I clearly remember the first day we made the drive out to this place we now live and call home. As I process my mixed feelings about this move, perhaps a bit of background is helpful in understanding how we came to live a short season of our lives on this country farm, far removed from our old way of life in town.
My husband surfs the real estate websites as a hobby. I never worried about it because we were happy in our little 2-bedroom cottage on the hill with a view... even though it was getting mighty cramped after the arrival of our first baby. I assumed his hobby was exactly that - a hobby. Rookie mistake.
One afternoon my husband sat me down with a twinkle in his eyes, and his kindest, most compassionate tone of voice. The tone most likely to be used when he is going to ask me to think outside the box. The tone used when he knows I probably won't like what he has to say, but is hoping I will get on board with a decision of my own free will. I was not expecting what came next.
"I have been watching for investment properties while the housing market is low, but I found this property... maybe we can go see it together tomorrow... and you can think about whether or not we can move there to live for a few years while we fix it up," he said in this honey-soaked tone of voice.
What?! WHAT??!!! Shocked. Do I seriously only have one day to think about whether I want to move to a new house, a new neighborhood, in an entirely removed community from where we have been for the past 6 years? If I don't want to move, will I dash my husband's dreams? Change is something I avoid at all costs,... and yet, we won't fit into our cute little cottage forever. Where exactly are we planning to put any of the other children we hope to have?
We made the 20 minute drive outside of town and pulled into the dusty driveway of this farm. I knew at once that my husband was suffering from tractor envy and the romantic calling of the big red barn.
I strapped 7-month-old Baby Annike into the Bjorn and toured the place with a more detailed eye. Every square inch of the house was covered in grime and wreaked of cigarette smoke. The floor plan was odd. Half of the rooms had beat up wood siding instead of dry wall. There was no landscaping. The woman of the house was wearing a large sweatshirt that said, "BITE ME" and I vaguely wondered if I might end up looking like her one day if we moved here.
This place was going to be a full-time project. Oddly though, I felt a sense of peace flooding me. Something about the property breathed life and adventure and magical moments. The lush green spring fields whispered in the breeze about a different kind of life we could lead for a while. My friends and family would all think we'd gone crazy... but since when did I care about that?
With me on board in the decision, we made the old farmers an offer that afternoon. (Dare I say, my husband chose one flexible wife?) The market was low and the property had "potential".
Of course, to capitalize on that potential meant we needed to redo the roof, replace the windows, update the plumbing and electrical, tear out and refinish the flooring. The entire kitchen needed to be gutted and redesigned. I was personally in charge of washing down and painting every surface inside the house while my young baby played at my feet, and miraculously didn't get into much trouble. The week after we moved in, I flushed the toilet and the water backed up into our shower. Please note that this is never a good sign. It turned out the septic lines needed to be replaced too. In the end, even the one bathroom we thought would not need to be touched had a major leak. The tile was torn out and we started over. All this in the first year. (For some old "before" photos, see these posts.)
We have poured our hearts into all but the foundation of this property, reviving a dilapidated farmhouse into a place called home. It was a little fun, and a lot of hard work. Despite our emotional and physical investments, however, we never intended to stay here forever. It was an opportunity seized at a market low. It was a project tackled while we were young, strong, and wearing barn-tinted glasses. Now the time has come to sell this beautiful place. We find that along the way we have most decidedly grown attached.
I feel sad, yet willing. This season of rural life has been joyful. I will miss the magical warm evenings when we take a family walk through the oak trees. I will miss the fruit that flows in the orchard all summer long. I will miss the barn parties and hay rides. I will miss watching the mist disappear from the hilltops while I sip my morning cup of coffee. I will miss our fenced in kid-friendly backyard. I will miss these things because I have enjoyed these things over the past six years. To be sad about a passing season is to recognize that it was a good one.
Together my husband and I are unified in this decision. It is one more reason that it feels right. My greatest fear is that one day we will look back at these days spent here and kick ourselves for not finding a way to hang onto the property for all of its uniqueness, knowing our children may one day want to ride their dirt bikes around and play capture the flag with their friends.
...Then the whisper to trust... and to not worry about storing up for ourselves treasures on earth because we might possibly want them again one day.
We were never meant to grow so attached to a thing in our lives that we couldn't let it go. When it comes down to it, however, I find that letting go is difficult. From small things to big things, from a set of old towels to pieces of furniture, from the toys my kids once played with to the dishes I might need again one day, from a home loved and lived in to a season of life that can never be repeated. Letting go is hard, and sometimes sad, but it is also good. Perhaps if a thing is too perfect it can become a crutch that prevents us from moving on to the next good thing that God has in store.
We are moving on to another home, another season, another set of memories. We will be closer to our daughter's school, closer to the beach, and a little closer to town. We will still have space to grow a garden and to grow our kids, but I have the feeling our days of rescuing great-horned owls and canning excess fruit grown in the yard are over. While rural living might be coming to an end, life's greatest adventures are spawned not as a result of where we live, but how we live.
