True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 5

I have to tell you the udder truth. 

I once stepped outside after an evening church service and found myself staring into the eyes of a large heifer. And she was chewing her cud. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Needless to say, I almost screamed, but soon realized she had simply escaped from the farm next door and was surprisingly harmless. 

When my dad took the call to a country church just before I turned 13, everything changed for us. We moved from a small town to a country church and parsonage--which, though separated by a few miles--were both, quite literally, surrounded by farms and fields. I also had the eerie privilege of walking out of the front of the church on another occasion after nightfall; looking up, I saw an owl perched on the building's small spire.

Anyhoo, when my dad became a country preacher it made for some interesting predicaments. There was the obvious: the parsonage was downwind from cows and pigs, and if the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, things got smelly quick. We lived on the corner of a dirt road and a highway, where every parishioner who passed could keep a good eye on us.

Especially some of the most faithful members of the church. It was Oren and Beulah who first welcomed us into their home and offered us their love and friendship. Hearty and warm, they farmed their fields until Oren was into his 80s. In fact, dear Oren only recently passed away when he was well into his 90s. They were the kind of folks who you instantly claimed as grandparent-like figures; it was impossible not to cherish them.

Beulah had grown up in the rundown home across the dirt road where they now lived. And, although the story is a bit fuzzy in my memory, Oren had courted her young. They must have been married for over 70 years. And all along, they knew what was important: faith and service, generosity, family, and working with the land to produce crops. 

Oren's son's family also lived across the highway from us and provided us with many warm memories and years of friendship, too.

But, to tell you the truth, some of the first memories I have of Beulah is that her window gave her a birds-eye view of our activities, from a 1/4 mile down the dirt road. She noticed when the old brown station wagon left our driveway, and many a time, she could tell you when it came home. This might have bothered us if we didn't love her so; but as it was, we realized she cared enough about us to keep tabs on us--and inevitably she needed to know we were home so she could deliver fresh green beans or still-warm baked goods. As you can tell, the arrangement had its advantages!

But we didn't know all of this when we first moved into the country parsonage. We just knew that life had a different rhythm there, and it seemed like people were warmer, friendlier, and more hospitable. There was many a wonderful barn party for the youth group, with bonfires and smores and outdoor games under the stars. 

There was our freezer, filled regularly with 1/2 a cow from a local deacon who also happened to be a dairy farmer.  (I believe he missed Sunday School to get the milking done, before he could get cleaned up enough to slip in for church.) And if you want my opinion, country folks know how to do a potluck better than city folks. Those were grand events, and the cleaning up was just as much fun as the eating. It goes without saying that EVERYTHING was homemade.

There was an earthiness and a graciousness about the ministry of the church. I think people were more grounded, more connected to the land and to animals, and it made a difference in how they carried themselves. No one ever said running a farm isn't stressful; but there is a measure of repose in caring for the elemental things that can't be found in a factory or an office.

The teaching in Sunday School was usually simple and preached with the Bible in hand. Folks seemed to have a better grasp on right and wrong; what pleased God and what didn't. All of the people were imperfect with quirks and ingrained habits and all, but most of them did their best, and I loved them for their honest living.

It was important to my father to be honest and hardworking, too, which led him to insist on mowing his own lawn, which was in full view of the highway. Apparently he became one of them, because I remember the day the call came for the men of the church to go wrassle some escaped cattle. Dad must have done what he could, although if he helped in the end, it was only  because he was good at following directions.

A city preacher turned country preacher. I think the move was good for dad's blood pressure. I know it was good for the little brown church we came to love. And although 20 years have past now, and I'm far removed from that life, I still yearn for both the quietness of the country and the noisiness of the fellowship. 

Summer evenings with the ice cream freezer cranking out treats. Visiting and caring and an abundance of hugs and encouragement. When folks would rather give a hand up than take a handout. I carry these memories still close in my heart--and some of my best dreams bring back the smells, and the smiles, and the sunny nature of that old country church. Cows and all.