By mid-morning the clouds had parted and the sun was pushing out, slurping the excess water into a clammy humidity. As a premier attraction, Land Between the Lakes extended to its visitors an opportunity to view a working farm reminiscent of the 1800s, where young men and women, dressed in Ma and Pa Ingalls hand-me-downs, demonstrate Foxfire-style procedures.
Bill had taken the kids to see the animals and left me alone with my bad mood. I tromped through the pasture, feeling guilty. You’d better perk up, I berated myself.
Bill and I were songwriters and the competitive nature of the business was getting to me. Even when I was at home with the kids, my mind was on my work.
“You told us to come boldly before you, so I will be bold,” I said aloud to the Lord, and I began walking briskly down the sloping pasture toward an old barn.
“I refuse to live like this. I refuse to live any longer with this anxiety, this frustration and fatigue. God, you need to speak to me here. Tell me what to do. Do I keep at this? Do I give up? What is your will?” As I prayed, I walked around the corner of the barn.
The sunshine segued into shadow. The smell of hay and manure, damp in the shade of a lean-to, floated raw and pungent, a barnyard potpourri that transported me back to girlhood games in a grainy old cowshed and loft.
“Hello, there.”
I started from my reverie. A man sat on a wooden barrel under the tin awning of the lean-to that sloped from the barn.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t even notice you.”
Overalls, well-worn, sagged comfortably on his wiry frame. A scruffy beard etched his cheeks and neck and, in his rough hands, he held a long piece of carved wood.
Beside him hung a motley assortment of saws and chisels, with brown lines of rust where archaic metal sank into old wooden handles. Their sharp edges were ground down from years of good use.
“Didn’t see me, did ya? Well, maybe you should look up!” He raised his eyebrows, questioning, then smiled and motioned me closer. “Bet you’ve never seen one of these in the making.” He took up his blade to whittle. “What I’m carving here’s a yoke. Do you know what a yoke is?”
“Sort of.” I studied his work, the long, swooping curve his knife was creating.
“A yoke is an important thing,” he said. “What most people don’t know is that it has to be tailor-made to fit the neck of the ox exactly.” He leaned forward and looked me in the eye.
“If the yoke is not an exact fit, it will rub a sore on the back of the ox’s neck. The ox won’t pull into the yoke because it hurts, and he can’t pull his load.” He dropped his eyes and sat back, continuing to carve.
A verse from Matthew popped into my head. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
My soul grew quiet. I felt suspended in the moment, as if I were being given time to swallow my medicine.
“Another thing!” His craggy eyebrows gathered in concentration. “I’m making this yoke for that young team of oxen right over there.” My eyes followed the point of his knife to where two young beasts ate from a trough. They swished their tails and chewed thoughtfully, standing side by side as if contemplating a unified pull.
“As that young team of oxen grows, I’ll have to make them a brand-new yoke,” the old man said. “You can’t put yesterday’s yoke on today’s ox!”
The timing, the turn of phrase, the tone of voice, and the spark of the old man’s eye recessed the tangible world and thrust me face-forward into the unseen. How many years had I paraded around, wearing my professional ambitions like a tight and tattered dress from a highschool prom?
I felt a flush of embarrassment. The Lord stood before me, holding out a new yoke for a new season. A feathery joy billowed up, and I surrendered with an ease that surprised me.
“Thank you,” I said to the old man. “My family must be wondering where I am.”
In the evening, we broke camp, loaded up and drove home. Bill reached for my hand as the children slept in the backseat. The peace and silence said it all: Everything had changed. My professional aspirations had shrunk to their rightful size in the context of God’s grace.
I had a brand-new yoke, one that was a perfect fit, tailored by God for my growing family and me.
Read an excerpt from Robin's book, The Song of Annie Moses.
Read Robin's story, "The Blessing of Music."
Listen as Robin shares how she was inspired by her grandmother, Annie Moses.
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