God hears.
This is what the past is for! Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.” Corrie Ten Boom
Have you heard? We’re moving!
In fact, we’re so close to moving back to our hometown I can almost smell the chicken poop oozing in through the windows and hear our daughters giggling as they run free in the fields.
When I close my eyes, I can picture a life so simple and yet so purposeful: slowing down with the thoughtful breeze, keeping tabs on the mama bird and her nest, talking by the fire while cuddling our herd of Highland mini cows (can I be trendy just this once?), and loads of sheep and bunnies—and what the heck, let’s just get some pigs. And my latest thought? Homing pigeons!
And then—I hear the sirens.
I hear my neighbor’s conversation about this and that and why the power bill is so expensive this month—must be his fault, or hers, or probably those kids (my bet is on the kids)… who knows. The toddler screams because the yogurt is too cold. The dog barks because she really, really wants a dog friend—but scares everyone away by barking incessantly at the window until all six of us yell at the top of our lungs, “No, Jojo, no!”
I drift back to my happy place:
The warm breeze.
The picnic table.
Fresh bread—and probably some boxed mac ’n’ cheese, because that’s how I roll.
The ant farms. The overgrown dandelions.
Quiet.
Peace.
I’ve lived my entire adult life in cities—Savannah, Durham, Nashville, Philadelphia, Upper Darby—and I really do love so many things about urban life: the food, the culture, the people, the free museums, the walkability.
But I’ve always longed for open fields of green, green grass, some pigs to pet, and bugs to watch. (I have an unordinary love for insects, you’ll see.)
And I’ve always thought and prayed: One day in heaven—on the new earth—God will place me in the most beautiful garden to tend. That’s when I’ll live the dream I’ve had in my head for so long. Until then, God grant me contentment no matter where you have us.
…….
I married a pastor, which makes me—you guessed it—a church planter’s wife. It’s what we’ve done since the very beginning. Three months into marriage, we jumped into moving 12 hours away to be members of a church plant in Tennessee. Now, nearly 14 years later, it’s still the calling that’s marked our life together: showing up, clinging to God's word, and building something from the ground up in the heart of the city.
Anyway—right before we reached our 5-year church anniversary, my dear “Little Grandma” passed away. (We call her “Little Grandma” for many reasons, but mostly because she was the shorter of my two grandmas.)
After the funeral, my dad drove us by a farmhouse that—unbeknownst to me—has been in our family for generations. He casually asked if we wanted to move, and we awkwardly laughed and dismissed it, as we usually do. This question has been asked and answered since 2010.
We left the funeral without another thought or word about my dad’s proposal.
But a month later, my husband and I—independently—felt what I call a hard thud. One you really can’t ignore. We came together and started asking those what if? questions.
This is crazy, right? We just planted a church. We’re great. The kids are great. Everything’s great... Great great great great. Why now?
And then one of our closest friends and mentors reminded us:
You’ve been praying for more space. A place to homestead. Fields to tend. A place to share the Good News of Jesus in the rhythm of everyday life.
He reminded us that we did indeed pray for this—and that God has simply answered. Because our God hears and loves to give good gifts to his children. This was hard for me to accept for a few months but more on that later.
So, we keep our hands open. God will lead us. He will make our paths straight. He is faithful—and He will surely do it.
Eight months later, we’re painting, tearing up carpet, and packing like crazy goons—gearing up to embark on a completely new adventure… but one I’ve been replaying in my mind for years.
God has been kind to us in so many ways. And I really hope to use this blog to share those stories with you—so I don’t forget them, and so maybe they’ll bless you, too.
Well, back to painting…
