USA: Barnyard Church; plus a big, blustery bonus animal
The perils of good storytelling, a church service with more joyful noise than ever anticipated, seeing with fresh eyes, Lemony Snicket, and tea bags like us when berry-picking et al. goes bad.
I've always loved to spin a good yarn. Most good stories, if well-told, need no additional embellishment; they can stand on their own. In the rare instance that a story needs a little help to make it even better, though, I am your girl. I am willing to give a good story that little extra oomph if it really needs it, which, as I stated, is rare.
When I was only five years old or so, a neighbor's house caught fire. When I first saw the flames and ran inside to tell my mommy to call the fire department, she didn't believe me. I was known, even then apparently, to love to tell a good story. Despite my insistence that I was telling the truth, my reputation as a great storyteller prevailed. The house was a total loss.
I assure you, however, that the following account (based on an event that happened in August 2011) is true—every word of it (and also every oink, honk, cluck and baaa).
Before moving to Montana, I was pretty much a city girl, whether I liked it or not. When I lived in Vancouver, Washington, many years ago, my family attended New Heights Church. Although not as large as it is now, even then, it was a huge church with multiple services all packed to the rafters. At least once a year, the church would rent out the amphitheater at the county fairgrounds or a football stadium and do one massive church service, all of us together at one time. These were the only facilities that could hold the entire congregation at once. Special occasions like this were professionally produced and organized down to the last detail. With names like “Under One Sky” or “All-Church Worship,” they invariably included incredible music by a large and lively band, a well-prepared sermon, several special features, and lots and lots of riotous bust-a-gut fun. It wasn't unusual to see dozens of beach balls released into the crowd to bat around. Why not?
Being the church, or “doing” church doesn’t always have to look like what you already know. Sometimes it’s good to break out of the ordinary, right? Just like long-term travel allows us to break free from our cultural norms, so the Christian church benefits from stepping out of the boxes to which we have constrained it. By stepping away from what is familiar, we gain new perspectives and learn more about ourselves.
Gaining a new sense of perspective is always valuable. Whether we are seeing something through a fresh lens, or we are comparing our current situation to what we or others have experienced before; either way, we learn things. Sometimes, what we learn is that the new thing we are experiencing—even if it seems uncomfortable—might not be so bad. When my kids were young, we all read the Lemony Snicket Series of Unfortunate Events books. In them, the author has a wonderful habit of ‘breaking the fourth wall’ to address the reader directly, particularly if there is a new bit of vocabulary to introduce. Lemony Snicket has this to say about perspective:
There is a way of looking at life called ‘keeping things in perspective.’ This simply means ‘making yourself feel better by comparing the things that are happening to you right now against other things that have happened at a different time, or to different people.’ For instance, if you were upset about an ugly pimple on the end of your nose, you might try to feel better by keeping your pimple in perspective. You might compare your pimple situation to that of someone who was being eaten by a bear, and when you looked in the mirror at your ugly pimple, you could say to yourself, ‘Well, at least I'm not being eaten by a bear.’ (more on this last bit, further down in the newsletter)
Moving to rural Montana, I encountered a decidedly different world than anything I’ve ever known. There were fresh perspectives everywhere I looked. An invitation showed up in the mail sometime back that our family friends, the Wards (yes, this is the same Ward family who helped us with our “Pigs in Space” adventure from last week) were going to be hosting a special outdoor service at their house—their own church’s summer celebration event—followed by a potluck BBQ afterward. We decided we should take the opportunity to support our friends and try something different for a change. As my grandmother used to say, boy-howdy, we were in for a treat. It would be different, that’s for sure. We had no idea we were going to Barnyard Church.
I don't think that's what they actually call it, but it was our first time there, so I don't really know for sure. The flyer said to come at 10 AM. I made my signature crockpot of beans to share at the potluck and we all dressed in our best rural Montana Sunday Casual-but still Dressy-a little Ranchesque-but at least Clean-clothes and drove off to the Wards' house.
When we arrived, Noah, the Wards’ 14-year-old son, was busy chasing and yelling at a grey goose, who was honking with a distinct tone of annoyance. His formidable wingspan (the goose’s, not Noah’s) was spread wide as he trotted ahead of the gangly teen. Our kids informed us that the goose was named Steve and that he was indeed “really mean.”
I’m certain the kids would have equated Steve the Goose with the more crass term for a stubborn male donkey, if they thought they could get away with it, for that is what he was.
Noah was calling out apologies while yelling at the goose, his elbows and knees spread wide as he tried to herd Steve into an enclosure so he wouldn't charge and attack all the parishioners attempting to park in the pasture. One good stubborn male donkey goose makes a better security guard than most dogs, and the farmers here know it well. It’s hard to tell a goose when to stand down, though, apparently.
The front line of any large event is a capable team of parking lot attendants, right? One overzealous goose and one sweaty, flustered teenager—parking lot attendants—check.
Two large dogs and one yappy ankle-biter barked incessantly from behind a fence. They were apparently the second line of defense—or perhaps they were just the greeters, frustrated that their role was not better appreciated by the church leadership powers that be.
A dozen or more free-range hens, apparently the ushers, scattered before us and clucked contentedly, unconcerned with our presence, as we walked toward the house. The Wards’ daughter was directing foot traffic around the yard to the other side, so we—and the hens—kept walking.
In the side yard—a pretty little grassy courtyard surrounded by trees and informal shrubbery—they had set up an assortment of forty or so folding chairs, camping chairs and plastic patio chairs. A ten-by-ten-foot canopy tent was placed at the front with a simple wooden podium beneath it to offer a little shade to the preacher.
Mr. Ward seemed to be scrambling for more chairs and we happened to have our own camp chairs in the back of the van. Relieved to see Steve was penned up, we retrieved our chairs and parked them in the back behind the last row.
To our delight, we discovered we had inadvertently set our chairs on the raspberry side; that entire side of the yard was lined with thornless raspberry bushes. Throughout the entire service, children and adults alike were periodically reaching into the bushes and popping ripe red raspberries into their (our) mouths. Now that is a treat you probably don’t have at your church, no matter how seeker-friendly you aim to be.
The service began with a hymn from the battered green hymn books that had been passed around, and then the “young people” (eleven kids, ages 11-17) were dismissed to go have their own class under a large shade tree on the other side of the yard. They carried their chairs off with them. In the same vein, two women rounded up the younger children and escorted them into the house for their own special class.
Mr. Ward himself began to teach the remaining adults. He opened in prayer, cleared his throat, and suggested that we might all say a silent prayer for an easterly breeze, so we wouldn't have the odor of the three hogs as part of our service. It was true that every time the breeze shifted, the distinct smell of a pig enclosure wafted our way. I knew this scent well, as we also raised swine for 4-H. At one point, the breeze began to blow out of the west quite consistently and Mr. Ward apologized for the less than pleasant aroma.
"That's ok," a man called out cheerfully. “It smells like dollars!" All around the yard, folks slapped their knees, laughed, and nodded vigorously. We are a farming community, after all.
It was at this point that the real barnyard circus began. Steve escaped from his enclosure and began to run menacingly toward the church goers, head down and wings spread widely. Noah sprinted from the teens’ class and intercepted the evil goose, herding him back toward the pen and repairing the broken spot in the fence with some scrap wire and pliers. Mr. Ward continued to teach.
The roosters, perhaps jealous of the preacher getting all the attention, stood in the back and began to crow, loudly, stretching out their cock-a-doodle-doos with several extra and clearly unnecessary syllables. Mr. Ward simply increased his volume and talked on.
One of the hens began to rustle around in the shrubbery to one side of the little congregation and found a perfect place to lay an egg. She made quite a noisy show of her business, prompting Mr. Ward to leave the podium briefly and crawl around inside the dense bushes to try to find her and relocate her to a more remote nesting site. She would not be found, however. Emerging, Mr. Ward had to briefly go in the house to change his shirt, which he had torn, and clean the blood off his ear, which he had caught on a sharp branch in his quest. The hidden hen continued joyfully singing the praises of her newly laid egg as Mr. Ward attempted to continue his lesson.
The flock of sheep added their own chorus next, a soft and muted bleating from a little way off. It was not obnoxious, but still loud enough to harmonize with the theme music.
The dogs joined in again to round out the choir and the Wards' daughter was dispatched to make them quiet down. Mr. Ward looked a little flustered, and sweat glistened off his forehead, but he continued talking.
A tell-tale honking told the congregants that Steve was back again, and not at all happy about being penned up. "Oh, shoot!" Mr. Ward finally broke character completely and cried out with unmistakable alarm, "Both of them are out! Noah! The Steves are out!" Once again, Noah came running.
Wait, I thought to myself, The Steves—plural? I turned to confer with my kids. Sure enough, the Wards had two mean-spirited geese, both named Steve. I sat back in my chair to watch the festivities, suddenly feeling like my life was complete. I knew a family witty enough to name their two guard geese Steve. There is so much to love about that. While I basked in the glory of it all, Noah spread his arms wide and expertly maneuvered the Steves back once again—this time to stay. They didn't get out again all morning. Mr. Ward, unflappable, somehow continued teaching.
Then the hogs, who had been napping contentedly in their dusty pen, awoke as if on cue and began to rumble around and converse with one another. Their soft grunts and dog-like barks provided just enough background noise to fill up the rest of the teaching time, and their sweet smell of money floated across the property to our little courtyard. Blasted westerly breeze.
At last, Mr. Ward’s lesson was finished. A few announcements were made; the teens returned from their class, and the little ones were brought out from the house. The parishioners rose to their feet, stretched, and began to greet one another with fondness. We stood somewhat awkwardly, having not many familiar faces to greet, and looked around, wondering when the food would be served. We weren't alone long, though. The regular attenders were exceptionally friendly, and everyone introduced themselves to us. Children scampered into the raspberry bushes to find the berries that others had overlooked, and adults reached up to pick ripening apples off the trees along the perimeter, polishing them with their shirts before munching them noisily.
I thought I would be helpful and began collecting the hymnals before realizing that everyone was headed back to their seats. That had only been Sunday School. The regular Sunday service was now about to begin. My mistake. I discreetly passed the hymn books back around before most people had found their seats again.
At this point, the process began again. The actual pastor, who I learned was the one who had taught the young people’s class earlier, stood under the canopy and preached. The animals interrupted. It was nearly predictable, the only factor of surprise being which set of animals would take the next turn.
The Steves could only honk in frustration from afar, but the hens and roosters were free to wander about and make quite a racket, this time in the raspberry bushes next to us. The sheep and pigs conversed among themselves quietly, and the dogs barked at the sheer novelty of having so many people present.
As the sun rose high in the sky, the cicadas and the grasshoppers joined in with their steady buzzing and chirping, and the songbirds took up the singing where we'd left off with the hymnals. An occasional ruby-throated hummingbird even swooped low over the crowd to steal a little glory.
Oh, and traffic picked up on the narrow, two-lane road that runs past the Wards' property. Old Ford trucks in need of mufflers, four-wheeled ATVs with dogs perched precariously on the back, and occasional slow tractors rumbled by frequently, making it hard to hear from where we were in the back, even without the chorus of barnyard animals.
The preacher was very good, compelling to listen to, but also fairly long-winded. He went on for an hour and a half or so, until just after 1:00, by which time our rumbling stomachs were involuntarily giving the animal noises a run for their money.
By the time the final amen had sounded, the women began to scurry toward their vehicles to pull out covered dishes for the potluck, and the men began to light up the BBQ grills and rearrange the chairs, I was all smiles. How many have ever attended church in a barnyard? How many have had the privilege of picking and eating fresh fruit during the service? Who has ever met a pair of naughty stubborn male donkey geese, both named Steve?
I felt I had been a part of something special, something unique. I had moved out of the familiar and experienced something entirely foreign to me. My soul felt refreshed by the newness of it all. It was definitely something that my old friends—sitting in a large, polished church building or in the grandstands at an impeccably organized city-style event—would hardly believe could be true. But I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears, tasted it with my own mouth, and, unfortunately, smelled it with my own nose. It was true—every bit of it. With an oink, oink here and a honk, honk there; a cluck-cluck here and an amen there . . .
It wasn’t anything like Church as we knew it, but I was so glad for the fresh perspective (or not so fresh, depending on the direction of the wind).
Bonus Animal of the Week!
HINT: Remember that Lemony Snicket quote?
Sunday afternoon, my husband and I went out looking for huckleberries in a familiar area—Larry Creek—only a few miles from our home in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. We were way down at the end of the complex of trails, about a hundred and fifty yards from the group campsite area, when I met someone I wasn’t expecting.
Because we have had trouble finding huckleberries this year, we had split up on opposite sides of the road. Andy went up into the meadow, where it meanders up the hillside, and I went down into the maze of trails that lead to the creek. If one of us found a good patch of berries, we were to yell for the other one to come, or just meet back at the car in a few minutes and try a different location.
We should have been wearing bells. Although the jingle-jingle noise is obnoxious and detracts from the peaceful environment of being out in nature, it does give a heads-up to the local wildlife that a human is in the vicinity. Most wild critters are not fond of humans. Sans bells, I should have at least brought my car keys to occasionally bang against my berry bowl. Sans keys, I should have at least been talking to myself or singing. Instead, I was making no noise at all, just silently snooping through the forest, completely focused on finding a good patch of berries.
I heard a rustling noise very nearby and looked up from the forest floor to the broadside of a medium sized bear, dark brown in color, about twenty feet in front of me. “Oh, a bear!” I announced loudly, as if this fact was somehow new information.
He (or she) turned to look straight at me. I realized with alarm that we had startled each other, probably both preoccupied with the very same task. We considered each other for only the briefest of moments before the bear took several quick steps toward me—somewhere between a trot and a lunge.
I wasn’t interested in a handshake or a high-five, so I turned quickly to go. The rustling in the undergrowth continued behind me. I remembered the voice I should have been using all along and sang out in what I hoped was a friendly tone, “Hey, bear! I’m leaving now, bear! See? I’m going now.” I kept walking—with an unmistakable spring in my step—until I was back on the trail that led directly to the car.
As soon as I thought I might be within earshot, I yelled to my husband sharply, “Andy! I got a bear!” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, they felt silly. I got a bear? Really, do I possess a bear of my very own? And when did I start saying I “got” anything? But “Andy, I have a bear following me” is not what came out of my mouth in that instant.
(Incidentally, I have some dear family friends with the last name Gottschalk. Their snarky young adult daughter—an elementary school teacher with impeccable grammar—uses, as her Instagram handle, her first name followed by “Haschalk” instead of Gottschalk. I love that.)
As I had hoped he would, Andy came toward my voice. He thought I had called out something about finding berries, not a bear, but it was good enough. I just wanted him to know my basic location in case my new friend wasn’t very friendly. By the time he met me on the trail, I was all business, walking with obvious purpose toward the car. I couldn’t hear the bear following me anymore, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As I approached Andy, I announced, “There’s a bear following me.” He stopped to ask me questions, but there was no time to ‘splain. I shook my head and passed him there on the trail, then climbed into the front seat of the car to have a chat with my heartrate about slowing down.
Andy joined me a moment later. He never saw the bear. It had apparently done its job—frightened off the intruder—then turned back to the more important task of foraging.
Once my adrenaline started to wear off, I was ready to discuss the situation. I have seen bears in the wild before, but always from a position that felt safe—either at some distance away or from a vehicle. I have never been as close as across the living room like I was this time. Had that bear wanted to hurt me, I would have been an easy target. Fortunately, the bear just wanted me out of his/her house.
According to the experts, I didn’t do all the right things. I turned my back as I retreated, which left me vulnerable. I talked too loudly, which could have been perceived as a threat to a bear that was already startled. But on the other hand, I didn’t panic, either. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t run or freak out. I vocally identified myself as a human, then cleared out of the area.
I felt a fair amount of satisfaction in knowing I had responded—if not perfectly—at least acceptably in a crisis, or at least a perceived crisis. The problem with crises or emergencies, of course, is that they are particularly difficult to prepare for. You can train via the use of simulations, like pilots in a flight simulator or teachers running their students through active shooter drills, but it is hard to predict how you might respond when there is actual danger and actual adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Like placing a dry teabag in a mug, you won’t know the true flavor and strength of the tea until you add the hot water.
As we prepare for our life of nomadic travel, we are collecting many such close-call training sessions. Two summers ago, Andy and I failed to pack adequately for a hike in Glacier National Park that unexpectedly went awry; it could have easily cost us our lives. (I still haven’t written that story—must get on it.) As a result of that nearly tragic marathon hike, we now carry significantly more water than we anticipate needing.
Last summer, Andy very nearly drowned.
After coming so close, we now understand the process of drowning and the danger signs. Because I had learned the signs, I was able to pull another struggling swimmer to safety shortly after Andy’s incident.
And now, I’ve officially been charged by a bear. Fortunately, the bear was bluffing, just trying to scare me off. It worked. I was scared and went away. We will remember not to hike in silence and without pepper spray next time. I wish we were better at learning without all these close calls!
What lessons have you learned the hard way? When have you been put into hot water and surprised—or not surprised—at what came out of your teabag? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
Great barnyard church story--breakfast (reheating frozen homemade bread) almost burned while I read!