We are house hunting in Fayetteville.
I am full of gratitude. This place has nurtured us for seven years; we became ourselves here. But now we feel the pull of a new and very different season.
We see a returning to ourselves happening. See, Chris and I are the same personality: idea-generating missional extroverts. In 2018, God planted in us (separately and simultaneously) this uncharacteristic desire to move to the countryside, practice solitude, work remotely and homeschool.
So, in our 800 sq. ft. rental by a California train station, we drew circles on placemat maps of regions with streams, hills, seasons and southern hospitality. Then we moved to three acres in Northwest Arkansas.
From a salamander in a dappled shade ravine to a sunny hillside pasture with a meadow in between.
When Covid hit, we read good books, cooked slow food, made handcrafts and played in the creek. We raised pigs, sheep, rabbits, chickens, ducks and geese. And the kids tamed many a lizard. We planted native trees, fed birds, partnered with a beekeeper and made gardens of wildflowers, herbs and teas. We rewilded an acre with Arkansas Game and Fish and got certified as a National Wildlife Federation Habitat, then built a treehouse in the middle of it. In the summer, we walked to the waterhole; in the winter we played chess by the fire.
God used this place to remake us. Here, we learned to value solitude, then really live it out. We grew in attunement and capaciousness of soul. And we gained resilience through struggle and failure.
Here, the beauty changed us. As we became fully present to our surroundings—the sights, sounds, smells and textures—we steadily mended the rift between our busy distracted minds and our “made from dust” bodies and senses. Watching a lightning storm and smelling the rain, planting seeds and smelling the soil, rubbing sheep and sniffing their lanolin, holding a lapful of cheeping chicks… glimpsing goldfinches on sunflowers, kids on tree limbs, snakes in the bridge stones, crawfish under rocks, sunsets, moonbeams, dewy chamomile and teacups. These everyday wonders slowed our pace and made us noticers.
Here, the stillness transformed us. As we slowed to a pace of rest, we became more present to our moments and made space to look inward. God showed us facets of His character we had misunderstood and gently drew our attention to places we needed healing. We began to trust Him in deeper places and discovered a new way of being. Chris read the Book of Common Prayer by candlelight. I wrote front porch poetry. And we finally learned how to pray—to really pray—the arms open, head thrown back, nothing to hide, “here I am. remake me,” releasing and receiving, peace pouring in and freedom overflowing, blessed by his presence kind of prayer. We will carry this lesson with us always.
Here, failed plans and struggle taught us resilience. Predators burgle the coop, invasive plants win the meadow, bucks girdle our saplings, lambs die and oaks fall. Much of our time is spent mending fences, deworming livestock, sawing logs, pulling out thorns and digging into rocks. (Not to mention homeschooling five children.) Our time here has made us stronger yet meeker, hardier yet more expressive. Struggle and disappointments intermix with the beauty and the experience has changed the way will work and minister to people.
children and wildflowers and poetry
Now, we feel a returning to ourselves happening. As I said, Chris and are the same personality: extraverted creative ministers. The grace to homeschool lifted, the desire to work with our hands shifted and the isolation that felt like a gift has become a weight. Our energizing desire to be with people has returned simultaneously. Opportunities to teach and serve that did not exist a year ago are bubbling up; the children are enjoying school; and we find ourselves dreaming of hospitality. The Lord invited us into a season in the country and now he is calling us into a season in community.
We hold joyful expectation in one hand and plain sadness in the other.
Like I said, life here has made us more expressive… Three days ago, a sheep’s labor stalled. I had never put an arm into the womb of a sheep before, but I did while Nate held her head. I found that one lamb was breeched and both twins had already died. I just laid my head on her flank and wailed. I cried about the lambs, I cried about the momma ewe, I cried about Nate leaving the home he loves, I cried because this blessed season is ending and this wonderful place will no longer be mine. And I noticed after my cry, that I could not have engaged my sadness this way 7 years ago. The beauty, the stillness and the work here have given me deeper, richer and fuller access to my own heart. I have let my guard down. Through this appointed season, God gave inner healing, integration, attunement and expression that I did not have before. I will never be the same.
Here, I became a gardener, a shepherd, a poet, a mystic, a nurtured nurturer, a whole person. I aligned my activities and heart to the annual rhythm of the seasons. And I entrusted God with my emotions, my children and my work. I am so thankful. I am very happy. And I am also sad.
We are looking at houses in North Fayetteville. If you know anyone in NWA looking for a hobby farm, send them over.
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So beautifully heart wrenching and what a sanctification; thank you for sharing. Also send me your listing when it goes live 🫶🏼
Thank you for sharing your country season with us. It has been beautiful to behold.