It Was a Miracle

Daddy Freeman and Mama Bea had daily rituals that began with the rise of the sun each day. Daddy Freeman was the first to clamor out of bed and begin his morning chores. If it was winter, he would fire up the heater so that the house could warm a bit before Mama Bea got up. He then set about feeding the chickens their corn, the quail their mix, and the hogs that one day would be in the freezer or hanging in the smoke house. Lastly the dogs would get the leftover cornbread from the day before and whatever else wasn’t suitable for the table any longer. Mama Bea would soon be out of bed and making breakfast. Breakfast always included eggs that had a distinct flavor that I have never found anywhere else. The yolks were a dark yellow and were no doubt the product of what the chickens fed on. We call them “free range” chickens today. They called them breakfast or dinner. Soon the smell of home ground sausage would wind its way around the house and cause me to get up. It seems city folks need more sleep than country folks. Add to this the scratch biscuits, homemade butter, fig preserves and percolated coffee, well, let’s just say that IHOP couldn’t hold a candle to it. Also part of Daddy Freeman’s morning routine was milking the cow. Usually I only saw the milk when Daddy Freeman would bring it in to the kitchen in a tin bucket. Bits of this and that would be floating in the milk and Mama Bea would take a piece of cheese cloth and strain the milk into a gallon pickle jar and put it in the icebox. That’s as close to pasteurization as that milk ever got. However, on occasion, I would get up early enough to follow Daddy Freeman out to the barn to milk. This was no Norman Rockwell barn. It was mostly a giant tin shed held together with bailing wire and dirt dauber nests. A big gust of wind would one day take its toll making way for a bigger and better tin barn. On one particular morning I was trailing Daddy Freeman step for step out to the barn, at least as step for step as any seven year old can follow an adult. When we entered the barn we saw the milk cow lying down, which I had never seen before. Daddy Freeman quickly got me out of the barn. I was quite certain that she was about to give up the bovine ghost and Daddy Freeman was sparing me the ugly scene. I waited impatiently outside the barn – forever. Eventually a grinning grandfather invited me in. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. When we arrived at the barn there was only what appeared to be a sick milk cow. Now, right in front of me, were a recovering milk cow and a brand new calf. My eyes betrayed my bewilderment as they were, no doubt, bigger than saucers. “Where did that come from?” I blurted out. First there was one. Now there were two. It was a mystery. No, it was a miracle. Daddy Freeman didn’t explain things to me that day. He left it to the hallways of elementary school for me to decipher the miracle of how births come about. That day I witnessed only one of the daily miracles there on the farm. From the first ray of light that finds its way into an egg that has a chick pecking its way to freedom to calves being born to a kernel of corn yielding its produce in the fall, it is all just the everyday occurrences of life on the farm. But each one is a miracle. The often quoted words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning are true: “Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes - The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.” Miracles are as common in each of our lives as they were at Shake Rag. We find them in the mundane and in the explosive excitement of a baby being born. They are brought to us through messengers, doctors, grief counselors, and loving family and friends, even strangers at times. We only need to watch and listen. Simply pay attention and see God at work all around us, everyday. If you do, your eyes may get as big as saucers and find yourself exclaiming, “Where did that come from?” This time, you will know the answer.