"... When There Seems To Be No Way"

For all who are journeying with and praying for Levi (and his mum and dad), an update straight from mum:

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God is so good... He answers prayer!
Neurosurgeon came in this morning ‎and was encouraged to hear Levi's improvement over the weekend and the fact that he is down to once a day taps. She felt his head and thought that it might be a bit better, but certainly not worse. Then she said " I think that we can hold off on surgery and see what he does given his progression... maybe he'll be able to go another 5 weeks eventually without a tap. Also, there's a kiddo who came in over the weekend with a brain tumour and we need to use Levi's OR time for that case." Are you kidding me??  The answer's clear, no doubt whatsoever... no decision to be made today by Jonathan and me!! We thank Jesus, and pray for this little one and family who do need urgent surgery.
Then the neurosurgery nurse practitioner came in‎ and thought that his head felt a "bit better." His head circumference is stable from yesterday and he has improved overall. She suggested that we wait even on the tap today - can be reassessed at anytime according to what Levi tells us. Will likely tap at least tomorrow regardless and then repeat  a fast MRI on Wednesday.
She is completely stumped saying "What's going on kiddo, I don't get you but I could almost be ‎happy excited... almost!" I told her what I know is going on.. that God is answering prayer - the prayer of people across this globe who belong to the beautiful family of God. She wasn't sure what to think of that, but said "whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
So... no meeting this afternoon, Levi will be reassessed ‎regularly for taps and have an MRI this week and we keep trusting in the One who is altogether trustworthy. The days ahead are unsure, but we are so very grateful for this clear answer.
Also, his cultures for virus,etc on his brain fluid all came back clear.
Thank you Wonderful Father.
Thank each of you and family of God.
Our hearts are overwhelmed with gratitude!

J, D and Levi ‎(who had 5 pokes this AM for an IV that they couldn't get, and now we don't need it!)

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So much gratitude, to God and to all of you who are praying for our boy. He's not out of the dark yet, but each step forward is one step closer to the dawn.

It reminds me of the song, "God can make a way when there seems to be no way ..." We don't know how He's working; but we see Levi and know that He is.

When We Come To The End Of Ourselves

On January 20 one year ago, as darkness wrestled with the dawn, my Dad, while sleeping, removed his oxygen, threw off his blanket, and - having quite literally laid aside the last of his earthly weights - stepped from time into eternity and thus finished the race that was set before him.

He had come to the end of his journey here on earth, and was immediately where he had longed to be for so long: at home with the One who had known him from the time he was formed in his mother's womb; the One who had preserved his life as a preemie; the One who had directed his comings and goings for 84 years.

Waving goodbye to one of "his" Chelli daughters

peeking in for a last glimpse of him ...

We would never wish him back.

But oh, how each of his children have at various times been drawn to the end of ourselves this year! We have missed his wisdom, his guidance, his hugs and gentle humour. We've missed the way he knew each of us so well. We've missed him.

Two of us in particular: they received the news during the first aching trimester after Dad left us that they, in fact, were expecting. The due date? January 20, 2018.

Each day from the day they heard, they consecrated their little one to God, the same God Who had spared his or her Poppa's life and now would be trusted to preserve this treasure.

Days and weeks were checked off calendars. All seemed to be going along as it should.

Until the texts.

3:06. "she is having some discomfort ..."
3:56. "Pls pray"
4:01. "We are going in for a c section. No choice."
4:04. "Things are happening quickly ... pls pray most of all for this life."
5:10. "Boy. [Just under] 2 lbs. Mum ok."

And with that started the fight for this little one's life. Levi, they named him. Set apart for God.

He was over three months premature.

The word went out, and around the world an army of prayer warriors fixed their sights on their target. From the day of his birth, Levi has been held up before the throne of God by someone every hour of each day.

"We ask that You would raise up a man of God to be a prophet to our nation, and that the mantle of his grandfather will be four times upon him," Pastor Paul Warnock would pray almost every Sunday. 

Catastrophic brain bleed. Stage 4. Weekly ultrasounds show no signs of diminishing ...

Daily head measurements show circumference expanding, and fontanelle filling up with fluid ... 

Respirator dislodged! Get help, stat ...

Neurosurgery required. Transport arranged from one hospital to the other in the Stork. Reservoir surgically implanted to enable tapping of the fluid from his head in order to relieve pressure ...

Eight weeks on oxygen. Preemie babies' retinas and prolonged O2 flow - a high risk of blindness or compromised sight ...




And yet he held on, tiny hands clutching his father's finger, calmed by his mother's voice.

And they held on, literally, for more hours of the day than they could count. Kangaroo care, it's called. The mother and the father take turns holding their baby, skin to skin, for as many hours as they are able.

This mother and father were there often to the midnight hour and then back again as early as possible in the morning. They talked to him and sang to him. They read him the messages that were coming in from his new friends all over the world.

And they prayed. 

He grew. And opened his eyes. The respirator was removed, replaced by a miniature version of the nasal cannula his Poppa had used.

He started to be able to nurse.

Tests revealed what we had already suspected by looking into his bright, alert eyes: from what they could tell, the damage at this point was far less than anticipated.

The every-other-day agony of the tapping was reduced to twice a week, once a week, discontinued - Happy Christmas!

Then the supplementary O2 was stopped and he breathed on his own. There continued still some episodes where he would have to be nudged to remember to breathe, times where his little lungs were too exhausted to support the demands of his heart, which was coming along nicely thanks to the love from his parents and all the others known and unknown, and the excellent care from his medical team. He still required a feeding tube, but he was increasingly able to acquire his milk orally.

His doctor remarked that he was extremely pleased with the progress his tiny patient was making.

His nurses were part of his growing fan club.

Until suddenly, inexplicably, the light in his eyes was gone. He could hardly open them, so puffy and painful were they. He had no strength to nurse. He lay there limp and almost unresponsive. His head was filling up with fluid again and the pressure was too great to bear.



A phone call. A stricken father, almost unable to speak from the pain. We're moving hospitals. Immediately. We need to be near neurosurgery.

For some reason it brought to my mind a little refugee family 2000+ years ago, their lives upended, fleeing for the sake of their infant boy. The new hospital would be Levi's Egypt. 

The cry went out again for prayer. Each day people wanted updates; the only news for the interminable week was no real improvement. They have to start tapping his head again. They are taking out double what they were before, twice a day, and still his head is growing by half a centimetre a day. He's barely opening his eyes. He's regressing rapidly.

The dreaded S word. Seizure.

MRIs. EEGs. Physician and nurse advocates. No clues.

The anguish of a mother's heart: "This is almost worse than before, because now I know him and he knows me ..."

Neurosurgery to insert a shunt scheduled for Tuesday of the following week.

And there remained two days until January 20, his due date; two days until the first anniversary of his Poppa's passing from the suffering of this world into the presence of God.

Some of his aunts went up on the 19th, more to see his mother and father than him. We could do nothing for him; but we could remember last year's grief and triumph together and pray that there would be no sorrow added to it this year.

Like our Dad would have done, we brought up Mum's old family china, as well as bowls glowing golden and Dad's Mom's own glasses for the occasion. We found a semi-secluded table just near the food court and set it in a way Dad would have appreciated.

Both Levi's parents were able to join us in a simple meal that said home is truly where the heart is, those broken hearts in need of hope and normalcy to be restored.

The aunties quickly peeked in on Levi just before the scheduled evening tap before leaving for our hotel room, subdued at the change the week had brought.

This 20th morning seemed to crawl by, and then a message from Levi's mum:

Woke this morning remembering how our precious Dad looked so peaceful a year ago. So grateful for the incredible gift of him and the quiet, gentle way in which Jesus called him. Missing him so ... and seeing him in our sweet little boy - the way he sleeps with his hand up by his chin and his crooked little smile.

We needed Indian food to complete our weekend of remembrance. We picked it up and headed back to the hospital. To our delight our same table became available. We set it all up - paper plates and Styrofoam containers would do! - and waited. 

She came alone. Levi had had another tap. After each tap he has to be held for four hours to keep the pressure in his head from building, and it was his dad's turn. But her step was lighter. "No seizures noted during the hour the EEG recorded!" And for some reason, the neurologist himself had come in - on a Saturday! - to meet with them. As he was wrapping up his consult, he somewhat diffidently offered the information that he too was a preemie - "not as early as Levi, but still. And I've done okay ..." - and left the troubled parents with some spark of hope.

After lunch, it was their turn to participate in our treasured ritual of drawing promises for the year. She got Casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you. He got ...When I sit in darkness the Lord shall be a light unto me. Levi got And you shall seek me and find me when you search for me with your whole heart ...

To me those sounded like promises for a future and a hope.

We had to leave our little family and head home shortly after lunch. Life has a way of carrying on despite ourselves, as we had all learnt over the past year.

I wanted to see Dad, to hear his voice, so I got on my computer and went through picture after picture - until I came across some I had downloaded but had never really looked at. They were of the very last time my Dad would preach in a church, and it happened to be Hanna Alliance Church.

Dad had been born in Hanna; and although he would speak at his grandson's wedding and preach a couple of times to his kids, unbeknownst to us at the time, Hanna was where he would come full circle.

I must have pressed "Record" after I made my way up to the front of the church to play the piano after he concluded his closing prayer.

But now as I listened, I realized that he had given us another gift through this prayer, the word our wounded hearts and broken spirits so desperately needed to hear one year later:

... All of us, many times in life, we come to the end of ourselves

And find that You are all we need.

We know that is true.

You are all we need ...

One last gift, sent at 11:48 on January 20th as we prepared to put this sad, celebratory, sacred day to bed:

Glimpses

"After 6-7 days of not seeing his spark, our boy finally started to wake up a bit more this evening ... locking eyes, cooing, interacting and giving us glimpses of his usual self! ... Cherishing our relationships with Dad and having a glimpse of our bright eyed, content boy made such an impression on me that our Heavenly Father longs for us to communicate with, look into His eyes and engage with Him. How much joy it must bring Him ..."

He still has a long way to go, our valiant boy with the heart of a seasoned soldier. The shunt is still scheduled for Tuesday as the fluid build-up continues. Once a shunt is placed, it is permanent, and brings with it high risks of infection and various other drawbacks. But I am encouraged by the words of a prayer penned January 20th itself on behalf of Levi from Lzchua*, a friend of one of my sister's. The whole prayer is a pure, sweet offering poured out on the altar of faith and trust. I quote the refrain and the conclusion:

Lord, I am Levi ...

Named for your Holy Priesthood

Proclaiming your Eternal Presence

Remembering your Faithful Servant, my grandpa

I praise You

Because I am fearfully

Lovingly, wonderfully made 

In the battle between darkness and dawn, the dawn wins.

Thanks be to God.


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*Copyright (C) 2018 Liz Chua. Used with permission.

All pictures the property of the owners. Used with permission.

Laying the Year to Rest

What a year 2017 was! With Joy and Sorrow in the balances, I submit that Sorrow tipped the scales.

So much loss: more of my friends than I can mention lost a beloved parent.

Others lost siblings.

Some, their life's partner.

A few, the unimaginable - a child.

Jobs, careers, businesses.

Homes.

Health.

People moving out of our lives who we thought would be with us for the long term. 

Friendships shifting into new shapes or slipping into shadows.

The closing of The Lilac Room.

And as New Year's Eve drew imminently close, I tried to shut my eyes to its looming emptiness, to still the pounding of my heart at the thought that the man who had shaped almost every new year's eve of my life would not be there.

The weather was almost too much to bear in Alberta for the past fortnight. Temperatures hovered between -29 and -35, and then we added on the wind chill factor to that. Extra bedding for the calves; machines all running slower in protest; water holes and stations having to be chopped with greater regularity; animals slipping on the icy slopes.

At 10:30 on Saturday evening - New Year's Eve's eve - the Good Rancher turned to me. "I am so sorry; I simply cannot make it to church tomorrow morning." The tractor would not cooperate, so feeding was going to take longer than ever.

The day more than any other this winter that I needed him - needed him to be by my side as I faced the closing of a year and the promise of the new one without my beloved Dad.

Still. Stiff upper lip and all that, hmmm?

I heard my Aunt Mabel's voice saying that Ironside girls don't cave. And so that night I typed out 60 bookmarks with a different promise from the Bible on each.

On New Year's Eve morning I got ready for church and drove myself in. Henry, my Ford truck, protested mightily and refused to get up to speed even after a prolonged warm-up session.

I drove down the 855 in silence, thinking about the season, thinking about the Baby we had celebrated last Sunday and about discarding the trappings of this difficult year.

As I rounded the second corner of the Correction Line, I saw it. The Star, beckoning to me in the East.

"Come and worship!" it seemed to urge.

In the midst of this -35 tundra, I thought of the magi, following their star, not knowing where, but with hope and assurance.

I at least knew this star - our own beautiful Sun - and I knew where I was going.

But what gifts could I offer on this cold day?

As I drove the stretch of highway near Huttons' I could see their poor tractor, a cloud of exhaust smoke streaming behind it like a bride's veil in the crystalline air. and I thought of the Good Rancher who was doing exactly the same thing. The gifts these two men were offering their cattle stretched beyond the actual feed. Here were two wise men who understood that as stewards of livestock they couldn't be off chasing a star, as perhaps they would like; their duty was first to the animals who depended solely on these men's vigilance and discipline for their very lives.

Chastened out of my self-pity, I passed the tractor and the star loomed even closer, it seemed.

"You too have gifts to bring," it reminded me. "You are bringing the gift of music to the worshipers at church, And you are passing on the gift of a promise for the New Year that your Dad so diligently passed on to you for over 50 years."

The bushes and trees on the side of the road sparkled more brightly than any lights I could have arranged on a Christmas tree - if I had put up a Christmas tree this year. Even that had fallen by the wayside.

But the star atop the shimmering trees bedecked for their own celebration spoke to me of the Light that shines in the darkness, and I felt some of the ice around my heart start to melt.

At the church foyer I was greeted by our pastor's beautiful wife, who whisked me and the promise sheets into the little church office. She cut and I arranged, all the promises face down, with a cut-glass jar holding light to anchor and illuminate the treasure beneath it.

She carried it to the front of the church and set it down carefully as I moved to the piano and began a prelude.

This New Year's Eve service was going to be a bit different, the pastor commented. There would be no formal sermon; we the congregants would provide the sermon. We were invited to share something that God had done in our lives this year; or to choose a favourite song for everyone to sing, and briefly tell why that particular song carried weight; or to request prayer for something that we were carrying into the year ahead.

But first a few songs chosen by the worship leader.

The Doxology opened the time of worship through singing: Praise God from Whom ALL blessings flow!

Then ... And Can It Be? ...  REALLY??? Could It Be?

She had chosen Dad's and my "Theology Song"!

The one song my Dad and I always joked about as being so perfect in every way except for one line in the second verse. He would shake his head. "Charles Wesley, HOW could you have written these words?" he would say, only half in jest.

Here are the words of the verse in question:

He left His Father's throne above

So free, so infinite His grace

*Emptied Himself of all but love*

and bled for Adam's helpless race.

"God did not 'empty Himself' of anything; He was and is and always will be God! What He did when He came to earth as the tiny baby Jesus is He 'took on the form of a servant'. He became man, but it did not make Him any less God - not for a moment!" Dad would state with conviction.

So whenever that song was sung in any church we were in, Dad and I would glance sidelong at each other and hum through the line, trying not to grin, our nerdy inside joke.

And THIS Sunday, of all Sundays, we were going to sing this song? 

Coincidence?! I think it was a little message from God reminding me of the words of comfort Dad's friend Tony Hansen said about Mum at her funeral and which we could apply to Dad and to anyone else we love who has trusted the Lord Jesus Christ to take away their sins and give them new life: that[Dad] is with God, and God is with us, so [Dad] was not very far away at this New Year's Eve service!

What if I hadn't come to church?!

At the end of the service Pastor Paul asked me to explain briefly the tradition of selecting a promise. I said that as I typed out the promises I prayed over each one, that God would guide the hand of the person who needed that particular verse for whatever reason in the coming year. Dad always prayed over the verses as he typed them and over and over again the verse someone drew sustained them through the year ahead.

Instead of writing it all out again, here's a link to a previous Reading the Leaves New Year's Eve musing from when Dad was still with us. How this one has come to fruition in 2017! 

Then Pastor Paul prayed that each person would receive a word from God, because that is what these promises are, straight from His Word. And at the conclusion of the prayer he invited each congregant to come up and select a bookmark as he held the tray.

Mine this year - I chose green, of course, in honour of Dad - spoke straight to the tremendous weight of fear, of anxiety, of depression that I try to hold at bay every single day.

As I go into 2018, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not alone.

Happy New Year!

Remembering: A View From the Platform

This year I had a tiny glimpse into what goes into putting together a Remembrance Day service - I had been asked to play the piano for O Canada and God Save the Queen at the Royal Canadian Legion Hanna Branch #25. I made my way to the front of the room and was greeted by the Legion member in charge of the service; I was introduced to him, but not he to me so I never learnt his name. But I did learn that I was to sit on the platform on a chair tucked right up to the piano and try to keep myself out of the way when I was not playing.

As I waited and observed people filing in before the service, I got to renew my acquaintance with Sean McCormick, the force behind Radio Hanna. Someone who would much rather be behind the scenes than perched on a chair on the stage, for this occasion he stepped out of his comfort zone "because it's important for us to keep what this day represents in our consciousness."

An RCMP officer came onto the stage with the officer who would command the Colour Party. They were going through the logistics of safely delivering flags on full-size poles through the low-set doorway, across the modest stage and into position. All had to be done without any person crossing the path of the flags from the point they were marched onstage to the time they were marched off again. "Protocol."

I was hooked. For the rest of the service I kept one eye open to see if that was even doable. I am gratified to report that not one person, even those entering and exiting the stage, crossed the path of the flags!

I took a second look at the two men: The RCMP officer was none other than Jim, kind, patient Jim who comes to my rescue repeatedly at the Hanna UFA store when I don't know what it is I am looking for. He caught my eye and nodded. "Hello," he said with a twinkle.

After Sean left to perform any last-minute tweaks of the technology before he launched his live broadcast, I sat quietly waiting until I became aware of someone waving to me from the front row. Sergeant Charlie Fielding, a spry 99-year-old, tapped his watch at me.

It was 10:48.

We were supposed to start at 10:45.

Fortunately the familiar wheeze of the pipes could be heard moments later and the Colour Party started up the aisle following the opening remarks. At its helm was piper Stuart Somerville, a neighbour from Endiang. He performed his part in perfect tune and with the aplomb befitting the occasion. As the Colour Party approached the stage, the pipes went left and the flags, right.

Every flag was carefully delivered through the door and the party executed their march, halt and turn in perfect synchronicity.

From my vantage, I realized that this feat is much harder than it appeared when I have observed from a distance ...

Caught up in the moment, I almost forgot why I was on that stage. I quickly moved to the piano and struck up the introduction for O Canada.

As the last notes faded away, the officiant flipped on a recording of the trumpet's somber Last Post. The lfinaltrembling note led us into two minutes of silence, broken only by a tiny child's sweet voice asking a question of her daddy. And it reminded me of why we were here, why these men and women on the front row now stood, propped up on walkers and weighted down with medals.

They served to ensure that our "home and native land" remained "strong and free" despite the attacks from those who would have taken that freedom from us in both the World Wars. That little voice asking a question was as fitting as the silence.

Then the Reveille, signifying the breaking of the dawn, and the powerful voice crisply commanding the flag bearers to Deposit Colours.

Two young girls read In Flanders Fields. (The link will take you to Leonard Cohen's poignant recitation.)

And then the part for which Hanna's service is renowned: Debbie Corry's labour of love, the slide presentation "Veterans of Hanna and Beyond." As music plays in the background, the screen gives an image and Ms Corry reads each name aloud.

I had previously attended this service upstairs and so had never seen the video. Earlier I had congratulated myself on being asked to play the piano, thereby ensuring I had a seat on the main floor. However, remember the little directive to stay seated and out of the way? That included during the presentation! I saw the back of the screen ...

Charlie Fielding ...

Dick Bruner ...

And the other names followed.

Somewhere in the middle of the roll call came the six names I brace myself for:

Ivor Greenslade

Charlie  Greenslade


Hugh       Greenslade



Lloyd          Greenslade




Roy               Greenslade




Tom                  Greenslade

As the last name is read, I find my throat closing with emotion. My friend Julie, whose uncle is Lloyd, assured me that all with the exception of William Roy Greenslade returned home.

But can you imagine the mothers, the sisters, the wives as man after man in that family announced that it was his turn to sign up?

When the last name was proclaimed, and the screen creaked to its closed position, I looked up from my tiny corner to see this beautiful sight:

And then it was the Legion Chaplain's turn. Paul Warnock, who I am privileged to call my pastor, entitled his remarks "Personal Responsibility". He made four observations:

1. Personal responsibility requires maturity
2. Personal responsibility requires a willingness to make commitments
3. Personal responsibility requires more than talk
4. Personal responsibility will require sacrifice

He quoted Winston Churchill, Neville Chamberlain, Mahatma Gandhi and Elie Weisel, to name a few. He talked about his father, a stretcher bearer in the Medical Corps who landed on Juno Beach and worked right behind the front lines.

As he was closing, he said this:

As we take time today to remember those who gave so much, and at such great cost, let us not devalue their sacrifice by failing to shoulder those responsibilities which come to each of us as members of our community and our nation. Rather, let us, with that maturity which only comes as we make and keep our commitments, keep faith with those we honour here today. And likewise, let us, like those whom we now honour, be willing to give a service to others which, even if it is costly, makes this land in which we live a better and more blessed place.

(Sean McCormick extracted Chaplain Paul's remarks from the full broadcast; if you would like to listen to them in their entirety, click HERE.)

After a hymn, the Ode of Remembrance:

And then the laying of wreaths.

The first wreath of all was placed by Charlie Fielding. A Royal Air Force Cadet marched up bearing the wreath and stopped next to Charlie's seat. 

With the weight of 99 years and a World War on him, our hero pushed himself to the front, saying quietly to the cadet, "Now, don't you worry about me. The important thing is that we lay the wreath properly." And with a few more words of murmured encouragement, the job was done.

The pause of respect; I wondered what memory crossed his mind? And then he was seated. And our other hero, Dick Bruner, rose to lay the second wreath, followed by the mayor and various other dignitaries.

After announcements, God Save the Queen, and then the Colour Party retired:

 And we were all free to go.

But somehow we were slow to leave this building that we all recognized was, in this moment, sacred ground. 

What an honour to play a small part in the service! Thank you to the Legion members who pulled together a wonderful Remembrance Day morning. 

What a privilege to live in Canada!

God, keep our land glorious and free.

O Canada, We stand on guard for thee.

O Canada! We stand on guard for thee.

(If you would like to view the entire service, Sean's broadcast can be accessed HERE.)

 

Cornucopia

On a dusty cloudless day at the end of May, Hank showed up with his corn planter to sow what we hoped would be a good portion of the winter feed for the herd.

Gulls circled greedily, swooping for the hard kernels, screeching invitations to the party at each other.

We thanked Hank for his efficient, cheerful service; we thanked God for Hank's fitting us in at the last minute; we prayed for rain to nourish our field, and to grow grass throughout the neighbourhood; and we sat back to watch what would happen.






On June 11, the Good Rancher texted me that he had something to show me. I met him at the gate and was greeted by this promising sight:

Our fledgling crop had started to push its way up through the dry, hard soil, defying the odds - we had received no rain as of yet.

The days turned into anxious weeks and then months. We sustained the swather-ignited fire. The whole area reported fire after fire; the clouds loomed and swirled menacingly; the rain did not fall.

The weather was a barometer of the whole summer at the Ranch, it seemed:  funnel clouds of irritation and anger arising from nowhere around our heads; dust puddles of doubt swirling at our feet. The house was shrouded in darkness, blinds perpetually pulled down against the sun's insistent attempts at entry through the windows.

And the temperatures continued to rise.

Water was pumped twice a day for the livestock. We moved cattle to fields where there were a few remaining green shoots pushing bravely up through the cracking soil.

Finally, we were forced to start feeding.

Every day, morning and night, I heard the Good Rancher implore God to let it rain. He was, of course, not alone: the cry was heard all around us, neighbours being pushed closer to despair, payments on equipment looming large in the imminent future, insects threatening to finish off what the sun could not fully decapitate.

People left who said they were in for the long term. People came back who said they were gone for good. Everything was at sixes and sevens.

Every day he checked his corn crop, watching it start to shrivel on the dwarfed stalks. Finally, one day he came back to the house, shoulders bent with weariness and care. "God can cause things to grow without rain," he said, almost to himself. "He can grow the corn. Or not. I have to leave it with Him."

A couple of weeks later, a truck stopped by. A crew was in the neighbourhood and they had half a morning free at the end of the week: did we want them to take the corn crop off?

What was there to lose? The Good Rancher assented rather grimly.

And two days before the crew were due to arrive, the heavens opened a crack and released enough rain to turn the direction of the corn.

It wasn't much, by any means - the clouds roared louder than the rain's patter. But it was enough for the job at hand.

The next Saturday morning the crew from 3G Custom Silaging Ltd. showed up as early as they had promised, and set to work right away.

The Good Rancher texted me to come over and see the sight. The corn seemed to have grown in the last 48 hours - enough for a significant portion of our feed needs to be met!

After they managed to leave one enormous stalk standing, I went over and tried to measure it:

Then I zipped back to the silage pit to watch the trucks unloading and the G.R. tractoring around in all that unexpected green ...

My three closest companions and I quietly went back to the field that now contained not much more than stones, husks and a few little cobs that had escaped the ravenous machine; the field that also contained our hopes for locally sourced feed and healthy cattle.

I started to gather some of the pretty rocks exposed by the machinery, and piled them up in order to collect them all at the end, as is my wont. 

But this pile started to take on a shape and a purpose of its own. I thought of the priest Samuel in the early pages of the Bible who placed a large rock on a significant spot of land and named the land Ebenezer, which translates to "Hitherto has the Lord helped us."

I added a couple of ears of corn and two horns I found in the dust and made this little place my prayer of thanksgiving. Even if the temperatures are unseasonably high; even if there is no rain; even if people come and go; God is still with us and helping us. Proof in the past and a promise for the future.

And that itself is cause for thanksgiving!

That itself is enough.

Happy Thanksgiving