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March 4, 2026
Stewardship is hard, y'all.
Sometimes stewardship looks like confidence.
Sometimes it looks like confusion.
Sometimes it looks like standing in the dark at 2 a.m., whispering a prayer over a dying sheep and asking God to be very, very clear.
This is one of those stories.
If you know livestock, you know how this begins.
Rain.
Freeze.
Thaw.
Freeze again.
Then an almost unbelievable warm-up — nearly 85 degrees of swing in two weeks.
Followed by more rain.
That pattern is a parasite factory.
I knew it. I felt it coming. I wanted to move the animals off the winter paddock before leaving town for a leadership training down in Bryan over President’s Day weekend. I even started setting up the new paddock… but time ran out. The animals still had portable shelters, and I hoped it would be enough.
It rained hard while I was gone, creating a parasite heaven.
We then dealt with the consequences of my lack of action.
One sheep died Sunday. While I was gone.
Another died Tuesday — while I was checking her vitals, and starting to do everything I could. B12 shots. Electrolyte/energy solution. A drench syringe of Basic H, straight down the throat, praying for 24 hours.
While I was still in the pasture, I watched a third sheep collapse.
If you ranch long enough, you will lose animals. That doesn’t make it easier. Not when you’ve cared for them, stewarded them, depended on them. Worked very hard to earn their trust. Loss still hits deep.
I took one of the dead sheep to the vet for a necropsy. Then I came home, moved the herd to fresh ground, and treated the one that had gone down — also with B12, electrolytes, Basic H, care, watchfulness. She stood back up. I thought we had turned a corner.
I was wrong.
The vet called.
High parasite load — barberpole worm, the quiet killer of sheep and goats. She told me she’s been seeing a lot of it lately because of the wild swings from extreme cold and wet to sudden warmth and rain.
She recommended deworming the whole herd, something she doesn't usually recommend.
That is not something I do lightly. Overuse creates resistance, and barberpole worm is already resistant to ivermectin — one of the reasons we normally rely on prevention and management instead of routine chemical deworming.
But sometimes stewardship means responding to reality, not preference.
So off to the farm store I went, grabbing multiple boxes of Fenbendazole. Tubes in hand. Back home before dark, we caught what animals we could, and dosed them. We caught and dosed the rest the next day. Every sheep. Every goat. Dosed.
Moved paddocks again. Watched. Waited.
The third sheep kept going down… then getting back up.
By Thursday, she was fully down.
But her signs didn’t match a simple parasite crash — normal stool, eyelids still nearly pink on the FAMACHA scale. We brought her near the house. Pellets. Electrolytes. Alfalfa. Fluids every couple of hours. Another dose of fenben. Another B12 shot.
Friday passed. Still fighting.
Saturday came. Still no improvement.
Sometimes you do everything right and still don’t know if it’s enough.
So I did the only thing left to do.
I laid my hands on her and prayed.
Not fancy words. Just honest ones.
I ask the Lord constantly for clarity — how to steward this land, these animals, this calling. Some days I feel aligned. Other days I feel like I’m failing completely.
So I asked Him plainly:
If we are meant to continue raising sheep and goats — as meat, as breeders, as part of this land — let this sheep live.
If we are meant to be done, let her be gone by morning.
Clear. Direct. No guessing.
Then I kept doing the work — fluids, feed, checks through the night.
At 2 a.m., I walked out again.
She was dead.
Asked — and answered.
Faith doesn’t mean getting the outcome you hoped for.
Sometimes it means receiving clarity through loss.
This wasn’t just about one sheep. It was about direction. I work earnestly to steward well the animals that we have. I am constantly evaluating their role on our farm, their impact on the ground, and their impact on our lives. Stewardship is multi-faceted. And trying to walk alongside our Creator, and leaning into His design, means being open to His plan, asking plainly, listening when the answer comes — even when it’s hard -- and then obeying.
So now we shift.
Over the coming months, we will sort the herd:
Some will be sold as breeders
Some will be processed for our freezer
Some will be sent to auction
A few kept as working animals (because goats are still unmatched brush-clearing machines, and my kiddos are rather attached to some of the babies)
By mid-summer, this ranch will look different. We will focus on what has worked well for us:
Chickens.
Turkeys.
Cattle.
A new season of stewardship.
Stewardship is not control, perfection, or even success.
Sometimes stewardship means:
Learning through loss
Adjusting course
Listening carefully--then obeying
Letting go when the season ends
Even--and especially--when it hurts.
I absolutely didn't get the answer I wanted.
But I did get an answer.
There is a strange peace in clarity — even when it comes through hard things.
The work continues.
The land remains.
The calling stays steady.
One door closes. Another opens.
And we keep walking in obedience — one faithful step at a time.