Mis Raices Estan Aqui, by John Mitchum

On a trial drive from Texas, down by the Rio Grande,
We drove past the Medina to a dry and bitter land
Where before the longhorns streamed along, grass range once was there.
Now we herded them in silence with a feeling of despair!

The day was hot...the wind was dry, and the mesquite barred the way.
The maguey and the cactus tried to drain our lives away.
We came up to a ranch house dying in the desert sun,
Looked the old spread over and couldn't see anyone.

Then from the ranch house a man stepped out.
He was old beyond his years...
A viejo caballero whose eyes filled up with tears."I have nothing for you, Senores," he said. "My hacienda's empty now. There was a time..."
He shook his head and gave a gentle bow.
I asked him why he'd stayed on in a place where hope was dead.
He looked up at me and his face grew soft, and this is what he said:

"Mis Raices Estain Aqui!...
My Roots Are Buried Here!"

Now, I've punched cattle from the Rio Grande to the cold Montana plains,
And I've pushed 'em through New Mexico and through Arizona rains.
I've seen ranchers hanging on when it's been forty-five below--
And the thought's always crossed my mind as to why they just don't go
To a place where life is easier and where nature's not so hard...
And then the past comes floating back, and I'm in that viejo's yard.
I think of him and his quiet pride and of the things that he has done,

And I know that if men battle back at the snow or the broiling sun,
They'll live their responsibilities to the land that they love best.
America will proudly stand and in her vigil will not rest,
For no matter what may lie ahead, the answer's loud and clear:

"Mis Raices Estain Aqui!...
My Roots Are Buried Here!"

Written by John Mitchum

From my heart to yours: Man or Legend? ...how sweet...

We may never be able to put certain events into words. This fact ought to make our memories and our lives even more precious. But too often, we don’t even stop to mark such events in our minds. We are too busy living them to realize that we won’t pass that way again, ever.
We buried Peg on the first day of spring, 2007. After ninety-three years of life in one place, he left Leota alone. And who was Peg anyway? To a stranger, it may sound like that same old story: the community mourns the loss of an old timer. Gee, that’s a shame. Or, have we all witnessed the passing of an era? Were we saying farewell to a legend of a man that day…or just seeing an old timer out of this world? If we were honest with ourselves, we’d have to say we don’t know. I myself feel caught between the two.

You see, I grew up thinking of Peg as a hero. I was born on his birthday. We like strawberry shortcake and whipped cream for a birthday cake. The last special day we celebrated together was my nineteenth and his ninety-first. That was the human side. The legend side of him was stories of wild cattle and horses, and untamed country, and family, and dangers the modern world doesn’t experience anymore. Peg was a big man. I remember seeing him and hoping against hope that some day I might marry a man who stood as straight and tall as him. Big and quiet and gentle. And strong. That was Peg to me. I remember him like that.
I never saw him ride or work cows. I didn’t see the daring feats he told about, but I believed every word he said. Something in his eyes convinced me that he wouldn’t lie to me. I remember seeing him at the grocery store or at the fair or the Fourth of July, and even though I was too shy to come up and say hello, I’d watch him. He was a real man. Believe me, growing up in this generation, I know those when I meet them. They are a rare breed.
Shall we put him down as just another old timer, an average guy who lived a good life? Or shall we say Peg Pfingsten was no ordinary man, that he was a man above the rest, a great man whose brethren have filled the pages of history books?
And, let me ask you, what if we dared to say he was both of those things? What would that mean for us? It would mean that our lives matter. It would mean that everything we do counts for something. If Peg was both man and legend, then character really does count. That would imply that every human being we come across deserves a chance, deserves to be honored as a person. That would mean that our ordinary, everyday lives really aren’t ordinary at all. Our neighbors and friends and even strangers are not just people we can label and dismiss-they are people who are great in their own way. After all, that’s how Peg and Leota treated me.
Since we are supposing for the moment that Peg was both man and legend, we can take this just a bit further, because it implies something else. It implies that no one of us is better than somebody else. We are all standing on level ground, and the height we acquire as we grow through life, accomplishing and accumulating, really doesn’t count. It isn’t what we look like and what we do, but who we are and how we live. Peg had the courage to live as if his life counted. Something that comes clearer and clearer to me as I write is that Peg didn’t live how he did so that he would get everyone to hail him as great. He did it because that was who he was, because the approval of people wasn’t worth near as much as the approval of God.
Honestly, folks, I think that’s the truth for all of us. In a few years, Peg’s grave will be covered with grass and he’ll be a distant memory. Someday, all the ones who remember him will be gone and he’ll be forgotten. Mankind has a short memory. But God? God sees everything. God sees who we are and how we live. I don’t know about you, but if God is good enough to love us like he does, it makes sense to be who He made you to be.

Peg’s life has shed more light on the character of God than a lot of books I’ve read. Because God knows we are all equal (He knows this better than we do, and you can take that to the bank.), he knows that one good deed or a thousand isn’t going to put us a step higher than anybody else. That must be why His Son died on the Cross. When God sees us through Jesus’ sacrifice, we can be who we are and God approves. Without Jesus, though, who we are or try to be is nothing special. It can’t honor God…and I think that’s what makes it easy to forget how valuable people are. I think that when we live without accepting Jesus’ love, we are common and ordinary. There’s no heavenly light spilling out of our way of living. It’s just dull man-made goodness that never gets brighter than a hot coal. In the end it turns to ash.
Peg’s life seemed different because it glowed with a brilliance not its own. A light came out of him that brought out the God-colors in this world. I know this first hand. When I was a teenager, the misconceptions I had about myself and my life shadowed me like a dark cloud. What was I going to be? Where would I go to college? I’ll never be worth anything…I’m not pretty like so-n’-so…the list goes on. On my seventeenth birthday, Peg and Leota were there. And they smiled, said very little, but loved very much. Thinking back, knowing they thought enough of me to come spoke louder than any inspirational speaker or self-esteem counselor could have. They didn’t mention my blowing money mostly every weekend at rodeos, or ask what my major was going to be. They just loved me for who I was. And isn’t that kind of like God, who offers us the rich gift of His Son just because He loves us? …Amazing grace, how sweet…
Peg Pfinkston. A man. A legend. I wonder what God calls him?

The Great Divide...

Our generation has work to do in the area of cultural prejudice. It’s going to be hard to unite a nation that’s as deeply divided as we are becoming. The firm hope I have is that as Christ followers, we will do our level best not to entertain prejudice of any kind. I’ll leave it to you to figure out why this issue is so important to the future of everything we love.

I never thought I had any prejudice. But when I arrived at Patrick Henry College, the Lord revealed just how strong my own prejudice was.

I realized I was prejudice against city people, or at least, their culture. It doesn’t matter why. I’m not anymore. I got a real good glimpse of what their world is like. One thing for sure, however: there are at least two distinct American cultures that have nothing to do with race.

What do ranchers and farmers have against city people? From my own experience, it’s the fact that city people are so ignorant about who we are. I know of very few city people who will take the time to understand us. Another big difference is that agricultural people are familiar with the land and city people are mostly familiar with a man-made environment. This makes an even bigger difference in the way we think.

I don’t know why Americans are divided this way, nor do I know how to bridge the gap. What I do know is that it has to start with Christians, because prejudice can’t be truly overcome without the Holy Spirit.

Before I descend from my soapbox, I want to ask you to join me in finding a way to close this great divide that exists between Americans. Please pray. I have a feeling God has been waiting to hear from us.

Plans

Everybody has days where nothing goes like you planned it.

Days that go something like this: You plan to feed cattle, do chores, sort heifers and haul wood. So you wake up early to find that the weatherman was wrong again. It doesn’t matter. You’ve still got all that stuff to do. You stomp out into the snow, get in the feed truck and … it won’t start. The key was left on. So you use the tractor to jump it. When it’s running, you go feed cows and stop to bust ice. You reach for the shovel that’s always tied to the headache rack. It’s not there. Somehow that shovel must have rattled out the back.

After you break ice with a big rock and get soaking wet, you head back to start your other work. On the way, you notice a heifer calving and it looks like she needs help. So instead of doing the other chores, you catch your good horse and go to get the heifer.

When you get there, you see that the calf’s hung up. There’s no time… you throw a rope around the heifer’s neck and tie her to a tree. You aren’t carrying anything but a piggin’ string, so you’ll have to use that. After striving and straining and using all your strength, you get that baby on the ground. But when you turn the cow loose to tend to it, she gives up on motherhood and takes off.

You load the wet baby up on your ‘good’ horse, who just decided he’d rather be a bronc. It’s a long way to the house. Once you get Baby on the porch, you go back after Momma.

By evening, she’s in the corral. With her hobbled and in the chute, you are doing everything short of swallowing the milk to get Baby to eat. When the pair is squared away, you do the other chores and go to the house. But there’s no wood, and that means no fire…

I guess what matters is not what you planned, but how you handled what came at you that day. Without days like this, how would we ever know what we’re made of?

Spitting Dirt and Wondering How It Happened...

All good horses buck in the beginning, but some of them never stop. Joey was one of those. Some days Joey would be lopin’ along like a seasoned cow horse when…hang on!...he’d break in two, making his rider grab for leather. Joey was always looking for an excuse to explode.

One day, when a cowboy friend of mine was riding Joey, something snuck up behind them and that was all the excuse Joey needed. He bogged his head and quit the earth, turning his belly to the sun. He ducked to the left as he landed and squealed, shooting up again like a fishing cork. That bronc was hanging high in the air with every jump; as he came down the third time, he drew back. That trick shook the cowboy loose. Joey’s next dive planted his head in the dirt. The dust finally settled with Joey holdin’ his head high, both ears locked on the cowboy, who was sitting on the ground -- dazed but still clutching a rein.

The landing had come mighty close to breaking the cowboy’s neck. It made good sense to walk home. But he’d rode other broncs and learned from them that it’s better to face what you are afraid of. So he climbed back on.

We all get ironed out sometimes. Sooner or later, we find ourselves laying there with the wind knocked out of us, spitting dirt and wondering how it happened. It can be as small as a bad grade or as painful as the death of someone close. No matter how safe we think we are, things are going to bust loose every now and then. When you get bucked off, get right back on. You’ll have ‘im rode if you keep your mind in the middle…looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12: 2

What Cannot Be Shaken...

The other morning, a friend told me how discouraging it is to know that our way of life is gone. There’s not enough left here for a fresh start. What will happen to us, to our heritage? I wondered about that. I thought about the people I know whose hopes are tied to the future of what seems to be a dying era.

Lee married Leslie a few years ago, and since then they’ve been living and working on Arizona and New Mexico ranches. The most valuable things they own are horses, and they are happiest when they are doing what they love.

Lonnie and Rachel married right out of high school. Lonnie is a cowboy who breaks broncs for a living. Rachel rode colts while carrying both their sons, so I reckon those boys will grow up cowboy, too. They live on her dad’s ranch in Lordsburg, trying to build their own future.

There isn’t much of a future in ranching today. But when Peg and Leota were young, it was the smartest thing for a young man to get into. He’s 93 now, but he still runs cattle in the valley. He can tell stories about wild cattle and wild horses; about the Mescalero Apaches; about the big rodeos on the 4^th of July. Back when he and Leota started out, this was just cattle country. Now, there are two towns and several hundred people living on it.

When I think of the people who settled the West, my heart swells with pride. It is them, their memory, and their land that is fading into the shadow of history. Even as I write, their descendants fight to keep that way of life alive. It makes me wish for a miracle. If only there was a way to bring America back to her roots. I suppose that what cannot be shaken will remain, even when we are all gone.

What I Mean...

My roots are buried here, on the land, in the elements, with the people and the animals. It’s an opportunity to learn the Father’s heart. Here’s what I’m talking about:

Instead of waking up to your room mate’s melodious alarm, you wake up in a New Mexico ranch house. You can see your breath even indoors, but at least there’s a hot plate of eggs, bacon, and red chile steaming on the table.

Usually, mornings find you briskly pounding the sidewalk up to Founders, with your laptop for company. This morning, you are bundled up and headed to the barn with an eager pack of Border Collies at your heels. Tiny ice crystals cling to the trees, the fence, the horses’ backs. The ground is frozen solid, and you are feeling frozen yourself.

Snow clouds refuse to let the sun shine, yet you are horseback anyway. That horse would rather not have to carry you today. Start out easy; maybe he won’t buck on account of the ice. It’s two miles to where the cattle are, he’ll be thawed out by then. He moves like a ball of rubber bands -- you aren’t sure if he is going to bounce or roll. The snow is coming down fast and heavy. Your job is to get the springers to the house before it gets too deep.

I often notice myself thinking I am the determining factor in my surroundings. I’m not. I may battle the snow drifts, or you may stay up all night writing papers, but we are not in charge. The more mornings I experience like the one above, the more I realize I’m dependent, too. Whether we wake up to 8:00 classes, or to hunting heifers in a snowstorm, we depend on the One who “owns the cattle on a thousand hills”. He provides for us all.

Risk

Since I was 8 years old, I kept a small herd of show sheep for 4-H. I invested quite a bit of money and work in my little sheep herd. Lambing starts in January for me, in the coldest weather. I have a barn with lambing pens in it, bedded with straw. I remember clearly one night that I stayed up with a young ewe, waiting for her to go into labor.

At around 11 that night, it was clear that the first lamb was coming through the birth canal backward. She needed help. I tied her head up, washed my hands, and went to work. The first lamb was still-born. The second had a heart beat, a faint one. That was enough. I would do everything I could to save this lamb. The ewe collapsed, exhausted, while I went to work trying to bring life to that lamb. I had to give it mouth-to-mouth and rub it down with a towel to get its blood going.

The mama put her head up close to the lamb’s slick, black face, quietly talking to it with a deep, gravelly voice. She was still breathing hard. But the air was too cold- 17 degrees. I needed to take the lamb into the house if it was going to live.

I rushed to the hearth with her only surviving twin. There was a cloud of sorrow over me. In my heart I knew this lamb might not make it. But as long as there was a heart beat, I had to try. Maybe there was a chance…maybe…

By 3 a.m., the little heart beat stopped. I was worn out. I was sad. The next day, the mama hung her head on the ground and stood in the corner of her pen. She wouldn’t eat or drink; it looked like she was giving up. The loss had broken my heart, too. It’s hard to explain what I felt. I had poured so much into the hope that the little one would revive.

Anyone who has ever had a friend, or fallen in love, or invested time and talent and money in a dream, realizes that sometimes, you lose. Raising livestock is the same. My grandpa said once, when I was brokenhearted over losing a horse: ‘them that don’t have, don’t lose’. Loving or hoping in something is a risk. And it’s your choice. You can avoid the pain of losing by not having. You can avoid disappointment by not trying. But is that the right thing to do?