Ever since the trailer arrived ten days ago, we have been struggling mightily with the reality of the situation.  Our beloved cows are leaving. 

I have cried at some point during every day since, including several times yesterday during professional development meetings, when a colleague asked what he believed was a safe question, “How’s the farm?”

The departure of the babes in the pasture is a harsh bookend to a dream that began over a dozen years ago when we saw our first Scottish Highland at a pumpkin patch and said, “Someday…”

Even when the reality of James’ diagnosis became tangible to us, our intention was to keep the herd until after- to allow James every moment possible with the creatures he has cared for and tended to.  But James worried heavily about the burden of their care and about putting the work of selling them off on me during what will already be a difficult time.  And so, when an opportunity presented itself, we chose instead to face this task now, together.

The buyers are a family just as sweetly innocent about the care of cattle as we were.  And they are just as excited to bring these bovines home to their pasture as we were to bring Samson and Delilah to ours.  James bought hay from them a few times and one day the man casually mentioned that he and his wife wanted to get Highlands some day.  When James told him ours would be up for sale at some point, the man replied, “Well, send me some pictures and I’ll see what my wife thinks.”  James chuckled and replied, “You might as well write me the check now,” and sure enough, his wife fell in love at first sight and a deal was made.  

Over the past ten days, James has positioned the trailer at the shelter and moved gates and posts to help facilitate loading cows who have never been trailered.  He has been out there every day coaxing all three into the shelter in preparation for today.  Feeling like the worst kind of traitor, he has gotten them comfortable with the strange metal carrier and with all three of them being in the small shelter together.  But, the fact that none of them would ever set even one foot inside the trailer, even with tempting lures of cornstalks, carrots and sweet feed, caused us both much anxiety about what kind of rodeo today would be like.

Neither of us slept well, as you can imagine.  I spent far more time than is reasonable last night alternating between studying YouTube videos of “How to Lead Stubborn Cattle Into a Trailer” and praying for the safety of every person and creature involved.  At first light, wanting to get them at least into the shelter before all the help arrived, minimizing some of the anxiety for the cows, we got out of bed to face the day.  We called off a couple of our helpers, realizing there was no way that many people could actually be beneficial to the process and we put on our boots and headed out the door.

I walked down the drive alone, ahead of James, who needed to grab a dozen eggs and a couple jars of homemade jam – the only payment his dear friend David had requested when he was asked if he could help.  The air was brisk and I scanned the pasture for the cows, always delighting in these kinds of mornings when you could see their breath and the heat rising off their backs.  They were over at the gate, checking out an early visitor.  An hour and a half before anyone was set to arrive, David was already here, getting acclimated with the cows so they might not see him as a stranger when push literally came to shove.  I was relieved beyond words to see him standing there, knowing his life of working with cows would be the biggest asset in our plan for today.  

James arrived moments later and had all three in the shelter within minutes after.  Those babies would follow that man (and his red bucket of grain) anywhere.  This time, he latched the gate behind him and we let them feed and hopefully relax a little before we pushed even further.  And then, an hour before any back-up help arrived, the two men decided to see what they could do to load them up.  

As much as he wanted to be right in the thick of it, I had made James promise to help from the sidelines today.  While I dreaded a trip to the ER for anyone, an injury for him would be catastrophic and it just wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.  He had already done more work than he should have with his tired body, but I also know how hard it is to stand back and let someone else do what you know you used to be very capable of.

But David is a natural at this, and other than the inherent and scary complications that horned cattle bring to the game, he was as gentle and sweet with our babies as James would have been.  He tough-loved them when necessary, but he also coaxed and gave welcome scratches and sweet-talked until we had two safely secured inside and just one to go.  

We did not anticipate Delilah being the stubborn one, but she was the most reluctant to go.  David finally got her close enough to the trailer with me providing minimal back up, he pushed and squeezed until she was three hooves inside.  James held gates from the safety of outside the pen and I held the trailer door as shut as possible while we waited for her to lift her last stubborn hoof up and into the trailer.  The moment she did, David shut and latched the hinged door with a clang and in that same heartbreaking instant, James’ alarm sounded, reminding him to take his morning dose of cancer meds.  The “what” and “why” of this terrible moment resounding in our ears. As the boys walked away, I stood with my head against the trailer and sobbed. 

As James took his meds and helped David clean up in the barn, I stood with head against the trailer and offered up my prayer of gratitude.  I spend so much time praying lately that it felt good to have one feel answered in a way I had wished for.  The babes were all loaded, no one was injured and the process had been calm and quiet with just the three of us working together.

Eggs and jam will never be payment enough for what David did for us today.  We have worried and fretted over this day and all that it symbolized and he stepped in with grace and compassion and helped us do what James and I could not do alone.  We are forever in his debt.

A half hour later the buyers arrived and it seemed like forever before they left.  James and I both struggled to contain our emotions as the trailer pulled away and were thankful that David and my sister and her husband -who had arrived to help, not realizing it was already done- quickly followed down the drive.  

James and I walked solemnly back to the house, crying with every step.  Watching the one you love let go of their dreams is a heartache of immeasurable proportions. 

We walked up the lane where we will never again be greeted by big horned, fluffy cows.  Before heading on up to the house, we stopped once more to look back over a now empty pasture that held our dreams for the past several years. 

Today, we closed a chapter on our story.  A chapter that began long before the farm even existed, with an innocent wish in a pumpkin patch, “Someday, let’s have one of those cows!” and ended as another family took over caring and adoring Mabel, Elliott and Delilah. 

This isn’t the end of our story, though, and as we sat for hours on the porch today, looking out across the dream that still remains, we are so very grateful for all that we’ve been blessed with and all that we’ve enjoyed building together. And while the heartache of their absence will be long felt for both of us, we are most grateful that we found each other all those years ago and that together we not only dreamed crazy dreams, but we turned them into reality.  We didn’t listen to the people who said, “You’re going to do what?!”  We listened, instead, to our hearts and we built our little farm out of those dreams.  And because of that, we’ve been able to sit here, in these chairs on this porch for years, living that dream and cherishing everything it has to offer.

And that chapter is not yet over.