Goat-Level Love

There are mornings when the world feels like a dryer full of bricks. Everything tumbling loudly around at high heat. Headlines hollering, people digging trenches where gardens ought to be, everybody certain they alone possess the sacred laminated instruction manual for humanity. And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, you still have to remember to drop off kids, feed the pup, buy coffee filters, answer emails and keep your soul from turning into an old motel ashtray.

Still, there are things you can count on. Not many, maybe. But enough.

There are people out there quietly holding the whole busted thing together with duct tape, casseroles, handshakes, borrowed trailers, badly timed jokes, extra tomatoes from the garden, and the kind of kindness that never makes the evening news because apparently outrage photographs better than decency.

And goats. Especially goats.

I pass this little family farm almost every day on my way home from just about everywhere. One of those places that feels stitched into the landscape rather than built on it. Fences a little crooked. Barn leaning just enough to suggest experience. The kind of place that smells like hay and mud and whatever honest work smells like when nobody’s trying to brand it.

When our daughter was little, I used to stop there with her so we could feed the goats. We named them, naturally, because children believe every creature deserves both a snack and a backstory. And of course, they aren’t wrong.

The goat people - saints among us, really - had installed an old mailbox upright near the fence with GOAT TREATS stenciled on the side. Like some kind of rural sacrament dispenser. And somehow, no matter when we stopped, there were always treats inside waiting for strangers, tired parents, and little girls who needed a reset button after hard days.

Those goats always came running when she called them. Not gracefully either. Goats do not glide. They wobble toward you like tiny drunk uncles at a wedding reception. It was impossible not to laugh.

And the thing is - it always worked.

Whatever had gone sideways that day. Whatever tears or frustrations or fears had climbed into the car with us. Something about feeding goats beside a dirt road in southeast Michigan could interrupt the whole downward spiral long enough for life to start over again.

Which, honestly, is most of what grace is.

This morning, after a lousy night’s sleep, some early drop-offs and way too much thinking before breakfast, I drove past the farm and caught myself smiling. The kind of smile that shows up before you’ve officially agreed to it. So I turned the car around.

Sat down on the bench by the side of the dirt road. And sure enough, out from the barn - maybe a hundred yards away - came the goats. Like a reunion tour nobody advertised.

They waddled all the way over to me, full of purpose and absolutely no dignity whatsoever.

Turns out they didn’t care much about the treats this morning. Maybe they’d already had breakfast. Maybe they’re evolving emotionally. But they definitely wanted scratches behind the ears and along their backs, and whatever goat equivalent exists for somebody saying, “Hey buddy, glad you’re here.”

So I scratched goats beside a dirt road while the world continued doing whatever anxious circus act it’s currently committed to.

And sitting there, I started thinking about all the selfless things people and animals do to make life bearable for one another. The unnoticed offerings. The tiny mercies. The mailbox full of goat treats somebody keeps refilling for children and older folks they’ll probably never meet. The musician who keeps making beautiful things in hard times. The passer-by who stops to help dig out a flooded culvert. The friend who reaches out at exactly the right moment. The people who keep showing up without needing applause for it.

The world may be a mess right now. Lord knows it is. But it is also still full of small, stubborn love.

Goat-level love.

The kind that waddles all the way across a field just because you showed up.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed my goat fix and reminder this morning. But I know this: I can start again now.

And I think it’s going to be a better day today. I hope so for you, too.