I grew up on a six and a half section farming and ranching operation near Killdeer in southern Saskatchewan. We were three miles from Highway Two, where the ditches were higher than the dirt road. At least it seemed so, when we had to plough our way out to the highway after each snowstorm. The nearest town was 18 miles away. I remember the rolling hills surrounding our ranch house. A flat piece of land was a rare sight, so my dad didn’t take very many vacations. Before winter came upon us, we would round up our 300 head of cattle and bring them into the stockyard.
Winters were harsh, but those cattle would need to be fed every day from the 40,000 hay bales we brought in and stacked every fall. Then along came March, where the smell of spring began to fill the air and we would turn our cattle back out to pasture. Snowstorms and blizzards were not uncommon around that time of year – that was about the time the mother cows would decide to give birth to their babies. We would saddle up our horses, turn our collars up and ride against the cold and bitter winds to check on the herd. We would give assistance to any mother cow, who was having trouble giving birth.
Sometimes the mother cow wouldn’t make it, so we would carry the newborn baby calf across the saddle of our horse, back to the ranch house to bottle feed it until the calf was strong enough to fend for itself. My mom was not impressed. I always wondered why dad didn’t let the bulls out later. Next came the push of getting our machinery ready for seeding. The rumble of tractors would fill our ears and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the air. This would continue all spring and into summer, as we watched the crops we had just planted grow and mature for harvest. Taking a break with my dad in the shade of our 95 Massey and drinking hot black coffee on a scorching summer day was a favourite memory.
Then along came fall, with the roar of our combines gathering the harvest, the grinding of the gears of our trucks, as we hauled the grain from the fields and the rushing sound of the grain going through the augers into the bins. I can still recall the smell of grain dust in my nostrils. After all this hustle and bustle was over, I would drive our tractor up to the shop, turn off the key and listen to my old John Deere D give its last gasp and hiss for the year.
Then came the most favourite time of the year for me – the sound of silence. I remember the surreal feeling I had as the atmosphere went from the noise of farming to almost complete silence. Even those rolling hills surrounding us seemed to echo that sound of silence. My dad didn’t relax too much, but for this short time, even he sat down and contemplated our accomplishments. It wasn’t like this every year, but I like to most remember when it was.
This reminds me of our walk with Jesus. We can go through times and seasons where the roar of the battles of life, times of planting, times of seeing new life and times of harvest fill our lives. But we all need times where we can stop and listen, for a short time, to that sound of silence, where we regroup to consider all that Jesus has done for and through us and then recharge and get ready for the next season.
