A Change in Direction

 Preface

I’ve always loved books, loved the smell of them and the feel of them. Forget digital. I’ll take a physical book, even a used one, over a screen any day. My library may not be extensive by someone else's standards, but it sure feels that way to me. It especially felt that way when we moved. You find out just how much you’ve accumulated when all those bits and pieces of your life have to fit like a Tetris game into a seemingly endless stack of (very heavy) Home Depot boxes. 

After the move, after the shift from suburbia to the country, my collection of homesteading resources was upgraded, from books to organized gatherings; in these, my husband and I were able to talk to others who were like-minded, learn from them, and see first hand how to do some of the things I’d only read about. Also new to my arsenal of homesteading knowledge was a couple of magazine subscriptions, and through these, I heard the hearts of those who were teaching people like me how to be self-sufficient. It was different from the how-to books. This wasn’t just about how to process a chicken. It was the story of how the author came to want to process the chicken in the first place, the path they traveled that brought them to where they are today. I found myself, with every article, nodding my head and saying, ‘Yes, yes, that’s me!’ Every word and every story resonated with me on a level I’d never before experienced. We were connected, and I’d never even met them. 

This had two effects on me. First was the complete amazement that what I felt, dreamed, and longed for was the same as literally thousands of other people. This wasn’t merely about academics; it wasn’t just a lifestyle change. It was a revolution of the mind and spirit. An awakening. The fact that other writers were putting into words what was in my own heart and mind was mind-boggling. We may have all started differently, but we’ve all ended up in the same place, with the same goal - freedom. 

The second effect was the idea that if I could be inspired by the telling of someone else’s story, then maybe someone else would be inspired by the telling of mine. 

Here’s hoping. 

Roots

In 2003, my husband and I bought a picturesque two-story house in a charming middle-class suburban neighborhood in central Alabama. The house was tucked into an older quiet neighborhood, had two stories, just enough of a backyard for our future kids to play in, and a wrap-around porch. The town we lived in was the embodiment of Southern Charm itself, complete with a waterfall, park, and Old Town. We loved it there. 

Our children loved it there. Originally, we intended to give them what we thought would be a better life than the ones we’d had growing up. (Don’t we ALL do that?) What I learned, in the long run, was ‘not repeating our parents’ mistakes’ just means you’ll make all new ones. 

Our main focus had been to give our children roots; to have the same address their entire adolescent lives and have neighbor kids to grow up and be besties with. They did, for the most part. Through those years we’d attended scores of school functions and road trips, went to choir and band concerts, and got to know their friends and their friends’ parents. They made relationships and lost relationships, went to church (left the church), learned to drive, and had their first jobs, all in the same town. 

We were able to provide for them a place where as adults they could go back and say ‘This is the town where I grew up’. Well, mission accomplished. They have their roots - but what does that mean, exactly? Have we only given them something to look back on, and not something to look forward to? 

If only, right? If only we’d known then what we know now. If only we’d started to change sooner. If only we’d seen that what was most important didn't lie in where we came from, but where we were going to. 

More

During those years when the kids were learning how to become addicted to video games and looking for acceptance on social media, my husband joined a hunt club, and I started my first garden. He was learning how to harvest deer, and I learned how to grow tomatoes in five-gallon buckets on the back porch. We found immense enjoyment in our new ‘hobbies’. The satisfaction that came from putting meat in the freezer and canned veggies on the shelf morphed into an insatiable desire for more - more time spent outside, more building things with our hands, more digging in the soil - more doing for ourselves what we never dreamed we could do for ourselves before. 

This was the opposite of the world’s definition of more; we didn’t want more stuff. We wanted more self-reliance. More knowledge. More good things for ourselves and our family. By default, this meant less of a lot of things. Less grocery store, for one. Not just because we wanted to put our own food on the table, but because so much of what passes for ‘food’ in this day and age isn’t, actually. Food. It isn’t actually food. 

I remember walking down the aisle of my favorite grocery store one day and feeling like the shelves were whispering to me, ‘poiiiisssion’. Boxes upon boxes of food-like tasting substances loaded with pesticides, additives, and ingredients you can’t even pronounce. ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’. Yes, I absolutely can believe it. Or how about packages of chicken labeled as ‘vegetarian’ that are supposed to be ‘free range’? Ya’ll know chickens eat bugs, right? But I digress…

‘More’ became the catalyst that catapulted our lives down the road to self-sustainability. 

Buckets on the back porch were upgraded to raised garden beds in the yard (I ended up with sixteen, in the end), and transforming the kids’ old play set into a chicken coop (right under the nose of the HOA, thank you very much). But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just digging in the soil that appealed to me, it was the pride I felt from producing something with my own two hands that I could put on a dinner plate and feed to my family. It wasn’t just the thrill of the hunt, it was the sense of accomplishment from harvesting something we could turn into a delicious meal. It wasn’t just a tomato, it was a sun-kissed, poison-free, vine-ripened, vitamin-saturated, big-as-your-fist, burst-in-your-mouth tomato. It made us want more, but more what? Where was all this going? Most people were happy with a few tomato plants and a couple of packages of venison in the freezer. What was going on here? 

Something had been planted in our hearts. A new objective. 

It took a couple of years, but we realized what we really wanted was freedom.  

We wanted to build for ourselves the substances of life. We were no longer pacified with taking what someone else dictated as good for us. Our hands ached to create, our minds and hearts longed to be filled with something meaningful, and our bellies with something that wouldn’t merely keep us alive, but would help our bodies to grow, be healthy, and heal themselves. We weren’t content anymore with just existing. 

We wanted to live. 

What’s more, we wanted our children to know there was more to life than what they were being offered by social media. Self-confidence and contentment don’t come from a screen. There was so much more to life. 

Not just for us, but for them. 

Not just for now, but for the future. 

We wanted to give them something meaningful to look forward to and to do that, we needed more space. 

A Change in Direction

We devoured books and watched endless hours of YouTube videos. The first author I began following was Joel Salatin from Polyface Farms. The first YouTube personality I began to follow (ok, stalked might be a better word) was Jessica Sowards from Roots and Refuge. Soon to follow was Justin Rhodes and a subscription to Abundance Plus. I soaked it all up, dreamed big, and used my 'waiting room as a classroom', as Jess would often say. 

We learned from the hunt club land biodiversity and how to scout.

In our little suburban home, I made my first batch of Elderberry syrup and began my journey into herbs and their medicinal uses. It was where I learned the difference between 'dirt' and 'soil', (thanks, Jess!) and the complexities of soil health. It was where we raised our first chickens (YA'LL! growing chicks to maturity in a garage is NOT recommended!) I canned bone broth, made pickles and fermented sauerkraut. In this place of beginnings, we researched and accumulated knowledge with one eye on the present and one eye on the future, and the future for us meant land. 

Purchasing property was the culmination of all the different aspects of our lives - hunt club, medicine, garden, and livestock.

 

A Change in Residence

“Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things which thou knowest not”.

We knew it would come, because it had been promised. And because it was promised, it was expected. The timing was just a matter of prayer and patience. 

Change is inevitable. Everyone responds to it differently, and usually, those responses are dictated by such factors as situation, personal beliefs, and attitude. Our oldest had graduated. The other kids were still in school, and to them, we did the unthinkable. We moved. After twenty years in suburbia, we bought a house with over thirty acres; a pond to fish, pasture to graze, woods to hunt, gardens to plant, and room to grow. 

We moved for reasons very few in our circle could relate to - the drive we had for self-sustainability - the importance of knowing where our food came from and what was in it. And what of our legacy? What were we leaving behind for our children? We wanted to introduce to them a love of the land and the pride and self-satisfaction of building something yourself and growing what you eat. Stepping out of our comfort zone, doing something so against the accepted norm of society (not to mention our friends), and the anguish of our children, all left me feeling a bit isolated.

Although much prayer had gone into this decision and we knew it to be the right one, it was a difficult journey. Starting over is always hard, no matter how prepared you may think you are. Three things have brought me through - my God, my husband, and my homesteading community even though most of them are strangers - and yet they are not. The more I read, the more I realize I'm not alone. 

Someone once said that you can learn to do anything exceptionally well, but that's not the same as doing something you were meant to do exceptionally well. We have found that thing we were meant to do, and by God's grace, we'll not turn back. I'm grateful for those who have taken the time to share with other people their journey. Other people like me. I'm grateful for those who have poured themselves into others by offering their time and home to strangers to teach and empower. I don't claim to do either. I only wish for two things - to leave a legacy for my children and to motivate someone else to ask questions, pick up a book, visit a YouTube channel. 

If I can do this, you can too. 

Jeremiah 33:3