The time had come.  I needed to sell calves to have money to take care of the expenses of raising them and taking care of their mamas and their daddy.  Unfortunately, cuteness doesn’t pay the bills.  The only way a cowman makes money is to sell his animals.

On a very small scale, I am what is known as a cow-calf operator.  My cows produce calves, which I grow them, wean them, and then sell them.  I tried to sell this group straight off the farm but had no takers.  That meant they had to go to the livestock market.

Livestock markets have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.  My grandfather and Uncle Pete owned the largest livestock market in Florida.  Cattle are brought through in groups, and buyers, like my cousin Kelly, bid on the cows and calves. 

The trick is getting the calves to the livestock market.  I have a good gooseneck livestock trailer and can easily haul the calves myself.  First, however, the calves must be loaded.

In their defense, my calves had never seen a livestock trailer before.  I actually hooked up the trailer the day before I was going to take them to the market and went to the pasture to feed them.  I wanted them to hear the rattles and clangs of the trailer so they would not be spooked. 

I fed the calves the morning I took them to market.  Unlike humans, every extra pound helps.  I backed the trailer in position, then moved the calves into the alley.  I closed the gate behind them, so the only place to go was into the trailer. 

Except they would not go.  I stood with a hotshot in one hand and a paddle in the other, gently pushing them forward.  They milled around in a circle but would not go up into the trailer.  One would rush past me, and then the others would follow.  I don’t know much, but I know not to try to block 5,500 pounds of beef on the move.  I moved alongside the fence, got behind them, and started to push them forward.

I thought giving them a touch of electricity from the hotshot would move them up into the trailer.  It didn’t work.  Instead, when feeling the shock, they kicked.  I’ve been kicked enough to know I don’t like it.  Advantage: calves.

I worked with them for twenty minutes before the first calf got on the trailer.  She didn’t stay long.  I kept at it until I had two on the trailer and told them to stay put.  They didn’t listen.  Finally, I got five on the trailer, and they bunched up and didn’t move.

The remaining five must have been Baptists; they were hardheaded and stubborn.  I hollered; they stared at me.  I poked; they did not move.  I tried the Jedi mind trick: the droids you are looking for are on the trailer.  Two more finally got on the trailer.  They looked around, decided the other five were stupid, and jumped back off.  I was back to five in and five out.

I started again.  I was praying at this point: “Oh Lord, please let these calves load up in the trailer!”  The same two that had jumped on before jumped on again.  Then, two more loaded up.  The last calf realized he was alone and decided there was safety in numbers.  I crashed the gate after he loaded up.  It had taken thirty-five minutes.  If I had help with me, it would have probably taken five.

I believe if you pause and pray over your life, you find God wants to teach you something in most moments.  At this moment, God was teaching me patience.  The only way God can teach you patience is by giving you an opportunity to lose your patience.  If I lost patience with those calves, I would only agitate them more and make them less likely to go where I wanted them to go.  Anxiety rising means an opportunity for patience.

I think God was also reminding me that he is patient with me.  How many times has my Heavenly Father tried to get me to go in a direction, and I have circled around, not wanting to go where he wants me to go?  My protests are probably the same as the calves: I’m scared to go where I have never been.  Going to where my Heavenly Father wants me to go will require effort: I will have to jump over barriers.  This should not surprise me; Jesus told me the way to the Kingdom would narrow.

One more lesson from loading calves: I knew I would win.  One way or another, those calves were going on that trailer.  It was my will against theirs.  My will won.  Whenever I challenge the will of my Heavenly Father, I lose.  My life gets harder.  I feel bad.  How much better it is to think about his will and do it.

Are you milling about in circles, or are you going in the direction of your Heavenly Father’s will?