Last Updated on March 13, 2023 by Michelle
I may do this homesteading life a disservice most days. I am a romantic and love to weave a beautiful story, just like my Dad always did so well. And I am a writer and photographer and love to carefully choose words and frame images to their maximum appeal.
So I apologize.
My storytelling and cropping of details might make a simple little family farm seem glamorous.
It’s not.
Our homesteading journey has been full of mistakes…
The difficulties–most due to my own mess ups and inadequacies–have been tough.
There was the day many young, beautiful hens died in a matter of minutes, all because of my avoidable mistake.
Then there were the incubated eggs I completely messed up and lost.
There was the sweet barn cat we lost due to my ignorance.
And there are never-ending mistakes we make and projects we start that go unfinished with our 200-year old farmhouse.
I mean truly y’all I’ve never really felt “legit” at this homesteading gig.
Some of our homesteading days have been messy and scary…
Yes, homesteading is messy and hard and disorganized and even downright scary some days. Last Thursday was the scariest.
The day our stable burnt to the ground was the worst…
I had gone out to gather eggs and realized there was horrible smoke billowing up from the area of the stables.
When I ran to the edge of our barn, where the ground dips down for a full view of the stables, I saw a stable engulfed in flames. The roof was nearly collapsed, I almost fell to the ground myself in despair. The thought of our two sweet cows trapped inside sucked the air out of my lungs.
Bill dashed past me to survey damage that I couldn’t bear to approach. He was more level-headed than I and gave me direction as I stood there, numb and bitter with worry.
He yelled up to me to call 911. I had an odd sense of relief that there was something I could do. Before I reached the porch door, his voice bellowed and cracked up again, “The cows are alright!”
Scout and Selah, usually very curious and eager to greet any guests to the farm, kept their distance from all of us in the hours that followed. Hours of smoke and sirens and hoses and firefighters.
And now our field is a mess of twisted metal roofing and debris.
I’m so grateful for the weekend’s fresh snowfall to help me not focus on the ugliness quite so much.
We’ve lost more than a building…
The stable that has stood on our homestead for possibly a century is gone. The stable that housed more farm animals than I will know is gone. The stable that was once home to Flaxie Checker, cousin to Secretariat, many decades ago is gone. (I learned this fact from a neighbor who knew sweet Flaxie.) The stable that Kayla looked at in shambles many years ago and decided it had worth and could house a dairy cow or two is gone. The stable where Logan and Kayla spent a long hot Saturday, designing, hammering, and leveling an interior wall to home the little calf that we eagerly awaited is gone. The stable that became the birth place to a large precious litter of barn cats whose momma preferred bovine company to the barn is gone.
It’s gone. And charred mess remains.
So no, I don’t mean to make simple living romantic, it’s poopy and crazy hard.
And I don’t know what clean up is going to look like in the days and weeks ahead, and I doubt we can keep our cows, which makes my heart ache, but I do know that God is good. And I am blessed to be on this daily adventure of life, even on days when despair sucks the air our of my lungs. Because “Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed [way worse than a stable fire, no?], yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken.” (Isaiah 54:10)
But yet there is joy…
But the part of the day that I will never forget–the day that took our stable and left our cows homeless–is how it began. Habakkak.
Yes, Habakkak. A minor prophet of Israel. 2500 years ago. Not a place most days begin, right?
But exactly where this day needed to begin.
Kayla–my cow-whispering, Jesus-loving, gardener extraordinaire–was leading a Bible study of homeschool teens. Like she does every Thursday. And she was explaining why she loves the verses in Habakkak that talk about where our true joy needs to lie. She’s always loved them because she’s a farmer, in her core, since her toddler hands planted her first tomato plant. And Habakkak pointed out–in a very agrarian society mind you–that even when all crops fail and fields are barren he would have joy.
In an agrarian society, where crops and produce were inherent and vital, Habakkak says he will have joy when the trees no longer bud and the fruit no longer ripens. And, yes, Habakkak even says there can be joy with no cattle in the stalls.
Because his joy was founded in only one source–in his Lord alone.
I cried when I realized that possibly the very moment my lungs felt like they would not work and my knees were giving way under me because I was witnessing the total destruction of my sweet Kayla’s stable… the stable she saw worth in when no one else did… the stable she rebuilt… Possibly at that very moment she was reading these words:
Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
he enables me to tread on the heights.
Believe it or not, I’ve quoted from the tiny book of Habakkak before, right here.
Yes, there is joy…
It’s not easy, and I can’t say I’m yet singing songs of praise over the destruction that last Thursday brought to our homestead.
I can’t say I’m thankful that we need to find new families to adopt our cows.
I can’t say I’m in the least bit happy that we will no longer have a bucket of raw milk on our counter every morning.
I can’t say there’s any joy in the loss of butter and yogurt and cream and cheese.
But I can say that God is good. Even in the midst of destruction and uncertainty and tears. He is my strength y’all, or I would have thrown in the towel on this thing called “life” a long time ago. Definitely this thing called “homesteading.”
Instead, He enables me. He sustains me. He gives me hope. He makes every single day… no every single hour… worthwhile. Whether little ole Michelle, in her tears, realizes it or not. Truly, He literally holds every minute together.
So when it looks like everything is falling apart, I simply lean all my confidence on one thing: He’s got this. He who holds all things together has this too.
If I’m wrong? Well, if I’m wrong, I’ve clung to a falsehood that has sustained me. Against all odds. And I’ve had a purpose to my days, thanks entirely to words of a madman who claimed, 2000 years ago, to be God. But his words were recorded and preserved. Against all odds. His words are changing broken lives today. Against all odds. Madmen don’t speak living words that rejuvenate and sustain.
But if I’m right? Oh, my friend, if I’m right, and I am a child of an all-powerful, all-knowing Creator who literally knows every spec of charred ash in each of His infinite galaxies and holds it all together? If I’m right, He causes all things to work together for good, for those who love Him. (By the way, that verse, Romans 8:28, isn’t promising us what we like to think it is… read here for more on why I love that verse and what it’s really promising.)
Last Thursday absolutely can bring me joy.
Other Homesteading-related Reading & Podcasts:
Listen in to the Old Fashioned On Purpose podcast when I share why homesteading matters & why I initially had a difficult time with the transition from suburbia.
Check out a dozen mistakes we’ve made on our homestead and how you can avoid them.
Think you want to own a little family farm? Ask yourself these 12 questions.
Then there’s 8 Things Wanna-be Homesteaders Need to Know.
He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1:17
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Thank you for sharing your losses, even though I am sure it was just as painful relating them as it was as it was happening. Homesteading is not for wimps. We learn to love our animals and I know how thankful we are for their gifts they give us. I hope it helps when you think of Habbakuk. I also lean heavily on 1 Corinthians 10:13 when disaster strikes. My husband and I are medically retired and working towards our own homestead in the near future. We are learning skills now to help with later. Having mistakes can not only be costly but afford us a look at how to remedy things in the future. I have canned gallons of food only to find it spoiled from not sealing. I have seen my garden decimated by varmits overnight. These things, as painful as they can be, show us and teach us how to be more resilient. I loved this post for showing the “real” life. Thank you for sharing your honest, and painful experiences and helping so many others by doing so.
Oh, Jennifer, thank YOU for taking the time to share your thoughts with me. I honestly don’t often feel like I’m helping others, but truly nothing would give me greater joy than to know I’ve done that by writing about my heartache. Just in that–in helping others–there is healing and renewal, no?
It’s been nearly 2 years since our coop fire. The mess is still not gone because we could not afford to hire someone to clean it. The charred wood still hurts to see, knowing how many baby birds we lost that day along with a beautiful building with lots of animals. But as much as it hurt, I am thankful so many times over for the positive changes it allowed us to make. As weird and horrible as it might sound, that fire was a blessing,and an answer to prayers. That fire solved a lot of problems we couldn’t on our own. I still miss the building. I am still reminded of the disaster by the mess that remains, but little by little, we continue to tackle that mess and seek to make the best of it.