It Started With Cows...

The Cows at the Canadian Agriculture Museum in
their night pasture with high-rises in the background.

It started as nothing. Just cows in a field. But sometimes the things you avoid the most are the things that expose what’s really going on underneath.

I wasn’t planning to stop.

It was just another ride home. Late, but not quite dark yet. The kind of quiet that settles in around 8:30, where the city starts to fade and the edges of things feel softer.

I almost avoided the farm again.

I didn’t realize I’d been doing that until recently — taking different routes, staying on the road, keeping my head down. But this time I turned in.

The Canadian Agricultural Museum was closing, and they had moved the cows out to the night pasture. They were scattered across the field — slow, calm, completely unbothered.  It's a scene that you can only find in Ottawa—Cows with high-rises in the background.

I stopped.

Just stood there for a minute, watching them.

And then it hit me.

My youngest daughter loves cows.

She’s five. Or at least… she was the last time I saw her.

She used to try to convince me to let her take one home. She didn’t care how unrealistic that was — in her mind, they were her cows. She had already decided.

Standing there, looking at them… it all came back at once.

And I broke.

I haven’t seen my younger two daughters since before Christmas.

Not because I don’t want to.

Not because I don’t try.

They’re being kept from me — controlled through paperwork, pressure, and decisions I don’t get to be part of. I’m being pushed to sign a divorce, and I’ve already accepted that it’s coming. That’s not the fight anymore.

The fight is that I don’t get to see my kids.

The fight is that I don’t get to explain anything to them.

The fight is that they might grow up believing I walked away.

I sent birthday gifts through my second oldest. Just something simple so they would know I’m still here.

They were told the gifts were from her.

That’s the part that stays with you.

Not just the separation — but the rewriting of who you are to your own children.

I wish I could say I handled all of this well.

I didn’t.

I’m angry.

Not loud, explosive anger — something heavier than that. The kind that just sits there, constant.

I’m angry that I’m being cut out of my kids’ lives.

I’m angry that things are being said about me that I can’t correct.

I’m angry that decisions are being made without me, while I’m expected to just accept the outcome.

I’m angry that I’m buried in debt from things I didn’t control — and somehow that doesn’t matter.

I’m angry that access to justice feels like it depends on what you earn, not what’s right.

And I’m angry that I don’t have the means to fight this the way I want to.

That’s the truth.

Tonight, I almost made it worse.

I thought about calling.

Not to fix anything. Not to resolve anything.
Just to speak from that anger.

To say what I’ve been holding in.

To push back.

To demand something.

Anything.

And maybe part of me felt justified.

Maybe part of me still does.

But this is where my faith is getting tested...

Because I know what Scripture says.

“Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry. Human anger does not produce the righteousness God desires.”
— James 1:19–20 (NLT)

I know that verse.

I’ve heard it. I’ve probably quoted it.

But right now?

I don’t feel slow to anger.

I feel consumed by it.

And if I’m being honest… I don’t feel God in this.

I believe He sees it.

I believe He knows.

But He feels distant.

Silent.

Like I’m standing in the middle of something that matters more than I can handle — and I don’t know why He’s not stepping in.

That’s where I’m at.

Not resolved.

Not at peace.

Just aware that I’m being pulled in two different directions:

What I feel…
and what I know.

So I didn’t make the call.

Not because everything is okay.

Not because I suddenly found peace.

But because I know what happens if I let anger lead.

It doesn’t bring my kids back.

It doesn’t fix what’s broken.

It doesn’t make anything right.

It just adds more damage to something that’s already hard enough to carry.

It started with cows.

A quiet field. A simple memory. A moment I didn’t think mattered.

But it forced me to face something I’ve been trying to outrun.

I’m not just dealing with a situation.

I’m dealing with loss.

With anger.

With silence from God that I don’t understand.

And right now, all I know how to do…

is stop.

Hold the line.

And try — even when I don’t feel it —

not to let anger decide what happens next.