If my life was a novel like, say China Court, I might have a deeper appreciation for the high ceilings and the one-of-a-kind floors. I suspect it would be because I would be able to focus on those romantic features and not contend, instead, with the wasps and termites, drafts and whistles, space issues and loose nails.
If I was reading a novel about my house, I’d laugh at the antics of the woman living in such a place, raising little girls and planning meals and contending with 100-year-old construction that didn’t have electricity as part of the plan.
Recently, though, I couldn’t help but reflect on my old farmhouse and how it has challenged my faith, and especially my devotion to Mary.
I didn’t exactly plan to live in an old farmhouse. It just happened to be the house my husband owned. It’s perched on a lovely piece of property, one that continues to woo me with its gentle slopes and beautiful views. The creek bed, the surrounding fields, and even the weeds have an allure.
It was built at the turn of the 20th century, when life was very different. It started as a two-story four-room brick house in the middle of nowhere. Over the years, subsequent owners added on to it until my husband’s brother purchased it, 15 years ago. It’s now a quite nice amount of living space, though arranged very differently than modern houses.
So why is my first reaction to a friend’s comment about the possibilities a cynical remark about wasps and drafts?
Often, my old farmhouse forces me to step back from the fast track of life, from the internet that I’ve so embraced, and find silence.
Standing in my kitchen, with my hands immersed in soapy water after dinner, watching the sun set over our back barn, I can’t help but wonder if Mary had a view like mine.
Read the rest at Faith & Family Live: “Finding Mary in an Old Farmhouse.”