You may remember the story I shared not long ago about the fire that tore through the farm where I recently bought three beautiful goats. That family lost nearly everything. The barn. The animals. The tools and supplies that make a life out of hard work and hope. What they didn’t lose, though, was their spirit.
Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about them more and more—how they must be trying to pick up the pieces, rebuild not just their farm, but their daily rhythm, their income, their identity. And I realized… maybe I could help.
See, I had purchased five does from them—three new girls and two others a while back, both in milk now. They were good goats, solid goats. I’d been toying with the idea of selling them, but hadn’t found the right buyer. Or so I thought.
I sent off a quick email, just to offer. No pressure, no expectations—just a “hey, would you be interested?”
The next morning, bright and early, the phone rang. Her voice cracked as she said, “We want them. All seven.”
Seven. All seven. The 5 I bought from her, plus 2 more high quality gals that were similar bloodlines.
And just like that, I had goosebumps. The kind that run down your arms and stop you in your tracks. The kind that whisper, this was never random.
When I look back at how this all came together, it’s impossible not to see a pattern stitched by something greater than chance. Call it divine timing. Call it fate. Me? I call it God.
I only meant to buy two new goats. That was the plan. But when I called this woman—whose goats I knew and trusted, and already had a few from her—she said she had three. I sent a check for two and tried to leave it at that. But something nudged me. A whisper I couldn’t explain. A week later, I called her back. “I’ll take the third.”
I also had a buyer for two of my does. A buyer appeared—then vanished. No deposit. No response. Just… gone. I tried to follow up, but couldn’t reach her. I was frustrated, but I let it go.
When I sent that email to offer the goats, it went straight to her spam folder. And—this part gets me every time—she told me she never checks her spam. But that night, something made her look. And there it was. My email. Waiting. Right on time.
I can’t explain it away. I don’t want to.
These goats—these quirky, demanding, utterly lovable souls—aren’t just going to a new home. They’re going back to the place they came from. Back to the arms that raised them. Back to a family who needs them now more than ever.
And yes, my heart aches. Every goat I’ve ever owned has wrapped herself around a little piece of my heart and refused to let go. These girls are no different. I know each bleat, each nudge, each attitude-filled toss of the head. I know who likes their grain soaked and who screams bloody murder if the hay isn’t exactly right. They have been my morning chaos and my evening peace. My laughter and my therapy.
But this… this is bigger than me. This is what grace looks like. When all the wrong turns somehow lead exactly where you need to be. When pain is turned into purpose. When letting go becomes a gift instead of a loss.
They’re not leaving just yet—the family is still making space for them in the new barn. So I have a little more time to soak them in. A few more mornings of being yelled at for being three minutes late with breakfast. A few more evenings of head scratches and nose kisses and warm milk.
And when the day comes, I’ll help load them onto that trailer. I’ll stroke their soft ears one last time, whisper a promise that I’ll never forget them, and watch them head down the road toward something beautiful.
Not an ending. A beginning.
Because the story doesn’t stop here.
The story
continues.
