City Evangelist, Country Church

Every now and then someone sends me something that makes me laugh out loud. Jesse Taylor II contacted me about posting this piece, and I decided to share it here for you to read and ponder. He is truly an A+++ storyteller and I appreciate his contribution.

--Guest Post by Jesse Taylor II

Back in the Appalachian Mountains of old Kentucky, when I was a boy, the churches were one-room, white, simple little buildings. They weren't anything fancy. Not that the size or construction of the church matters to the Lord, but our churches were simple and small because the people led simple lives and, when it came right down to it, didn't have the money to support the building and maintenance of a large church.

In fact, the day to day maintenance of the church was so simple that one man could take care of it. All that really needed to be done was dusting the pews and window ledges, sweeping the floor, and in winter, building a fire in the little "pot-bellied" stove. The outhouse might need some attention or, if the day was unusually dark or if the service was after dark, the kerosene lamps might need filling and lighting. Usually, this task was taken up by Uncle Jim Gibbons.

Uncle Jim was a simple man who lived alone in the same two-room cabin he'd grown up in. He never married, so he considered his only obligations were to his fellow man and his Lord.

I recall one Sunday morning when the whole community was "all a-buzz" because we were expecting to have a big revival, led by a big city evangelist. As luck would have it, Uncle Jim had been busy with his old mule, that morning. Seems the poor old creature wasn't feeling the best and Uncle Jim had been tending to him to the point where he clean forgot about the time. When he finally realized his mistake, Uncle Jim took off for the church in such a hurry that he didn't have time to grab himself a bite for breakfast.

Uncle Jim didn't drive, so his only way of getting to the church was to walk. He was accomplishing this with great speed that morning. He was going along at such a clip that he almost stepped on a possum. Now, Uncle Jim considered a possum to be some mighty fine eating...as did most folks around the area. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, he knew he'd be mighty hungry by the time church let out. So, never one to pass up a good meal, Uncle Jim found a stick and collected what the Good Lord had provided.

He didn't have time to run it back home, so he took it along, stopping only long enough to "field dress" it when he reached a stream crossing. He rinsed off his pocket knife and his hands and continued along to the church, freshly cleaned possum by his side.

As was mentioned, the church was a one-room, simple building. There weren't any closets...no "nooks or crannies". There wasn't anyplace to put the possum out of sight. The only place Uncle Jim could find was a ledge, just over the door, on the inside of the church. The menfolk used to put their hats on it, but that practice had ceased since someone had donated a double row of fancy, brass coat-hooks, which had been installed along the back wall. Now, there was ample room for everyone to hang their coats and hats and nobody had to strain up to reach the shelf.

So, it was up there, out of sight, that Uncle Jim decided to hide his possum. It seemed like the perfect place. After all, everyone would be in a church pew and would be paying attention to the evangelist, who would be putting on a real show from a little "riser" that ran across the front of the church. Nobody would be facing the back of the church, except for the evangelist and he would be too busy with the sermon to notice a possum tucked back up on that shelf.

The church service got underway. The evangelist was introduced and the "stage" was turned over to him. The preaching soon reached a fevered pitch. This was the old "fire and brimstone" type of preaching. These preachers believed you had to put the fear of God into your congregation. There was much pacing and jumping and stomping and waving of hands, gnashing of teeth and wailing of voices. The evangelist was putting on quite a show. As he paced back and forth, stopping every so often to bounce up and down for effect, he was laying on the gospel thicker and heavier. His voice was rising and falling. He was pounding his fist into his hands as he preached, "Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the blessings we've received. Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the food He puts on our table and the clothes He puts on our backs. Every day of our lives we've got to reach out our hands up to heaven, raise our eyes towards the sky and say.....Good God! What a rat!!!"

After that, Uncle Jim was always fond of saying that, "You can't hide what the Good Lord wants revealed." Bless his heart.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pigmas Carol

Every now and then, something comes along that’s just too good not to share—and this little gem, A Pigmas Carol, is one of those things. Written by Jean’s sister (clearly a woman after my own heart), it’s a barnyard parody worthy of Charles Dickens himself—if Dickens had owned pigs, that is.

The moment I read it, I could practically hear the chorus of snorts, grunts, and squeals coming from the pigpen. If you’ve ever been around pigs at feeding time, you know exactly how accurate this carol is. The excitement, the chaos, the sheer joy of impending slop—it’s like Black Friday at the trough. You could feed them at the exact same time every day, and somehow, they still act like it’s a complete surprise.

Let’s break it down. “Hark! The Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!”—that’s not poetry, that’s journalism. Pure, factual reporting. “We each try to get it first, rinds of bacon and liverwurst”—and if that line doesn’t make you laugh out loud, you haven’t met a pig. Nothing fazes them. They’d eat a shoe if it smelled like gravy.

Then there’s my favorite part: “Jostle the bucket, make it fall, so farmer, too, can wear it all.” Oh yes, that’s the true Pigmas spirit right there—generosity, teamwork, and just enough mischief to make sure everyone goes home wearing eau de slop.

I can picture the whole scene—mud flying, pigs jostling for position, and one lucky farmer standing there, drenched and defeated, muttering something festive under his breath.

So this holiday season, forget the angel choir and picture instead a pen full of happy hogs, squealing out their own joyful noise. Because really, nothing says Christmas quite like A Pigmas Carol. And if you listen closely on a cold December morning, you just might hear it being sung live—right from the trough.

Written by the sister of Jean. Sung to the tune of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing:

Hark! the Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!
We each try to get it first, rinds of bacon and liverwurst.
Sour milk and cracked up eggs, bits of veggies and chicken legs.
Jostle the bucket, make it fall, so farmer, too, can wear it all.
Hark! The Herald Piggies squeal, here it comes, our next slop meal!

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Funny and Heartwarming Children's Christmas Pageant

This story was forwarded to me by a friend. You know, one of those e-mails that makes its way around to everyone's inbox. But I enjoyed this one so much I wanted to share it with you. The author is unknown but if you know who wrote it please let me know and I will be glad to give credit where credit is due for such a delightful story. I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas and feels the joy of this blessed season!

My husband and I had been happily married (most of the time) for five years but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if he would give us a child, I would be a perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His word as my guide. I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, "If you pray for rain, make sure you carry an umbrella."

God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God blessed us with another son. The following year, He blessed us with yet another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter. My husband thought we'd been blessed right into poverty. We now had four children, and the oldest was only four years old.

I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with four children and I didn't want to disappoint Him.

I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the kitchen floor searching for baby chicks. I tried to be understanding when they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs. When my daughter poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess. In spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time, I still thank God daily for my children.

While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect mother (I didn't even come close) I did keep my promise to raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a bar of soap along to "wash up" Jesus, too. Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his "last wife."

My proudest moment came during the children's Christmas pageant. My daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man. This was their moment to shine.

My five-year-old shepherd had practiced his line, "We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes." But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrapped in wrinkled clothes." My four-year-old "Mary" said, "That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly. That's dirty, rotten clothes." A wrestling match broke out between Mary and the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her left wing.

I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying, "Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly as the wise men arrived.

My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, "We are the three wise men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur." The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing ovation.

"I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one," laughed the pastor, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the rest of my life, I'll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common sense and fur."

"My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing," I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.

Jesus had no servants, yet they called Him Master. He had no degree, yet they called Him Teacher. Had no medicines, yet they called Him Healer. Had no army, yet kings feared Him. He won no military battles, yet He conquered the world. He committed no crime, yet they crucified Him. He was buried in a tomb, yet He lives today.

I feel honored to serve such a Leader who loves us.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Don’t-Sue-Me-Santa Clause

Back when I was a kid, Santa brought toys, not paperwork. Nowadays, I’m half surprised we don’t have to sign a waiver just to hang a stocking. This little piece called The Don’t-Sue-Me-Santa Clause gave me a good laugh — and maybe a sigh, too.

CHRISTMAS COOKIE TRANS FAT LIABILITY AND
INDEMNIFICATION AGREEMENT

Santa Claus, AKA Kris Kringle, AKA Jolly Old St. Nick (hereinafter referred to as “Santa”) acknowledges receipt of Christmas cookies from ______________________ (hereinafter referred to as “Baker”).

Santa acknowledges and understands that no warranty, either express or implied, is made by Baker as to the nutritional content of cookies. This document is offered to duly warn Santa that dangerous conditions, risks, and hazards may result from over consumption of cookies. Santa is hereby informed that cookies may contain trans fats as well as any or all of the following: calories, carbohydrates, sodium (salt), fat, saturated fat, polyunsaturated fat, monounsaturated fat, nuts, sugar, caffeine, chocolate “chips” and/or “chunks,” and good cheer. Santa acknowledges that eating way too many cookies may incur risks including, but not limited to, satiation, indigestion, heartburn, laziness, holiday spirit, “food coma,” and “that bloated feeling.”

As consideration for accepting Baker’s cookies, Santa indemnifies Baker from all liability for injury or other harm (including obesity) which may be caused, in whole or in part, by said “too many” cookies. Santa agrees that neither he, nor his agents or personal representatives, will sue Baker for any injury suffered, in whole or in part, as a consequence of ingesting cookies. Santa assumes full responsibility and will indemnify Baker for any damages in the event that he transfers cookies to any third party (including, but not limited to, potential claimants Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Mrs. Claus, and various elves).

This indemnification includes an agreement not to haul Baker into court on the basis of:
1. Failure to provide nutrition information and a list of ingredients (the "Grandma’s secret recipe" clause).
2. Failure to caution of the potential for overeating because cookies taste "yummy" and are provided at no cost.
3. Failure to advise that walking, biking, and jogging will shed pounds, but riding around on a reindeer-powered sleigh will not.
4. Failure to warn that Christmas lights, lawn ornaments (plastic reindeer, snowmen, etc.) and other holiday decorations may constitute manipulative marketing to lure Santa into over-consumption.
5. Failure to offer "healthier" cookie alternatives (e.g., tofu bars, carob blobs, or carrot sticks).
6. Failure to affix warning label acknowledging that milk, should it be provided, must not be consumed if Santa is, or could possible be, lactose intolerant.
7. Failure to notify that eating too many cookies may lead to even greater levels of obesity for St. Nick.

SANTA HAS READ THIS DOCUMENT AND UNDERSTANDS IT. SANTA IS SIGNING IT FREELY AND VOLUNTARILY, AND PROMISES NOT TO APPEAR AS A WITNESS IN SUPPORT OF ANY PERSONS WITH LAW DEGREES WHO CANNOT OTHERWISE FIND MEANINGFUL EMPLOYMENT, AT ANY TIME IN THE FUTURE.

Santa__________________________________________ Date__________________

Provided by: The Center for Consumer Freedom
For more information, visit ConsumerFreedom.com. To schedule an interview, contact Allison Miller at 212-463-7112.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Talon, the Gypsy Cob, is Finally Here, In a Blizzard!

After what can only be described as the Oregon Trail for horses—minus the dysentery, thank goodness—Talon is finally home! His journey involved a week in a transport trailer, delays thanks to a blizzard that traveled right along with them clear across the country, getting stuck in a 3-foot drift, then getting plowed in by a snowplow, then the trailer throwing in the towel on the very first big hill on our road. Honestly, if Talon could write a travel review, it’d just be one long snort.

When the trailer got stuck just four miles from our house, it turned into the winter version of a barn-raising. Half the town showed up—some to help, some just to see what kind of circus we were running this time. One local guy took charge like he was directing traffic in a blizzard (because, well, he was). He plowed a path into a nearby field so the transport could back in and turn around. Then he borrowed someone else’s two-horse trailer, because apparently trailers are like Tupperware around here, and drove Talon the rest of the way home himself. In the dark. In a snowstorm. And then stayed to help unload him. I’ve never been so grateful to live in a town where “helping out” includes blizzard horse extractions.

Getting Talon into the paddock was an adventure. It was after dark, snowing sideways, and windy enough to blow the freckles off your face. I showed him the hay and water in the shelter, took off his halter, and he turned around and marched right back into the storm like, “You know what? I’ll take my chances out here.” Can’t blame him. He’d just survived the horse version of a disaster movie and now found himself alone, surrounded by sheep and goats who looked at him like he’d landed from Mars. Meanwhile, the livestock guardian dogs two pens over were going absolutely bonkers because, apparently, they’d never seen a horse before. You’d think we’d just imported a rhinoceros.

But this morning? Whole new horse. “Oh hello, yes, I believe it’s breakfast time. I’ll take that right here, thank you very much.” He followed me around like a big fuzzy teddy bear, and even gave me kisses on the cheek. I had to call Nate out to take pictures because I couldn’t get far enough away from him to photograph anything other than an extreme close-up of his nostrils. Which, by the way, I think he tried to eat. The camera, not Nate. Although... give him time.

So this morning I’m thankful. For shelter in the storm, for a safe arrival, for neighbors who show up with snowplows and spare trailers like it’s no big deal, and for a husband who lets me chase my horse-crazy dreams, even when they come with snowdrifts, mystery barking, and a whole lot of hoofprints in the driveway.

Welcome home, Talon. Next time let’s skip the epic saga and just show up quietly, okay?

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Meet Dexter — English Shepherd Pup, Destroyer of Everything Not Tied Down

Meet Dexter, a Christmas present for our grandson. And until Christmas he's staying with us.

Every family has that one holiday memory that lives in infamy—the year the tree fell, the pie burned, or the puppy discovered the wonders of modern interior design. This year we’ve got Dexter, the furry embodiment of both chaos and charm wrapped in one wagging tail.

English Shepherds are known for their intelligence and energy, which is a polite way of saying they can outthink you and outrun you, sometimes at the same time. We're basically living with a four-legged toddler hopped up on espresso—except this one has sharper teeth and an innate suspicion of household objects. The lamp never stood a chance.

What makes this story shine (pun intended) is how perfectly it captures the heart of puppyhood: that wild, hilarious blur between “Aww, look at that face” and “Good heavens, what have you done now?” You can practically see Dexter mid-leap, ears flying, eyes wide with purpose, convinced he’s saving the world from a treacherous light source. There’s no malice, of course—just a heroic misunderstanding.

As you sweep up the shattered remains of the lamp and wonder what’s next on Dexter’s list (the couch? the ornaments? Our sanity?), there’s a certain kind of Christmas magic in it all. This is the season of laughter, forgiveness, and new beginnings—even if those beginnings involve puppy teeth marks in the furniture.

So here’s to Dexter—the canine comet blazing through our holiday décor—and to us, brave temporary caretakers. May Santa indeed bring a reinforced lamp, a few extra rolls of paper towels, and perhaps a small miracle in the form of obedience training. Because when Austin unwraps that puppy on Christmas morning, he’s not just getting a best friend—he’s inheriting a legend in the making.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What I AM Getting for Christmas - A Country Wish Come True

A few weeks ago, I posted about a gorgeous horse I saw and titled it “What I Want for Christmas.” Well… spoiler alert: I’m not getting him.

But here’s what I am getting instead—Talon, my very own living, breathing, breathtaking Gypsy Vanner, (also called a Gypsy Cob).

Even as I write that, it still feels a little unreal. Not long ago, I was firmly planted in the “No way can I afford a Gypsy” camp. I’d convinced myself it was a dream better suited for Pinterest boards and daydreams than real life. And yet here I am, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, checking feed prices, revisiting training notes, and repeating his name out loud just because I love how it sounds. Talon. It fits him perfectly—strong, graceful, and just a little mysterious.

He’s everything I ever imagined when I thought of my “someday horse.” Long flowing mane, feathered legs that look like he’s trotting on clouds, a steady, kind personality, and that unmistakable Gypsy Vanner presence that makes you stop in your tracks just to watch.

A huge thank-you goes to Sharon Teague at Big Sky Gypsy Horses, who helped turn this crazy dream into reality. She’s been wonderful—patient, knowledgeable, and every bit as passionate about these amazing horses as I am. And, of course, I have to thank my husband. He’s not exactly a “horse person,” but he is a me person—and that makes all the difference. I love you, honey.

Though, between us, I think he secretly likes the horses more than he admits. Every time we’re around them, they gravitate straight to him. Can’t say I blame them—he gives Olympic-level scratches. Horses know a good thing when they find it.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What I Want For Christmas — Dear Santa, I've Been a Good Country Farmer

Have you ever had that moment when you see something so beautiful, so perfect, that your heart skips a beat and your brain immediately starts whispering, “What if?” It doesn’t happen often—life keeps us too busy with practical things like bills, chores, and grocery lists—but every once in a while, something breaks through all that noise and grabs you right by the heart.

That’s exactly what happened when I came across a photo of the most breathtaking horse I’ve ever seen. He’s strong, elegant, and carries himself like he knows exactly how magnificent he is. His name, fittingly enough, is Romeo. And believe me, the name suits him. One look at that flowing mane, that proud stance, those intelligent eyes, and—well, I was smitten. Utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Now, don’t breathe a word of this to my husband. I’m not sure how he’d take the news that he’s been replaced, at least in my daydreams, by a four-legged heartthrob with feathers on his legs. But truly, Romeo looks like he stepped right out of a fairytale. The kind of horse that makes you imagine riding through misty meadows at sunrise or standing together under an old oak tree while violins play softly in the distance.

Of course, there’s one small hitch—he’s way out of my price range. (We’re talking “win the lottery first” territory.) So I’ll just admire him from afar, sigh dramatically now and then, and maybe make him my new computer wallpaper.

P.S. — All donations are accepted. Just kidding! Don’t you dare.
P.P.S.S. — I just found out he’s not even for sale anyway. Phew! I’m safe—temporarily at least. But still… a girl can dream, right?

Because sometimes love at first sight isn’t about practicality—it’s about beauty that reminds your soul to dream again.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Say Thank You to Our Service Men and Women and First Responders

Some gestures don’t need words — they just need heart. The video “The Gratitude Campaign” is a beautiful reminder of that. It shows a simple way to say “thank you” to the men and women who serve — in the military, in law enforcement, as firefighters, EMTs, and every kind of first responder — using a sign language gesture that anyone can learn. It’s a small movement, but it carries a message miles wide.

Jim never misses a chance to shake a hand or offer a thank-you when he sees someone in uniform. He’ll stop in parking lots, at gas stations, even in line at the feed store — it doesn’t matter where we are. But sometimes that’s not possible. You see them at a distance, or driving by, or working behind barricades where you can’t get close. That’s where this gesture comes in. You can send gratitude across a room, a field, or a highway. And you can be sure it’s received.

In a world that’s gotten too quick to complain and too slow to appreciate, this campaign brings back something we’ve lost — simple, visible gratitude. It doesn’t cost a thing, it doesn’t require a speech, and it reminds us that service deserves recognition, not just on holidays but every day.

The first time I saw the video, I thought, this is exactly what we need more of. Respect doesn’t go out of style, and neither does saying thank you — whether it’s with a handshake or a heartfelt gesture from afar. If you’ve ever wanted to say thanks but couldn’t quite reach them, now you can.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Thank You God! A Grandson's Miracle and a Grateful Heart

This is why parents (and grandparents) start every single day with a prayer for their kids’ safety.

Yesterday, my 16-year-old grandson Nate, who lives with us, was in a car accident. Not just a little fender bender either. The car ended up upside down in the middle of the road. Yes, upside down. Like a turtle. A very crumpled, steel turtle.

Nate was driving. Thank the good Lord for seatbelts because aside from some soreness in his chest from the belt doing its job, and some cuts and bruises on his hand from trying to punch out the window to get out—he’s okay. Shaken, yes. But whole.

His friend Mike, also 16, was the passenger. He ended up with a 4-inch laceration on his head that went down to the skull—just typing that gives me chills—but miraculously, there was no concussion. The doctors were amazed. So were we.

Later, the car was towed to our local garage. When we walked in the next morning, one of the guys looked up and asked, “Did anyone survive that?” That should tell you everything you need to know about the condition of the car. But God had His hand over those boys, no question.

Somewhere this morning, I imagine there’s a guardian angel nursing a migraine and asking for a quiet corner and maybe a cold compress. Because someone was definitely watching over them.

This could have gone a hundred different ways. But it didn’t. And for that, all I can say is:

Thank you, God.

(I know these pictures are hard to look at. But they tell a story of protection and mercy. Nate was driving, Mike was in the passenger seat. You can see where the roof was collapsed but leaving just enough room for their heads.)

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm