No Bulls.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

it's the question every child is asked.

Small.

A small person with a big question.

"A farmer."

That was always my answer.

"I want a farm with cows and calves, but no bulls."

Then I grew into a teenager, and my dreams diminished behind big hair and make-up,

and the awkward realization that boys existed.

What if God didn't want me to be a farmer?

What if God wanted me to be a missionary, or a teacher

or a teacher's wife?

Should I put my dreams before what God wanted for me?

So I set those dreams aside.

It was just a small dream anyhow.

A small dream by a small child.

I studied.

I graduated from high school.

I went far, far away to college and met lots of boys,

lots of possibilities to go anywhere in the world.

And then I came home.

I came home disappointed that the life I had wondered about,

the expectation of a new adventure,

somewhere,

anywhere,

was put back on the shelf as I took up the jobs I could get,

the jobs I had done before I had gotten my grand education.

And I swallowed hard that awful taste of humility.

Rebekah.

That's who the pastor's wife mentioned one day in a women's class at church.

A small women with a small bucket.

She stood at the well one day watering a stranger's camels

and the next thing she knew, her whole life had turned into the adventure she'd always dreamed of.

And then one ordinary day, I helped my sister move into her new home in a new place

and went through a small door

into her new church,

and met my new adventure:

a farmer.

And now we have cows and calves...

and a bull resulting from a castration mishap,
waiting to go to the butcher.

And I have to smile at the ways of God, His keen sense of humor,
and His joy of hearing a small child's dreams.

This blog post is in for Lisa Jo's writing for 5 minutes about the word prompt:
"small".

Lisajobaker.com: Five-minute-Friday: Small.