The Day One Steer Would Die
By Kathryn Taylor
I knew this day would come. And, even though I knew, it did not make it any easier to bear.
Homer, our Holstein steer, came to our farm at one week old. We were raising him for meat. We were not to give him a name or make him a pet, but we did. His childish antics, romping around the barnyard, kicking his legs into the air, made us all laugh. When the kids swam in the pond, he stole their clothes. He hung out with our goats, because he was the only cow on the farm. Several months later, we bought a Holstein heifer named Holly. When we led her into the barnyard, Homer took one look at her and went crazy. He ran, turned and snorted, came close, and ran away again. If he could have talked, I am sure he would have said, "Man, what kind of goat are you? I've never seen one like you before!"
Little did he know, he looked just like her. They became inseparable.
He is two years old now and today is the day. The butcher is here. The time has come. He has to be killed at our farm where he is not afraid, so his meat will be tender. I warn the younger children to go inside and not watch if they think it will upset them. One child went inside. One went to watch, as if he were going to dissect a frog in biology class. The others were somewhere in between, not watching, yet close enough to see. I, on the other-hand, headed for the barnyard to distract Holly and the goats and to comfort them, or maybe, to ask them to comfort me.
I hear the gunshot. I feel the thud as Homer hits the ground. The sound of the hoist screeches in my ears as they raise him up in the air to drain the blood from his lifeless body. Tears well up in my eyes because good-byes are never long enough or good enough to fill the void of being gone.
By the time the whole process was over, all of my family was there watching, except me. I just knew that I could not be there. For if I saw the process between him being "my Homer" and him becoming my freezer full of meat, I knew I would never be able to accept what he came to us for.
This emotional time awakened within me the strife we live in with our adopted children. The nine-year old twins were with us for a year before we adopted them. They eagerly called us Mom and Dad from the second day they were with us. They fit perfectly into our family. Regretfully, their adoption began a journey on our own personal "Trail of Tears". They suffer from Reactive Attachment Disorder.
Most of the time the twins believe they hate us. They believe I am a bad mother. They believe the only way they can be happy is to be with the mom and dad who neglected them and did horrible things to them. They believe our family is the only thing standing in their way. We know this because they tell us all the time.
Losing Homer today has triggered in me all the pain I have harbored in the dream I have had for these precious children. Trying to love them, has been as painful as it would have been to look into Homer's eyes when the butcher pulled the trigger. Most every day of my life as their mother, feels like being forced to watch them slit Homer's throat, skin his body, and quarter his flesh. How I wish the butchering process did not take so long. I love them so much, yet I can not seem to find a way to keep them from slowly dying before my eyes. It's as if God has said, "They are to be killed at home, where their hearts will be made tender." Are we parents the butchers; taking on the task to help them become what it is they are destined to be? Is there any other means to transform these hurting children into loving adults?
With Homer, I could just look away and wait for it to be over. However, with the twins, I have to be there. I have to watch. I have to help cut the skin away, saw through bone and flesh, and share in the work. God will not allow me to run away and hide in the barnyard. He will not allow me to give up....
Sometimes, it is hard to be with friends, family, and acquaintances. Most people misinterpret what is going on in our family. They act like "emotional vegetarians". Either they don't understand why we put ourselves through this turmoil or they pity the children. They think that our distancing ourselves from them is a lack of our love for them. People understood my staying away from Homer was because I had gotten too attached; I let myself care too much. But, when I'm stand-offish from my children, people think it is because I do not love them. Why can't they see? I am only the butcher, doing that job so few will do. I am the one preparing them, tenderizing them, loving them, sacrificing for them.
I survive each day awaiting those rare times when the twins love this family, think we are good parents, want to be with us, and know that we love them. I cherish the memories of these times, like the silly stories of Homer, the calf. I long for the day when there may be a glimpse of a reward for all the pain we've endured to help these kids become mature loving people, far more than we look forward to a freezer full of meat.
God bless the beasts and the children.
