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Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Helene Holt On that bitter, cold January day, I had no idea while buttoning up my woolen jacket that I was about to embark on a spiritual odyssey. For one thing, what was spiritual about looking for a lost cow? And for another, how could a quick jaunt across our property be like the wanderings of Odysseus? I was simply going to find the heifer which had somehow become separated from the rest of the herd. We had recently settled on this beautiful, hilly, idyllic piece of land nestled in the foothills of the Sierras in Northern California. Being new to farming, we had hired Jack, an old-timey farmhand to help us tend our cows. The heifer we had named Jersey, after her breed, was due to deliver her first calf soon. We had not worried about her because Jack had assured us he was watching her and would see to her delivery. Then our son told us Jack was nowhere around and Jersey had not been with the other cows the past few nights when they routinely came into the corral for their evening feeding. We were concerned for Jersey and Jack. Only later would we learn that Jack had been in the hospital at this time. When I left my husband busily working on the tractor that morning, I was confident I would be home before noon with Jersey. But after scouting our entire twenty-six acres and not finding her, a knot of fear tightened in my stomach. I retraced my path, stepping up my pace considerably. Small clouds of white vapor came with each exhaled breath as I puffed my way to the far end of our property which bordered on a forest. Discouraged, there in the peaceful quiet of that still-early morning, I knelt down to pray. I could hear and feel the crunch of crisp, icy leaves give way beneath my weight. Even though I was wearing a warm jacket, knit cap, and gloves, I felt the cold gnawing at me relentlessly. My concern grew for the pregnant heifer and the unborn calf. Gentle Jersey should be sheltered and warm at the time of her delivery. My prayer was not long, but it was fervent and sincere, and when I got up from kneeling, I was sure God was going to lead me to her. I looked around, waiting for inspiration as to which direction I should go. I felt an inclination to go east, beyond the fence line of our property and into the forested area. “Surely she couldn’t get beyond the barbed wire, could she?” I climbed through the fence and was drawn immediately to a nearby grove, a small clearing bounded by very tall trees. Sunlight filtered through the tree branches, dappling the earth with sunlight and shadows. For a moment, I savored the pastoral splendor and the winter medley of colors abounding in this quiet, peaceful setting. With the cradle of leaves on the ground and tall protective trees acting as sentries, it was the kind of setting a cow might choose in which to deliver her young, I mused. I stood, almost transfixed by the feeling, “This is the place.” But Jersey was nowhere in sight. Coyotes were heavy this year, and recently a friend had shot a mountain lion in this forest. I shivered at the thought that I had no defensive weapon. Looking around, I caught sight of a large old bone and picked it up. Then I headed into the dense forest to continue my search. I walked for hours–through a fern grotto, across creeks, into ravines, and through dense forestation, never once seeing or hearing anything that resembled a cow. I climbed back through the barbed wire and scouted our property again, all twenty six acres. I reminded myself that because of the hill and ravine factor, I could have missed her. Still no Jersey. So I climbed back through the barbed wire and ventured back into the forest. As troubled as I was about Jersey, I began to be equally troubled by the notion that God had neither heard nor answered my prayer. Hadn’t I asked it in full faith? The sun passed its zenith and was lowering in the sky. As the day waned, my journey took on epic proportions. My creative faculties conjured images of monsters and predatory beasts. The sights and sounds of the forest became filled with exaggerated meaning. Everywhere I turned in this dark maze, I was fighting the Cyclops of my imagination. Perhaps most torturous of all was the narrow passage wherein the Scylla and Charybdis of my mind hurled disquieting questions and created whirlpools of doubt–doubt that I would find Jersey, doubt about my own faith, and doubt that God had heard my prayer. At last, feeling an immense futility and an overwhelming downheartedness, I rested on a sloping hillside. Not knowing where to go or what to do next, I initiated a one-sided conversation with God that seemed to begin and end with the question: “Why?” Not far from where I sat was a rocky dirt road which cut through the area and led to the river. An old pickup was making its way along the road. When the driver spotted me, he called out and asked if I wanted a ride back to the main road. I almost said, “Yes.” The main road was the long way home, but was also much safer than the shortcut through the forest, especially as night was coming on. I looked again at the sun, so low in the sky. Soon it would be dark. Something told me not to take the ride, that I was to go to the home of Harold Jones, a hermit who lived alone near the river. I thanked the driver and told him I didn’t need a lift. Harold Jones was blind. Even if Jersey were on his property, he could not possibly have seen her. And what was I to say to this blind man, “Have you seen my cow?” I was still struggling with the way to phrase my question, when in front on Harold Jones’s house I was met by his two barking dogs. The dogs lunged for the bone I was carrying. I held it aloft and was shooing them away when the screen door banged shut and Harold Jones came out. “What have you got there?” he asked. I explained how I had picked up a bone for protection while I was going through the forest. “Why were you going through the forest?” he asked. I then shared my story about searching for Jersey. “May I have the bone?” he asked. I handed it to him. The dogs sat at his feet, panting and patiently waiting while he examined the bone. He turned it over and over in his hands. He felt its shape. “I used to be a butcher,” he said. “This is the right front foreleg of a cow.” He hefted it as if judging its weight. “This is not an old bone. An old bone would not be this heavy.” Then he smelled it. “It’s fresh. There’s probably even meat still on it.” Then he handed me the bone. “I’m afraid you found your Jersey.” I looked at the bone with new eyes. It was dirty and grey, like an old relic. It was not like the clean white bones I had seen in the butcher’s market. Yet I knew in my heart Harold Jones was right. I had found Jersey. She must have been at that far part of our property when she started to calve and was attacked by coyotes. They had probably dragged her carcass to the small grove where I had found the bone, and where I had been prompted to go immediately after offering my prayer. A subsequent search of the grove turned up Jersey’s ear tag. Not far from it, though somewhat hidden from view, there were more skeletal remains, including those of a calf. Since then, whenever I have wondered if God has heard or answered one of my prayers, I ask myself if I have perhaps failed to recognize the answer. people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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