What the Farm Means to Me

Years before Corrie died, I said, “No” to the idea of moving to my husband’s family farm.

I wanted to stay in my home state, where I worked, and had family and friends.

But, there was a greater calling than what I desired.

A former Christmas tree farm, the house and acreage held memories both joyful and heartbreaking to anyone, who had walked its small foothills, beneath overgrown Christmas trees, or found the best spot for sledding.

It meant–and means–so much to many, and perhaps the different emotions inspired by the farm’s memories are the only thing an estranged family on my husband’s side share in common. What I’ve mentioned, I’ve since made peace with and forgiven through my journey of grief and writing.

In everything I’ve written since the sudden death of our daughter, Corrie, I’ve gone from the raw and honest emotions of a mother to learning how to live again, sometimes through judgement; to exploring the tools and talents I have to shine Corrie’s light as I continue through this journey.

The farm and house, which my husband inherited from his beloved father, was loved by Corrie and her brother, Hayes. Since 2020, John and I have worked to make this house and its acres into a home representative of us and our children. It should always represent love, beauty, family and hope.

The first good dream I had after Corrie died in May 2020 showed the back field behind the house full of sunflowers. I saw all kinds: small, big, orange and yellow. At the same time my dad had the dream of the Butterfly Garden. Before these dreams came to us, John recommended, prior to Corrie’s funeral, that we request live plants for a garden.

I was not raised on the farm, nor was I ever raised to farm. My Dad, a master gardener, tried to get me interested in plants. I usually turned up my nose at the idea of dirt after I became a teen; much like my thirteen-year-old son now.

What I did possess was a sheer determination that if we move the kids here, we’ll make it the best home.

John started renovations to the interior of the house, which he’d inherited from his parents. By February of 2020, he’d accomplished a lot, but a tornado, clean up from the storm’s damage, COVID-19, Corrie’s sudden death and his cancer put a pause on all plans inside.

After Corrie’s death, a part of me died. There were those around me, who stood by in whatever way they could, and some who grew impatient. In the two years that followed, a few of those individuals talked behind my back about my grief and me.

I’m already neurodivergent, but I’m not less because of it. I had to maneuver through a swamp of grief and my husband’s health, so I had little patience to wallow in the opinions of those who only walked where sunflowers grow instead of on broken glass.

(I will say last year and now, I’ve been blessed to be around some truly positive individuals at work, who emulate encouragement and love. It has made a world of difference with me.)

But in our entire journey, I found one constant.

The land to which we’d moved offered—and still grants—peace. Here I can deal with the pain of recent years.

Nothing changes the calming effect the farm has on me. I’m a much quieter person when I garden. I think we need times where we’re not only listening to others, or even the negative thoughts in our mind, but to nature.

In 2021, I started following my father’s footsteps of becoming a gardener. I had to learn about the clay soil, different than where I grew up, and the harder, sandy parts of the ground in the front yard. I needed to pour all of the heartbreak and joy of her life and love my husband and son into this land.

The farm never had a human author. In truth, its the author of itself and history told through a stray piece of metal still wrapped around a branch in a far-off tree. It’s loved, unloved and loved again by the family members who’ve walked its course. I knew I was just a part of the story, but I knew I’d put our daughter’s legacy into all of the gardens across the property.

There was never a flower, wild or not, our daughter failed to love. I always believed where segments of my husband’s family couldn’t find forgiveness or peace with events in this life, the plants placed by family members before us, and now the ones put in the ground by us found a unity and connection far greater than the hurts and confessions of the human spirit.

A lot of the time, John and I will discuss what to do on weekends where we don’t have a lot of plans. I want to stay home. I see people all week, have conversations, and long for the quiet–away from the crowds. I know I’m well-loved by friends and family, but nothing beats the view from the Arendelle Garden.

I was inspired to create the Arendelle Garden after Corrie’s love for Frozen. I’m also aware of a greater purpose besides memorializing my daughter’s memory. In the past year, I did a lot of reading about pollinator gardens. Then I hoped to create an area for bees, butterflies, hummingbirds.

Even in fall, I will look from the front porch, and spot butterflies at a distance. Before my dream about the hummingbird following Corrie’s death, the butterfly was her first symbol. When I see them, I can’t help but smile because I observe her spirit in the world.

Corrie’s life was short, but her reach and light extended to so many people in her five and a half years. A current student of mine went to the same after school program as my children. She told me memories about my daughter, which I didn’t know. The overall memories included how my daughter showed kindness to others, and clearly stood up for right and wrong–with hands on her hips–especially when she spoke up to kids, twice her size, for her big brother.

Each person has a limited time on this Earth. I’m not a great intellect, Scientist or philosopher, so I can’t tell you the entire purpose of this planet. However, I do believe we should seek to perform good with other people and nature while we’re present.

The farm provides freedom for our son, diagnosed with autism when he was five, but who clearly states now he wishes to be viewed as a typical teen boy. He has helped me in Corrie’s gardens, and earns an allowance from it.

The farm offers beauty, without comparison, especially when you look up at a mountain. It tells its story in every crevice and plant. The autumn colors reminds me of the highlights in Corrie’s hair.

The farm helps maintain my sanity and escape the woes of the world. It restores my faith, which I sometimes feel as though it’s lost.

Whatever is lost, the farm provides grace in place of restoration.

All photos and writing is by R.A. Bridges