The Day an Electric Fence Taught Me About Walking on Water

Confidence, pride, and the moment I learned where the power really was

I was seven years old when I learned two important lessons:

1. Electric fences are not to be trusted.

2. Confidence without clarity will absolutely knock you flat.

What started as a simple farm chore turned into a flying lesson, a lifelong respect for electricity, and a surprising connection to Peter walking on water.

This one made me laugh while writing it—and pause a little too.

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I grew up on a farm. My grandfather, uncle, and father milked cows for a living. That meant my brothers and I spent a lot of time on tractors, counting cows, bottle-feeding calves, and driving at an age most people would’ve called "wildly unsafe."

We fixed fences, moved cattle, and worked gardens before “organic” was trendy. My wife loves to tell people I grew up eating organic before it was a thing. She’s not wrong.

Our farm wasn’t where the cows got milked. That happened at my grandparents’ place. Ours was the in-between: a holding ground for heifers and the occasional steer who was...well, future supper. (Quick side note: heifers are young female cows that haven’t had a calf yet. It’s farm-speak that you learn early out there.)

One summer day, we were fixing an electric fence. It wouldn’t hit too hard—my brothers and I used to test fences by touching them with blades of grass. The first pulse was nothing. The second? A quick light zap to let you know it meant business. We’d moved the heifers out of the way and were about to start repairs. My grandfather told me to go into the barn and turn off the electric box.

“Hit the black knob,” Pa Pa (sounded a lot like Pawl Pawl) said.

I was probably about seven, give or take. Already working on my lifelong commitment to figuring things out myself instead of asking for help. So I walked in the barn, found the box, and started looking for that black knob.

And there it was: a big, round, black thing on the front of the box with a metal wire coming out of it.

I hesitated. Something about it felt…dangerous. Like, maybe this is where the actual electricity is.

But Pa Pa was hollering from outside, “You got it off yet, Maury D?”

So I did what any self-assured, farm-raised seven-year-old would do: I grabbed it.

And got blasted.

I don’t remember much in that moment, other than flying backward four feet like I’d been flung by the hand of God Himself. It didn’t hurt as much as it threw me. I remember thinking, “Is this what happened to the people in the Bible when they touched the Ark of the Covenant?”

I stumbled outside, dazed. Pa Pa asked what happened. I told him.

He laughed.

“Why’d you grab that? That’s where the power goes!”

“It was the only black knob I could see!”

Turns out, the real switch was hidden behind a post, tucked in like a secret you only know if someone shows you. It wasn’t black. It wasn’t a knob. It was a light switch.

A normal light switch.

But I hadn’t asked. I just assumed. And I learned a valuable lesson: sometimes, knowing what you’re doing is less important than knowing when to ask someone who actually does.

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What a Cow Feels Like

The good news? The fence got fixed. The heifers stayed in. Supper still happened.
And I got a story.

To this day, I have a healthy respect for electricity and for asking questions before grabbing potentially dangerous things.

But I also gained something else: empathy. Because after that moment, I knew what it felt like to be a cow that got a little too close to the fence. Not just theoretically. Viscerally.

Sometimes, the best lessons stick with you because they literally knock you off your feet. And sometimes, growing up means learning the hard way, learning on your own, and learning that just because you think you know what you’re doing doesn’t mean you should grab the nearest black knob and hope for the best.

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Walking on Water (and Getting Zapped)

That moment in the barn makes me think of Peter walking on water.

Peter gets a lot of grief for sinking, but I think we miss something important. He wasn’t being foolish. He wasn’t showing off. He asked Jesus first.

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter answered him, “command me to come to you on the water.”
“Come,” he said.
— Matthew 14:28–29 (CSB)

Peter stepped out of the boat. And for a moment, he actually did it. He walked on water.

It wasn’t until he noticed the wind that everything unraveled.

That day in the barn, my wind wasn’t danger. It was pride. I didn’t want to look clueless. I wanted Pa Pa to be proud that I could handle it on my own. So instead of asking what the switch looked like, I grabbed the first black thing I saw and hoped for the best.

Different setting. Same mistake.

And just like Peter, the moment my focus shifted, I went down.

But here’s the part I love most:

Immediately Jesus reached out his hand, caught hold of him, and said, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”
— Matthew 14:31 (CSB)

Jesus didn’t let Peter drown. He pulled him up, then taught him.

That’s what Pa Pa did for me. He made sure I was okay, then showed me where the switch really was.

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From the Writer

When I look back now, I don’t see a reckless kid. I see a kid trying to be responsible, trusted, and capable. I also see a pattern I still fight as an adult. I don’t mind asking others if they need help. I struggle asking for it myself.

Marriage has taught me grace after failure. Parenting has taught me the same thing, sometimes daily. Faith has taught me that confidence isn’t the enemy. Losing focus is.

Sometimes faith isn’t about stepping out bravely.
It’s about keeping our eyes on our Savior.
Our Pa Pa.
And knowing when to ask for help before grabbing the nearest black knob and hoping it all works out.

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A Question to Sit With This Week

Where in your life are you stepping out with good intentions—but not asking first?

What’s your wind right now?
Pride?
Impatience?
Not wanting to let someone down?

And what might it look like to pause, look back at the boat, and reach out instead?

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If this story made you laugh, wince, or think of your own “electric fence” moment, I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

And if you want more stories about family, faith, and learning the hard way (with humor), you know where to find me.

Just…maybe don’t grab the black knob.

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