The cold air burns my nose as I breathe in the smell of the wood stove that lingers in the thin air. I love the way the burning birch logs smell, sweet and earthy and I breathe deep, closing my eyes to enjoy it. The stillness over the farm fills me, it’s almost dark, the storm has receded and now everything looks like an old black and white photo. I hear only the crunch of the fresh icy snow under my Muck boots, there’s no traffic on the main road tonight even though the plow trucks have done a nice job clearing the road. The goats and cows are watching me walk back to the barn, I’ve already fed them, but I have a bucket in my hand from collecting eggs from the chicken coop and it piques their curiosity. I stop to take in the scene, I love this spot on the farm, especially in the dark. I see it every night when I put the animals to bed, but tonight the snow makes it a little more magical.
I stand in such a way that I can’t see the big yellow house next door that looms over ours. All I can see is our old barn and our house, lit by the warm glow of window candles and twinkling lights. I feel such a kinship with this old farm, as though it had been waiting for me all along. I am now knit and woven into this farm’s history, just like those who came before me. How many women since 1742 have walked up this slope on a snowy night and stared at this old farmhouse as I have tonight? Did they pause as I have, taking in the simple beauty of their small, rustic, well-built home. Our footsteps wearing down the same wide pine boards, the same windows rattling on a stormy night in front of the fire. I wonder how many families these horsehair plaster walls have kept safe and what stories they have seen. Each person who has been a steward of this house and land, loving it for who it is, improving on but not changing it too much. We tend its gardens, raise animals on the land and live off its bounty. I pray I can live up to those who came before me.
Living in a house that is almost 300 years old and mostly original is very humbling. There have been times when I have cursed this house and questioned our sanity for ever moving here. I have felt the reddening of my cheeks and the twinge of embarrassment at this house more times than I like to admit. Just the other day we had a couple of gentlemen here installing a new pressure tank for the well as ours had died. Upon trying to enter the basement the door would not open, and they had to remove the bottom trim from the door. The door almost fell into pieces by the time they were able to get into the basement. Once in the basement they had to contend with low ceilings, a dank dirt floor and cobwebs as thick as rope. So thick I briefly thought about hanging myself with them to get away from the shame I felt at the state of our old decrepit house. We will never have the time or the money to knock the to-do list on this house down. It’s quite possible it will crumble around us and most days I am okay with that. Living in this house has taught me that my worth comes from a place much Holier.
Homes these days have become status symbols; they are gigantic, absurdly expensive and landscaped to impress. But really, when we think about what a home really is, what it was meant to be at its simplest form, it’s just a dwelling. It is nothing more than a place to keep us out of the elements, to give us a small amount of protection from thieves and a place to rest. All over the world people live in dirt floor shacks so simplistic a good wind will take away their home. Rain leaks in, there’s certainly no heat or air conditioning, maybe a mat on the floor for a bed. So, I ask myself how can I ever again be embarrassed by living in this well-loved, sturdy old house with so much charm? Simply put, I can’t. I won’t. Not ever again. Another lesson this farm has taught me, to be grateful. To be grateful for simplicity, for a rather small mortgage and for learning to hold onto materialistic things with an open hand instead of a tight fist. To see where real worth comes from and to live my life for the Kingdom, not the world.
With gratitude,
Angie
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