I was going out of town for a few days. Thanks to a recent frost, all my grass is brown. Brown grass is not very nutritious. It’s like cereal: filling, but not much energy. I’ve put out protein tubs, and I feed my cows several times a week, but while I was gone, I knew they would need more.

My friends, the Lowders, grow the best hay in these parts (in Florida, the best hay is grown on the Buckhorn Ranch. Message me for details). But feeding hay is expensive. I try to hold off as long as possible, but not too long. As the old-timers say, “No one made money in the cow business starving their cows.”  I’ll start feeding hay in earnest in a few weeks, but for now, I just needed one bale. For one bale, there’s no need to hook up the trailer. It’s a tight squeeze, but one bale will fit in the back of my truck.

I pulled up to Lowder’s barn and signaled to my friend I needed one bale. He loaded it, then got out to talk to me for a minute. We had a good visit, and then he slammed the tailgate shut.

I’ve had trouble with the tailgate on my truck. It's not surprising since I have slammed it with gooseneck trailers, backed it into trees, and had my bull, Happy, headbutt it trying to get to the feed. Sometimes, I have to push it in to unlatch it. Right before the tailgate slammed shut, I thought of saying, “Stop!”  But I figured it really wasn’t any problem. I was wrong.

When I got back to the pasture to unload the hay, I lifted the tailgate handle. Nothing happened. I pushed on it, like usual. Still nothing. I leaned on it with all my weight. Nothing. It was then I remembered my high school physics: a six-hundred-pound bale of hay exerts a force greater than a two-hundred seventy-five-pound man. 

The cows were already gathered around my truck, pulling tufts of hay over the side. I opened my toolbox and went to work. First, the farmer’s favorite tool: WD40. I sprayed it all over. I tried to open it again and again; nothing. I got out a crowbar. I pried one corner, then another. Nothing. I was starting to bend metal and that did not seem like a good idea.

Not all ideas are good ideas. I got the idea to drive my crowbar into the bale, then hook my tow strap to a tree and pull the bale over the tailgate. Problem: I only had one crowbar. I remembered there were some metal fence posts in the barn. I got one, drove it into the bale, and hooked up the tow strap around the tree. The crowbar held. The metal fence post bent. Cheap import. 

Since that didn’t work, I decided to wrap the strap around the bale to see if it would hold enough to get the bale out. Once the tow strap was arranged correctly, I eased forward. I could see the bale starting to move. This was going to work! 

It did, but not in the intended way. I heard metal screeching and felt the thud of the hay bale. Success, but I had a feeling something was amiss. 

Again, I should have paid more attention in high school physics. When a six-hundred-pound hay bale in motion meets a defective tailgate mechanism, the hay bale wins. My tailgate was twisted like a piece of licorice. 

The cows, however, were very happy. They tore into the hale bale, happy to eat something nutritious. Strangely, I was happy too. I got the hay bale out of my truck.

When I took my truck to the body shop, my friend Billy (my body shop man and I are on a first-name basis) took one look and said, “You did it this time.”  He says that every time. The tailgate was beyond being straightened. It would have to be replaced, along with a taillight I hadn’t noticed. I don’t know the final cost yet, but it will be more than the cost of that hay bale.

Hay bale + truck repairs = hundreds.

No matter how much our false wisdom twists up and wrecks our lives, Jesus says you are worth whatever it costs to straighten you out. You are worth so much; I came to earth, lived in a human body, died on a cross, and rose again so your life could work the way God intended it to work. 

We don’t have to count the cost of straightening ourselves out. He already paid the bill.