184 Days...6 Months

Grief is so hard. It’s been six months today since my world shattered. As Scott’s caregiver, I thought I had been preparing myself—months, even years, of anticipatory grief. But now I see that I was bargaining with God. “If I do everything right, he’ll rally again, and we’ll have more time. Just like the other times."

I remember logging his morphine dosage and thinking, Tomorrow, he’ll wake up. We’ll have more time to talk. I’ll get these (what I now realize were unnecessary) chores done today so I can give him my undivided attention tomorrow. Except, tomorrow never came. He was gone before morning.

The regrets are overwhelming. Things I wish I had done. Things I wish I hadn’t. Keeping quiet so he could rest instead of telling him all the things I needed to say. Staying strong and composed so everyone would think I handled it well. And now? I’m locked inside my head, my heart, and my soul—screaming with grief, sorrow, and fear.

I wish I could be raw and real. But I can’t. The only person who ever saw me that way is gone. And it doesn’t feel safe to show anyone else. They couldn’t handle it. Honestly, I’m not sure I can either.

Starting Again: Rebuilding Life, Faith, and the Farm

Hello, dear friends.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here—three years, in fact, with only a few sporadic posts in the years before that. It feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. Life has changed me, shaped me, broken me, and rebuilt me in ways I never imagined.

For those of you who’ve followed this journey from the start, you know this blog began as a way to share the daily joys and challenges of farm life—tales of cows and gardens, recipes pulled straight from the soul of an old-style homestead, and the warmth of a life connected to the land. And while that foundation remains, life’s storms have shifted my course.

I am a widow farmHer now. The last few years have been marked by loss—profound and soul-deep. My late husband, Scott, was my rock, my partner in all things. Caring for him in his final years taught me more about love, faith, and perseverance than I ever thought possible. It also left me standing in the wake of grief, trying to rebuild not just the farm we dreamed of together, but my own heart.

Through it all, this farm has remained a place of healing and purpose. The dairy herdshares continue to thrive, our CSA brings fresh produce to the community, and the roadside honor stand still carries the fruits of our labor. I’ve poured my heart into those 48+ flavors of jams and jellies, letting each jar be a small testament to resilience and creativity. And more recently, I’ve leaned into hosting community events, weaving the threads of connection with farm markets, craft fairs, and farm-to-table dinners.

But there’s more to this story now.

I’ve decided to relaunch this blog because I believe stories matter. Not just the joyful ones, but the hard ones, the messy ones, the ones that remind us we’re not alone in the brokenness. This space will once again reflect life on the farm, but also the grit and grace it takes to rebuild when life knocks you down.

The archives will remain intact, and I encourage you to read through them if you’re new around here to see how this whole crazy farm thing came about. Those old stories and pictures are the roots of what we’ve built here. Moving forward, I’ll be adding new content, including fresh stories and the day-to-day on the farm, as well as catching you up on everything that happened during the hiatus.

We are hoping to add some exciting new features: maybe some contests, recipes, how-to guides, Hen Parties (I think you’ll love these!), farm photography, and even guest bloggers. These are all ideas we’re playing with, and I’d love your input. If there’s something you’d like to see, learn about, or hear more of, please let me know in the comments. This space is as much yours as it is mine.

Alongside this blog, I’m launching a second one—dedicated to grief. It’s a space for raw honesty, where I’ll explore the heartache of loss and the hope that eventually emerges. Grief is not a straight path; it’s a winding road that demands courage, faith, and the willingness to take one step at a time. My hope is that by sharing my journey, it will resonate with others walking their own path through loss.

As I step into this new season, I’m reminded of what Scott always said when the work felt overwhelming: “Just keep looking up and moving on.” And so I will, guided by my faith, by the love of a man who believed in me, and by the promise that even in the ashes, beauty can bloom.

Thank you for being here—for reading, for caring, for walking alongside me as I rebuild this life.

With grit and grace,
Rea

1/16/25 Raw & Vulnerable

This is kind of a self-pity mind dump because I don’t know where else to put it. I don’t want to talk to my friends or family because I know they’ll offer help and company out of obligation. I’m not doing well, and I don’t want to be alone, but I also don’t know how to be around others.

I’m not functioning. Sure, I do the bare minimum occasionally, but I’m a completely different person than I used to be. The old me had goals and dreams.

I loved being with Scott. He motivated me. We wanted to do and try new things, to break free from the way things had always been done. He was an encourager no matter what crazy idea i had. I strived to be the Proverbs 31 wife so he could "sit at the city gate" proudly. Even at the end, caring for him, I found ways to make him proud.

But now? Now, I’m all alone. I’m unmotivated. And unlike Scott, there’s no one here to take care of me.

This week, I had a crazy fall. For a moment, I thought about just staying there, stuck in the fence, letting the cold take me. But the caretaker in me didn’t want Zach to find me like that, to feel responsible for something he couldn’t control.

I just want someone to reach out because they "want" to, not as a response to a text I send. If I stopped reaching out, I wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice. I just want to disappear.

On a side note: Thirteen years ago today, an internet friend of mine took her own life. I remember posting about it, feeling the weight of her loss, and even though my sweet husband didn’t know her beyond what I had shared, he stepped in with such compassion. He gently pointed our mutual friends toward the hope and love of our Savior.

It’s a small but beautiful memory of the kind of man Scott was—always looking for ways to extend grace, even to strangers, and always ready to shine the light of Christ in the darkest moments.