letting go

The time has come for us to sell this beautiful property where we have lived for the past 6 years. While we never intended to stay here forever, we find that along the way we have most decidedly grown attached.

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.

The question that everyone has for us is "Why?" I can't answer that question in a clear and direct way. There are a lot of tiny little reasons that have built up to the direction of a move. None of them stand alone to support such a decision. The real reason is that God seems to be prompting us to let go of something. In the letting go, there is a type of cleansing and healing taking place in our hearts.

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.

I have already begun a temporary hiatus from blogging, as filling boxes becomes a priority over sitting down at the computer. I will be back when we settle into our next home, a land of less boxes and packing material, a land of new memories and new adventures.

finishing touches

Many of you have asked me for the latest pictures of our project, I mean, our house. I admit that lately I have been seeing a lot more of what we haven't done than what we have done - classic empty glass syndrome. But yesterday I unpacked the last of the boxes. Yes, that's right, there has been a box in my living room for the last 9 months that I have stealthily avoided opening because it contained our pictures. Pictures need hanging, and hanging them involves putting holes in the freshly painted walls, and putting holes in the walls feels very permanent. Yesterday, I finally felt ready to open that box.

Pictures are the finishing touches in a house that transform it from a generic structure into a place where we live. Not just any ole' family, but us. Gradually we have been adding memories to the house, making it a place that I view more and more like our permanent home. Adding those finishing touches yesterday was fun, and made me feel like our family belongs here more than ever.

Here is a glimpse of a few of the finishing touches we were working on this summer. Projects that may not be dire, but make the farm feel more like our place. Finishing touches like planting flowers in the rusty fountain out back.


We had the house painted country yellow... it seemed fitting.


Christian has been maintaining and upgrading the landscaping. He gets especially excited about rocks.


We added a porch to the cottage,


and replaced our front door.


Curtains are bringing life to some rooms,


we finally have enough furniture to fill our living room,
and yes, now there are pictures on the walls.


We still have plenty of work left to do on the house, and big projects continue to pop up unexpectedly (Surprise! We have to redo the Master Bathroom shower due to a big leak rotting out the floor!) But at the very least, maybe taking small steps of improvement is a pace we can keep up. Unlike the exhausting hours of work we put into the place a year ago, we are now tackling manageable projects one at a time. Those finishing touches are turning this house into a home.

I, too, am an unfinished work. It is a good thing that God does not just reveal to me everything that is wrong all at once, and then tell me to go fix it. He chips away at me, one issue at a time. Gradually, with a lot of patience on His part, some of those finishing touches begin to make me look more like Him. Maybe the majority of my structural stuff is finished, but oh boy does God have a few more unfinished projects to tackle! I am glad He sees those finishing touches as a worthwhile endeavor. I may never be a fully completed work, but I am in the process of becoming a woman more like the one He intended me to be each and every day.

life on the farm

We have finally moved in to our "new" home on the farm. "New" is in quotations because the only thing new about this house is its relationship to us.

Our move-in weekend found the three of us up all night vomiting with some sort of virus. Unforeseen electrical problems meant no hot water or drier for a few days. The washing machine had issues of its own due to the move. The heater vents were clogged and did not reach the bedrooms. It felt like moving decades back in time.

A few nights ago, we awoke at 3am to a gurgling sound in the bathroom. Flushing the toilet with the idea of clearing the problem caused sewage to simultaneously bubble up into the shower and sink. We soon heard a distinct dripping sound in the basement. My only thought was, "This can't be good."

It turned out to be a blockage in the only remaining 2 foot stretch of unreplaced pipe in the sewer line. The end result was not expensive or too difficult to fix, but, really, how much more can go wrong? We expect to repair and replace things in this 60 year old house, but the emergency nature of these fixes truly causes life to come to a halt. Other people lived here for years before us- what did they do about these very same issues?

Although it seems that life has to be put on hold while we fix our modern conveniences, in truth, we are reminded of the importance of living a simple life. And that was the vision that prompted this move in the first place.

We don't die when we can't flush our toilets or take a hot shower. We don't even die when sewage bubbles into our bathrooms and we have to clean it up. A simple life does not cherish physical comforts, because they mean nothing for our eternity. A simple life values family, friendships, and the character-building process of losing daily conveniences.

A few pictures of life on the farm...
The septic tank dug up. We were ready to pump it for the second time this year, but were able to instead replace the last few feet of pipe leading into it.


The finished kitchen, which unfortunately, did not come with a self-clean setting.


The orchard is beginning to bloom... I can taste the nectarines already!


Annike loves playing by the barn.


Playing in her hand-me-down "Storybook Cottage".

the farm

Soon we will be moving to a farm in Corralitos. For the benefit of our "little" friends, it needs to be explained that this is not the kind of farm where animals live, but the kind where strawberries and apples grow. It has its fair share of dirt, and a barn, and one day we might have chickens. But, for now, this place is a work in progress.

Fixing up the farm has been a LOT of work... at times overwhelming. The smells of cigarette smoke and cat pee that used to greet us when we entered, are finally starting to dissipate beneath the layers of paint and new carpet. The yard is taking shape under Christian's landscaping skills. Door knobs and light switches once coated by grime are beginning to show reflections.

I have to admit that I was not excited to move into this place when we first bought it. The humble side of my brain wants me to be thankful that we have the resources to buy a home in this stressed economy, but the fearful side of me shies away from change. And the self-righteous side of me, that I try to repress, shouts, "This house is OLD!" It requires energy. Moving is stressful. I am happy where I live now... isn't that a good attitude to have?

Yes, we are to be content in our circumstances, but I think God wants to use this old farmhouse to teach me to be more like Him. Am I an old-house or a new-house kind of person? I recently read a quote from a book called Cold Tangerines that spoke to me. Shauna Niequist says:

"I thought of myself as an old-house person, a person who appreciates character over perfection, who likes the bumps and bruises of an old home... I walk around my house, looking at all the things that I should fix someday, but I don't fix them just yet, and I imagine God noticing all the things about me that should get fixed up one day, and loving me anyway and being okay with the mess for the time being."

I don't want to be the kind of person that only likes new houses. I don't want to be the kind of person that only likes new and shiny people either. I want to be a person who sees potential in a discarded house, or a discarded person, and commits to being a part of recovering it. I want to appreciate the things in my life for what they are; not spend my life wishing they were something, or someone, else.

To accept a person's bumps and bruises as part of their character is to give them a great gift. God gives me this gift each day in hopes that I will understand how to give it to others.

So far, we have fixed up a few things at the farm... turning this,

into this...


the "breezeway", into this...


the kitchen, into this...




It's still a work in progress, but then again, so am I. Maybe one day this type of restoration will happen in my own life.