Weather You Can't Change

Most ranchers we know start the day the same way. Before the coffee’s even done, they’re standing on the porch or leaning on the truck, looking at the sky.

They’re reading it. Which way the wind’s coming from. Whether those clouds over the ridge are the kind that build or the kind that blow past. Whether it’s a good day to move cattle, or a day to stay close and check water. It’s an old habit, and a smart one. You want to know what’s coming.

But here’s the funny part. Every one of them knows, deep down, that no amount of squinting at the sky ever moved a single cloud. The rain comes when it comes. The early freeze shows up whether you’re ready or not. The dry spell hangs on as long as it wants. You can read the weather. You can’t change it.

And somewhere along the line, a lot of us stopped just reading the sky and started carrying it around all day.

The things we can’t move

We’ll be honest: we’re worriers. Not about the weather so much as everything else. Will this month’s orders cover the bills? What if the shipment’s late? What if the thing we’re building doesn’t work out? Lying awake at two in the morning running numbers that won’t be any different by sunup.

Maybe yours looks different. A doctor’s appointment you’re dreading. A kid who’s drifting. A job that feels shaky. A bank balance that doesn’t stretch. Most of the time it’s not today that’s wearing us down. It’s next week, next month, next year — all of it piled up and dragged into this morning.

Enough for today

There’s a line Jesus said that we keep coming back to. It’s at the end of a longer stretch about not worrying — the birds that don’t store up in barns, the lilies of the field that never toil or spin and still come out dressed finer than a king. And then he lands it like this:

“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” — Matthew 6:34

The old language takes a second to sink in. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. In plain ranch talk: today’s got enough trouble of its own. You don’t have to borrow tomorrow’s.

What we like about it is how honest it is. It doesn’t promise there won’t be trouble. It flat-out says there will be — every day has its share. It just asks you to carry one day’s worth at a time. Not a week’s. Not a lifetime’s. Just today’s.

And it doesn’t mean you quit planning, either. Nobody ever told a rancher not to put up hay or not to check the forecast. Taking no thought for the morrow isn’t about being careless. It’s about doing the work in front of you, then setting down the part you can’t do anything about. Read the sky, make your plan, and then go live the day you’ve actually got.

What we’re learning

We’re still new at this faith stuff, and we haven’t beaten the worry. Not even close. But we’ve started to notice that almost nothing we lose sleep over goes the way we pictured it at two in the morning. Some of it never happens. Some of it happens and turns out smaller. And the parts that are hard, we’ve somehow had what we needed when the day actually came — not a minute before.

That’s been a quiet surprise. The strength doesn’t seem to show up early. It shows up on the day. Which might be the whole point.

The small try for the week

Here’s what we’re going to try, if you want to ride along. Each morning this week, when you catch yourself reading the sky — worrying about what’s coming — split it into two piles. In one pile, the things you can actually do something about today. In the other, the weather: everything you can’t move no matter how hard you stare at it.

Do the first pile. Then, as best you can, set the second one down. If prayer is part of your life, that’s a good place to set it. If it isn’t, just say it out loud: That one’s not mine to carry today.

Some mornings it’ll stick. Some mornings you’ll pick the whole pile right back up by lunch. We will too. That’s alright. Tomorrow you get to try again — and tomorrow can look after itself.

Pew, porch, or tailgate — wherever you’re reading this Sunday, thanks for riding along. Same time next week.

— The Sackett Ranch Family