Michael and I spent the day at the South Florida Fair. It was one of those full, sensory-rich days that fairs are known for—five miles of walking, corn dogs and funnel cake, street corn and fairy floss, spinning rides, laughter, and the hum of stock auctions echoing through the barns.

But the moment that stayed with me—the one that quietly eclipsed everything else—was witnessing the birth of a calf.

A mama Holstein labored silently in her pen as we stood just three feet away. There was no announcement, no crowd gathering in anticipation. Only presence. Only patience. Only the steady, instinctive work of bringing life into the world.

A man and his young son were assisting her, moving calmly and with respect. When the calf’s front hooves emerged, I felt tears rise immediately—not from sadness, but from awe. There is something profoundly humbling about watching life arrive without artifice, without commentary, without hurry.

At one point, the man gently wrapped small chains around the calf’s hooves, then stepped back, allowing the mama to continue on her own. She stood. She lay down. She stood again. Then she settled—hooves now fully visible right in front of us—and began pushing in earnest.

When the time was right, the man moved to her side and, working with her rhythm, pulled as she pushed. In one fluid moment, the calf slid into the world and landed in the straw, breathing hard, fully formed, astonishingly present.

Then the man lifted one hind leg and said, “It’s a boy.”

I had tears in my eyes. Not the polite kind, but the kind that come when something ancient and true breaks through your defenses. The kind that say: Pay attention. This matters.

The mama immediately turned toward her calf, licking him clean, bonding, claiming him with her attention. No instruction. No hesitation. Life recognizing life.

Standing there, I was struck by how rarely we are allowed to be this close to beginnings. We live buffered lives—protected from blood and breath, from labor and pain, from the raw work required to bring anything truly alive into the world. And yet here it was, in the middle of a fair—between corn dogs and carnival rides—quietly reminding me that life is not produced.

It is delivered.

It is labored for.

It arrives when it is ready.

A Closing Reflection

What moved me most was not just the miracle of birth, but the way it unfolded—without spectacle, without explanation, without control. The mother knew what to do. The helpers knew when to assist and when to step back. Life arrived through cooperation, patience, and trust.

It made me wonder how often we interrupt our own becoming by pushing too hard or stepping in too soon. How often we forget that some things—new life, new clarity, new seasons—require labor, surrender, and timing that cannot be rushed.

Birth, whether physical or spiritual, asks something of us. It asks us to stay present in discomfort. To trust what we cannot yet see. To allow what is forming to arrive in its own way.

I left the fair with sawdust on my shoes and awe in my chest—grateful for the gift of proximity, and for the reminder that miracles don’t always announce themselves.

Sometimes they simply arrive, breathing hard, right in front of us.