Simple Hobby Homesteading

09/03/2026

I’m close.

Soooooooooooo close.

And before anyone looks at the accompanying photograph and says, “Jhenna… that does not LOOK close,” I would like to remind you that appearances can be deceiving.

This is what close looks like.

Apparently.

There are manuscript pages everywhere.

Edited pages. Unedited pages. Pages waiting to become edited pages. Pages that have been edited and then somehow managed to need editing again.

There are stacks.

There are notes.

There are pieces of paper sticking out at angles suggesting they have abandoned all respect for organizational structure.

At this point, I believe several of the stacks have developed their own governmental systems.

But…

I. AM. CLOSE.

We found a few more things that needed fixing, because evidently books are a little like old houses. You walk through thinking, Well, that ought to do it, and then somebody points toward a corner and says, “What’s that?”

Nothing.

That’s nothing.

Please stop looking at things.

😂

But truly, I am so darn excited I can hardly stand it.

Because here’s the funny part…

I had already written our entire first year here.

All of it.

The move.

The house.

The woods.

The boys.

The animals.

The garden.

The mistakes.

The adventures.

The moments that seemed perfectly reasonable in 2009 and, viewed from the safe distance of seventeen years, raise some legitimate questions about my decision-making abilities.

It was all there.

And then I realized…

Y’all probably didn’t want to read a 400-page book.

I mean, I appreciate you.

I really do.

But there’s friendship, and then there’s, “Here, please devote a substantial portion of your natural lifespan to reading about the year I moved into the woods.”

So somewhere along this journey, one book became TWO.

And I cannot adequately explain how ridiculously exciting that is to me.

The first book covers roughly the first six months of our first year here.

The second will pick up where the first leaves off and take us through the remaining months of that first year.

I accidentally wrote two books.

I’m choosing to call this an accomplishment rather than evidence that I am constitutionally incapable of telling a short story.

Those of you who have been reading my Facebook posts for any length of time are welcome to reach your own conclusions.

The books are actually written in a style very similar to these posts.

They’re stories.

Some funny.

Some tender.

Some ridiculous.

Some that make me look back at the younger version of myself and think, Oh honey… you have absolutely no idea what’s coming.

They’re stories about our family finding our place here. About raising boys. About marriage. About animals and gardens and country living and figuring things out as we went.

And about this extraordinary little piece of God’s creation that I didn’t yet understand would eventually become so deeply woven into who I am.

The woods.

The creek.

The birds.

The changing seasons.

The creatures that wandered through.

The animals that somehow kept accumulating.

Funny how that happens.

We came here looking for somewhere to live.

Looking back, I think we found somewhere to land.

The biggest challenge in turning all of those stories into an actual book has been pacing.

Because Facebook lets me write like this.

One sentence.

Another sentence.

A dramatic pause.

Something ridiculous.

Another dramatic pause.

Possibly a goat.

And apparently publishing an entire book that way results in approximately 11,482 pages.

Books, I have learned, have these fascinating things called paragraphs.

Who knew?

So I’ve had to learn the difference between social-media pacing and book pacing.

I still wanted the book to sound like me.

I wanted it to feel like we’re sitting around the kitchen table with coffee while I tell you one story… which reminds me of another story… which naturally leads to another story… and somehow three hours have passed and nobody has started supper.

I wanted each chapter to be something you could sit down and read on its own.

Laugh a little.

Maybe think a little.

Maybe recognize a piece of your own life somewhere in mine.

Then close the book and come back tomorrow.

Because I don’t want this to be a book you feel obligated to finish.

I want it to be a book you want to pick back up.

And I think we got there.

Gunner has read it and says it holds his attention, which I consider fairly significant praise from a 22-year-old.

Twenty-two-year-olds have options.

Approximately 97% of those options involve a screen.

So when one voluntarily sits down with actual paper and continues turning pages, I take notice.

Touch grass, Gen Z.

And while you’re out there…

touch a book.

Preferably mine.

😂

But tonight I’m sitting here looking at this glorious disaster of paper and ink and corrections and crossed-out words, and I keep thinking about how many times in life we wait until something looks polished before we’re willing to call it progress.

Sometimes progress doesn’t look polished.

Sometimes progress looks like this picture.

Messy.

Covered in notes.

Surrounded by things that still need fixing.

Not quite finished.

But so much farther along than when you started.

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Then do a little more tomorrow.

And one day you look around at the mess you’ve made while trying to build something…

and realize the mess isn’t evidence that you’re failing.

It’s evidence that you’re building.

Seventeen years ago, we drove down a long wooded lane with two little boys, a dog, and absolutely no idea what this place would become.

I couldn’t have known how many animals would live here.

How many memories would be made here.

How many times these woods would make me stop and marvel at God’s creation.

How much growing we’d all do here.

And I certainly couldn’t have known that someday I’d be sitting at a table covered in approximately half a dead forest, editing the story of that first year so other people could read it.

But here we are.

One last pile of edits.

One very messy table.

One very excited first-time author.

And…

TWO BOOKS.

Soooooooooooo close. ❤️

~Jhenna

09/02/2026

There are certain opinions a person can share publicly without consequence.

Pineapple belongs on pizza.

Crocs are acceptable footwear.

Candy corn is delicious.

What?

We don’t all agree on those things?

Huh.

Well, this is going to go worse than I thought.

Apparently I’ve managed to identify three of the most divisive issues facing modern civilization before even getting to the controversial part.

So perhaps everyone should choose a hill now. Pineapple Hill. Crocs Hill. Candy Corn Hill. Plant your flag. Prepare your defenses. We will meet again at Thanksgiving and pretend none of this happened.

Because I have another one.

And this one may cause otherwise reasonable people to straighten in their chairs, narrow their eyes, and prepare to defend their position as though the fate of the republic depends upon it.

So, for the record, and with full awareness that some of you may quietly unfriend me before reaching the next paragraph…

I don’t believe in global warming.

I believe weather and climate have cycles. I believe there are years and seasons of extreme and unseasonable heat, and years and seasons of extreme and unseasonable cold. Sometimes Mother Nature apparently spins the giant wheel in the sky and says, “Let’s see what these people are made of.”

You are welcome to disagree.

We can still be friends.

Probably.

Unless you’re one of those people who thinks 99 degrees in September is “beautiful weather,” in which case I’m not sure this relationship had much of a future anyway.

Because here in southern Indiana, September has arrived wearing July’s clothes.

Ninety-nine degrees.

In September.

Ok… I might have to jump on that global warming train… could my heavy use of Aqua Net in Junior High have led to this insane heat wave? I’m keeping it on my list of “just maybe.”

This is the time of year when I should be opening the windows in the morning, drinking my coffee while a cool fall breeze wanders through the house, and feeling smug about surviving another Indiana summer.

Instead, the air conditioner is running 24/7 and our electric meter is spinning at a speed that may actually affect Earth’s rotation.

I am not okay.

Neither are the rabbits.

The guinea pigs have also lodged a formal complaint.

Most of the other inhabitants of the homestead seem surprisingly unconcerned. The goats, in particular, are doing just fine. Most of mine are Nigerian Dwarfs and Nubians, so perhaps they believe their years of faithful service have finally earned them an all-expenses-paid vacation to the motherland.

“At last. The climate we were promised.”

Unfortunately, while the goats are enjoying their tropical getaway, the management staff is struggling.

Management staff being me.

Extreme heat with animals changes the daily routine considerably.

Fans need to be running. Water needs to stay fresh. Frozen water bottles get tucked into areas where rabbits and guinea pigs can stretch out beside them. Cool ceramic tiles suddenly become surprisingly valuable real estate.

Burrows have to be checked because a properly deep burrow can provide wonderful relief from the heat.

A shallow burrow, however, can become an underground Easy-Bake Oven.

And because some of our rabbits and guinea pigs are free-ranging and possess varying levels of good judgment, I cover the entrances to any burrows that aren’t deep enough to stay cool.

I refuse to allow an animal whose decision-making process occasionally includes “I wonder if that chicken will let me steal her food” to make independent choices regarding geothermal engineering.

Then there’s the water.

We haven’t had much rain.

Our animals are drinking considerably more than usual, and the cistern has dropped below what I affectionately call the Comfortable Level.

This is not an official measurement.

There is no line painted on the cistern.

The Comfortable Level is simply that point at which I can shower, flush toilets, wash dishes, do laundry, water animals, and generally behave like a civilized person without mentally calculating how many gallons remain every time someone flushes.

We are below that.

Which means I’ve added another activity to the homestead schedule:

Water hauling.

I have a giant cube that fits in the bed of my truck and holds about 300 gallons. I fill it, haul it home, transfer the water into our cistern, and then repeat the process as necessary so that approximately every living creature on this property can continue drinking, bathing, flushing, washing, and generally taking indoor plumbing entirely for granted.

So if you happen to see me driving around Boonville with what appears to be an enormous aquarium strapped into the back of my truck…

Now you know.

No fish.

Just 300 gallons of civilization.

And this is one of those times when homesteading stops looking quite so picturesque.

Nobody puts this part on the inspirational Pinterest board.

There are no charming photographs of a woman standing beside a nearly empty cistern, sweat running down her back, carrying frozen water bottles to rabbits while quietly wondering whether the electric company offers financing… or first born sons (sorry Jackson, it’s been a good run).

But this is part of caring for animals.

God gave us an extraordinary world filled with creatures remarkably equipped for the places they live. Rabbits know how to burrow. Chickens find shade. Goats adapt remarkably well. Animals have instincts and abilities I could spend a lifetime watching and still find fascinating.

But when we bring them into our care, we take on some responsibility too.

Sometimes stewardship looks beautiful.

Sometimes it looks like a newborn animal in your arms or chickens wandering through green grass in the evening sun.

And sometimes stewardship looks like a sweaty middle-aged woman hauling 300 gallons of water through southern Indiana while muttering encouraging things to herself.

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Even when “wherever you are” is apparently three exits past the surface of the sun.

So to everybody out there caring for livestock through this ridiculous heat…

This is what we trained for.

This is what we prepared for.

We are strong.

We are capable.

We are resilient.

We are…

…absolutely melting.

Keep the water full. Keep the fans blowing. Check the shade. Watch your animals. Help the ones that need it.

And someday, perhaps very soon, we’ll wake up to crisp air and temperatures in the sixties. I’ll throw open every window in this house, make a cup of coffee, listen to the animals waking up outside, and thank God for the glorious changing of the seasons.

Until then…

99 degrees.

In September.

And somewhere on this property, I am quite certain, a Nubian goat is wondering why I’ve been complaining about such lovely weather.

~Jhenna

08/31/2026

There are days when grief has the decency to knock first.

It announces itself. An anniversary. A birthday. A familiar song. A photograph you knew better than to look at when you were already feeling tender.

And then there are days when grief apparently crawls through the back door, finds you sitting at the sewing machine making a dog bed cover, and says,

“Remember your Grandpa?”

Well.

Yes.

Yes, I do.

And just like that, I was crying.

Not the delicate sort of crying where one tasteful tear rolls down your cheek and somehow your mascara remains suitable for photography.

No.

This was shaping up to be an ugly cry.

The kind involving a giant exhale that could probably be detected by weather stations in neighboring counties.

I miss my Grandpa Shelton.

And today, for whatever reason, I miss him so much it physically hurts.

Grandpa died.

I choose that word carefully.

I don’t say he “passed away” or even that he “went to be with Jesus,” although I know where Grandpa is. I know what he believed. Grandpa wasn’t merely someone who believed in God. He knew he was a sinner who needed a Savior, and he put his faith in Jesus Christ.

I believe Grandpa is with Christ.

I believe he is whole.

I believe he is experiencing something so magnificent that my little human brain couldn’t begin to comprehend it.

And I also believe he died

Because death is ugly.

Death wasn’t part of the goodness God looked over in the beginning and called “very good.” Death came because sin entered God’s creation. Scripture calls death an enemy, and sometimes I think Christians can become so eager to speak about Heaven that we accidentally try to make death itself sound beautiful.

Today, I don’t want to do that.

Because there’s nothing beautiful about the Grandpa-shaped hole left behind.

It’s ragged.

And today I bumped into the edge of it while sewing a dog bed cover.

Grief is strange that way.

You can be functioning perfectly well one minute, guiding a perfectly ordinary piece of blue sheet beneath the presser foot…

and the next minute you’re sitting there crying because you’d give just about anything to hear one particular voice again.

So I stopped sewing.

I prayed.

I thanked God for giving us Grandpa Shelton in the first place. What an extraordinary gift it was that, out of all the people God could have placed in my little corner of His enormous creation, He gave me him.

I thanked God for saving him.

And then I did something else God has graciously given me.

I let myself grieve.

Meanwhile, another member of God’s creation had apparently received an emergency dispatch.

Nikita.

Gunner’s German Shepherd heard my enormous sigh and immediately came over and stationed herself beside me.

No questions.

No inspirational speeches.

No attempts to explain the sovereignty of God.

Just 110-ish pounds of German Shepherd standing nearby in case the situation required tactical emotional-support petting.

I took her picture because, even while crying, it made me laugh.

Then, somewhere during the writing of this, Nikita quietly left her post.

I hadn’t even noticed.

I looked over…

Athena had taken her place.

Apparently Jackson’s German Shepherd had reported for second shift.

There seems to be a rotation.

Nikita: I’ll take first watch.

Athena: I’ve got her from here.

Echo, our Siberian Husky:

I have reviewed the situation and determined this does not concern me.

😂

Apparently huskies don’t believe in emotional support. They believe emotional difficulties build character.

And somehow, right there in the middle of grief, God gave me something to smile about.

That’s the remarkable thing about His creation. Sometimes comfort comes through Scripture. Sometimes through prayer. Sometimes through the husband you text because you know he’ll give you the truthful, encouraging words you need.

And sometimes it has enormous ears and quietly sits beside you on the kitchen floor.

So here’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to cry until I don’t need to cry anymore.

I’m going to text my husband and tell him I really, really miss Grandpa today.

I’m going to open my Bible and let truth steady the feelings that currently aren’t particularly interested in being steady.

Then I’m going to leave that dog bed cover exactly where it is and take the dogs for a walk.

I’ll breathe some fresh air.

I’ll look at the trees.

I’ll notice the birds.

I’ll remind myself that the God who created every bit of beauty around me is the same God who holds Grandpa now.

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Sometimes “what you can” isn’t accomplishing anything impressive.

Sometimes it’s crying.

Praying.

Reading your Bible.

Texting someone who loves you.

Walking outside.

Petting a dog.

And leaving the sewing machine alone for a while.

Maybe later I’ll come back inside feeling more thankful than shattered.

Maybe I’ll even finish the dog bed cover.

But I’m sharing this because somebody else is going to be minding their own business one day when grief kicks open the door.

Maybe yours will come while you’re folding laundry.

Driving.

Cooking dinner.

Standing in the grocery store.

Maybe you know exactly why it showed up.

Maybe you won’t have the slightest idea.

And if it’s the ugly kind… the death is an enemy and I hate that this person isn’t here kind… I feel ya.

Cry.

Grieve.

Take it to God.

Let somebody who loves you know you’re hurting.

Open His Word.

Go outside and look at the extraordinary world He made.

And if a German Shepherd happens to report for duty, scratch behind her ears.

The sewing can wait.

Grief won’t last forever.

Death doesn’t get the final word.

Jesus does.

~Jhenna

08/30/2026

A friend reached out to me today.

She was devastated.

She had just been diagnosed with alpha-gal syndrome.

And I knew exactly why she was devastated, because somewhere around fifteen years ago, I became a member of this peculiar little club myself.

There are no membership cards.

No jackets.

No annual banquet.

And, for obvious reasons, definitely no steak dinner.

Alpha-gal syndrome is one of those medical conditions that sounds completely made up until you have it.

The simplified version goes something like this:

A tick bites you.

Your immune system, apparently having too much free time and very little adult supervision, decides this encounter requires a complete restructuring of dietary policy.

It begins producing IgE antibodies against alpha-gal, a sugar found in most mammals.

Then one evening you eat a perfectly innocent hamburger.

Nothing happens.

You go about your business.

You clean the kitchen. Watch television. Go to bed.

And somewhere two to six hours later, your immune system kicks open the bedroom door yelling,

“REMEMBER THAT CHEESEBURGER?!”

This delayed reaction is one of the things that makes alpha-gal so bizarre.

But calling it a “red meat allergy” doesn’t really explain it.

Because it isn’t necessarily just meat.

And it isn’t all meat.

Chicken? Fine.

Turkey? Fine.

Fish? Fine.

Beef, pork, lamb, venison and other mammals?

Now we’re negotiating.

Dairy?

Maybe.

Gelatin?

Maybe.

Lard?

Possibly not.

Medications or products containing mammalian ingredients?

Welcome to Advanced Label Reading 402.

And every alpha-gal person seems to have his or her own peculiar rulebook.

Some people tolerate dairy.

Some tolerate pork.

Some tolerate gelatin.

Some react only occasionally.

And then there are people like me, whose immune systems apparently chose the Deluxe Mammal Package.

I shouldn’t have mammalian meat, dairy, gelatin or other mammalian products.

And yes, before someone points it out, humans and other higher primates don’t produce alpha-gal.

Which is fascinating.

Also irrelevant.

People were already firmly off my menu.

I am from Wisconsin, not the Donner Party.

The reactions themselves can vary tremendously.

For me, certain mammalian foods can result in anaphylaxis several hours after I’ve eaten them.

Others, particularly dairy, are more likely to produce severe stomach cramping and gastrointestinal consequences that I will describe only by saying…

If you’re imagining something unpleasant, you’re probably headed in the correct direction.

And yet…

cheese.

Beautiful, glorious Wisconsin brick cheese.

Every once in a while the little Wisconsin girl who still lives inside me looks at a hunk of brick cheese and whispers,

“Worth it.”

To be clear, she is not a medical professional.

She should not be trusted.

And deliberately eating something you’re allergic to because previous reactions have “usually” “only” been gastrointestinal is absolutely not something I recommend. Alpha-gal reactions can be unpredictable, and a future reaction isn’t guaranteed to behave like the last one.

Apparently Russian roulette should not be played with dairy products.

Who knew?

But there’s another strange part of living with alpha-gal for a long time.

We still don’t know everything about it.

Researchers continue studying what prolonged alpha-gal sensitization and immune activation might mean elsewhere in the body. There has even been interesting research looking at alpha-gal antibodies and inflammation associated with coronary artery disease.

Interesting does not mean proven.

There are still a whole lot of questions.

What we do know is that alpha-gal reactions can range from gastrointestinal misery and hives to potentially life-threatening anaphylaxis, and additional tick bites can keep those alpha-gal IgE antibodies elevated.

For many people, those antibody levels eventually decline when they avoid additional tick bites.

Some eventually tolerate mammalian foods again.

And then there are those of us who apparently received the extended warranty.

Fifteen years later…

Hello.

Still here.

Still reading labels.

Still no gelatin (it’s one of those things that get snuck in a lot of things)

Still occasionally staring longingly at cheese.

And still eating pretty darn well.

Which brings me back to my friend.

Because when you’re first diagnosed, what you hear isn’t necessarily:

“You’ll have to make some adjustments.”

What you hear is:

YOU CAN NEVER EAT ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN.

You mentally walk through the grocery store watching half the shelves disappear.

You think about restaurants.

Holidays.

Family dinners.

Travel.

Recipes you’ve made for twenty years.

And suddenly food, this ordinary thing you’ve hardly thought about your entire life, feels complicated.

So I told her what I wish somebody had told me all those years ago.

Your life is not getting smaller.

You’re just going to learn another way to live it.

There is still chicken sizzling on the grill (just make sure you haven’t cooked steak on that spot before)

Fresh vegetables pulled warm from the garden.

Eggs from the coop.

Fish.

Fruit.

Homemade bread.

Herbs clipped outside the kitchen door.

A ridiculous number of things God put on this earth that are still perfectly available to us.

And perhaps that’s one of the unexpected lessons alpha-gal has taught me.

We spend an awful lot of life staring at the thing we can’t have.

The food.

The job.

The things.

The ability.

The plan we thought was going to happen.

Sometimes something gets taken off the menu.

And yes, sometimes that stinks.

Sometimes you grieve it.

Sometimes you complain about it.

Sometimes you stand in Wisconsin staring at brick cheese like a woman contemplating a felony.

But eventually you look around and realize…

there’s still an awfully full table in front of you.

God’s creation is astonishingly abundant.

And life usually is too, if we’re willing to notice.

So we adjust.

We learn.

We read labels with the intensity of a federal investigator.

We carry the emergency medication we’re supposed to carry… I’m looking at you epi-pens!

We try very hard not to get bitten by another tick.

And we keep going.

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Even when “what you have” happens to be chicken, sourdough bread, vegetables from the garden…

and a Wisconsin-sized grudge against a tick.

~Jhenna

08/29/2026

This…is…my…life!!

08/29/2026

Thank you everyone!! I’m incredibly excited that so many folks have already ordered their copy to begin in September! One of the many great things about this study is you are in the same book/section of the Bible for the entire month! It gives plenty of grace if life happens and keeps you from your study a day here or there, and gives plenty of time for other studies at the same time! If your copy doesn’t arrive right on Sep 1 don’t worry, you won’t be playing a mad dash of catchup ❤️

~Jhenna

Many Bible reading plans help readers move quickly through large portions of Scripture. is designed for a slower and more meditative purpose: repeated, prayerful reading that builds familiarity, understanding, and spiritual reflection. Rather than assigning a new passage each day, this...

08/29/2026

I watched this little video tonight and thought…

YES. THIS.

Because somewhere along the way, I think we sold people a rather peculiar idea about marriage.

You meet your person.

You fall madly in love.

You get married.

And then you apparently spend the next fifty or sixty years gazing lovingly at one another across candlelit dinners while simultaneously agreeing about money, children, thermostats, vacation destinations, household projects, and the proper way to load a dishwasher.

This is, of course, nonsense.

Beautiful nonsense.

But nonsense nonetheless.

A long marriage has seasons.

There are seasons when you are absolutely crazy about each other.

There are seasons when you’re working together like a finely tuned machine.

There are seasons when you’re raising children and mostly communicating through logistics.

“Did you pick him up?”

“I thought YOU were picking him up.”

“Why would I be picking him up?”

And thus begins Act II.

There are seasons when life is hard and neither of you has much left to give.

There are seasons when one person carries more because the other simply can’t.

There are seasons of sickness.

Grief.

Job changes.

Money worries.

Children growing up.

Parents growing old.

Dreams changing.

Bodies changing.

And probably at least one season involving a home-improvement project that makes both parties briefly question every decision that led them to this point.

Then there are the ordinary seasons.

I think those may be my favorites.

Coffee in the morning.

Someone feeding the dogs.

A familiar voice from another room.

A hand reaching automatically for something the other person needs.

Knowing exactly how somebody takes their coffee, what will make them laugh, what they’re worrying about even when they haven’t said it yet… and which particular noise they’re making means you should probably leave them alone for a little while.

That isn’t boring.

That’s intimacy.

I think we’ve made a terrible mistake by convincing people that when the butterflies disappear, something must be wrong.

Butterflies aren’t designed to live fifty years.

Thank goodness.

Can you imagine trying to accomplish anything?

Love changes.

It deepens.

Sometimes it gets quieter.

Sometimes it looks less like flowers and candlelight and more like bringing someone a cup of coffee without being asked.

Sometimes it’s sitting beside each other through something neither of you can fix.

Sometimes it’s choosing grace when you’re irritated.

Sometimes it’s laughing in the middle of a disaster because you’ve been together long enough to know this will eventually become a story.

And sometimes love is simply looking across the room at the person you’ve shared all these years with and realizing…

I’d still choose you.

Not because every season was beautiful.

But because we walked through all of them together.

God created this life with seasons for a reason. Things bloom. Things rest. Storms come. Leaves fall. Roots grow where nobody can see them.

Maybe marriages aren’t so different.

You don’t dig up a tree in February because it isn’t blooming.

You trust the roots.

You tend what’s been entrusted to you.

You give grace.

You forgive.

You laugh whenever possible.

And when life isn’t particularly romantic or picturesque, you simply…

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Together.

Because perhaps the greatest love stories aren’t the ones where two people stayed madly in love every minute.

Maybe they’re the ones where two imperfect people kept choosing one another through every beautiful, ridiculous, heartbreaking, ordinary season God gave them.

And somewhere along the way, they looked up and realized…

they’d grown old together.

Which, when you really think about it, is pretty darn romantic.

https://www.facebook.com/share/r/1FqQo2akuB/

08/28/2026

Kitten update… 9 weeks old
~Jhenna

“Monkeys Spinning Monkeys” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)Licensed...

08/28/2026

What do you call a person who genuinely loves people… but is also perfectly delighted when absolutely none of those people require her to leave the property?

An extroverted introvert?

A selectively social hermit?

A woman with a gate at the end of a long lane and absolutely no complaints about it?

Whatever it’s called, I am apparently one.

I absolutely LOVE the days when I don’t have to leave the homestead. Give me a cup of coffee, a million unfinished projects, a book I haven’t finished, animals wandering around doing animal things, and the freedom to decide which of those deserves my attention, and I am a happy woman.

There is something deeply satisfying about being home. The woods outside the windows, the animals going about their little lives, the birds carrying on conversations I wasn’t invited into, and the constant evidence that God’s creation is busy doing exactly what He designed it to do.

I could happily stay here for days.

Possibly weeks.

Someone should probably check on me eventually.

BUT…

I also love the occasional day when I am going from sunup until sundown, because those days remind me just how much women who work outside the home accomplish every single day while somehow also keeping the rest of life moving forward.

Today was one of those days.

It began, as all ambitious undertakings should, with coffee and my Bible.

Not a sunrise.

Not determination.

Not an inspirational quote.

Coffee and my Bible… it’s not complicated.

And two pieces of peanut-butter toast, which will become important later.

Once properly caffeinated and grounded (a bit opposite, I know), I sent a message to one of the businesses I handle HR for and finalized the hiring of a new employee. Then I headed into town for a meeting with another business where I wrapped up a new workplace harassment policy packet and discussed restructuring a couple of departments.

Because apparently before lunch I was Corporate Jhenna.

Corporate Jhenna then left the building and Dog Trainer Jhenna reported for duty.

I headed to a private consultation with a husband and wife who have a large-breed dog showing possessiveness over the wife. This can become a serious problem, so we spent the next hour working with all three members of the household.

By the end of our time together, the dog was already showing remarkable improvement.

But honestly, that wasn’t the best part.

The best part was watching the humans begin to understand what was happening and realize they now had the tools to move forward with consistency and confidence. Twenty-five years of working with dogs has taught me that sometimes the biggest change doesn’t happen at the end of the leash.

From there, naturally, I went to the laundromat.

Because nothing says accomplished professional woman quite like stuffing an alarming quantity of dog bedding into industrial washing machines.

I washed everything and then carefully cleaned the washers afterward because the next person should not pull out their favorite black shirt looking like they recently embraced a German Shepherd.

Common courtesy is not dead, folks.

It may, however, occasionally be covered in dog hair.

Next stop was Tractor Supply, where I picked up their trailer for my evening hay expedition. I even remembered to stop at the ATM for hay money.

Please appreciate that last sentence.

There are days when remembering the ATM BEFORE arriving at a cash-only hay transaction deserves its own trophy.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I went through McDonald’s to try the new Sprite blue spritzer thing.

People.

It is GOOD.

Cold, sweet, fizzy and containing precisely the amount of sugar necessary to convince a middle-aged woman that she can absolutely continue this nonsense for another eight hours.

Back home I went, where Farm Jhenna clocked in.

Afternoon chores.

Animals fed.

Kittens cuddled.

Supper made.

And for a little while, I got to be surrounded again by this strange, wonderful collection of creatures God has entrusted to us.

There are few things that reset my brain quite like coming down that lane and seeing this place waiting for me. The woods, the animals, the changing light through the trees… all those ordinary little pieces of God’s creation that aren’t ordinary at all when you actually stop long enough to notice them.

I didn’t have much time to notice them today.

Because…

Hay.

It was time to go pick up two big round bales and two smaller ones, because apparently our animals have entered into some sort of coordinated agreement to consume vegetation at an industrial rate.

I brought the hay home and unloaded it.

And by “unloaded,” I mean I rolled those big round bales off the trailer by hand.

Jackson was out with friends tonight and Kevin was in bed, which meant there was no strapping young or middle-aged man standing nearby for me to summon.

Just me.

The hay.

And physics.

Physics and I have had our disagreements over the years, but tonight we reached an understanding.

The hay came off the trailer.

I remained mostly upright.

Victory.

Then it was back to Tractor Supply to return the trailer.

At this point, my stomach began making noises normally associated with large woodland mammals.

I took inventory of what I’d eaten all day and discovered that my entire nutritional intake consisted of those two pieces of peanutbutter toast I’d had with my morning coffee.

That was it.

Apparently Corporate Jhenna, Dog Trainer Jhenna, Laundromat Jhenna, Farm Jhenna and Woman-Who-Wrestles-Round-Bales Jhenna had all been operating on two pieces of toast and optimism.

My stomach had officially filed a grievance with management.

So naturally, after Tractor Supply, I went back to McDonald’s and got…

A SECOND Sprite blue spritzer.

And a McChicken sandwich.

Because if you’re going to make questionable dietary decisions, apparently I believe in commitment.

I’m trying to lose about thirty pounds, by the way.

Today’s nutritional strategy of peanutbutter toast, two blue sugar bombs and a McChicken is probably not the program they’ll be featuring in Women’s Health anytime soon.

At this point I wasn’t so much pursuing weight loss as bringing on the diabetes, I guess.

But that McChicken tasted absolutely glorious, and my stomach finally stopped threatening to eat one of the hay bales.

Properly refueled with chicken, carbonation and enough sugar to illuminate a small Midwestern town, I headed up to Santa Paws Ultimutt Retreat to do the final nighttime let-out and tuck the boarding dogs in for the night.

Then finally…

Home.

Surely the day was finished.

The kittens disagreed.

I moved them from the bathroom into their kitty palace for the night and returned to discover that during the day they had apparently hosted the regional championship for wet-food mud wrestling.

Food everywhere.

Water spilled.

Floor covered.

Tiny paw prints documenting the crime scene.

There are moments when you look at God’s creatures and marvel at their beauty, their complexity, their perfect design.

And there are moments when you stand in a bathroom holding a rag and bucket of soapy water and wonder why He made kittens capable of achieving that kind of coverage.

Bathroom scrubbed.

Dishes done and kitchen tidied because I’m trying to do the whole “waking up to a clean kitchen” thing.

A couple loads of laundry from earlier in the day folded.

And now, finally, I’m sitting down.

But I’m not quite finished.

Because tonight I get to work on the LAST revisions of my book.

Tomorrow I’m handing it over to Kevin so he can format it and upload it, and then…

I get to order the first printed copy for review.

THE FIRST PRINTED COPY.

I cannot adequately explain how excited I am to hold something in my hands that has lived inside my head, my memories, my computer and approximately nine thousand revisions for so long.

An actual book.

My book.

And Kevin has exciting news too!

His book “Dwelling in the Word: A Monthly Reading Plan for the New Testament” is officially available on Amazon.com! September 1st would be the perfect time for ya all to dive in!

So tonight I’m sitting here tired, surrounded by folded laundry, clean dog bedding, sleeping animals, hay safely home, kittens presumably planning tomorrow’s crimes, and a book that is almost ready to become an actual book.

And I’m thinking about my motto:

Do what you can, with what you have, wherever you are.

Some days, “wherever you are” means sitting quietly at home with a book while the woods hum around you and God’s creation carries on just beyond the windows.

Other days it means HR meetings, dog training, laundromats, farm chores, hay bales, boarding dogs, kitten catastrophes, dishes, laundry, one McChicken and enough blue Sprite to make several questionable life choices seem entirely reasonable.

I love both kinds of days.

The quiet ones remind me how blessed I am to have somewhere I love being.

The crazy ones remind me how blessed I am to have a life worth being tired from.

And tonight, I’m especially grateful for both.

Although tomorrow…

I wouldn’t object if God penciled in a little more of the first kind.

Preferably with coffee.

And absolutely no hay.

And maybe no McDonald’s.

I have thirty pounds to lose, after all and a cruise in my very near future.

Oh, and I figured a nice picture of Jhenna lounging casually against the hay would be great.

You know… effortless country living. Rustic. Peaceful. Perhaps a little Vogue: Homestead Edition.

Tres, one of our friendliest kitty cats, apparently heard there was a photo shoot underway and decided no respectable magazine spread should proceed without professional supervision. So he joined me, walked around my head, investigated my hair, and generally demonstrated that he was far more naturally suited to modeling than I was.

As for my posing…

I know.

There is absolutely no danger of Vogue calling. 😂

In my defense, I’d just finished rolling hay off the trailer, which meant I had hay stuck to approximately 94 percent of my body and had reached that delightful stage where every exposed piece of skin itched. So what appears to be an attempt at sultry farm-girl posing was really just me leaning against the hay trying not to scratch myself like a flea-infested mutt.

Tres, meanwhile, was magnificent.

Cool. Composed. Photogenic.

Apparently some of us were born for the camera.

The rest of us were born to unload the hay. 😂

~Jhenna