Out Our Way:  The cross and the hat

Out our way, there tends to be a certain dependable routine to most things. Even when pushing pairs on the Tiger Ridge with Charlie, after a time I sort of settled into things. Although the day may take me on a new trail over an unknown ridge or into an arroyo I had never explored before, I wasn’t too concerned because Charlie knew the country and Charlie was with me. Thus although I was treated to new vistas and even some minor adventures, nothing felt too strange. The pasture was new to me but the routine was not — and Charlie.   

As most of you know, I am riding a new trail these days. Well, at lest one I haven’t ridden in many years. My son Nathaniel and I have relocated to western Colorado to the community where my boys grew up. My youngest never left the area and so for the first time since the ex-wife decided to leave some five years ago, a place where there will be family holidays again.  

Yet even so, Havre was and is my home town. I know the roads and the people and the places. Its trails are familiar to me. And although I see and believe this move to Colorado is the best for me and my remaining family, it has become strange country. The old trails are gone or changed so that I barely recognize them. I get lost easily for this city is huge compared to even Great Falls. I have hung up my chaps, rope, hat, scarf and boots in a special section of my huge new closet — for they are out of place here in the city.  (Of course, I didn’t wear them in downtown Havre either — but having them in the mud room comforted me.  No mud rooms in an apartment complex — nor mud for that matter.) It is a world I once knew but had forgotten, filled with round-abouts, stop lights and four-lane traffic on even the side roads!  

My son noted how anxious I am when taking long, life changing trips — and at 35 it is not a big deal. At 70, it is. The days of adventure, when I moved and traveled cross country several times. From college in Indiana to Colorado — from Colorado to Princeton, from Princeton to Montana, from Montana to Wyoming, from Wyoming to South Dakota, from South Dakota to western Colorado, from western Colorado to Indiana, from Indiana back to Montana, and now from Montana to western Colorado once again.  As a kid my folks moved us four times in California and Oregon and back to California — and then finally to Illinois.

I had thought Lee Marvin’s song in “Paint Your Wagons” — “I Was Born Under a Wandering Star” — was my song. But over time, the moving gets old and the desire to settle down becomes stronger.  I was and am ready to just stay put — but God seemed to want me to move on — and just like those bawling cow/calf units and various bulls I pushed up on the Tiger, I was reluctant to move, but I did it.

Unlike those calves, cows, and bulls I herded out of their comfort zones to the green pasture and still waters of the new grazing grounds which awaited them, I “know” in a sense that my Herder really is looking after me. I “bawled” in my head all the way from Havre to Butte, Butte to Salt Lake, and Salt Lake to Grand Junction, Colorado. Yet somewhere inside there was a voice that said, “O ye of little faith, am I not with you?”   

Time and time again, my worst nightmares and fears about the move proved fruitless. There were  wrecks on the Interstate  and cars broke down — but we were able to just keep rolling. “A thousand shall fall at thy left hand and ten thousand at thy right but it shall not come near you.”) And so it was, obstacles came and went but God got us though them all. I slept poorly at times because I worried about this or that — and the words “O ye of little faith, am I not with you?”  

Over 45 years of pastoral ministry and training and here I am bawling in fear (inside anyway) like a yearling calf being moved to new pasture.  He or she doesn’t know who I am — or why I am forcing the herd to move.  It is simply my will against theirs — and Doc backing my play made it clear who was in charge. (Even the bulls tended to be cautious about Doc.) Well, no one expects more from a steer, calf, cow or bull, but what is my excuse? 

“Have I been with you all this time and you still do not know Me?” Finally, on the third day and getting through very heavy traffic in Salt Lake, I finally began to relax. I finally began to understand that I was not a cow to be herded before the Lord, but a saddle pard to be guided. Christ was not pushing me as a herder, but riding beside me like Charlie to help, guide and encourage. 

Even as green as I was when I started out, I knew Charlie was there beside me to help me, guide me and keep me safe. There were times I was scared, I confess — but even when Charlie had to ride over the ridge to turn a few strays, I knew he was still there and would not desert me. If I got into trouble, Charlie would come and help me out.  That was the image Christ gave me on that last day as my nerves and anxiety were reaching an all time overload.

“Remember how Charlie was always there — even when he was on the other side of the ridge? Well, I am always with you in the same way, even when I seem to be gone.  O ye of little faith, have I been with you all these years and you still do not know me?”

I have a silver cross I used to wear with my preaching robe and again with my collar when the robe seemed out of place and too formal for the connection I had with my beloved church family.

Now I have Charlie’s hat which he gave me before he died. The cross symbolizes and reminds me of Christ — but now so does Charlie’s hat. Along with my chaps, rope, scarf and boots, Charlie’s hat reminds me that Christ, like Charlie, is my pard — and like Charlie, will never give up or abandon me no matter what a greenhorn I may be.

“I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” I have a cross and a hat to remind me of that.

——

Brother John Bruington and Doc will continue to keep in touch on Facebook and in the Havre Daily News as long as the Boss allows it. And [email protected] remains the way to connect if you’ve a mind to.