No Charisma

Very soon now my beloved family milk cow Moo will give birth to her 5^th calf. And Kirkhaven will have milk again. Fresh, rich, milk. Delicious. Organic. Healthy.

And we will have homemade butter.

And any flavor of ice-cream we can dream up.

And tangy sour cream.

And yummy cheese spreads full of fresh herbs from our late-summer garden.

I love everything about milking my sweet Moo. I love getting up early to meet her at the stall gate. I love humming and chatting as I wash her udder and tie her in the milking station.  I love the satisfied look on her face when I pour grain into the bucket at her head. And I love folding myself low-to-the-ground to reach beneath her short-statured udder.

There is no fanfare about it. When the rest of the world is still in bed . . . or getting their morning coffee . . . or preparing notes for their next meeting . . . or trying to get children dressed for school  . . .  I am sitting on my tree-stump milking stool. The television is broadcasting the latest news about the election, but I don’t hear it. There are wars in foreign countries, but I am not experiencing them. People are blogging and tweeting about themselves, or their accomplishments, or their opinions, or their passions, or their crusades, or their disdain for other people’s opinions and passions and crusades . . . but I am not reading any of it. There is only Moo, me, the sound of munching, the feel of her ample belly against my cheek, and the uncomplicated rhythm of squeeze-and-squeeze-and-squeeze-and-squeeze.

Cows have no charisma. I think that is what I love the most about Moo. There is warmth and acceptance in her eyes. There is a quiet regality in her posture. There is a practical intelligence in her demeanor. There is even a charming agreeableness in the way she willingly cooperates with her farmers. But there is absolutely no charisma.

None.

In a world that deifies advertisement and self promotion, charisma is everything. You need to be gorgeous. You need to carry yourself with pride and confidence. You need to be quick witted and sharp tongued. You need to be talented and specially gifted. You need to be passionate. You need followers. And you need to be able to cut your opposition off at the knees with one quick flick of the tongue.

But Moo needs none of these things.

And when I am milking Moo, I need none of these things too.

My husband and I did not begin our farming journey to learn the secret of a charisma-less life. But sometimes the journey you begin to take will follow a path you never knew was there.

So I wait . . . with great anticipation . . . for Moo to have her new calf. My heart longs for the simple joy of hand milking Moo. There is a deep thirst in my soul for a rich, meaningful life that transcends the shallow popularity of charismatic living. I am ready for the lessons.

I want to find the treasures that are hidden ...

instead of manufacturing crass trinkets for popular display. 

I want to relish the effort of working hard ...

instead of expecting easy benefits from effortlessness.

I want to understand the real importance of faithfully stewarding the tasks set before me ...
instead of wishing to be someone else doing something else somewhere else.

I want to walk through my day with a nurtured sense of gratitude ...

instead of feeding a desire to always want more.

Dear Lord, you were a carpenter by trade. A scholar by heritage. A servant by choice. Teach me the lessons that will forge my heart into a sanctuary for the kind of Truth that is real . . . and the kind of living that is really Good.

Free from the burden of charisma.

I am waiting.

And I am ready.

And Moo will help.