(Excerpt from our book, Tales from Heritage Farm, available in our store)

A hush fell over her spirit as the voice of her long time friend assured her that their Creator was in control.

“Lilac, I know what you’re thinking,” Woody’s tone split into her consciousness. “Remember our Creator made us both. He had us planted here. And He has a purpose for your children just as He had for us. Have your forgotten that?”

“No, but it seems like it has been forever since we were young. I can’t imagine what it will take for our Creator to work out a desirable future for my sweet little ones,” she fretted.

“Now, now, be patient, dear Lilac. I am sure that the Creator has a plan.” assured Woody.

Many days went on. One chilly, April afternoon, a violent windstorm shook the old farm. Limbs were lost. Farmer’s windmill was damaged. Several large trees succumbed in the wake of the powerful winds.

One of Woody’s cousins could no longer stand against the unrelenting wind. With a thundering crash, he toppled to the ground. Fortunately, the tree fell on empty sod.  With his great height, the downed tree took up a large space in Farmer’s yard. It had to be removed and made into useful firewood.

The whole grove was upset by its loss of friend and cousin. But they all knew that their Creator was working out His faithful design. The trees and bushes at the fence line were at a loss, however, for what good might possibly come from this event which weakened the much needed windbreak.

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(Excerpt from our book, Tales from Heritage Farm, available in our store)

“In the old days,” she told her offspring, “I put forth the most heavenly, sweet scent. Bees bumbled over to visit me. They hummed happy songs on their visits to my beautiful flowers. I know they loved me and I felt appreciated,” she related as her whispery voice carried over the airwaves. She continued to reminisce, “Farmer’s Mom and Grandmom used to drink deeply of my perfume and pick armful of my blooms.  While the hard work of spring chores was underway, my lavender bouquets refreshed the spirits of their hard working families at break time and meal time. Those days were so rewarding and satisfying,” she said with a sigh. Then in a moment of silence, she reflected on the days gone by.

“Don’t stop there, Mama,” urged her little children’s voices over the soft breeze.  “Tell us about when we were little.”

“Oh, well, all right.  My many flowers faded after a time. It made me sad at first.  But all the while something even greater was in the works.  The purple flowers dried and fell away, leaving the little seeds that my Creator had placed in my care.  They began to gradually grow to maturity.  Day after day they swelled until they burst forth from their shelters on my twigs. Some of the seeds blew away. Other seeds that fell down began to take root and grow on the rich earth. With the abundance of rain and the partial sunshine of the grove, you began to thrive.” Lilac beamed as she continued, “I have been so pleased to have you grow up here with me. Your being here has been my greatest joy.”

Her voice trailed off as a poignant pain seized her lilac heart.  In their shady world, she could only expect that her children would probably never experience that same joy of blooming and making seeds to pass on their heritage of beauty to Farmer’s world.

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(Excerpt from our book, Tales from Heritage Farm,  available in our store)

The Lilac plants shot up quickly.  They endured the winds and weather on their own.  They grew, bloomed, and looked beautiful.  They became confident that the “little woody folk” would never pass them up in height or in strength.  Not many folks noticed Woody and his kind for several years.

The Lilac family had been highly esteemed in those early years for their beauty and service.  Friends and neighbors in their buggies and heavy laden wagons clip-clopped past the fragrant grove each spring enjoying its perfume on the their various trips to town and to the school house next door.  Sleighs piled high with supplies and the township’s children were blessed by the breaking of the wind on snowy winter days.

But now it was Lilac’s turn to go unnoticed.  Long ago, the buggy and sleigh traffic became outdated by the automobile.  Speed was a new development in the countryside.  Cars required wider curves to negotiate the turns at high speeds.  Soon the old country road was rerouted into a neighboring cornfield.

The Lilac’s purpose in helping break the wind for the farm was still in tact, but fewer eyes noticed the flowers’ beauty. The blossoms had decreased in number each year.  More recently, the verdant bushes were only to function as wind and snow breaks.  Their branches had been overtaken gradually by Woody and his flat-needled kin.

The Cedars grew to be at least three times the height of the Lilacs.  Their branches spread a constant canopy of shade over them.  The lack of direct sunlight caused the Lilac folk to cease blooming altogether.  Their pleasant fragrance to Farmer and his family was no longer shed.  Lilac fretted about the fact that each spring in mid- to late- May, she knew she should be sprouting forth blossoms.  She was haunted by the question, “How could her children ever reach their potential and carry out the mission for which they had been created?”

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Little Lilac, the Flowerless Bush

(Excerpt from our book Tales from Heritage Farm, available in our store)

“My, what a windy day!” quivered Lilac. The wind howled through the grove of trees and bushes that lined the northern  border of the century old farm.  The arbor was a windbreak for the farmhouse and the out buildings.

“You can say that again,” affirmed one of Lilac’s company.  It was Woody.  He was a white cedar of tremendous stature. With his wide spread branches  he caught the wind’s full fury in all kinds of weather.  “But you have to remember, it’s worse up here than it is down by you.”

“Yes, I do remember.  We all appreciate how you shelter us here,” returned the lilac bush from down below.

Woody, the Arbor Vita

Woody and Lilac had been friends for many years.  It was decades ago that they had met.  Farmer’s Grandma planted the young lilac to beautify her yard.  Lilac quickly grew up to be a protection for the family during the harsh windstorms.  But Farmer’s Grandpa foresaw the need of a stronger windbreak, so he planted Woody a few feel beyond Lilac.  They grew side by side for many years.

The lilacs giggled over their neighbor’s shortness of stature and his apparent lack of strength.  “He is going to protect us?” all the other Lilacia family teased.  He was a small cedar.  Woody was a short sapling and took years to gain in height. All the new Arbor Vitae family was young and seemed frail to them.

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photp credit: Wenda Grabau

Farmers are storm racers.

Today the temperature ranged in the 60s. Winds were brisk.  It had a definite affect on our workday.  So much depends on the weather.

Two days ago we eagerly baled hay.  The weather forecast, rain, made getting the job done an urgent matter.  The dry hay lying in the field was ready.  After baling the fifth load, the sprinkling began.  Heavy rain slammed into the landscape.  We had to leave the last two loads still lying in the field.  But we felt upbeat since the five loads we got were more loads than we expected to bale.

Today my  husband raked the rest of that field of hay.  Unfortunately the forecast predicted more rain.  But the hay had dried sufficiently that it was ready.  Right after lunch we headed out to the field.  The chilling winds forced me to wear a parka.  That was a first for me.

White fluffy clouds skimmed through the blue sky swiftly.  We got started and had trouble with the knotter on the baler.  The delay added to the tension of our job.  My husband got it fixed, but by this time, the blue sky was gone and the gray clouds overtook the sunshine.  Black clouds loomed in the west.

As we hurried to beat the coming storm, about a dozen birds swarmed around the tractor while we sped along to put up the hay.  The farm dog trotted along side, playing tag with the darting, swooping swallows.  They made a delightful spectacle.  They provided a pleasant diversion as we worked under the pressure of the coming storm.

Finally, we finished the field.  We took all the short-cuts in baling that we could.  I drove in 4th gear rather than in 3rd to finish before the rainclouds drenched us.   We got less than 2 full loads and the field is clear.  Now the new hay can grow unhindered.

As I drove, the parka and gloves kept me cozy.  This is the first time that after baling, we eagerly came inside the house for a cup of hot chocolate.

Yes, farmers are storm racers.  We give thanks to the Lord that he enabled us to get this bunch of hay done.  This time, He let us beat the rain.

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(Excerpt from Tales From Heritage Farm)

“You are wrong there, Hildy. Is that really what you think he is saying? You had better clean out your ears. He’s not saying that at all,” insisted Frieda.

“What’s that you say?” Hildy cocked her head to hear better what her neighbor had just said.

“Come on over here and let me check your ears,” urged Frieda. “You’re not going to peck at me, are you?” asked Hildy defensively.

“Of course not. Come on… ha! Just as I thought,” she commented diagnostically. “You’ve got feathers in your ears. Let me wipe them out for you.” Gently Frieda feather-dusted over each of Hildy’s little ears with her wing feathers. “There now, ” she asked, “do you hear better?”

“Don’t talk so loudly,” shouted Hildy.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo—————————God-is-good-to-you———————!” interrupted Maximillian.

“Oh-h-h, he’s louder than before. He really did say, ‘God is good to you.’ Has he been saying that all along?” she asked in astonishment.

“He sure has,” was the reply.

“Well, I guess I stand corrected. Praise the Lord!! Maybe I should think more praising thoughts. It might help. A hen’s lot in life still isn’t easy though,” added Hildy.

“No, but a little praise to God goes a long way to lift anyone’s spirit. We can all face each new day with a better perspective and

… cluck…

                      cluck…

                                              cluck…

                                                                       squawk!!

“Oh, pardon me,” Frieda blushed, “I just laid an egg. Praise the Lord!”

The Bible says in Psalm 118:24, “This is the day which the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

You may have a list of hardships or misunderstandings to deal with like Hildy did. Talking it over with a friend and exercising praise to the Lord can turn the tide for you as it did for Hildy. And when you hear, “Cock-a-doodle-doo——————!” listen closely. In rooster vernacular, translated it means, “God is good to you.” Respond as Hildy did and “Praise the Lord!”

Sketch by Wenda Grabau

(Excerpt from Tales from Heritage Farm)

A hen's life isn't always easy.

“Come on, out with it,” urged Frieda. (She was a motherly type.)

Huffing and sputtering out her troubles, Hildy listed all of the things she expected to encounter that day. “I’ll hunt and get pecked by Annie. I will peck and be nipped by Dolly. After scratching a while, I’ll get chased and jabbed at by Little Red. Once I lay my big brown egg, Sophie will pick on me. A hen’s lot in life is a weary one. I’ve been cooped up all my life and nobody likes me,” she wailed.

“I do,” said Frieda.

“Yeah, but you don’t count,” she answered caustically.

“Oh,…I see,” retreated Frieda.

A brief moment of silence passed when Frieda recharged and blurted, “Well, maybe if you can’t change the others, you might try to change yourself … your attitude.”

“Yeah, well, how do you propose I do that?” snapped Hildy.

“I’ve tried a little exercise,” Frieda encouraged. “Whenever I think thoughts that weigh me down like yours do, I ponder some ‘praise thought’.”

“Praise thought? What do you mean?” interrupted Hildy.

“If I find a meaty oat or a tasty seed, I say, ‘Praise the Lord!’ Should I find a patch of weeds or fragrant green blades of grass to eat, I say, ‘Praise the Lord!’ When our rooster calls us each day I think, ‘Praise the Lord that Maximillian had to wake up first while I could catch a couple of more winks.'”

“Oh, now, Frieda, you’ve gone too far. That noisy fellow is such a loud, arrogant sort.  Don’t you hear him saying each day, ‘I’m so good for you?'” she clucked with sarcasm that Frieda could not ignore.

Sketch by Wenda Grabau

(Excerpt from Tales From Heritage Farm)

” Cock-a-doodle-doo—————-God-is-good-to-you——————–!  This abrupt, piercing chorus trailed off, not without ruffling more than a few feathers.

Brilliant pink and subdued rose washed the eastern sky as the twitter of the first morning bird began her melody. The warbling broke the silence of the night and dulled the zinging of the cricket’s chatter. A hush fell on the drone of the frogs down at the pond. A new dawn was breaking.

Frieda tried to turn her back to the rush of noise that aroused her. She covered her ears under her own wing and then, “Cock-a-doodle-doo———— —God-is-good-to-you———————!” broke into her consciousness again. She winced at how loudly the rooster, Maximillian, was crowing.

Roosting in the hen house had grown to be a rather cozy arrangement, snuggling up to feathers on all sides. Lights went out when the sun went down, only to return as the sun did each morning.

It was hard work scratching out a living each day. Twice a day the farmer visited her to replenish her water supply and fill her trough with fresh grain to peck at and consume. Even with his grain delivery, Frieda scratched and pecked most of the day (except when she tried to sleep in late on a lumpy bed of straw.)

“Cock-a-doodle-doo———————God’s-so-good-to-you———————!”

“Honestly, Frieda,” said Hildy from the perch beside her. “That rooster must think he is God’s gift to chickens. What a conceited blow hard!”

“Oh, I don’t know, Hildy. He seems pretty normal to me.” With that Frieda hopped from her roost, ruffled her feathers and straightened them. Up she jumped onto a nest that the farmer had supplied. Making a few turns to find a comfortable spot, she finally nestled herself on the clean straw.

“Now, what’s bothering you today, Hildy? There must be something.”

Sketch by Wenda Grabau