Several years ago, when my husband was pastoring in a Very small rural community, we lived in a farmhouse. Sounds perfect doesn't it?
Well, it sorta was.
We had been renting a home in town, and I use the term loosely...there was a bank, a grain elevator and a hardware store...when someone bought the rental out from under us. We still owned and were trying to sell a home in another part of the state--we couldn't buy a house, couldn't find a house to rent and had a narrow timeframe of less than three weeks to be out of the rental we were in.
Normally in situations less stressful than this one I panic. Full blown get the bag she's hyperventilating, sing Hakuna Matata over and over to her, smack her in the face and call her Shirley panic. This time, not so much. I knew we would find a place.
So we drove. And drove. And drove around the area. Nothing...
Til we drove out in the country and passed (about a mile and a half from 'town') an old farmhouse that no one was living in. I'd call it abandoned except a family still owned it, they lived two towns away and had rented it out but the renters who had lived there for years finally moved six months prior. It was perfect for us. We contacted the family, rolled up our sleeves and dove in.
|Post Road Vintage|
I know it's just a place, but I think some places speak to us--they might be different for each person--but they sing a tune that we know too and make us feel at home somehow.
I am longing for a farmhouse.