The Hill She Is Still Climbing

If joy could be double, it did—when her daughter, Fern, glided effortlessly into the world minutes later. Though Faith’s eyes still carry the wariness of a soul who’s known darkness, the light of her babies makes them shine brightly. Her breath still quickens when we approach, so we keep our distance and watch—doe-eyed—from afar. Trust, for her, is a steep hill—one she’s climbing on her own terms.

Once discarded and forgotten, it was a pound that found her and the rest of her flock. The fear in their eyes and the quickness of hooves spoke of rough hands, harsh words and hard lives. But now, each of those mummas-to-be has birthed her baby into sanctuary.

Faith Hill was the last of them.

Birthed into safety.

Into a world where no one will ever take them from her. A world where those precious beings are hers—always, always, always.

She doesn’t know that yet. Her vigilance makes it known. But the protective stamp of hoof and head held high will, in time, soften.

And we will not rush it. We simply show up with quietness in our steps and kindness in our hearts.
With no intention other than to let her write a new story. Her story, their story, in her own motherly way.

Because Faith Hill is no longer a number. No longer a production “unit.” She will never again be measured in pounds of flesh or usefulness.

Only in love.

And that is enough.

That is everything.

She feels it in her babies—this strange, wordless joy.
And maybe, just maybe, one day, she’ll climb that hill—and feel it in us, too.