Coming Home to Dixie

June 13th marks one year since we signed the closing papers on our home in Mississippi.

One year.

It feels impossible and yet somehow it feels like we’ve lived here forever.

I still remember the excitement and nervousness Jim and I felt when we first found this property on Zillow. We had only recently made the decision to take the leap of faith and move. We knew it was time. The girls were entering a new stage of life, and we felt called to make a change that would give our family the opportunity to slow down, reconnect, and build something lasting together.

When this property appeared on our screen, it almost felt too good to be true.

Ninety acres.

Rolling hills.

A beautiful view overlooking a valley.

A place where we could dream.

A place where we could breathe.

A place where we could come home.

A few months later, we found ourselves driving 2,700 miles across the country, breaking down repeatedly along the way. At the time, it felt like every state had a new challenge waiting for us. Broken clamps. Flat tires. Parts that couldn’t be found. Rainstorms. Long nights sleeping in the back of Jim’s truck. Campgrounds. Gas station coffee. Exhaustion.

Looking back now, though, those memories have softened around the edges.

What I remember most isn’t the frustration.

I remember Wyoming’s red rock formations against a brilliant blue sky.

I remember the salt-covered landscape outside Salt Lake City.

I remember our family huddled together in the back of the Excursion, telling stories and playing games.

I remember the “Praises” game during the final stretch into Mississippi, when we took turns sharing what we appreciated about each other.

I remember working together.

I remember becoming stronger together.

I remember becoming a family in a deeper way.

And then we arrived.

At 3:30 in the morning.

Sleeping bags on the floor.

Movers arriving a few hours later.

A house that needed a lot of love.

And somehow, a year later, it still does.

We joke that our dining room ceiling has a stain that looks suspiciously like the outline of a hanged man. The kitchen floor in front of the sink feels like walking through a wave pool because of old water damage beneath it. The carpets have seen better decades. There is a seemingly endless list of projects waiting for us.

But none of that really matters.

Because this house has become our home.

Within weeks of moving here, we found a church family that embraced us with open arms. I reconnected with people I hadn’t seen in more than thirty years. We cheered on my old high school’s football team—now Siena’s high school too. We attended Harvest Festivals, Homecoming parades, church dinners, baptisms, and small-town celebrations.

We added Dale and Ernie to our little farm. Then Amelia, Charlie, and Winston. Little Isla too. We lost some beloved pets too.

And somehow, our hearts just kept making room.

We’ve watched fog roll through the valley on quiet mornings while drinking coffee on the patio.

We’ve watched brilliant sunrises paint the sky orange and gold.

We’ve discovered that some of our favorite family memories come from sitting around a table playing board games together.

We’ve created our tradition of “Friday Fun Day,” exploring our new surroundings one small adventure at a time.

Most importantly, we’ve rediscovered each other.

Here, life feels different.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

But intentional.

When I look back over this past year, I don’t think about the things we gave up.

I think about everything we’ve gained.

We gained time together.

We gained community.

We gained faith.

We gained peace.

And as I sit on the patio watching the fog drift across our ninety acres, I find myself imagining the future.

The sheep grazing in the distance.

The farm growing one project at a time.

The girls becoming young women.

Perhaps one day bringing their own families here.

And Jim and me, many years from now, sitting in our rocking chairs with coffee in hand, watching another sunrise over the valley.

Growing old together.

Watching the life we built continue long after us.

One year ago, we signed papers on a house.

Today, I realize we were really signing papers for a new beginning.

And what a beautiful beginning it has been.