It's always surprised me how many people ask me if I grew up on a farm when I say I was born and raised in Tennessee. Truth be told, I'm a city girl through and through. The little town where I lived was a suburb of a fairly good-sized city, and the closest I ever came to farm life was when I would visit my Granny and Granddad Waddle in Kentucky. Unless, of course, you count the hours I spent helping Daddy plant, cultivate and harvest his large garden that took up a fair amount of space in the empty lot next to our house. While it's quite possible that I did it more than once, I only remember milking a cow one time in my entire life, and that was at Granny and Granddad's house. I don't recall the circumstances that prompted said milking, but I distinctly remember squirting milk all over the front of Granddad's overalls and my dad chuckling when it happened.
I also have a very vivid recollection of the process Granddad went through before the actual milking took place, especially the importance my grandfather seemed to place on the milking stool. I remember watching Granddad as he placed the three-legged stool next to the cow and rearranged it several times before he said, "OK, kid, sit right here and right like this." Granddad looked back and forth from me to the cow and told me to lean to the right and scoot in closer to the monstrous beast that stood before me. He had me stand a couple of times while he went through the process of placing and re-placing the milking stool and having me lean and scoot until he was assured that the stool, cow and his favorite granddaughter were in perfect milking alignment. He took my hands and placed them on the cow's ... well, you know ... and showed me how to squeeze the milk into the pail that sat regally upon the ground. Except that I wasn't a good cow milker, and most of the milk ended up hitting the hay that rested on the dirt floor of the barn. Or on Granddad's overalls, I suppose.
We've gotten some new furniture in our office over the last few weeks, including some rather unique stools ... short, squatty stools that remind me a lot of milking stools, at least in regard to their size and shape, not at all in regard to the vivid coloring of their thick padded seats. I often sit on one of the stools to chat with a friend, and more often than not, the chats that take place when I am perched on the milking stool lookalike are important ones ... ones filled with depth of meaning and wisdom ... ones I come away from having learned a great lesson ... ones that ignite a desire within me to reach farther and try harder ... ones that make me want to strive to be a better person. I engaged in one of those milking stool chats today ... a chat about helping each other help others ... a chat about not giving in or giving up ... a chat about going the distance ... a chat about God's unconditional love and what it means to trust Him through the process. As I walked with Ollie this evening, a song by Mandisa began to play on my iPod and as I listened to the words, I knew that my milking stool chat today was about something far bigger than the words that were spoken between me and my friend ... today's chat was about being real ... real with God, real with myself and real with others.
What if ... what if ... what if we were real, friends? What if we were just real with one another, vulnerable with one another, concerned for one another? What if we were real? What if we all spent some time on the milking stool and let God open our hearts and minds to the plans He has for us? What if ... really, seriously ... what if we were real?
"What If We Were Real"
"Well, I'm tired of saying everything
I feel like I'm supposed to say
I'm tired of smiling all the time
I wanna throw the mask away
Sometimes you just have a bad day
Sometimes you just wanna scream
Tell me I'm not the only one
Tell me that you feel just like me
We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess
What if we were real
What if we were real
I'm over hidin' my tears
I think I'm gonna let em' go
I'm over actin' so strong
When I ain't even in control
We make it so complicated
But why does it have to be
Why can't we open our hearts and let everybody see
We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess
What if we were real
We'd think a little less of ourselves
We'd care about someone else
'Cause we'd know just how they feel
Maybe we could let someone love us
Maybe we'd be a little more like Jesus
Why can't we learn to be real
We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess
What if we were real
You've got to be real
You've got to be real
You've got to be real" --- Mandisa
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