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The Manure Story
by Bruce Hildebrandt
My grandparents owned a dairy farm in Tofield Alberta. As a child, I enjoyed our regular visits, the 
sweet smell of fresh hay in the loft of the old, fading red barn, the cackle of the chickens competing for feed, the roar of the tractors as they seemingly shook the ground.
Although they farmed grain, their focus was dairy. Inside my grandpa’s barn were a row of stalls where the cows lined up at milking time. Since cows aren’t “house- broken” a trough had strategically been crafted into the floor at the tail end of the cows in order to collect their ‘deposits”. At the end of each day’s milking my grandfather would shovel the soupy mess into a wheelbarrow and then take it out to deposit it on the manure pile.
Now the manure pile was a forbidden place for us country kids. It usually emitted a musty, earthy, putrid odor that in itself was a deterent. In the summer the smell dimished as the pile would develop a hard dry crust, a hard dry crust that disguised a gooey vile filling.
One summer afternoon our extended family was gathered at the farm. The country and city cousins (boys) were enjoying running through the fields, navigating barbed wire, jumping off of hills, and throwing rocks 
into the dugout as ten to twelve-year-olds will do.
As we were enjoying the day someone yelled a word that brought even greater joy to our boyhood hearts. “Faasba” Okay, I’m not sure how to spell that. It’s a Mennonite, low-German word for LUNCH. Instantly we began racing from the field back to the house, and our path to the house passed… the manure pile.
As we sped past the manure pile one of the city cousins didn’t recognize it for what it was. Instead he saw a nice brown hill. I imagine him picturing himself launching from the top of the hill and soaring through the air as the other cousins stopped in their tracks and stared in awe at his physical prowess. All of us cheering and applauding his athletics. It didn’t quite work out that way.
My city cousin charged full speed at the pile. His first step hit the firm bottom edge. His second step broke through up to his knee. Then his momentum carried him chest-deep into the belly of the rancid slop.
They came running and when they got to the manure pile my uncle did something which at the time seemed strange, yet which now makes total sense to meThe other cousins stopped dead in their tracks alright, their mouths open in awe. But not in awe at him soaring through the air, rather, in awe at the depths to which he had sunk…. literally!
Soon the air was filled with his cries. He was beginning to sink. I’m sure that he was distraught not only at his initial predicament, but now at his impending doom.
I collected myself enough to sprint to the house to get my uncle and grandpa. They came running. When they got to the manure pile my uncle did something which at the time seemed strange, yet which now makes total sense to me. My uncle waded straight into the filth, wrapped his arms around his sobbing son, pulled him out, and knelt holding him until the crying stopped and quietness returned.
Today I understand the actions of my uncle as reflective of the actions of God our Father.. There are those times in life where we feel like we’re up to our necks in ……………. manure , and we’re sinking. There seems no ready way out. We become frantic, confused, stressed, even panicked. Our circumstances are overwhelming,and we cry out. It’s in the middle of that that God our Father comes and wades into that filth in order to save us. Then He just holds us and ministers peace, grace, love, and healing. He assures us that things will be okay, that He is there, that we aren’t alone.
I know that some of you are going through employment fears, family crisises, and many other challenges, situations that feel a lot like being neck-deep in …………... manure. Know that God is there and He is with you in the midst of what you’re going through. He longs for you to know His presence and comfort. Don’t hesitate to cry out to Him.