As the name would imply, tractors are driven to school.  At the end of the school day, there is a tractor parade by the elementary school.  Jamie said that the elementary children were jumping up and down and cheering with the sort of enthusiasm city people see only at the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade.

In the coming weeks, I have asked several pastors to introduce us to their churches.

This week is one of my favorite pastors and church in my favorite place on planet earth (in the GSOI).  This is the church my mother attends and Mike Mosier is one of the pastors I most look up to and aspire to be like.  He is a faithful servant.

Make no mistake: faithful churches like this one are the backbone of our country.

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Tell us where your church is at geographically and give us your web site.

Zion Bible Church is located on Highway 16, about two miles northeast of Douds (a village of approximately 250 residents), Iowa.  Our entire county (Van Buren) is very rural, very agrarian, and has a total population of around 7,500 people.  We are situated in the extreme northwest corner of the county.  What is a web site?  (I intended that question to be funny–we don’t have a web site.)

How long have you been the pastor there?

This October I will celebrate my twentieth year as pastor of Zion Bible Church.

Tell us about your family.

In 1970, while serving in the military with the USAF, I received a duty assignment to Taiwan.  That’s where I met my wife to be.  We were married in 1971.  We have a son who is thirty-four and married with two children, and a daughter who is thirty-seven and married with no children.  My wife and I will celebrate our 39th year of marriage in March.  Zion Bible Church has been a blessing to us.  We love our church family and we both thank God for His work in our lives and marriage.  In all honesty, we love each other, and we enjoy our life together.

What is the theological or denominational heritage of your church? Has that identity changed?

Originally, our church was a Lutheran Church.  In 1963, the congregation decided that they wanted the authority to call their own pastors.  Action was taken to sever ties with the Lutheran denomination, and they became a Bible Church.

There is no other pastoral staff.

Briefly, what is your approach to preaching? Do you topical series? Book by book?

I have done both topical and “through the book” preaching.  Currently, I am preaching a series based on Galatians 5:22-26 I’m simply calling “The Fruit of the Spirit.”

What style of music do you use as a part of your worship service?

We take a blended approach to our music ministry.  I usually play my guitar and lead the first song, selecting a fairly contemporary song.  Our song leader then takes over and leads the congregation in a couple of hymns selected from our hymnal.

Why should someone who lives in your area and is looking for a church home think about visiting your church?

A person in our area should visit our church because we want to love them through the empowerment of the Holy Spirit of God.   We want to speak the truth to them in love so that they can know the wonder of deliverance from the bondage of sin and the joy of becoming a disciple of Jesus Christ.  Our mission statement is to love God, love others, and serve the world, and we welcome others to join us.  The bottom line is this: we believe the Bible, and we want to live the Bible.   Through God’s work in our lives, we want to show others who God is.  We pray and believe that if a person visits Zion Bible Church, he or she will come into contact with God’s truth and God’s love.

Tell us about one memory or incident from your church in which you believe God was glorified and you and your flock experienced joy.

In regard to an incident when our congregation experienced joy, there are so many!  One of our favorite memories is this: Lehr and Lola Nedrow, dedicated and delightful followers of Jesus and members of Zion Bible Church had two daughters.  The older married and had a son and a daughter, and the younger daughter married and had a son and a daughter.   The family was very close and gathered at their grandparents’ home quite frequently.

As the two sons grew into their teen years, they both made horrible choices.  The son of the younger daughter gained a reputation for rampant rebellion–drinking, partying, speeding, womanizing, and all the rest–and was in trouble with the authorities frequently.  The son of the older daughter following graduation moved to Florida, at least in part to put some distance between himself and those that he had so deeply disappointed.

The younger son continued in his immoral lifestyle…until the premature death of his father.  That got him to thinking about the example of his grandfather and grandmother and what he had been taught in Sunday School as a little boy.  Our church reached out to him and this young man repented of his sin and placed his faith in Jesus Christ.  We immediately began to see the kind of change that one would expect to see in a true conversion experience.

Our congregation rejoiced–and we continue to rejoice.  By the way, you might be wondering about the son of the older daughter.  He turned to Jesus, too.  Lehr and Lola Nedrow are now with the Lord, but during the time of their grandchildren’s rebellion, they prayed like crazy.  Our congregation prayed like crazy (well, that might be a bit of an over-statement, but we prayed).  All four of this dear couple’s grandchildren are now walking closely with the Lord.  Praise God!  Our Lord was glorified and we experienced great joy!  And it continues.

God bless you and your flock at Stillman Valley!

Michael Mosier/Zion Bible Church

“Let’s go home for Christmas.”  This is an airy phrase, a soap bubble of an idea that drifts into our minds in early December, more and more brightly as we grow older, with memories of earlier Christmases, the old house, the folks, the home town.

The idea hits me almost every year, and I begin to pack for my home town, forgetting all over again that if there is one thing harder than to make strangers believe such a town as Keosauqua, Iowa, exists, it is to get there.  Trains and planes and buses avoid it, and typical Corn Belt blizzards have a way of swooping down from the North Pole to glaze the roads between Keosauqua and the towns that do have such exotic forms of getting places. . .

And, the conclusion:

. . . Mrs. Ridgeway wanted us to stay and eat with them, but mother said, “”I’ve got half a turkey at home, and when the children go back East, what will I do with it?”

So, we got into the car and drove toward the changing unchanging river.  There were no sleighs on the ice tonight, but our sleigh was safe back there in the carriage house, where it has always been since 1890.  And the same stars were coming out over my home town.

I need to get into the mood, and what better way than recalling Hayden (“Scratch where it itches”) Frye’s Hawkeye victory over Michigan in 1985.

When I was nine years old, Arnold Barker bought a magnificent Black Angus bull and moved it to a farm he owned along the Des Moines River near Bentonsport, though on the Vernon side of the river.

Arnold’s purchase of the bull was significant in my world because his grandsons Steve, Brett, and Quentin lived on the farm where the bull resided. Brett, the middle of the three, was my age, and I spent a lot of time fishing with the Barker boys, and, as I’ll get to, bull fighting. In addition to the three brothers, their cousins Robert and Ryne Barker were generally available if boredom required additional creativity. But, monotony was seldom a problem. By the time Arnold brought the bull home, we were armed with bb guns and fireworks, the latter which we smuggled in from Missouri in much the same way that slaves were transported to the Pearson house in Keosauqua during the days of the Underground Railroad.

Before going further, I should point out that the Barker place was not only on a gravel road, but also back a long lane, and, therefore, by my way of thinking, outside any legal jurisdiction. Besides, the statue of limitations has surely expired getting on forty years later. At the same time, to be safe I chose to pastor in another state leaving it to Robert to deal with any legal ramifications this narrative may surface. In his defense, I would point out that, Robert was not immediately complicit in this particular episode. There is a story involving a rabbit in which Robert is directly culpable. But, that was too close to Highway 2 for me to document in print.

Back to Arnold’s bull. Despite what city people may believe, a bull is not necessarily a vicious creature. While, he would never necessarily be a pet like say a lamb, provided you supply him with three key ingredients a bull is a fine neighbor. First, a bull likes to eat. Green grass is fine, standing corn is better. But, a bull wants food and lots of it. He wants to eat at his leisure and on his own schedule.

Second, a bull, likes consenting cows. Maybe it is because he resents that most of his brothers ended up in the ranks of the steers, but any farmer knows that a good bull is as committed to procreation as any living creature. Indeed, a bull’s zealous affection for the herd is the reason a farmer bought him the first place.

Third, a bull wants respect, preferably, at least a hundred yards of it. Even while eating grass, a bull keeps one eye on the borders of his pasture with the same attitude that the nation of Israel patrols its political boundaries. Provided, you stay on your patch of earth, the bull will show up for an occasional U.N. meeting. But, if you move into a bull’s version of the West Bank, he has nuclear weapons and he will scramble his jets to drop the bomb without a second thought.

So, there you have it. If a bull has those three things (grass, cows, and respect), boys crossing a field really need not be concerned. But, if you subtract even one of these elements then things can get very tense very quickly. If two elements are missing, then battles are certain. A bull deprived of food, cows, and respect guarantees a full scale shooting war.

You know where this is going. Arnold’s bull had none of the above. For reasons I can only assume were related to the timing of the spring calf crop, the bull was confined in a corral thereby depriving him of any female companionship. While Arnold and Duane (the Barker boys’ uncle) fed him on a regular basis, the Barker bull wasn’t eating on his own terms. He was on edge.

Respect, the third ingredient, was especially lacking. Though, the Barker boys and I had several hundred acres of bottom ground to roam – -we were limited only by the Des Moines to the north and we could roam all the way to Missouri going south – - we chose to disrespect the bull. As I said, there was no reason that we needed to be anywhere near the bull, except, of course, that we knew he was edgy and lethal and this intrigued us a great deal. So, without really discussing it per se, we chose to deprive the bull of the final essential ingredient, respect. The war was on.

You can imagine how bb guns and firecrackers were involved. But, one of our favorite tactics was to get down on all fours next to the pen and yell and paw at the ground. Picture four grade school aged boys mooing and braying and taunting. Quentin, the youngest of the three was especially talented at this. For his part, the bull would put his head down and snort and paw the ground. This would go on for a minute or two before the bull would charge. Granted, there was a fence between us, but if you’ve never had 1400 pounds of enraged, snorting, bellowing beef flying at you full speed you really can’t know the thrill of it all. There is a moment just before the bull hits his side of the corral in which you realize that the fence is not going to stop him. And, for Iowa farm boys in the early 70’s, it was in this split second of sheer terror that real living actually took place.

Of course, this charging routine got old for everyone pretty quickly. The bull soon figured out that he wasn’t getting through the fence and what with all the mooing and yelling we were getting hoarse. So, there was a temporary truce, which is when, Steve, the oldest of the Barker brothers came up with the idea of a trip line. Steve was a creative and visionary leader and he theorized that if we could string a trip line across the corral, when the bull charged we would be able to raise said trip line and the then tripped bull would go somersaulting across the pen like an Olympic gymnast. We had never seen a bull go head over heels, but we all agreed it would be a spectacular sight, especially if he didn’t stick the landing.

There were a couple of design issues. We needed a strong rope. For this, we braided bailer twine together. We had to figure out how to secure the rope so that when the bull ran into it that it would remain firm. Without getting into the technical details we solved that. The only remaining challenge was that we knew we would have to actually get into the pen both to secure one end of the trip line against the side of the barn. It would also be necessary to bait the bull into charging. Given that the bull would undoubtedly maul us if given the chance, we wisely deliberated for two or three minutes before deciding to go ahead with the plan.

While one or two of us lured the bull to the other end of the coral, we took turns running across the pen to try and tie the rope. Of course, whenever the bull noticed that we were in his territory he would snort and snarl and charge. Whereas before we were on the other side of the corral, this time we had about 10 yards of running and a fence to climb. I can distinctly remember tumbling over the fence onto my head as the bull crashed into the corral.

Quentin was the last to go. Keeping in mind that he was only eight old at the time, it was understandable that he was nearly in tears from fear. But, he was more scared of his older brothers and so he went into the bull ring. No matador ever did a finer job.

Of course, in the end, the bull simply ran through the rope and was none the worse for it. We all lived for the next adventure which probably involved the creek or the hay mow or some other hazard on Arnold Barker’s farm.

I did learn something about fear in it all. There are those who insist that the scariest thing they can imagine is speaking in front of a large group of people. They’ve obviously never been chased by an enraged Black Angus bull. As a pastor, I have spoken in front of thousands and while I was a little cotton mouthed, it doesn’t compare.

Iowa farm kids grow up and by the end of Junior High, Brett Barker and I went our separate ways. Years later, Brett tragically died in a construction accident. But, his birthday was October 12 and if there is never a day that I don’t think about Keosauqua, I don’t suppose that there is ever an October 12 that I don’t think of Brett.

Rev. Dr. Chris Brauns grew up on a farm near Keosauqua. He is a pastor in Stillman Valley, IL and the author of Unpacking Forgiveness: Biblical Answers for Complex Questions and Deep Wounds. His blog is www.chrisbrauns.com .

This is how I wrote down the story for my daughter when her third grade class was learning about pigs.  I’m the one on the left.

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When I was nine years old I got to have my own pigs.  My dad let me choose three small pigs, about the size of your cocker spaniel, Mandy, for my very own.  We put them in their own building and I took care of them.  All spring and summer I carried feed and water up the hill and cleaned their pen.  When it was cold, the water would freeze on my coveralls.  And, the wire handles would dig into my fingers.  I was little and it was a long ways up the hill, so I would have to stop and rest every 10 yards or so.  But, the pigs kept growing and in July I planned to take them to the county fair.  One of my pigs was the very fattest and I thought he might win like Orville Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web.

I was so excited when it was time to go to the fair it was hard to sleep.  The man who hauled my dads pigs to market, Howard Steeples, told me that he would take my pigs in his big truck to the fairgrounds for free.  Early in the morning on fair day we loaded them up with a special ramp (a loading chute we called it) and went to the fair.  The fair was a blast.  There were places to buy candy and throw darts at balloons for prizes and even a couple of rides.  The Methodist church served meals and you could buy homemade pie.  The Jaycees sold cotton candy.  Animals were everywhere.  There were sheep, horses, cows, chickens, and, of course, lots of pigs.  Boys and girls of all ages were bringing livestock in from all over the county and their dads would help unload them and put them in special pens.  One time a cow got away.  It ran around awhile.  On the farm that would have been hard.  But, there were so many farmers to help at the fair that it was soon caught.  The kids all loved seeing their dads chase a cow with the other dads.  I still remember  one farmer with big muscles pulling on the rope when they finally caught the cow.  The rope looked like it might break.

My pigs were in their own pen and I had to wait a day or two for the big pig show.  There was a special place for the show.  They called it the show ring.  It had a roof over it, but the sides were open to the outside.  There were bleachers and people from all over our county watched like it was a baseball game.   Some of the town kids who watched Bonanza while I was doing chores were there, but they didn’t have their own pigs.  Mostly other farmers were there.  Where I lived, most people were farmers.

The show was scary.  They told us to fill out a form for my pigs with a magic marker.  I didn’t know what to put in the blanks and when I did write something down the man in charge laughed at me and said to do it again.  Your grandpa tried to help but he didn’t really know what they wanted either.  I was supposed to put down what kind of pig I had and I wasn’t even sure what kind to write.  We finally just wrote “Duroc-cross.”  Duroc is a kind of pig.  To this day, I don’t know if my pig was really a Duroc.  (The pig in the picture is a Hampshire or as farmers say, a “hamp.”)

I had taken care of many pigs but I had never done anything like this.  I was only nine.  Others showing pigs were in high school and they had special show sticks with leather handles and fancy little gates with their names painted on them.  Their dads were backing up their pickups and taking out special wooden chests with all kinds of show equipment.  I didn’t have any of that stuff and I  borrowed a show stick from someone else.   We had read in a book how to clean our pigs and make them look nice.  But, I was nervous that we did it the wrong way or that I might mess up in the ring.  Your grandpa helped me get my pigs over to the show ring, but I had to do the rest by myself.

At first, it was confusing.  I felt like everyone was looking at me saying, “that kid doesn’t know what he’s doing.”  There were many pigs and other boys and girls running around the ring.  Cows and horses can be trained to stand in one place.  Pigs run all over.  Soon, I was so busy keeping track of my pigs that I forgot about being scared.  It was a good thing.  Some of the pigs were mean and I had to watch out.  I couldn’t kick the pigs because they weren’t mine.  I didn’t have a fancy little gate.  But, when other pigs came around to bother mine I would put my knees together right in front of them and stand my ground just like I did in your grandpa’s barn and they would go away.  Other kids, even bigger ones, were a little scared.  But, I knew what to do.  Your grandparents weren’t worried one bit.  They knew I could handle pigs even though I was only nine.  I did it all the time on our farm.

The judge was a woman and she inspected our pigs like they were in the Miss America Pageant.  She looked them up and down and walked around so she could see them from different sides.  She didn’t smile or make faces.  I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.  It seemed like we showed our pigs for hours but it was probably only a little bit.  Finally, she took a microphone and told all the people what she liked and didn’t like about all the pigs in the ring.  I felt kind of bad because she didn’t like my pigs.  She thought they were so bad that I had to leave the ring first.  Over the microphone, she said that my biggest pig was too fat.  I thought pigs were supposed to be fat!  She said that one of my other pigs (the one we thought was the best) had short front legs.  One of the older boys had the grand champion.  My throat felt really tight and my face was red.  I tried hard not to blink because I knew there would be tears in my eyes if I did.  I had carried all those buckets of water and feed up the hill; these were the best pigs from our farm.  It was hard not to cry when someone said they weren’t very good.

Just when I thought everything was over, I heard my name over the loudspeaker.  A high school girl and I were finalist for the showmanship award.  I didn’t even know there was a showmanship award.  Someone had to tell me.  It was given to the person who did the best job showing pigs.  This meant that the two of us got to show our pigs in front of everyone in a contest to see who would do better.  It seemed like everyone from my little town was watching.  Many of my dads farmer friends were there; they wore seed corn caps and leaned up against the fence watching.  One truck driver named Sam Jones always smoked a corn-cob pipe.  He was there.  Boys from my 4H club looked between the boards of the fence; feed salesman and auctioneers and men from the sale barn were all there.  Your grandmother and aunts sat in the bleachers.   Everyone watched to see who would be better at showing their pigs, me or this other girl.

I wasn’t scared by this time.  There was just too much to do.  I had three pigs in the ring and the other girl had three pigs as well.  We were supposed to keep them separate, but one of the other girls pigs tried to go to my side of the ring.   I wasn’t too rough, but I put my knees together and wouldn’t let the other pig get through.  I can still remember that moment even today.  The other pig stopped and went back.

Finally the judge told us that we could stop.  She said that the other girl did a nice job, but I was the winner.  I had done the best job showing pigs of anyone in the whole county.  I got a special ribbon and my picture was in our county paper right there with the grand champion pig and some of the other boys who won.

There is a copy of the picture below.  I don’t know what happened to all the boys in the picture.  The smallest boy on the right is Ricky Greenfield.  He is an eye doctor now.  The boy next to him with the number shirt on is his cousin Brian Caves.  He is a farmer and goes to your grandma’s church.  Can you tell which one I am?

Later that year there was an awards banquet at the Roberts Building on the fairgrounds on the edge of our little town.  All the special awards from the fair were given out.  When the ceremony began, I could look up at the stage and there were rows of trophies.  I wondered if I would get one of those trophies.  Finally, it was time for the showmanship award.  The man who announced me as the winner was the same one who laughed at me when I made the sign wrong.  He hadn’t really meant to hurt my feelings.  He just didn’t know that I was scared.  Anyway, this time he didn’t laugh.  When he called my named he said, “Chris is the youngest to ever one this award.”  I got a trophy and I still have it today.  Your grandparents were there.

In a Des Moines Register article, this author reflects on whether or not his hometown will survive.  John Carlson writes that it appears grim.

There’s no convenient nearby hill to which the town can “relocate.” It may well cease to exist. That would be a very tough thing for the people who fled from Oakville Saturday and for the thousands who grew up here and scattered around the world.

You can move away from Oakville. But it always will be our home.

And, while, not all small towns are threatened by floods, many are struggling to keep their identity.  Just as Oakville struggles against the practical issues of living in a flood plain, other small towns struggle with declining rural population and a move to urban areas.  Oakville’s current dilemma pictures the plight of towns all over America.

A lot is at stake: a way of life, communities, identity.

Maybe it isn’t pragmatic for Oakville to rebuild, but, being from a small town, I hope they do.

You can read the story here.