Out past the fence, stretching across our fields, the grass is almost ready to graze.
Almost.
This is the part of spring that tests me.
The fields are a gorgeous sea of green right now. The cattle can see it. They want it desperately. And so do I. I’m ready for the rhythm of grazing season—the cows moving through fresh paddocks, the farm feeling fully alive again.
But here’s the thing: each blade of grass is like a tiny solar panel. The more surface area it has, the more sunlight it can capture, and the more exponential the growth becomes. That early growth is everything.
If I put the cattle out too soon, they’ll graze it right back to nothing. And then instead of building momentum, we spend the entire season trying to recover what we lost in those first few weeks.
So we wait.
A little patience now—for the cows, the sheep, the goats, the pigs. And, if I’m honest, for me most of all.
It’s a strange tension this time of year. Everything looks ready. Everything feels ready. But it isn’t quite.
And that waiting—when you can see what’s coming but can’t step into it yet—that’s the hard part.
Lately I’ve been thinking about a line from Psalm 23: “He makes me lie down in green pastures.”
I used to read right past “makes me.” But not anymore.
Because sometimes we wouldn’t choose to wait.
Sometimes we’d rush the season, take what looks ready, and deal with the consequences later. But good grazing—and maybe a lot of other things in life too—doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes we are made to slow down. Made to hold back. Made to trust that there’s a bigger picture we can’t fully see yet.
From where I stand, the fields look ready. But from above—taking in the whole system, the whole season—they’re still building toward something better.
So for now, the cattle stay in the lot eating hay.
The grass keeps growing.
And we wait for the right moment to begin.
Because when we do turn them out, it won’t just be green—it will be ready.
