My father was a dairy farmer.  He milked cows twice a day until he was seventy. I’ve chosen to persevere in doing other things, but I think I inherited a strong streak of determination from my father.

In a few days I’ll commemorate his birthday.  He passed away a year and a half ago at the age of 85.

Apart from the long hours he spent in the barn, there are few images of my father as indelibly imprinted in my memory as that of him whistling for his cows.  When they were pasturing in a field within earshot of him, he would whistle for them to come to the barn in the morning and evening for milking and feeding.  Even through the gloom of an early morning or the murk of a foggy evening, when he let loose with his distinctive two-note whistle—a perfect fifth rising from D# to A#– the herd would pick up their heads from grazing and head for the barn at a brisk pace, knowing they would find a scoop or two of Shur-Gain Dairy Ration waiting for them in their mangers.

I’ve adopted my father’s whistle for a variety of purposes, the same two-tone whistle.  I use it to call our dog to return to us when we are exercising him off-leash in the park.  In that case, you could say I’ve simply applied it to a different branch of animal husbandry, but what about this—I also use it to signal to my wife when we’re separated in a crowd.  How demeaning, you might say—but it’s much more effective on a crowded subway platform than yelling, “Hey, Judy!  I’m over here”, because the final, forceful note easily pierces the clamour of a hundred voices.  I’ve also found the whistle useful on hiking trails like the section of the Appalachian Trail that we traversed last summer.  I’m a couple of inches taller than Judy and my stride is a little longer than hers, so it is easy for me to get 50 or 100 feet ahead of her.  When the undergrowth and bends in the trail prevent me from seeing her, I’ll whistle to reassure her that I’m not far away.

While we must be prepared to act and intervene when and where we can, we are likely to stray off course unless we listen for the Father’s whistled perfect fifth, sounding “Come home.”

But most of all, I hold on to the image of my father whistling for his cows as a metaphor for our Heavenly Father summoning us home to the peace and security that we find with him.  It is so easy for us who are trying to find our way through the conflicting demands and perplexing issues of this age to lose our bearings.  We are eager to serve, eager to confront gross injustices like human trafficking and violent abuse of children, wishing we could find solutions to humanitarian crises like the famine in South Sudan, and not always aware of our frailties and limitations.  Our energy is easily dissipated in a multitude of worthy causes unless we submit to the centering influence of God. While we must be prepared to act and intervene when and where we can, we are likely to stray off course unless we listen for the Father’s whistled perfect fifth, sounding “Come home.”

Lord and master –
like my mortal father, who
whistled his herd in from the field
for milking and feeding, call me
through the fog I’ve gathered around myself,
call me ever
to your shelter, my rest.

© 2017 Edwin G. Wilson