cut it! I'll just put it over my hand and then you won't lose a pair of socks!" He insisted it was fine, that he had plenty of pairs, and that this would be the best solution. I still saw no need to ruin a perfectly good pair of socks and yelled, "Don't you do it! If you do, I will be SO upset with you!"

It's difficult to convey emotions in writing, but let me just say this: we were both spitting mad by the time we got in the car and drove to church. I had my sock (with no hole), and I had "won," but it was a miserable morning. All through the greeting time (while I wore a fake smile), singing (while my heart wasn't in it at all), and message (while I could barely concentrate), I kept trying to figure out why I felt so crappy. I had saved us money, Jon's socks had a dual purpose...why was my heart in my shoes? 

When we got home, we had a VERY long discussion (which lasted the better part of two hours) and finally got it worked out. Once my anger had simmered down, the reason was clear: I had been un-submissive. "But you were right!" a little voice in my head whispered. In my mind, yes, but in Jon's mind, he was just as right as I was: sacrificing a pair of socks he rarely wore so I could do the best job at my ministry as possible made as much sense to him as saving the socks made to me. He wanted to sacrifice, and I wanted to save. 

I thought about it for a very long time, and at first, it was a very hard concept to come to grips with. I consider myself a very submissive wife, and others have told me that they see me that way too. And after all, I was submitting to him by listening to him, right? I mean, it's not like I was ignoring his arguments; I just wanted it my way, and that was that. What was so wrong with wanting to save money anyway? I'll tell you what: it was my attitude. Yelling at my husband and ordering him not to do something is not what a submissive wife does. Even if my idea had been "better," I still should have gone with his because he's my husband. 

Does that mean I don't get a say? Of course not! He let me voice my opinion, and he wanted to do it his way, and I should have shut my trap. But I was so convinced my idea was better that I had to keep pushing and pushing to get him to see it my way. Ladies, berating your husbands until they comply with your wishes is not submission. That's more along the lines of dictatorship. Women oftentimes bewail the shortage of men "stepping up to the plate" and actually acting like a man. But how many times has our significant other taken a lead, and we've tried to talk him out of it? "Oh, honey, no, it would be much better THIS way." Acting like the puppet master pulling all the strings isn't being submissive either. If I can't submit over a sock, how in the world can Jon believe me when I say I'll submit to him when it comes to raising children or buying a car or a house? 

Submission is rarely taught, mostly because it's considered "taboo." People don't want to step on toes or be seen as "sexist" or "discriminate" so they leave us to define submission for ourselves and blunder our way blindly in the dark. This leaves the door open for sin and the idea that it's a "gray area"; we don't want to misinterpret it, so we're better off leaving it alone. Or we can go too far the other way and be used as doormats by an ungodly husband who has no intention of acting how God has called him to. But ladies, we can do better. Look at the media and how un-submissive women are. Look at how men are portrayed as big, bumbling doofuses. Women are helpmates to our men. God said it was not good for man to be "alone" not "without someone to rule." It's a team effort. But it is ultimately his decision. Our task as women is not an easy one. 

But if we don't start modeling godly submission now, who will? Who will our children mimic? The savvy, smart-alecky sitcom mom who manipulates every situation to her advantage or the godly wife who supports, encourages, and loves her husband through the good, the bad, and the ugly?

You Lookin' At Me?

This past Saturday was not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill January Saturday: a beautiful, sunshine-filled day with a high of 66. After months of being cooped up inside with the heater, blankets, sweaters, and three pairs of socks, it felt great to throw open the windows and welcome in a taste of spring. To celebrate, Jon & I decided to go to the local park and play some tennis. He always jokes that one of these days, I'll get the idea, and we'll actually be able to play a real game instead of "fetch" like we do now. We batted the tennis ball back and forth a few times, and Jon offered me helpful advice that's probably no news to normal people: "Move around more," "Run after the ball; don't walk after it," "Get some pep in your step!" etc. 

After 20 minutes of getting maybe one good volley between us and then diving after the tennis balls in the piles of leaves to the side of the court, Jon came up to the net and asked, "What's wrong? Aren't you having fun? You don't seem like you're having a good time." I assured him I was enjoying myself, and we went back to a few more volleys. Finally, after I watched a ball go sailing by that would have been in my reach if I'd have only moved my feet, my poor frustrated husband called out, "Nancy! What are you doing? If you want to play tennis, you have to MOVE!" And I responded with, "But there's PEOPLE in the other court who might see me!" And that's when it hit me what my real problem was: I had nothing against the game of tennis, running after the ball, or even breaking a sweat. My problem was that I didn't want the people in the other tennis courts to see me make a mistake. What if they watched me and saw how bad I was? What if they secretly laughed to themselves and said, "Why is she even trying? She ought to go to the kiddie park. Man, is she terrible." What if they rejected me and judged me on my lousy tennis performance? Just as soon as it hit me, that thought was quickly followed by another one: Why in the world should I care?!?

Here I was, enjoying a nice Saturday in the park (cue Chicago music) with my husband, and I was so paranoid as to what others thought of me that I couldn't even have fun. I started thinking of just how silly that really was and how many times I let what I imagine others think of me affect me, what I do, and, ultimately, who I am. Someone once told me that we spend all this time worrying about what other people think of us, when in reality, all those other people are too busy worrying about what other people think of them to really care about us at all! What a mixed up, messed up world! We spend hundreds upon thousands of dollars every year to make other people impressed (clothes shopping, make-up, hair styles, hair color, plastic surgery, nose jobs, etc.), and all the while, they're too preoccupied with themselves to notice or care! What a perfect net Satan has cast for us to fall into!   

We shouldn't worry what the world thinks of us; we're called to go into this world to bring people out of it, not to blend in! Have fun! Don't worry about other people watching! Be yourself! Sing karaoke! Bat that tennis ball! Dance for no reason other than being happy! This world can be such a down-trodden, melancholy place that such joy stands out in the crowd. Be joyful so that people are curious about you. Make them want to find out why you can be so unashamedly you. God made you who you are; why are you afraid to be that person? If He'd wanted you to be somebody else, He would have made you differently! But you're you with your looks and your skill set for a very important reason. Don't question it; you might never find out this side of heaven.

I'm a klutz; I always will be, and I don't think there's anything I can really do about it. I'll never be Venus Williams on a tennis court. I'll never be Julia Child in the kitchen. And I'll never be Barbra Streisand singing on a stage. But I'll have fun. I'll glorify my God, love my husband and family, and be who God created me to be. So, next time I'm out, if somebody looks my way and wonders why in the world I'm dancing down the aisle of the grocery store, I hope they stop and ask me why I'm so joyful. I'd love to introduce them to the God who created joy and created me and can give them that joy too.