We drove west last night as the sun was setting. I had just finished up work for the day and Sam wanted to show me some rock that might be a possibility for our new fireplace. You never know what is out there past the brown winter field, the hedge row, the dilapidated farm buildings. Highway 36 is full of character – you just have to look for it.

We pulled into a gravel driveway that framed an abandoned building, and lo and behold, situated in a yard of brown grass and weeds, there were copious amounts of large containers of beautiful rock in all shapes and sizes, just the desired color to go in our room. We got out of the truck and looked around, choosing sizes and shapes and dreaming Sam’s vision for the new space, bypassing the dog poop and stepping carefully on and over giant slabs of rock. It was just a quick look-see on a cold January Wednesday evening as the sun set and the jet trails bloomed. Our quick trip was just an affirmation that stone is what we want, not brick.

We headed back east, dusk settling, but we were quickly reminded of a phone conversation from earlier in the day when one of Sam’s customers called and mentioned cows were out next to the highway. There, on the side of the road, were those same cows – 20 or more – tasting a bit of freedom while their owner is on vacation.

It was cold. It was almost dark. It was just a quick trip.

Funny thing, though. My husband is Sam. His first thought was to stop and help. “Would you mind if I stopped to help?” And out he went, flagging down the older gentleman who’s task it was to corral the escapees.

I sat in the truck, talking to my daughter and giggling at these cows staring at Sam, looking at him like he was a flailing armed idiot, but he finally got their attention and they all began ga-lumping towards the prison field after a day of independence.

He didn’t think twice. We were hungry and had company coming over for dinner, and Sam didn’t even think twice. He thought of me, yes, and made sure I was okay with his interruption, but then he just parked and he-yawed.

That’s the thing about Sam. He doesn’t think twice about thinking of others and following through. He doesn’t THINK about it, he does. ‘Til the cows come home. Because love does. Love doesn’t just think about it.

I am grateful those funny cows stayed in the brown grass and didn’t choose to play “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

I am grateful for the absurdities of this crazy season, for giggling on the phone with my daughter while my husband is flailing arms and he-yawing a bunch of bovine in the almost darkness.

I am grateful for another Sam lesson.

I am grateful for Sam.