The Daily Dance
Recognizing the ways of the First Gardener in the liturgy of the farm.
There is a dance I perform every morning, a routine borne of observation and learning the ways of the creatures in my care. On our little farm, there are three pens that serve different purposes, but for 95% of the day our animals coexist in an eclectic blend of needs and personalities.
Each animal has its unique quirks and ways of complicating the feeding process. Every species has specific nutritional needs that if consumed by the others could cause harm, sickness, or even death.
The dogs are the most likely not to indulge in someone else’s breakfast. They gladly eat their kibble and defend it, as needed, from curious ducks and voracious, stubborn goats. Ducks eat their feed as it floats in the water trough, fighting one another for every piece in a frenzy until the water’s surface is empty and they move on to digging in mud for grubs with their beaks. The chickens usually wait, having dined already thanks to the feeder securely placed inside their coop and out of reach of the others, but occasionally snag a bite or two of duck feed (which is ok since they are all fowl).
But the goats? Oh, the goats. There is a common joke that goats spend their lives finding ways to die. It’s not an exaggeration. My goats, especially Hank, wait desperately for me to get distracted from my feeding routine in order to snag mouthfuls of dog food, duck food, or chicken scratch. Hank has no fear, not even of Curry who snarls like a black bear (but has yet to actually make contact with Hank’s hide) as the goat scarfs down Curry’s food. I have heard multiple sad tales of goats found dead who broke into a shed and gorged on feed until they bloated and died. Thankfully, my shed is positioned outside the animal pens.
Because Hank? He would surely die.
Over time, as we have added animals to our farm and learned their ways, I have learned the dance required each morning to keep everyone safe and ensure each species’ nutritional needs are met.
The dance begins in the shed, preparing the feed for each animal. I fill two dog bowls with kibble, then a cup with goat feed, another with chicken scratch mixed with mealworms, and a small bucket with the coveted duck food. I carry them all to the front pen and marvel every time at how the animals position themselves in their respective spaces to receive what they know is coming.
First, I dump the goats’ feed into their trough. As they fight and collide with one another over their food, I step through the far gate to the largest pen as the ducks waddle and quack about my feet, with the chickens strutting just outside the circle of excited ducks. As I dump the duck feed into the water trough, all four ducks jump in and eat like they have been starving for days while the chickens hope to grab a stray pellet. I scatter the chicken scratch and mealworms over the grass around the chicken coop while the chickens (and ducks because they eat fast!) follow at my heels and immediately begin to scratch and peck around for every last tidbit.
Then I shut the gate, separating the ducks and chickens from the goats. I hurry back through the gate to the rear pen where Curry and Clementine wait in their usual spots for breakfast. I place their bowls before them and shut that gate just as the goats realize they have eaten all their feed and start looking around for more.
At this point, the goats are hemmed in on all sides and fix their eyes on me with expectation as they know what is next.
Hay.
I go back into the shed, filling a large tub with hay, then place it in the goats’ pen where all four bury their faces to the very bottom, sure the most tasty pieces must lurk down there. Before long, they are hollering and head-butting, acting like selfish little punks, determined to get what they are convinced is rightfully theirs and not caring one whit if the rest starve.
So far, no one has starved.
At last, the dogs, ducks, and chickens are finished eating and I can safely open the two gates separating the three pens to allow everyone to mingle once again. I put away the now-empty bowls and refill all three water troughs (which have been made thoroughly disgusting by the ducks since yesterday). At this point, my morning chores are finished and I pause to give a good head scratch to whoever is near and reward the dogs with a nice, crunchy treat before securing the shed. The dogs never let me forget their treats. They both wait patiently at the fence, standing with front paws on the top rails until I offer them their treat and they trot away with tails wagging to eat the Milk Bones in solitude.
Everyone is happy.
Everyone got what they needed.
No one starved or died.
And the same thing will happen tomorrow, the next day, and the next.
As long as I do the dance the same way each morning, the animals know and follow the routine without fail. Like the liturgy in my Anglican Church, there are very few surprises. All are safe, the weaker protected by the strong, the gluttonous tempered by boundaries put in place by me, and then they come together as a feather-and-fur community that lives at peace with one another. Their interactions provide no small amount of entertainment and inspiration, dampening the stress of many hard seasons and lightening my heart when I am weary. They trust me, they know me, and they know the dance.
The animals make my heart glad with their predictability. They know where their sustenance comes from. When they see me approach the pens, they break out in joyful noise. At the end of our daily dance, their bellies are full, they are safe, and they are quiet.
At the end of the dance, I am glad to have fed them and blessed to have been privy to their antics.
And this, my friend, is this not the way of the Farmer? Is this not how the First Gardener, who placed His creatures in a landscape of bounty and boundaries, cares for us? I could say more, but if you have read this far I trust you understand why I shared this story.
For, Beloved, even in seasons of want and grief, when ‘not enough’ seems to be the theme of the day and the people ‘over there’ appear to have so much more of, well, everything, when their lives look picture perfect and we are over here just trying to get our kids to stop fighting or rolling their eyes when we attempt to have family prayer, the Farmer is tending to us. It’s so easy to look at the fences that appear to be inhibiting our freedom and long to be on the other side where the grass is greener and the feed floats or is served in colorful bowls. But the First Gardener, who made us, knows our weaknesses. He feeds us according to our unique needs. He places us where we can thrive, keenly aware of our tendency to gorge on things that will harm us.
You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
behold, O LORD, you know it altogether.
You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high; I cannot attain it.
Psalm 139:2-6 (ESV)
As I ponder my own dance with the Farmer, who happens to be my Father, I am struck with a profound realization–He loves me. He loves us. It gives Him joy to provide for us, to protect us from even ourselves, and watch us learn to live in community and at peace with one another. And in this love, I believe the First Gardener often takes a step back and observes me…us…as we take our positions and settle into the safety and predictability of the daily routine of life in the Kingdom, the liturgy as I now recognize it.
Every day, during morning and evening prayer, I say the Gloria Patri from memory. Repetition has sunk the words deeply into my soul. Routine cloaks me in safety, allowing me to rest in the ancient words. I know from Whose hand I am fed and, like my myriad of animals, I gladly position myself to receive what He freely provides.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
Amen.
Yes, indeed. Glory be.
I love how God can be seen in the ordinary. We see glimpses of Him in our days and in our routines. What comfort. Like your animals, we are fed well on the Bread of Life, who is the Word.
Brilliant, Jeanine.