I hosted Angela Shelton on my blog, Christina’s Corner, a month or so ago. I hate to admit it, but I didn’t visit her blog until after I asked if I could be a guest on the site. You see, I have a new book coming out next week and I’m doing everything I can think of to publicize it—including begging people to let me be on their blog.
So, today, I read through Angela’s blog. Reading about her delight in purchasing and owning her farm soothed my soul.
You see, I lost my farm. Oh, I know where it is, but it no longer belongs to the family. This small farm on top of a mountain outside Roanoke, Virginia had been in the family for generations—we’re not sure how far back since hillbillies don’t keep good records. My father was born there, and he died in the same room his father did (even though, technically, he was rushed to the hospital and finish his passing there). My worst and some of my absolute best memories reside there.
When my father died, he left everything to his wife, my stepmother. She couldn’t take care of a farm and we couldn’t afford to buy it from her, so she sold it. The people who bought the land tore down all the buildings, including the old farmhouse (it was in bad shape, but oh my heart) and built new.
We, too, raised Angus cows—and Herefords. We had chickens, pigs, cats, dogs, rabbits, birds, horses, and various wildlife mixed into the crowd. My sisters and I rambled all over that mountain—on our land and the neighbors’, too. We swung on wild grapevines, roasted hot dogs in a clearing in the woods, and skinny-dipped in Holt’s Creek (so far back in the woods no one ever came but us). We slid down waterfalls in the summer and sled down the hill in the hayfield in the winter.
My heart was wrung out to dry when that farm sold, and even more so when I found out the house was reduced to rubble just a few weeks ago.
But maybe, just maybe, an Angela bought the farm. Maybe my loss is someone else’s gain, someone who never had the chance to raise a calf on the bucket before now. Besides, I’m a city gal now, or at least a suburbanite who still teaches at a university for a living and will do so for at least seven years more. I just got back home from a trip to Europe where I got to see the sights of Paris and London and Edinburgh.
God has a plan. Sometimes that plan involves loss, but His is always a plan for our good.
Angela’s farm reminded me of that—please pet a cow for me. I got to pet a Hairy Coo in the Highlands a week ago, but I still miss them. God is good.
Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
A member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Christina Sinisi writes stories about families, both the broken and blessed. Her works include a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest and the American Title IV Contest where she appeared in the top ten in the Romantic Times magazine. Her published books include Christmas Confusion, Sweet Summer, and the Christmas on Ocracoke. By day, she is a psychology professor and lives in the LowCountry of South Carolina with her husband, two children and her crazy cat Chessie Mae.
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Christina’s New Book Why They Call It Falling is coming out on June 7th. You can buy it on Amazon
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