It takes time to make a place your own and identify it as home. Three years in and I’m finally realizing this little farm is my home and my own–gifted to me by the Father of all good and wonderful things to tend to and care for and love while I walk this place. Through it it is my job to pour out His goodness on all who grace it’s door. I’m beginning to know and adore the sounds of our little farm…. I know the hollow swing and clinking of the chicken feeder when it’s nearly empty. The squeak and slam of our wooden porch door. Which rooster is crowing and if something has concerned the chickens by they way their chatter changes to loud clucking. I listen intently to the neighbor’s cows mooing in the morning, try to decided what they’re saying, and wonder if someday I’ll “speak cow” too. I recognize the sound of the fridge making ice cubes and if the back door shut all the way when you close it. I know which of my kiddos is coming down the steps and to listen for the shower to turn off before I run my bath water. And I adore the sound of a car slowing to pull into our circular drive at the end of a long day.
It sounds like home.