The Empty Trough
by Eloise
“Wake up, child. It’s time.” One by one, the sleeping calves were nudged to their feet and encouraged to follow. Sleepy and disoriented, none of them understood what was happening.
Finally, the youngest yawned. “Time for what?”
No answer came — only a gentle nudge forward.
It was a night of bitter cold, the kind that steals your breath. Normally, the herd would bed down on the sheltered side of the hill, safe from the wind to sleep.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the elders led the herd away from their sheltered warmth, across the pasture, through the cutting wind, under a sky so clear the stars seemed to burn brighter.
We walked in silence — at least, the elders did.
The calves whispered to each other, wondering what was happening. Amari spoke a little too loud, “The frost looks like diamonds tonight.” A few calves murmured their agreement.
One stern look from the elders ended the commentary.
“Where are we going?” a little one asked his mama. A quiet hush from the elders ceased further questions.
Something important was happening — even the smallest calf could sense it.
But what?
We walked in silence until at last the herd stopped at the trough just outside the snack house.
No lights.
No snacks.
Just silence and an empty trough.
No one said why — we just stood with our heads lowered, deep in thought.
One new baby, exhausted from the long walk, curled up beside the trough and fell back to sleep.
The calves glanced around, puzzled.
Why here?
Why now?
The trough is empty.
Snack Lady is nowhere in sight.
What is going on?!
Hazel, boldest of the spring calves, couldn’t take it any longer. She marched forward and declared, “Why are we just standing here? It’s cold and there’s nothing to eat!”
Her mother, Tilly lowered her head. “Hush, child! We gather here because our kind remembers.”
Hazel was confused, "Remembers what?"
It was at this moment that I took a long, slow breath. Everyone stilled. Seventeen winters have shaped my voice, earning me the place of herd matriarch, and when I speak, the whole herd listens.
“We stand here, little one,” I said softly, “because the Creator once lay in a trough with straw as His pillow. On this night every year, we stand at the empty trough to honor Him. We remember that...”
“While Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem, the time came for her to have the Baby. She gave birth to her first Son. There were no rooms left in the inn. So she wrapped the Baby with cloths and laid Him in a trough where animals were fed.”
— Luke 2:6–7
Suddenly, Hazel and all the other calves understood. Tired little eyes widened with the weight of the moment. The air was still and quiet, the cold no longer seemed so bitter.
The Creator — our Creator — once used a feed trough for His bed.
Slowly, the young calves bowed their heads like the elders.
No tree.
No ribbon.
No packages.
Just an empty trough.
This everyday, utilitarian object carries holy significance missed by most, but us cattle — we remember.
For a moment, the world felt still enough to hear a heartbeat.
Then, as quietly as we had come, the herd turned back toward the shelter of the hill.
The calves were silent on the long walk back, but once they bedded down they whispered, wide-eyed with wonder, about everything that had transpired. This was a night they wouldn't soon forget. They all committed themselves to honor the Creator for the rest of their lives.
I'm getting up in years now, but this is my charge: to make sure that every calf born under these stars understands the significance of this night. They must know why we gather and why a simple, empty trough is never just a trough. It is my most sacred duty as matriarch.
I don't know how many more seasons the Creator will allow me, but for as long as I'm granted another winter, I will guide the little ones through this holy remembrance.
