And The Miracles Continue

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.

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A Page Turns, A Chapter Ends, But The Book Isn't Finished

The quiet goodbye I didn’t want to write

Some chapters in life don’t end with fanfare or fireworks. They end in silence — in the quiet thud of a barn door closing for the last time, in the soft crunch of hay under boots that won’t make this walk again, in the weight of a phone call that begins with, “Yes, she’s for sale.”

This is one of those chapters.

After long, painful thought — the kind that haunts your sleep and leaves your chest aching — I’ve come to a decision I never thought I would make. My homestead, my dream, the living, breathing thing I built with my own two hands (and a lot of help from Jim and a few determined dogs), is coming to a close. I am letting it go.

And it is breaking my heart.

You don’t just do this kind of life. You become it. It wraps around your soul, changes your rhythm, gives you a different kind of heartbeat — one that syncs with the bleating of goats, the low rumble of a sow settling into her straw, the flap of chicken wings in the early morning mist. It teaches you what real commitment looks like. Not the Hallmark kind, but the cold-hands, sore-back, no-days-off, mud-on-your-face kind. And for years, I did it.

Happily.

Proudly.

Fiercely.

But something shifted.

Not overnight. No — the unraveling was slow. The kind of slow you don’t even notice until you stop one day, look around, and realize that the dream you were chasing has quietly drifted just out of reach. That the joy has been replaced by exhaustion. That freedom — something you didn’t even let yourself want — has started to whisper your name.

One of the cruelest truths about farming, especially on a small scale, is that it doesn’t give much back. Not in money. Not in rest. Not in time off. You don’t go on vacation. You don’t have long weekends. You don’t even really get to be sick. Animals don’t care if you’re tired or grieving or just hanging on by a thread. They need to eat. They need clean water. They need you.

And sometimes, the person you used to be — the one who could carry all that, who even found meaning in the weight of it — isn’t the person you are anymore.

I had plans. God, I had plans. A little commercial kitchen in the barn. Cheese-making. Retirement with purpose. I could see it so clearly — spring milkings turning into jars of chèvre, fall festivals where I’d sell wheels of hard-aged goat cheese wrapped in wax and pride. I saw community, creation, purpose.

But life doesn’t always follow our plans. Sometimes it knocks the cheese right off the cracker and leaves you staring at a mess you don’t know how to clean up.

So now I’m saying goodbye. Goodbye to the goats who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. Goodbye to the chickens who followed me like feathery shadows. Goodbye to the pigs who rooted their way not just through the pasture, but through every tough spot in my heart.

And it hurts. It hurts in a way that I don’t have words for — a deep, raw kind of pain that sits behind the ribs and rises in your throat when you try to talk about it. These animals weren’t just livestock. They were chapters in my life, companions in my solitude, witnesses to my days.

I cry with every phone call I make. I write ads through blurry eyes. I whisper promises to each animal as they go, swearing they’ll be loved, that I’m not abandoning them, that this is the kindest choice I can make. Whether they understand or not, I need them to hear it.

And I need you to hear it too.

This isn’t a failure. It’s a transition. A pause. A breath between the chapters.

Farming is in my blood. I was made for this life — I know that with everything I am. And maybe someday I’ll find my way back. Maybe it’ll look different — fewer animals, less pressure, more balance. Maybe it’ll be a quiet little homestead tucked into the edge of a forest, with just enough to feed my soul. Maybe it’ll be a greenhouse, or a farmstand, or a pen with a single ridiculous goat who thinks she runs the place.

But not today.

Today, I am grieving. I am letting go. I am walking away from the life I built, not because it wasn’t good, but because I have changed. Because life has changed. And because even the strongest dreams sometimes need to rest.

To everyone who has walked alongside me — thank you. For your kindness, your laughter, your encouragement, your help mucking stalls or chasing escaped poultry. For reading these stories and caring about this farm as much as I did.

And to my animals — my sweet, chaotic, miraculous animals — thank you for letting me love you.

The farm may be quiet now.

But I’m not finished.

Not even close.

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