When the Meadow Grew Still
by Michelle, aka "Snack Lady"
Morning came soft and golden, the kind that makes the whole pasture glow. Dew clung to the grass, and the herd grazed lazily in the hush before the sun warmed the hills. Zara was among them — calm, steady, her copper coat catching the light as she moved through the clover. It felt like any other peaceful day in the meadow.
By late afternoon, I noticed she wasn’t with the rest of the girls. Zara had wandered to the far side of the hill, away from the herd. Something in me stirred — that quiet unease you learn to trust when you’ve lived long enough with animals and the land.
As I crested the rise, she called out… and I knew.
Her calf, a little red bull, lay still in the grass. Perfectly formed, but gone before his first breath. Her body hadn’t been ready — no springing, no milk, no warning. It seems he drowned in the very water that was meant to protect him.
Any loss is hard, but the waiting makes it harder. A whole year of care and hope, and this is the ending. Now Zara stands over him, calling softly for a baby that will never come.
“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Job 1:21
This isn’t how I hoped the 2025 calving season would end. Zara was my last due. Her little bull was the third stillborn of the year.
The meadow has known too much quiet this season.
Even so, I’m thankful —
Thankful that Zara’s body is safe, thankful for the lives that did arrive strong and healthy, and thankful that every sunrise still brings grace enough to begin again.
Farming teaches you to hold joy and sorrow in the same hand. The meadow celebrates with you, and it mourns with you, too.
Tonight it’s hushed — tender, holy — and all I can do is whisper into that stillness,
“Blessed be His name, even here.”
— Michelle 🕊️
“Snack Lady” at Mountain Heritage Farm
