Before I tell this story, there is something you need to know. This is not a story condoning or glorifying cruelty to animals. It is, however, a story most people who grew up before the days of modern machinery will understand.
My granddaddy was a tough man. He raised seven children during the days of The Great Depression. During that time, people, especially rural people, had to make everything count. They wasted nothing, not even the smallest scrap of tillable land.
Shortly before World War II, my granddad moved his family to a farm with a large frontage on the Cumberland River near Nashville, Tennessee. Most of that river frontage was a series of steep limestone bluffs. Of course, you can’t cultivate rock, but in between the river and the bluff itself was a small strip of fertile land. The only way it could be accessed was for the mule, plow and farm hand to navigate a treacherous path to the river below.
I’ve heard my dad tell the story so many times, I feel like I was an eye witness. It happened this way.
My granddad had hired a young man named Fred. On this particular day, it was Fred’s job to plow that specific parcel of land.
When it came time for the noontime meal, Fred had failed to return to the farmhouse, usually not a good sign when a growing boy is involved. That’s when my granddad, dad and his two brothers went to check on Fred. They found no tragic accident. They found no mechanical failures. They simply found Fred sitting by the plow, mule in harness and attached, crying. My granddad spoke first, “Fred, what in the world is wrong with you?” Fred said, “Mr.Sircy, I’ve been trying all morning to get this mule down the path to the river. But every time we start down the path, he raises up, turns around and comes back out.” My granddad, who could be a tad over confident at times, said, “You go on back to the house and eat. When you get back, he’ll be down there at the bottom ready to work.”
Well, that’s when the show began. My dad said he snapped the lines, gave the age old command, “come up” and at least four times had the same experience that had befallen Fred.
This is where you have to understand the reality of life on a farm; a farm where the only thing between you and starvation and that of your family is to scratch a living out of the earth. If you look at what happens next without that in mind, you’ll tend to misunderstand what occurs.
He calmly walked to the front of the plow and unhooked the trace chains from the singletree. Gathering the trace chains in his hand, he jumped on the back of the mule and began to use the chains as an improvisational whip. That’s when a real rodeo show developed across the top of the bluff. It continued for more than a count of “nine.” Finally, the mule stopped, stuck his feet out in front of him and my dad maintains to this day, the mule bawled like a calf.
Then, just as calmly as he began, he climbed down, patted the mule on the shoulder and re-hooked the chains. Just as he promised, the mule went down the path to the river below.
How many times are we like that mule? We know the path we are supposed to take. Sometimes, even with the Master exhorting us to stay on course, we veer off the path before us. Many times we have to be whipped about by the trace chains of life before we get back on track.
There is something else I didn’t tell you. I know it doesn’t seem like it but my granddaddy loved that mule. I’ve heard him speak of him many times in reverential tones. He knew if he was ever going to be any good for himself or the family he had to get back on course.
Could this have been done another way? Maybe. Or maybe one of the toughest lessons we’ll ever learn is that God loves us enough to be a tough guy when we belong to Him.
By the way, I’ve been taking a little blog vacation. I was spending entirely too much time on the internet and away from the family. Thanks for understanding.
