Psalms leap up into life at farm

Several weeks had passed since I’d made it to the farm. On the drive up the long gravel drive, it feels like the farm welcomes me home. The woods are still bare, but along the road the tousled double blossoms of Van Sion daffodils nod as I pass. A lone white dog raises her head as my dusty SUV approaches. Then up comes the rest of her and she bounds alongside as I make the final turn toward the house. Before my door opens, another white dog waits to be petted and a third ambles slowly toward the car.

Only Boo, the eldest of the Great Pyrenees who guard the farm from coyotes and other intruders, is out in the field with the sheep. If she notices my arrival, she celebrates it by quietly doing what she does best: tending the herd.

We didn’t intend to have a farm full of white dogs. Over the years my husband, Marc, has had any number and color of dogs, but the Great Pyrenees mixes, all white, have proved to be the best at what he needs most — guarding the flock. This year, the sheep have more color than the dogs that tend them.

This visit is the first time since the new lambs were born that I’ve seen the flock in the field, and I stand a long time watching them graze before heading to the house. “The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing,” says the Psalmist. And I understand. There’s serenity and joy in a field of grazing sheep; it’s a peace that passes understanding.

The farm is where we shed the stress of work and busy ourselves with creatures who don’t use cell phones. There’s a good bit of work to raising a flock, and the labor as well as the joy are greatest in lambing season. We can lose ourselves in the work, the same way I can lose myself in a garden. No matter how complex the world becomes, seeing newborn lambs stand within hours of birth and wobble to their

mother to nurse fills you with a sense of grace.

“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” When Marc considered which call he’d train his sheep to respond to, he decided to go with something simple. “Sheep!” he calls, when it’s time to feed, and they know his voice and come. In truth, it takes only one to hear him and head to the barn, and the rest follow. That’s how sheep are. One takes the initiative, and the others assume that it knows best.

Unfortunately, there are predators in the woods even good guard dogs can’t defend against, and one of those brutally decimated our herd last fall. This winter’s bumper crop of 17 babies, delivered throughout January in twins and triplets, brought the herd back up to size. Now we’re on guard, hoping the predator has moved on but tending the sheep carefully in case it hasn’t.

As I watch, a lamb bleats pitifully at being separated from its mother. Instantly, the mother answers, moves to find her offspring, and the two are quietly reunited. Just as among humans, there are good moms and notso-good moms. Alarmed, a good mother will turn toward a threat, placing her babies behind her, and stomp the ground. Sadly, that and a good head butt are the full arsenal of her defense. Like so many beings, she depends on a shepherd for true security.

Now the wind picks up and the temperature begins to fall. I give the white dogs around me one last round of attention and head inside. We’ll be back out soon to close up the barn for the night, doing our best to tend the flock we’ve taken on and slowly shedding the stress of the offices and buildings that seem part of another world. Behind me, the sun sets on the farm and the sheep graze quietly in the field.