In February I left my position as Vice President of Strategic Partnerships at a small university. I planned on a few months of exploring my options before landing in a similar executive role somewhere.
I believed I had a resume and the connections to make it happen.
Then March rolled in and so with it came a global pandemic.
I found myself sheltering in place, holding tight to those dreams of the climb while homeschooling children and networking over skype.
What I had assumed would be 30-60 days of a mini sabbatical turned into nearly seven months of living without work.
When doors continue to close you begin to wonder if God is trying to tell you something.
I’ve spent a lifetime living in the shadow of my own career. The race to the top, the next promotion, the next percentage increase on my paycheck had become my personal definition of self worth. Without that who am I?
I am more then my job and that is why I am calling it quits.
My competitive, type A personality has me screaming “don’t do this to your career, you’ve worked too hard”. While my heart has found more peace and contentment in the last 24 hours then in all the days prior.
No longer will I wake up each morning scouring Linked-In job postings.
You can go back to answering my phone calls, I promise I am not calling to hassle you about your connections.
At forty three years of age and with zero experience I will become a full- time farmer.
I will work to transform the seventeen acres of field and forest that we purchased in July into a working flower and sheep farm
This land needs me and if I am being honest I need it.
I need hard labor.
I need to learn.
Please don’t be mistaken, this is not some noble choice I am making. Had I actually been offered that first job where I was a finalist back in February, would I be sitting here typing this? No.
But it is in the failing that I have found myself.
Because we are raising this big, beautiful, blended family with six girls, we still need to make ends meet.
I will be working part-time jobs to help with the hit our checking account will be taking. But, my primary focus will remain on raising a farm and raising a family.
I look forward to more time spent sharing with you the beauty of Avonlea Farm. You can follow along here on the blog or on Instagram at FarmAvonlea.
Whatever happens next, the failure or the success, I know it won’t define me; living in joy will.
Some decisions take time and others are arrived at quickly.
The choice to raise ducklings came in a split second.
Only after their arrival did I become aware of their benefits.
Turns out ducks are hardier and healthier then chickens. They will manage the changing seasons with little concern.
Our ducks will help control the insect population and they will lay eggs that provide more protein and are better used in baked goods then the speckled eggs our chickens will yield.
Winston, Vid, Ray, Duckie, Dawn and No Name welcome to Avonlea. Thanks, in advance, for your service.
My life on the land had previously consisted of childhood trips to Round Hill Farm and an adult life spent at the “Barn” watching my eldest daughter ride her horse named Glinda (yes the Good Witch).
I am soft.
While long runs had previously left me feeling scrappy, I realize I and manual labor are just now becoming acquainted.
The callouses on my palms show the world that I most likely was not raised on it.
But, it is the missing piece.
No job and a pandemic sitting on my doorstep yet hauling dirt, moving stones and dreaming of life with sheep has brought more peace then a Sunday service.
The job loss, the pandemic, the struggle that seems to have us always in the waiting.
My love, I can’t imagine these trials without you beside me.
When this world has been turned upside down, I find myself grateful that you came along. Your presence makes possibilities endless.
I long for days when porch swings and miles up mountains fill our moments. But until that day is here, as we raise young women and watch the everyday beauty unfold, I will feel more hopeful then blue.
Years of abandonement mean aches and pains that must be treated.
We know her war wounds and trust that this is where we are meant to be.
She will require years of hard labor.
Days will be spent digging and grating and hauling away the signs of neglect.
Who better to rebuild a broken space then those who understand how scars become beauty marks?
As we manage the unending waiting game of will we or won’t we get an offer on the place we live today, we will be content with our dreams about the day that old house gets to welcome us home.
