Down on the Farm

Well it looks like we finally bought the farm.  No, we didn’t purchase a burial plot or crash a plane onto a farmer’s lot (two original uses for the term).  We actually bought the farm.  As a United Methodist pastor, there are many benefits. We are encouraged to use a prophetic voice, we are given much freedom to be creative, and we are appointed to an entire community, not just the members of the local church.  But one of the detriments of being a UM pastor is retirement.  When it’s all said and done, everyone celebrates your ministry just before saying, “Where are your keys?... and can you be moved out within 30 days please?” 

Most of our churches provide what is called a parsonage, a church owned house.   This way, when the Bishop calls with a new appointment, there isn’t a house to sell first.  You just pack up and go.  The bad thing is, when retirement comes along, you’re homeless.  Literally.  You are without a home.  And who wants to apply for a mortgage at age 70? 

So my husband and I have been looking for the past couple of years.  Both our kids have bought houses and we were hoping to be someone close enough to continue being involved in their lives.  We also wanted a place that might entice our children/grandchildren to come visit as often as possible.  We felt that easily narrowed to finding a home on a lake or on a farm.  We figured either one would be a draw for little ones. 

After seeing several places that were just kind of hum ho, we ran into this farm.  The house was built in 1890 and has good, solid bones.  The floors are all natural oak, along with all the interior and exterior doors, window and floor trim.  It’s amazing none of the oak has ever been painted.  It’s also amazing carpet has never been installed anywhere in the house.  All the door knobs are original and some of the light fixtures are pretty old, as well. 

It sits on 5 acres of hardwoods and meadows.  There are 5 outbuildings, including a three story hip roof barn, a 2 story screened pavilion with decks, an 8 stall horse barn, a ceramic tiled art gallery, and a studio complete with a wall of south facing windows.  A photographer last owned the property.  But I have to admit, as incredibly awesome as all those things are, what I love the most is a little more abstract.  I love simply being there.  When I pull in the driveway, I feel as though I have gone back in time and have become a child again.  As a child I would arrive at my grandparents’ farm the last day of school and wouldn’t return to my mother until the first day of school the following year.  My brother and I spent every moment we could there.  We created forts in the straw mow, had tomato fights that left welts, and puddle stomped wearing my grandfather’s pants and a baler twine belt.  Baseball games could happen in a drop of a hat and climbing to the top of the silo was a goal we all had before any of us reached puberty. 

There’s something said about turning off the electronics and returning to a life of physical labor, livestock aromas, and summer breezes swaying through the tree tops.  My grandfather died in an accident on the farm when I was 12.  Just a few years later the farm was auctioned off and I haven’t really set foot on one since.  Until now.  It’s nice to be home.