Sheep and a Shepherd

In spite of my flourishing garden patch, I am definitely not a farm kind of girl. I grew up in a suburb of Buffalo, and worked most of my adult life in the urban sprawl of North Jersey, the narrow streets of Philadelphia, the ghetto of Cleveland, and the changing face of Canton. Life in a more rural Ashland has been quite a contrast for me, even though I live “in town.”

I also have not been much of an animal person over the years. Yes, there was the escapee hamster that terrorized us with his nocturnal wanderings for a few nights, and Spartacus, our son’s dog with a perpetual sense of wanderlust, but, apart from my grand-dogs, my involvement with animals has been as limited as my farm experience.

So it was with a slight degree of trepidation and much curiosity that I visited Hado-Bar Farm, the home and workplace of Judith Toth Bigham, a regular attendee at the Kroc Center writer’s group I facilitate on the second Thursday of each month. Participants are invited to read their work-in-progress, and so I’d had a glimpse into Judi’s vocation as an all-breed stockdog trainer through her writing. But it wasn’t until I actually stepped foot on her Nova farm that I realized the full scope of her work, day in and day out.

Here’s the secret to stockdog training: you need sheep, a herd of sheep. Currently, Judi has about seventy sheep, a working flock of Cheviot, Barbados Blackbelly, and Katahdin crossbreds, along with a few lambs not ready to be put to work – and each one has a name.

As we walked into the barn at feeding time, I was astounded at the sound echoing off the walls. We’ve taught the lovely Madelyn Simone that the sheep says baa-baa, but I never realized the volume of sound that seventy hungry sheep could produce, and the variety of their pitch and intensity created a symphony of sorts.

Just as Mary had a little lamb who followed her to school one day (even though it was against the rules), Judi has a little lamb who follows closely at her heels. Moxie was rejected at birth, and Judi nursed the fragile lamb through its precarious first few days in the warmth of her kitchen with feedings around-the-clock. As a result, Moxie has claimed an exalted status on the farm, a celebrity, not just one of the flock. Although still smaller than the other sheep, Moxie doesn’t hesitate to claim her rightful place in the farm’s pecking order – at the top.

Judi has written about Moxie in her recently completed book, “The Lamb that Lived: Moxie’s Story. If Judi schedules a book signing, she may not want to tell a particular sheep about it, or Moxie will be tracing M-O-X-I E in the barnyard dust in preparation.

I came away from my visit to Halo-Bar Farm with a great appreciation for the life of the farmer. Scattered throughout Ashland County is a multitude of farms where the rhythm of the day is marked by the crow of the rooster, the lowing of cattle, and the bleat of sheep. While I may linger in bed on a day off, my brothers and sisters across the county are rising at dawn to care for the livestock and tackle the chores of the day.

My time with Judi and her sheep gave me a precious gift as well. As both a clergyperson and a follower of Christ, I’ve often read the words of Jesus in John, chapter 10: “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” Now, however, when I read of a good shepherd and his sheep, it will be with a richer understanding of my pastoral role as shepherd, and the care of the Good Shepherd for his sheep.

Sarah Ban Breathnach reminds us: “Every day offers us simple gifts when we are willing to search our hearts for the place that's right for each of us.” As the sun set over the pasture that night, I was grateful for the simple gifts of that day, carefully tucked away on an Ohio country road.