TURLOCK, CA (December 4, 2003) – Editor’s note: the following article, written by Rowena Coetsee, originally appeared in the May 2002 issue of The Covenant Companion. Coetsee writes about religion for the Antioch Ledger-Dispatch and attends Hillside Covenant Church in Walnut Creek, California.
By Rowena Coetsee
Wally Lindskoog talks as if he never left. And in some ways he hasn’t.
The tall, lanky man gazes with nostalgia around the small Central Valley dairy farm where he grew up and worked all his life. “If I didn’t know God wanted me to sell this place, this would be killing me,” Lindskoog says.
The sixty-five-acre spread in Turlock, California, is small as dairy farms go, but it was his life’s passion until Lindskoog finally decided to donate the property along with nearly 400 head of cattle last fall to the Evangelical Covenant Church. Cows lined up along one side of a pen for their mid-morning snack turn to cast a curious eye at Lindskoog as he approaches. Nearby a handful of massive, mud-encrusted bulls with brass nose rings slowly rise to their feet to get a better look at the visitor.
Lindskoog maintains a running commentary on udders and bovine bone structure as he surveys the herd with a practiced eye. “There’s a sloping butt right there,” he says, pointing to a small heifer. “She’ll calf pretty easy.”
God as a business partner
Lindskoog is a man with a head for business and a heart for God. Those two characteristics have led to a successful career, which has enabled him to express a remarkable generosity.
A farmer’s son, the eighty-five-year-old Lindskoog has made a name and a comfortable living for himself with his Holsteins, known in breeding circles around the world for his bulls’ genes and cows’ exceptional milk production. And ever since he went into the business as a high-school student, Lindskoog has tithed not the 10 percent of income the term usually suggests, but half of whatever he cleared.
His estate became part of that equation, too – the farm and his herd alone was a gift worth seven figures, which the denomination banked when it sold the assets last fall. Lindskoog also has donated more than one small airplane to the church, which kept them running with money from a “semen fund” set up when Lindskoog gave the church a portion of the royalties from the sale of his bulls’ semen.
LeRoy Johnson, former president and founder of Covenant Trust Company and Covenant Estate Planning Services, laughs when asked about the ‘semen fund.’ “That’s unique, right?” he says.
Johnson, who has known Lindskoog for years, says that his generosity is “very unusual.”_He was particularly surprised that Lindskoog parted with his farm and cattle, knowing how much it meant to him. “I’d just never thought he’d do it,” Johnson says.
Sherrill Hillberg, Lindskoog’s accountant for the past 21 years, has known him since she was a child – her father had a turkey ranch and Wally incubated turkey eggs for him. “He’s the most generous man I’ve ever met in my life,” Hillberg says. “If he has any faults, it’s that he’s too kind and too giving.”
Employees always have been well paid, she says, and Lindskoog regularly gave them gifts in addition to Christmas bonuses. Last December, he took a handful of employees and their spouses out to lunch and presented them with the usual perks even though they no longer were working for him.
Nor is he compliant when it comes to letting others pick up the check after a meal, Hillberg says. “God forbid, he will never let you pay,” she says.
Lindskoog’s giving ways began at fourteen after his best friend Stanley died of complications following an appendectomy. The two boys lived in Turlock, just a half-mile from each other, raising Jersey heifers together in 4H and blowing taps to each other on their trumpets every night before going to bed. When Stanley passed away, Lindskoog was so disconsolate he never played the trumpet again.
“Boy that shook me – he was my closest friend,” he says.
Lindskoog became distraught when he learned shortly after Stanley’s death that he needed the same surgery. Lying in his hospital bed, the frightened teenager struck a bargain with God: “I don’t think you created me to die at fourteen,” says Lindskoog, recalling that conversation. “You make it clear to me (what you want) and I’ll do anything you want me to do.” If that meant pursuing his goal of breeding cattle, Lindskoog resolved to strive to have the most integrity of any dairy farmer in the area.
No thunder or heavenly apparitions accompanied his surrender to God, but as soon as Lindskoog recovered he started making good on his promise by turning over half the net profits from his milk to Turlock Covenant Church. From then on, the Lord was his business partner, which in Lindskoog’s book meant that God was entitled to half of whatever he took home.
Lest he forget his promise, the boy who once could “run like a rabbit” was left with nerve damage that permanently limited his agility – his “thorn in the flesh,” Lindskoog says.
Over the years he’s kept up his end of the bargain and says God has proven faithful, too. Experience and the good Lord have taught him everything he knows about animal husbandry – Lindskoog has little use for fancy college degrees.
All the cattle born on his farm have “Arlinda” as part of their name, a composite of Lindskoog and Arlene, his wife of sixty years. One of Lindskoog’s biggest money-makers was Pawnee Farm Arlinda Chief, a bull whose picture hangs in his office along with photos of other members of his herd with valuable genes.
Lindskoog’s contrarian breeding philosophy earned him his share of critics, Hillberg says, noting that he always has emphasized substance over show – producing good milkers was more important than winning trophies for their looks.
By contrast, the upper echelon of breeders in the Holstein Association typically favored “glamour girls,” animals that were taller and pretty but also higher maintenance, says Bill Hobby, a former Lindskoog employee and a breeder himself for the past two decades.
Unable to duplicate his results, many were jealous of his success, Hobby says. “He’s the Vince Lombardi, the John Wooten, the Michael Jordan,” Hobby says. “There’s nobody like him. That’s the kind of guy he is in dairy circles.”
Chief not only sired offspring that each produced about 2,000 more pounds of milk per year than Lindskoog’s other cows, but he generated almost $2 million in royalties from the sale of his semen. Shortly after Chief died, the price tag on his semen rose to $150 for half a cubic centimeter (cc).
Chief was the crown jewel of Lindskoog’s herd and, he says, a reward for faithful stewardship. “God gave me Chief, no doubt about it. He treated me better than I deserved. I’m just a sinner saved by grace – no big shot.”
Lindskoog still gets choked-up recalling the time he received an urgent summons from the breeding facility in Illinois with the news that Chief appeared to be dying. Although the aging and arthritic bull refused to get up for his handlers, he rose to his feet as soon as he heard Lindskoog’s voice. “I didn’t know he loved me that much,” Lindskoog says, dabbing at his eyes.
Obedience equals happiness
Despite his success, Lindskoog does not subscribe to any health-and-wealth gospel and he doesn’t give to God in order to get something in return. Rather, he says he follows the scriptural teaching on tithing simply because obedience produces happiness.
In response to those who argue that they can’t afford to part with 10 percent of their paycheck, Lindskoog cites the book of Malachi where God invites believers to test his bounty.
“If you trust God and do it you’ll find your 90 percent will go further than the other,” he says.
Admittedly, a person might have to learn to live more simply, but “(God) can make it up to you in all kinds of ways,” Lindskoog says. “If you lean on him, he delivers.”
Lindskoog has developed his own rules for giving as well. Don’t lend more than you’re willing to lose, he says, noting that more than once someone has reneged on promises to repay a loan. Support more missionaries by giving less to each – that way you end up praying for more of those in the mission field. And don’t contribute too large a percentage of your church’s budget because other members might be tempted to slack off in their giving.
Lindskoog’s never bothered to calculate exactly how much he’s given away – he says he can do without the temptation to become prideful. The federal government was keeping track, however. Lindskoog was giving so much that he attracted the attention of the Internal Revenue Service.
Suspecting Lindskoog of cheating on his taxes, the agency periodically audited him, although it backed off when an indignant Lindskoog threatened to take the agency to court on grounds of harassment.
“If you want to get my fire up, just accuse me of lying!” he says. Lindskoog still fumes when he recalls the government’s efforts to take what he insists was rightfully his.
“The Bible says I can’t hate a human being, but it doesn’t say I can’t hate Internal Revenue!”
A smile goes a long way
Lindskoog is not only a cheerful giver – he’s just plain cheerful. He greets strangers with a hearty embrace and a favorite riddle. (“Why are hugs neat gifts? One size fits all and they’re so easy to exchange.”)
Quick with a joke, Lindskoog often has a mischievous twinkle in his eye. When a first-time visitor dropped by his office recently, he disappeared around the corner and returned with a varnished walking stick he had removed from its display case.
“Any idea what this used to be?” Lindskoog asked, clearly relishing the moment. It was one of Chief’s very personal effects, he confided when the onlooker hesitated, explaining that a taxidermist friend surprised him by preserving it for posterity after Chief died in 1976.
“He’s gotten a lot of mileage out of that one,” chuckles Hillberg, who has seen Lindskoog raise plenty of eyebrows with the conversation piece over the years. The same uninhibited joie de vivre has surfaced at restaurants, where Lindskoog has been known to get up from his seat and join employees in singing “Happy Birthday” to a total stranger.
He’s also unafraid of speaking his mind even if it means ruffling feathers. “I grabbed all the mean genes,” Lindskoog says. “I’m a raw-boned guy. People either love me or hate me – there’s no middle ground.”
True, Lindskoog isn’t shy about sharing his views on anything and everything, Hillberg says. “He is very opinionated and has a hard time accepting someone’s opinions if they’re different from his,” she says. Although he steps on toes now and then, however, Hillberg knows Lindskoog well enough to realize that he means no harm.
“That’s just Wally,” she says.
Copyright © 2011 The Evangelical Covenant Church.