To the Next Owners of Our House

July 27, 2018, the Night before our House Auction

 

Dear Next Owners of our House,

 

Twelve hours from now our lives will have taken a major turn. We will be preparing to move out of our home as you prepare to move in. This is what we wanted, what we want, but the knowing doesn’t make the transition terribly easy.

 

You see, we will have been married 29 years on July 29, the day after our house auction. For all of those years, we have lived in married housing, a small apartment, a starter home, my family’s homestead and now what is to be your new home. We moved to this house just over six years ago when my husband’s job brought us to this area. The Lord gave us the job and the house, which has been perfectly suited for our family and our needs.

 

Each house in which we have lived has been more than a house, but a home. There is a difference, you surely know. A house is made of mortar, bricks, wood and all manner of things sold at the home improvement store. But a home is made of the smells of baked bread and frying bacon, the sound of the screen door slamming shut, the unmatched freshness of sundried bedsheets, the nicks and scratches from kids’ playing, the walls filled with sweet and sour notes after hours of daily piano practice, the rafters echoing sorrows and joys, the spirit of hospitality, the comfort of loving family, and memories that will hold forever. This structure of building materials has seen more than a few important family events — two homeschool graduations, our becoming grandparents and the littles’ losing those first teeth. The loft was blessed by the voluminous smell of leather as our sons worked diligently to build their leather business, often working into the night.

 

The porch has its own memories–announcements of joining the military and engagement to be married and summer violin and mandolin playing after dark with only the stars and moon to provide light. Our porch swings have experienced joys and tears while our tables have been crowded with merry meals, sometimes folks sitting side by side having just met when they arrived for Thanksgiving dinner or standing room only at Christmas Open Houses. Our screen door has been opened to those of every age, belief and skin color and our hearts have been blessed by it.

 

Many young men have spent long week-ends with our sons while working on dirt bikes in the ample garage-shop. How many times have we had to remind our littles to move their pile of riding toys from the shop door just so we could walk inside? Will we miss these times? Certainly so. Memories are not so annoying as reality, I suppose.

 

Our yards have footprints of children playing ghost-in-the-graveyard and catching lightening bugs in the summer evenings. The tallest oak was planted when my husband’s dear grandfather passed and the oddly growing redbud was a gift at the passing of his father. Every nook and cranny holds memories for us because, you see, we feel that one should live in a HOME and not a house.

 

Whippoorwill Fields Farm is what we named this place. Slowly swinging on the porch at night and listening to the lonely sound of the whippoorwill is oddly comforting, relaxing really. The next morning promises wild turkeys in the front yard and a family of deer in the back.

 

The farm is now to become yours to do with whatever you feel is right. We are embarking on a journey which we feel is the right thing to do for our family, as well. We have prayed for you for months! We have asked the Father to prepare you in every way necessary and that this house might be a blessing to you as it has been to us.

 

If we could thank the house, we would. It has been good to us. God has been good to us and to Him we give all the glory. We trust Him.

 

It is time that we begin to pack up our remaining belongings and leave the structure as clean as we can. We will pack the memories in our hearts and minds, making room for you to make your own. If we happen to leave one behind, please be kind and pick it up, dust it off and make it your own.

 

God bless you,

Katie, the lady of Whippoorwill Fields Farm