A Sheep Farmer's Love Letter to Rain

Dear Rain,

I know you've been getting some bad press lately.

The gardeners complain when you wash out their plans. The weekend warriors grumble when you arrive on Friday afternoon. The tourists frown when their vacation photos turn gray.

But from where I'm standing, watching a flock of sheep graze on a Vermont hillside, I have to say: I love you.

Not all the time, of course. Three days of cold drizzle in April while ewes are lambing? We need to have a conversation. A torrential downpour right after I spread seed? Also not ideal. The 2.66 inches we got yesterday in thunderstorms? Maybe you could moderate that a bit.

But a steady, soaking rain in June?

That's pure magic.

You see, sheep don't eat hay. Not really. Hay is just grass that somebody harvested months ago. What sheep truly want is fresh pasture—lush, green, growing pasture. And pasture runs on sunshine and rain.

Everyone notices the sunshine. It's easy to appreciate. Sunshine warms your face and brightens your mood.

Rain does its work quietly.

It slips into the soil. It wakes up the roots. It feeds the microscopic army of fungi, bacteria, earthworms, and insects beneath our feet. It transforms a pasture from merely surviving to thriving.

A few days after a good rain, I walk out to move the sheep and everything seems greener. The grass stretches a little taller. The clover spreads a little wider. The sheep bury their noses deeper into the forage and graze with obvious satisfaction. They refuse to come into the barn for grain—THAT’S how good the grass is.

That's not just grass growing.

That's next winter's hay supply.
That's healthier soil.
That's stronger lambs.
That's the future of the farm.

When I watch rain falling on our pastures, I don't see a gloomy day. I see the flock's next meal.

I see lamb chops on a family's dinner table months from now.

I see another season of solar-powered protein production.

I see resilience.

The funny thing is that rain reminds me who's really in charge around here.

I can move fences. I can rotate pastures. I can spread lime and fertilizer. I can improve genetics and build handling systems and buy fancy equipment.

But I can't make it rain.

Farming has a way of humbling a person.

Every rainfall feels a little like a gift. Not one we've earned, but one we've received.

So when the forecast calls for a slow, steady inch of rain, you'll often find me smiling while everyone else is reaching for an umbrella.

Because I know what comes next.

Greener fields.

Growing lambs.

And another reminder that some of the most important work on this farm happens when nobody is watching.

With gratitude,

Farmer Judith