Late autumn heavy rains take a toll on our farm. Our barns are downhill from the fields, and water does tend to run downhill–at least every time I’ve checked. The downpours we’ve had this week have resulted in standing water in our stalls, aisle ways and just about anywhere it is not wanted. I do feel fortunate our house is located uphill, but our horses are weary of wet bedding and there is considerable work in replacing damp shavings with dry on a daily basis.
I definitely got behind in my mucking duties. The horses’ beds were clean but still squishy some nights. Tonight deserved a marathon cleaning as I expect visitors to the barn tomorrow and everything needs to look freshened up, fluffed and buffed, and fresh shavings needed to be added everywhere. Three hours later, it all looks much better, the horses heave a sigh of gratitude as they lower themselves in their dry bedding and roll and itch for the first time in a week.
Barns are not particularly hygienic or easy to clean. There are cobwebs and dust everywhere, interesting and rather pungent smells of urine and manure, rat holes and raccoon thieves, mouse nests and kitty covered piles. Birds in the rafters drop feathers and things that aren’t so feather-like, and bats swoop in and out silently. Owls leave their regurgitated pellets of bones and fur. So when I say I “cleaned the barn”, it is only in a relative sense. It is never clean, never a place one would consider laying down and taking a nap, and certainly never, ever a place to have a baby.
Yet she did.
The barn in which they sought shelter couldn’t have been anything like that portrayed in the medieval masterpieces, with every corner swept spotless, archways with ornate architecture, heavenly light flowing everywhere. The animals would not have been groomed and shiny. The stable wasn’t likely filled with cute as a button shepherd boys carrying snowy white sheep, nor surrounded by angels in ornate brocaded clothing and golden wings. Mary couldn’t possibly have had every hair in place, with her clothing smooth and ironed and Joseph’s beard probably didn’t look neatly trimmed or his face free of worry. Nothing smelled heavenly there, I’m sure. The angel voices must have been drowned out by the calling of the donkey, or the lowing of the cow needing milking or the lambs bleating for their mamas.
In other words, that barn contained the messy business of everyday life, down to the grit and grime and cobwebs, and Jesus was born smack dab in the middle of it all. No one swept things to get ready for him. He had to make do with it just as it was. He finds us in similar condition: grungy, stained, more than ready for a good washing.
So I hope my barn guests, like Joseph and Mary, will be forgiving if things aren’t exactly perfect for their visit tomorrow. Perfection only exists because He came at all, especially because He was born in a barn.
Barnstorming 