Ole Ma's Ramblings
The wind tosses the leaves around me, mirroring the torrent of memories swirling in my head, tangling up my thoughts as I grapple with the weight.
Our Porkpaloozas are always such a special time, but none more so than our most recent. Porkpaloozas are always a great time. We spent our evening eating massive amounts of good food surrounded by friends and family, their laughter blending with the scent of smoky porky goodness. The animals were in their element, loving the attention and enjoying treats from our guests. Of course, they were all filled with their antics vying for attention, but perhaps none more so than the cute little Punkin, the cow who doesn’t know she’s a cow and thinks she’s a person, mooing from the gate, eager to join in on the fun and be part of the action inside those rusty ole farm gates.
And now, as I try and write, I'm distracted—or perhaps more aptly, I'm trying to avoid what I know I must tell you all. So instead of focusing here, I am thinking back to a time at the fair when that sweet little Punkin, just a newborn calf, was stuck in her stall at the fairgrounds, longing to be out playing and experiencing the world around her. Born premature, we fought hard for her life, nurturing her like the treasure she is. She had to be bottle-fed around the clock. It was fair week, and we couldn’t leave her at the farm while we did our ag-ucation for the week-long event, so we brought her with us. But the fairgrounds had rules, and a stall was a must. There she was, in the dimly lit barn, mooing and mooing until she went hoarse, desperately wanting to join the children playing around her under the bright warm sunshine, her little heart yearning to join in the frolic. Eventually, with her head hung low, she ran out of steam, and despite all the trying, she simply had no more moos left to give.
Tears are washing over me now, friends, as I prepare to share this difficult news. It’s a hard one to say. But I suppose the best way to say it is just to get on with it and say it...
Ole Pa, FarmHer Raye, and I have made the heart-wrenching decision to close the farm and this chapter of our lives. This decision has not come easy for us, nor has it been made lightly. The weight of this choice feels like a severing of ourselves, and that pain is excruciating. This farm has not just been a way to make a living; it's been the very way we have made our life.
Over the past months, we found ourselves caught in a tempest of challenges, each storm piling on more muck that we had to wade through. With each hurdle, we clung to frayed bootstraps, pulling ourselves up from the depths, yet feeling the weight of exhaustion growing heavier on our shoulders. It became a struggle to maintain hope amidst the turmoil, as the heartache and heaviness seeped into every crevice of our daily lives.
Winter cast its long shadow over our farm, magnifying the sorrow of watching our aging herd slowly diminish. Each loss was a cruel reminder that life is a fleeting gift. We’ve shared countless moments with these animals, nurturing them as part of our family. But livestock's days are numbered no matter how much you love them. And for our precious breeding herds, none of them live nearly long enough. When the times have come to release their aging, time-worn bodies, the heart-wrenching acts of euthanasia felt like tearing away a piece of our very own selves, leaving gaping holes that can never be filled. They can't live forever, no matter how hard we wish otherwise, and with every goodbye, we felt the gut-wrenching reality of that truth. And perhaps to our own downfall, we just don't have the heart to replace them. It feels as if it's a betrayal. Several of our pens and stalls have lain fallow for years because the thought of putting another in there, on that sacred ground that has belonged to another, seems so very wrong on levels I can't really explain.
And it isn't just that... Summer came and yet brought with it the theft at the Farm Stand, a brutal twist in our story. Two years of dedication and love poured into raising that beef were stolen, only to have it ripped away in a single, selfish act. It wasn’t just about the loss of the meat; it shattered our trust, leaving us grappling with an unbearable sense of betrayal. The familiar sanctuary we had built around this farm felt less secure, and our hearts ached as we mourned not just the financial impact but both the physical loss and the emotional blow. Suspicion crept in with every vehicle pulling into our driveway, little FarmHer Raye no longer able to run to greet the customers she delighted in seeing. It has literally been eroding our peace with every sound of tires on our gravel drive.
Amidst this turmoil, we faced the undeniable truth of how external demands had begun to suffocate us. We had poured ourselves into the farm, but the relentless pressure to meet expectations drained our souls, making us feel like mere shadows of our former selves. The sacrifices that once brought us joy now felt like chains, binding us to a life that had become unsustainable.
Perhaps the most heartbreaking element of our decision has stemmed from the shifting nature of our customer base. There was a time when we felt buoyed by a community that cheered for us, celebrating our efforts with kindness and support. And all those aforementioned things could have been survivable and not drowning because of the life-giving solidarity we had in so many of you all. But over the past year, that deep connection we had with our community has unraveled, replaced by an unsettling tide. It's one of a new breed of customers who walk in with ugly, stark rudeness while shouting unreasonable demands. Our customer base shifted from almost entirely that of people we consider dear friends to an angry mob of nameless faces. We are not a grocery store; we are a small family farm—Pa, Ma, and the little FarmHer pouring our hearts into every aspect of our work. And yet, the vitriol that would spew from our customers over minor mistakes—like a miscalculation on an order, a temporary stock shortage, or questions about our pricing—has been suffocating. It’s as if each small oversight transformed into an insurmountable offense, choking the enthusiasm we once held for our work and turning our passion into a source of distress. It has left us wondering what the heck is wrong with people these days? A vivid example of this disconnect struck when we were desperately trying to save a newborn calf a few weeks ago. Only hours old, he was trampled by others in the herd. As we frantically tried to move an angry bull out, a distressed mama cow in, set up temporary pens and suitable shelters—all while we worked desperately to triage his wounds—we were inundated with pings and dings on our phones coming in a barrage every 30-45 minutes. When the dust settled, we saw they were all from a summer customer and all over a trivial matter that could have been resolved with a simple check on our social media. For over five hours, this person had called, texted, and emailed us on repeat, the onslaught coming every 30-40 minutes, getting angrier and more appalling each time. The final one ended in horrific name-calling, swearing, and actual screaming into our voicemail. All this because they wanted the address to our Farm Stand. They were so caught up in their selfishness that it somehow justified their verbal assault. It's that level of abuse that screams of the entitlement we have been dealing with. In that moment, it became crystal clear—we had made the right choice: our well-being has to take precedence.
For years, we’ve taught others about sustainability and the importance of self-sufficiency—how to respect the land, nurture it, and live in a way that preserves resources for future generations. But in all this, we've come to realize that we ourselves must also be sustainable. We need to nurture our own well-being and ensure that our lives, too, are lived in balance. Without that, we can’t continue to give what we’ve given for so long. And much like Punkin, we can feel ourselves growing hoarse; we find ourselves running out of moos.
We are ready to embrace what lies ahead, filled with hope and the promise of new beginnings. We are stepping into the unknown, longing for freedom, and again like Punkin, we are wanting to break free from the burdens that have come to define our days on the farm. We’re excited to rediscover what it means for us to go and frolic and chase the sun across open pastures.
"Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you your heart’s desires." Psalm 37:4
So here we are. As I finish this writing, ole Pa is busy packing up our lives and renovating our new home. We have decided to hit the road in our RV for the winter. We are embracing God's call to travel across this beautiful country. We feel a pull to go out and actively love on God’s precious people, to share our hearts, share others’ burdens, and to find joy in new connections, being Christ's literal hands and feet as we travel across the U.S. and back, embracing the call to love others in action and deed. We’ve learned that when we pour ourselves into the lives of others, we not only help ease their struggles but also find our own peace and blessings along the way.
As we are preparing to close this chapter of our lives, we're finding solace in the memories we’ve created together—the love we’ve shared here, the laughter that echoed across the fields, and the bonds we’ve formed with each of you. You will always hold a special place in our hearts, and we will miss each and every one of you dearly. Though the farm gates are closing, we are stepping into the unknown with open arms, ready to embrace this incredible new adventure. We’ll go where needed, kicking off the old work worn farm boots and rediscovering the freedom and frolic we’ve longed for, all while carrying the cherished moments of our time together. And we will know that no matter what, we are blessed—so very truly blessed.
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