I felt the first bumps last week. As I brushed Buddy down, knobs of scabby skin protruded within the heavy pelt of his winter coat. The condition, called rain rot, spreads quickly.

           Dang!

           A trip to the vet clinic the next day yielded a bottle of anti-bacterial shampoo. Later that week, while scraping flakes of dead skin off the affected areas, I noticed that Buddy had grown accustomed to the new routine. Nonplused, he munched feed while I prepped him for the shampoo. His sole reaction was an occasional twitch of the skin beneath the scrape of a plastic brush.

           Attending sick livestock is never pleasant yet, as with most farm chores, the duty provides an opportunity for reflection. While the commercial world jingles away the month of December, I savor the luxury of working in a drafty barn with stalls to muck, grain to scoop, floors to sweep and straw to spread.

           It is late afternoon. I wring suds out the shampoo cloth and pat Buddy on the shoulder. Unknown to him, his rain rot has deepened my experience of Advent this year. With each swipe across the nubs on his skin, I am reminded of God scraping scabs of sin off my soul.  

           I open the stall door and turn Buddy out to pasture. His friend, Willie, trots beside him. Fortunately, Willie has not contracted the condition.

           They head to a knoll overlooking the draw. Rose-canted light streams across bluestem grass, turning the sorrel horses into elegant statues of polished copper.  

           The beauty astounds me. I shake my head in wonder. Who am I to be appointed caretaker of this place? Of such creatures? Of this remote and exquisite sanctuary of God?