A Calf Is Born, A Goat Is Fading, and I’m Standing in the Middle

Early this morning I went out to check on the cows before bringing their hay, as per usual. But the cows weren’t standing at the feeder waiting for me, as per their usual.

I scanned the upper pasture. No cows. I walked farther. Checked the fence line, the trees. My chest tightened as panic crept in—had a gate been left open? Had they gotten out? Are they wandering the neighborhood?

Just as I was about to call my husband and ask him to come help me find our wayward cows, I spotted something small near a clump of oak brush. My brain stalled. It took a few seconds longer than it should have to register what I was seeing.

May Belle had given birth during the night. That tiny shape was her calf!

Instead of calling my husband to help search for missing cows, I called him to wake up our daughter and hurry down to meet the new arrival.

We were disappointed to have missed the birth—but honestly, it was also a relief. I had been so ready. I’d watched the videos, mentally rehearsed different scenarios, stacked towels, prepared myself to jump in if needed. Instead, we skipped straight past the stress and landed on a solid, sturdy little bull calf—already up and walking, clean and dry, with mama handling everything like a boss.

God is so good.

We had been praying for a smooth delivery: a healthy mama, a healthy calf. We thought we’d be part of it, but God had other plans. And His plans are always better.

After watching for a while, we noticed we hadn’t seen him nurse. Knowing how important it is for a calf to get colostrum on board as soon as possible, we tried to help him find the teat.

He was having none of it. Even just hours old, he was already strong and opinionated. If he didn’t want to do something, he simply… wouldn’t. Still, everything about him said he was okay—alert, warm, energetic, with a calm, attentive mama. We decided he must have nursed earlier and chose to let him be, keeping a close eye instead.

And then, just minutes later, I found my favorite goat not moving.

Pale eyelids. Extreme lethargy. That awful stillness that tells you something is very wrong.

When goats go down, they don’t have much time. They can die quickly.

My heart broke. My thoughts spun. How can this be happening right now? I was panicking inside, desperately trying to figure out how to help her—if I could help her.

The joy of new life arrived hand-in-hand with the quiet dread of possibly losing another.

The emotions—excitement and gratitude over the healthy calf, fear and heartbreak over my seriously ill goat—collided inside me. There isn’t room in a nervous system for both at the same time. They fight. They churn. They create a storm.

Isn’t that how tornadoes and hurricanes form? Warm air meeting cold air—unable to coexist, thus creating a growing disturbance that feeds on itself? That’s what was happening inside me.

So, while I was fawning over a newborn calf, I was also waiting for my husband to return with medication for my beloved goat that would hopefully keep her from dying. Mentally rehearsing how to give an injection I wished I didn’t have to give. Trying not to spiral while watching a goat I love struggle to survive—and praying she wouldn't give up.

At the same time, I was loading my kid, plus two others, into the car for Family School. Answering questions about lunch. Hunting down forgotten jackets. Trying to keep one small corner of the day normal while the rest of it feels anything but.

My nervous system was doing somersaults.

I just… can’t.

This is the part of homesteading that doesn’t photograph well. The part where life refuses to separate itself into neat chapters. Where there is no clear beginning, middle, and end—just overlapping moments demanding attention all at once.

A new life standing steady in the cold. Another life slipping somewhere I can’t fully control. And me—muddy boots on, heart pulled in opposite directions—standing right in the middle of it, stretched thin and real close to coming apart at the seams.

All I could do was pray.

I asked God for help—help the animals, help me. And I praised Him. Thanked Him for all He has given us. We are not promised smooth sailing in this life. In fact, we’re promised tribulation. It’s how we walk through it—and where we place our trust—that matters.

So now I crank up the worship music. I sing along. I stay close.

I don’t know what else to do.

Right now, I’m just standing in the middle.