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We wake up tired these days and go to bed even more tired yet. The sun starts shining earlier, and sets later, and our bodies believe that they have to keep up with it. As long as that orbiting ball of fire is making its trek across the sky we assume that there must still be time to finish one more project.
The last of the seven bottle calves are close to being weaned. The vast difference between the couple months of their births making the red and white steer appear tiny in contrast to its more mature counterparts. The Black Angus are dwarfed under the Holsteins tall, lanky forms, their growth appearing outward rather than up.
There are still five does milking, with a total of thirteen goats in all. Too many bucks make up the lot of them, with one Craigslist reply away from reducing our herd. Soon it will be weaning time for the kids as well, which puts another item on the never ending list: more goat fencing.
Our young replacement pullets are thriving, and the new clutch of Silkie chicks are protected well under the wings of their possessive momma. One little black fluff ball doesn't realize it is a Light Brahma mix that was adopted into the Bantam family when we snuck some extra eggs under the broody hen. Soon it will tower over its siblings.
The garden is growing weeds faster than edible plants it seems, and if we don't catch up on our daily barrage we may just have to give up. Using all manual labor, busy hands digging deep in the sandy soil to remove pesky roots, makes for buff muscles and nice farmers tans.
Several new fruit trees are growing well- four peach and another pear, plus some Saskatoon blueberries that the deer seem to have acquired a taste for which continue to remind me that tree fencing needs to be wrote on that list as well. We are attempting blueberries yet again, hoping for a freezer full of them one year. There may be at least a taste for everybody in a few days if we can keep the birds away from them.
Overall, it's been another season of missing. Intensely missing my son. Longing for eternity to begin.
Almost too tired to even grieve, the pain still refuses to end. Flashbacks enjoy popping into my weary brain lately, attacking when I have little resolve to fight them off. The balance of living before the accident and after is continuous. Life goes on. A mother's heart doesn't want to. Joy is rarely ever bereft of the longing. Laughter only hides the scar, still too fresh to ignore. Somehow living here, longing to be there. Finding purpose in one more calf bottle, pulling one more weed, storing up one more treasure, praying one more prayer for all these young souls that surround me, hoping for hope, waiting for what is not yet.
I continue to be reminded that the year of the Lord's favor will come. He will:
"Provide for those who grieve in Zion-
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness in the morning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."
Isaiah 61:3
1 Thessalonians 4:13-14 tells me to not grieve like those without hope, or even to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. I believe that Jesus died and rose again and also that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. The familiar words almost become rote in my tired state. I have repeated them so often that it becomes hard to make them exciting lately. I pray for God to wake me up to the gospel again, remembering those same words being uttered just before the accident.
Eternity.
I stop and ponder the word again. Eternity. Going insane wondering what Trent is doing there, wondering why mine is taking so long to begin. Wondering what to do in the meantime. Begging that my children would all be found there in Heaven together.
