On the Ninth Postpartum Stable Day

Everyone knows "The Twelve Days of Christmas." And if you don't, then you've really missed out--on turtle doves, geese-a-laying, and lords-a-leaping. But seriously, I think we all miss out on the full twelve days of Christmas too, beyond the song that's kind of annoying (okay, really, depending on who's singing and how creative they get).


As we head full-boar into the New Year of 2013, though, I've been thinking about 2012. More accurately, I've been thinking about Christmas, and what we remember and commemorate that day, and what comes after. Namely cows.

Whoa. I mean, "Moo."

**

A few months ago, a church member invited us out to her farm. She and her husband have milked for years, and they were slowly selling off their cattle. She wondered if we'd want to come over and see how they milk the cows and how she bottle-fed the calves.


We drove east out of town around sunset one night. Gloria met us at her house and we drove about a quarter-mile south to the barn where the cows are milked.

A wind turbine we passed in the early twilight.

The kids were super excited and eager to get out. Once we went into the barn, they were a little--ahem--cowed by the size of the animals. And the sounds. And the smells. And the, erm, floor.

P is impressed.

Gloria and Mike's operation is like most small diary farmers in America, I'd guess--efficient and impressive. The machinery is amazing; I know mechanical milkers have been around for decades, but still. And the way the milk stays clean in the midst of the cows' regular digestive events (that's gotta be a new euphemism for, well, you know) is really amazing.

Then we watched Gloria mix up the formula for the calves. Our little C's formula seemed downright paltry in comparison; Gloria made a few five-gallon buckets of the stuff several times a day. Then she poured it into individual bottles for each calf.

Good thing calf formula isn't priced like Similac. Shudder.

Then we left the barn to go out to the little sheds where the calves lived. In the early November air, they needed some shelter from the coming winter freeze, Gloria explained, so they lived in the little huts until they were weaned. When they saw her coming with the bottles, they wiggled and groaned in excitement. They were adorable. And hungry.

Heading to the little calf sheds.

Smiley S, posing next to the busily eating little guy. Or gal. I couldn't tell.

 The final thrill was that Gloria's grandson, Austin, gave the boys a ride in a tractor. I couldn't get a picture of them, but they loved it (especially when S finally realized we weren't leaving him. Because parents abandon their kids by putting them in tractors). We shivered (well, more like tried not to freeze) as we watched the tractor lights glow and descend over the dusky winter fields. It was beautiful. 

**

Ever since our little visit, I've been thinking about Joseph and Mary and Jesus in the stable. All the pictures we see of the holy creche look cozy, even downright comfortable. But the real deal was--had to be--the pits. It's likely Joseph and Mary had been in the stable for days before Jesus' birth; there's no indication that Mary bore him immediately. And who's to say that they left the stable after the first twenty-four hours? If Bethlehem was bustling, even stuffed with people, all waiting to be counted and taxed, where else could they go? If no one had room for a woman on the brink of labor and delivery, who'd have room for a mother and a newborn?

So we're nine days into Christmas, and while much of the world has already packed away their Christmas trees and moved on, in their ninth day postpartum, Joseph and Mary and Jesus probably were living in the warmth and the hay and the refuse of the animals that witnessed the birth of our Lord. I can't quite wrap my mind around what that must have been like, let alone that the begotten Son of God likely spent his first days, even weeks, sharing space with livestock.

So let's all, ahem, chew on that for awhile, and merry Christmas.