“I think I just killed him.” Dad stared in horror at my limp body.
Mom, Uncle Darin and my siblings all ran to the edge of the pen, looks of
terror on their faces. My skull ached, and stabs of pain shot from my neck as I
slumped off of my head. Flash back thirty minutes to the car pulling up to the
sunbaked corral.
The noonday sun blanketed the earth,
shrinking shadows to small black dots. Inside the corral stood the champion.
Roughly 600 pounds of muscle bulged black and white hide stood, ready to take
on any challengers. Or at least to my nine-year-old eyes it was. The cow looked
up as it heard the laughter and joking from my family as they piled out of our
mini-van. My Uncle Darin pulled up in his big burgundy truck, a silly grin
pasted on to his face. In his hand was a long blue rope, tied into a bowline
knot; a cow-head sized loop dangling at the end. He called to my brother and
me.
“What I need from you both is to go
into that corral and heard all the cows out through the gate. Leave the best
one in there, and try to get this rope around its neck. Once you get all extras
into the next corral, shut the gate and we can get started.”
It must have been a silly sight,
watching two boys adding up to maybe a hundred pounds running around trying to
scare a bunch of cows five to seven times their combined size. The cows thought
it was pretty funny as well and didn’t take the slightest of interest in our
efforts. Eventually we managed to get one cow cornered, and with a whole lot of
luck managed to get a rope around her neck. Dad and Uncle Darin came into the
corral at this point, and with a lot more effort, we managed to get the roped
cow isolated. Now the fun began.
First up was Ellie. Mom glared at Dad
as he held onto the back of her pants as she “rode” the cow. At three years
old, her instincts were strong enough to know that it would be bad if she fell,
so we all got a laugh seeing her scream and hold on for dear life as the cow
pranced around the hard-pressed manure. As
the cow picked up its speed, Dad lifted her off to avoid the sting of falling
four feet onto the hard dung.
Derrik was not as lucky. As a strong, independent seven year old,
he didn’t need the supporting grip of his father. Unfortunately his landing
wasn’t as smooth as his sister’s. After a few seconds of prancing around, the
cow was successful in shaking my brother off its back and onto the ground.
Derrik landed on his side, smacking his head onto the concrete like surface. He
blinked the stars out of his vision as my dad and uncle laughed, remembering
all the times they had done the same thing as children. Here they were, passing
on a family tradition to their posterity. Their laughter intensified as Derrik
picked some of the small bits of dried cow crap out of his shirt and hair. Even
Mom stopped her worrying for an instant as I dove around trying to grab the
rope tied to the cow as it ran around evading its next rider.
Eventually I caught the rope and
attempted to drag the massive animal to my dad and uncle. Moments like these
were what I looked forward to every year when my family made its annual trip
back to the farm. My dad still referred to this place as home, and tried every
year to give us the kind of childhood experiences he had had growing up here.
The farm was full of mystery and adventure. I remember bonfires at the river
under the train bridge, aluminum foil boat races in the drainage ditches,
driving the four-wheelers and gaiters around, always looking for new places to
explore. This cow riding was introduced last year, and was a huge success for
Derrik and me. What is cooler than being a bull-rider? Maybe we weren’t
bull-riders, but it was still pretty cool to be atop an animal 10 times my
size, using all my strength to hold on. I had been waiting all year to go
again. Last year I lasted six seconds before falling to a hard defeat. This
year I had more ambition. I was going to go a full eight seconds, just like the
bull-riders on TV.
As my dad and uncle held the cow in
place, I jumped onto the back of the beast. My legs felt like they were in the
splits as I straddled the cows bare back, holding onto the rope until my
knuckles turned white. As my family let go, I felt a rush of adrenalin and knew
this was my time.
“One,” yelled Dad as the cow took off.
I grinned from ear to ear as the cow ran sporadically through the corral, my
head down in concentration as the numbers climbed closer and closer to my goal.
“Two, Three, Four, Five.” I began to slip off the side as the cow turned, but
somehow managed to keep my place on its back. “Six, Seven, Eight!” I heard my
goal yelled out from across the pen. I looked up just in time to see the cow
darting straight for a cast-iron fence. With my goal met, I confidently started
to shift my weight off to the side and release my grip to prepare for a quick
getaway before I was slammed into the fence.
As I committed to the jump, I felt a
sudden change underneath me. Instead of a level back, suddenly I felt a wall of
flesh bucking up through me. With my weight shifted and the rope not in my
grip, I experienced the delight of weightlessness as my body flew through the
sky. I watched as my world went upside down as I flipped over five to six feet
in the air, and then saw the sky start to get farther and farther away. I heard
my mom’s shriek as the back of my neck made contact with the hard earth, and my
body crumpled over.
I honestly can’t remember much of what
followed. All I know is that it involved a lot of pain, and yelling, and that I
spent the next few hours lying down in my grandmother’s bed. In the middle of
all of the fog, I can clearly remember one thing. My dad looking down at me,
his usually strong confident facial expression replaced with one of concern. He
cleared his cleared his throat and said, “Dalton, you have my permission to
never listen to Uncle Darin or me on the farm again.” As the days went by and
my body started to feel normal again, I could see a shift in the way he treated
my siblings and me. Though we still did fun things, my dad no longer tried to
push us to the limit. He started using words like “be careful,” and “that’s
risky.” Though we might have missed out on some of the more fun things to do on
the farm, we were able to see the care our father had for us, and knew of his
love.
One year latter, back on that same
farm, things seemed pretty normal. Derrik and I were still having bonfires with
the cousins, still driving the four-wheelers and gaiters, just like before. But
this time, when Derrik asked me to help him take the four-wheeler off a rickety
homemade jump, I thought of the risks involved. We ended up driving off the
jump, but not before I said, “Maybe we should think about the landing part
too.”
Bytheway's book is all about testimony. He tries to help people understand the testimony that they already have, as well as help those who don't yet have a testimony to gain one. His acronym FEEL, feelings, experiences, evidences, and logic helps people to look at their life and see the testimony that they have developed. The book shows the different levels of conversion, such as I don't believe, I doubt, I wonder, I desire to believe, I believe, and I know. Bytheway shares the methods of going from one step to the other, and helping individuals gain stronger testimonies. 
