Two bulls lie at the center of my pasture, relaxing in the sun. I survey the scene from astride my horse. One of the bulls turns his head, squints his eyes and frowns. The other follows suit with a cold, hard glare.

           My horse senses the sour mood. He is not keen on this job and I don’t blame him. These bulls, which belong to my neighbor, have lounged undisturbed in my pasture for half a year. Now they’re needed at home. 

          Rodney called to ask if he could pick them up at Noon. I told him I’d have them penned by the time he arrived with his trailer.

           My horse moves closer. The bulls roll their eyes, then heave themselves into standing positions. After conferring with each other, they amble off toward a water gap in the fence, a good place for potential escape. I steer my horse to the right to head them off.

           In an attempt to divide-and-conquer, the bulls set off in opposite directions. My horse breaks into a trot. We zig-zag back and forth behind the bulls, pushing them closer to each other as well as closer to the pen.

           Then the mood shifts. Jogging side-by-side, the bulls turn playful. Like brothers with grins on their faces, they start shoving each other and locking horns. Stumbling over rocks, sliding down ravines, they buck heads all the way to the pen.

           I like the change in attitude. Why resist when you can wrestle instead?

                                                              ***

           A few days later, I notice similar antics between teenage boys at a rodeo.  My friend Ryan's three sons have formed a team to compete in the Wild Cow Milking Contest.

           This event, a staple at small-town rodeos, involves three-person teams fanning out on foot to rope unsuspecting cows gathered in a corner of the arena. After snagging one—and getting dragged in the process—each team tries to constrain the cow long enough to squeeze a drop of milk into an empty soda bottle.  When accomplished, the one with the bottle dashes for the finish line.

           Prior to the chase, Ryan’s boys are cutting-up on the sidelines. The tallest one dangles a rope then lassos the brother holding the bottle. The third grabs the bottle and pretends to guzzle from it. Soon, all three are stumbling around like drunks. One feigns a punch to his brother’s jaw, another bends over as if to puke.

           The gun fires. The crowd cheers! 

           A cloud of dust erupts. Vague outlines of crazed cows and crazy cowpokes dart in and out of billows of dirt. Shouts, curses and the sound of pummeling hooves fill the air. 

           Suddenly, one of Ryan’s boys darts for the finish line, bottle in hand. His brothers, arms pumping, follow in his wake. They win!

                                                             ***            

           I replay the scene in my mind the entire drive home. Ryan’s boys are true brothers. Their competitive nature and good-natured ribbing exemplify valued qualities of that unique kinship called brotherly love.

           The image of Christ as brother has long dominated my prayer life. One of my favorite hymns contains the words, "You are my friend and brother, even though you are a King."

           The simple line evokes memories of baiting hooks on a creek bank and showing cattle at the county fair. Being the youngest of four boys engendered a fair amount of hero worship along with a sense of pride. 

         After watching bulls buck heads and brothers wrestle cows, however, the next time I hear the hymn touting Christ as my brother, I’ll likely recall the feel of a head-lock and the cry of “Uncle!” wheezing through my gritted teeth.

        Friend and Brother? 

        Indeed.

        Give me five, Bro!