Cows and Grass

It sounds like the title of a bad country western song. Although that's assuming there is such a thing as a GOOD country western song.

It was late Friday afternoon. After a long drive from the intern retreat we stopped at a farm in west Texas. There we were greeted by a Sunday School class from the church. We were offered cookies, drinks, and a tour of the cows and grass.

So there we were, two interns and a group of fifteen or so elderly members of the church on trailers carried by a tractor and a four wheeler. We traveled along the dirt road out to the pastures where the cows were grazing on the aforementioned grass, until we "hopped" the fence and were face to face with future steaks. The imagery was thick with metaphors and mortality. The sun high overhead beating down on the country safari. The cows, dumbly staring and mooing at those who would one day eat them. A gun shot goes off in the distance (later to be discovered to be our host pastor killing a water moccasin). Across the road, a cemetery. Whitman couldn't make this stuff up.

Although if he did, it would be a lot better than I could ever say it.