Beam—The Beginning of Sol

She did not understand what had happened to her body and she had no nourishing milk to give.
She did not know what to do. The weather was cold and bitter as sleeting rain fell on his amniotic-fluid-covered, trembling body. He was hungry, confused and utterly vulnerable. Life could not have felt more dire for the tiny red bull calf.

But then kindness stepped in.

Though born on a commercial farm, Sol was given a chance. But we had to act fast—he was already into his second day of life.

Grabbing the keys, colostrum and our warm jackets, we headed to the pick-up point. Our tyres crunched the little-used bitumen at the end of a long and weary road, where a trailer waited with Sol.

At first, our hearts raced. We couldn’t see him. We drove closer. Still no calf in sight. Closer still. Our hearts began to sink—were we too late? And then we saw him: a tiny, rain-soaked form, huddled low behind the tailgate, so small he was hidden from view. He barely raised his head as his wobbly gaze found ours.

Our words came with our promise: “We’ve come to save you, baby.”

As the rickety trailer let go of its precious “cargo”, Sol was lovingly embraced in our arms. Inside the Kindness Van, in a bed of straw and the warmth of our love, we worked to keep him on the right side of living. A vigorous rub-down, a heat-retaining blanket—and then another. And then, what he had long gone without: colostrum.

We cradled his sweet, brown-nosed face, straddling his fragile body to support him. Would he drink? The question weighed heavy. We were ready to tube-feed if needed. But then—that first glorious guzzle gave us the answer we prayed for. Our collective sigh of relief told of our unity of spirit.

Sol was full. Hope rose in our high fives.

The journey home was joyful but guarded. Sol had endured so much—and was so ill-prepared for it.
Soon the worrying signs came. He refused to drink. His temperature spiked. His faeces ran bloody and foul. But history and hearts told us what were needed: time, care and love.

And slowly, Sol began to do just what his name foretold—beam.

He drank his electrolytes with vigour, then looked for more. He took his milk—“More too, please,” he softly bellowed. Tears welled as he sought us out again.

This time not for rescue, but for life.

Today, Sol’s temperature is steady. His poos are formed. His milk rations grow. He gambols, to our delight. His little, stocky legs are finding strength while his spirit is finding light as it lands in our hearts.

For Sol, the storm is passing—and a new beam of hope shines through. One that he is becoming, and one that asks of us all: if the smallest soul can light the darkest sky, why can’t we?