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One year at home

This January marks the one-year anniversary of me being home full time.

One year away from the Lawrence County Record.

It feels like a lifetime ago. A totally different life, almost. Like it never happened.

And that’s because the last year brought lots of darkness and shadows. The clouds swirled around almost blocking out the road. I couldn’t look back and it was hard to see in front. So I just settled in and let the clouds envelop me.

My personality is that of a figure-it-outer. And I can’t move on until it’s all “figured out” in my brain.

It may be hard for many to understand why I was so down and depressed over leaving The Record when it was my choice. But here’s one thing your Sunday School teachers never tell you. Answered prayers don’t always make change easy. Blessings are sometimes hard. Sometimes when the changes you wished for for so hard and for so long actually happen it paralyzes you. At least it did me.

Clouds. Fog. Can’t see where to go.

I knew I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom after I suddenly (over the whirlwind span of four years) had four kids. But my life and my family’s life had been so entangled in the family business (the weekly newspaper my parents owned for several decades) that I didn’t think leaving was possible.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents would never had forced me to stay against my will. I have always been a willing party in my employment at the paper. And I loved it. I still love it. The core people at the paper had been there since before I was even born and they are and will always be a part of my family. I love them.

But I knew in my heart of hearts that my life — the best parts of me — should be spent on the farm. With my husband. With my four beautiful children.

And then it all happened so quickly.

Next thing I knew I was walking out of those front doors of the paper for the last time and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Wanda, who works the front desk, gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek as I was preparing to leave. I know she didn’t realize this but it was exactly what my Grandma Rosie used to do when I left her house. Every time. To me it was like my grandma was there with me. Comfort is not even the best word to describe that moment. I’ll never forget it.

The way I figure things out in my head is not something I can intelligibly write out or explain. It just happens. At its own speed.

It seemed like I would never have clear skies again.

But the clouds lifted gradually.

Healing happened gradually.

Now when I drive by the paper office it doesn’t hurt. Because it used to. It physically hurt to see that building.

I can read the newspaper with a detachment. Sort of.

And I can rest in the fact, the cold hard fact, that right now I’m where I’m supposed to be. At home. On the farm.

Today the sun is shining and the laundry will soon be hung on the line to fly in the breeze.

There’s not a cloud in sight.

And I am thankful.

Thankful for answered prayers. For change. Thankful for a God who is so much bigger than I could ever imagine.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” -Jeremiah 29:11


More posts about The Record: New Rugs, This is it!, The Record’s 7,000th issue!

Categories: Life on the farm

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My name is Ginia Oehlschlager and I'm a small-town gal from Missouri. Join me as I document my crazy life on the farm with my husband and four kids. I'm always looking for frugal, simple ways to live the life God set before me. Where faith, family and fun come together on the farm.

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