“James, do your best worst!” Lee said to our three-year-old son on the morning of November 16, 2010.

We were met in the office and taken to a room where three women who worked for the school system waited—a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, and a psychologist. The therapists immediately got James busy doing puzzles, shooting a ball through a hoop, identifying colors and shapes, and bouncing on a big ball. He received lots of verbal praise and encouragement and seemed to enjoy the attention and activities.

The psychologist sat with Lee and me, asking questions and taking notes. We talked about James’s development (When did he take his first step? When did he say his first word?). We talked about the skills he seemed to have lost (not knowing colors anymore and not greeting Lee when he got home from work). We told her what we had read and what we had learned from Nicole, James’s occupational therapist.

After an hour of testing James and talking to us, the team left the room to discuss their observations. They seemed to be gone a long time. When they returned, the occupational therapist went back to playing with James so we could talk to the psychologist and speech therapist without distractions.

The psychologist talked first about James’s strengths: how cute he was, how much fun they had with him, how easy going and independent he seemed to be. He was able to shoot a ball in the little basketball goal and was easy to motivate with tickling or food treats. He could also name all the letters he saw on a bulletin board. Then she talked about his weakness. He couldn’t use a spoon correctly. He couldn’t name the basic colors or match basic shapes. He did do better when he was stimulated (like after bouncing on a big yoga ball), but even then he was far behind the abilities of typical kids his age.

The psychologist looked nervously at the speech therapist to her left and then back at us. “This is the hard part,” she said. “Based on his testing today and our observations, we believe James has autism.” I immediately relaxed, feeling like a weight had been lifted. We had a diagnosis, now we could make a plan. I assured them we were fine with the “bad news.” I told them I had read enough to expect what we were dealing with.

We made more small talk and even laughed; I think they were relieved we didn’t break down in tears or lash out in anger like most parents they see. (I didn’t realize at the time that Lee did want to break down in tears and lash out.) As they continued to watch James, they said he would be a lot of fun to work with and they were sure he would make progress in his class.

We said good-bye and drove away. When it was just us, we were able to let the news sink-in. Lee said, “They only saw him for an hour. Are they sure? Can we get another opinion?” But for me, they had been our fourth opinion. Our first opinion was our intuition that something was wrong. The second opinion was from Nicole, his occupational therapist. The third opinion came from the books on autism I read that described James perfectly. The evaluation that day was the final confirmation of what I already knew.

The book of James says, “Every good gift and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change” (1:17).

It’s easy to see what we would consider as good and perfect gifts coming from God: good health, happy and obedient kids, pretty weather, and extra quality time with our husbands. These are all good gifts. But everything we have or encounter comes from God, so we must also consider the hard things good and perfect gifts.

Because I accept that James’s autism is a good and perfect gift, I can pray, “God, thank you for trusting me with this responsibility. I want to glorify You in everything, including this challenge. I need Your help to not grow resentful, but to see this from Your perspective, as a good and perfect gift.”

It was the summer of 2000. My husband was traveling overseas and I was home alone with our three year old. Day and night it was just the two of us in our little suburban house, and I was getting stir crazy.

We needed a change of scene. Fresh air, an adventure. A quick internet search turned up a list of pick-your-own berry farms in the Austin area.

It was a long early morning drive far east of the city, but when we arrived at the blueberry farm I felt like I had come home. The towering pine trees reminded me of New England, of my roots. I picked and my boy ate a lot of blueberries that morning. It was a happy day.

But more than that, a yearning sprung up in me. I think it was the pines. I remember thinking “If we ever move out to the country, this is where I want to look. Out in these pines.”

The Adventure Begins

And in May 2003 we did just that. We had been talking for years about starting our own little homestead. One day my husband looked at me and said, “We could talk forever. Let’s just do it now.” Four weeks later our house was empty and on the market.

We looked all over that county with the beautiful pine trees. We finally found a lovely property perfect in every way. Except there was no house. But we wanted to live debt free, and had grand ideas of how we would find a way to shelter ourselves on that land without any debt. It was a little scary, but it felt right.

We made a bid and entered into a contract.

My parents were spending the summer away, so we arranged to move into their home and take care of it, while we quickly figured how we could live on our new property.

It wasn’t until all the papers were signed that it hit me. The property we were hoping to buy was on the very same road as the blueberry farm. The very same road.

But Where Will We Live?

Time passed, the land became ours. Still no house. My husband continued to travel every week… now I was alone with two young children. Working on the property was complicated by the fact that it was over an hour’s drive from my parents’ house.

More time passed. We threw around ideas. We considered building a cob house. A dugout. Buying a yurt. Converting a metal building. Constructing a barn with tiny living quarters. Buying an old house and moving it to the property. Nothing felt right.

My parents returned.

Time stopped passing and started dragging. I would pray “What are we doing wrong, Lord? Why isn’t anything happening?” I was discouraged. I couldn’t see a solution. But this verse kept coming to mind:

Unless the LORD builds the house, They labor in vain who build it. Psalm 127:1

I remember one time during prayer having an overwhelming sense that we weren’t ready. That there were things God still needed to do in us before we would be prepared to embark on the rigors of homesteading. But what?

A Reason for Waiting

What I didn’t guess was that there was work for us right there in my parents’ house. Ten months after we moved in, my dad went to a routine heart check up and was sent straight to the hospital. Within a day he had been scheduled for a quadruple bypass.

As if that wasn’t dramatic enough, my brother was getting married two weeks later, and there was a party for 85 people planned at my parents’ home the night before the wedding. International visitors were flying in and staying at the house. My mom was a wreck.

But because I had been living there, I knew exactly how to run her household, and my mother was able to focus on taking care of my father as he recovered. Even having our young children around was a help, as they cheered and distracted my dad. The party was a success, the wedding beautiful, and we passed the one year anniversary of living with my parents.

I wondered if we would be there for the rest of our lives.

God’s Creative Solution

Then one day, out of the blue, the people who lived on the property adjoining ours called my husband and asked him if we would like to buy their house. And land. And barns and fences and ponds, and WOW!

We said yes! And went from not knowing how to live on our land to having a ready-built house and multiple outbuildings. We even adopted their dog and cat.

A Happy Ending That Was Just The Beginning

After fifteen months of living with my parents we moved to our homestead. We have been here now for almost eight years. And I still sometimes walk out into the middle of a field and break into song with tears streaming down my face. Homesteading has been hard in many ways, but the most beautiful hard you can imagine.

God not only provided for us (and my parents) in a most creative way, but He also prepared us.

I couldn’t have dreamed up how the story of trying to move to our homestead would end, and I can’t begin to imagine what He yet has in store.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen. Ephesians 3:20-21