Late February 2004
The farmhouse smelled like kerosene from the space heaters. Cold wind slipped through cracks in the walls, and even though the thermostat never dropped below freezing, it often hovered in the 40s, sometimes dipping into the 30s at night. My whole body carried the scent of drywall and sawdust. We stayed warm only in the spots where we worked, bundled in layers.
When we worked I kept extra pencils in my pocket because my dad was always losing his. That became my job: whenever I saw him turning his head left and right, I was ready to hand him one before he even asked. There was a rhythm to it—him working, me anticipating, both of us moving in silence broken only by the buzz of heaters.
I was fine leaving the farm at the end of February. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and I would have felt guilty if I thought my dad was going to keep pressing on. But Mom was back now, and I knew she’d make him take a break.
At night I slept in the fifth wheel. The thin walls shook with the winter wind, and sometimes I’d wake to silence, half-expecting the pipes to be frozen. They never did freeze, but I knew I needed a break.
Floating Month (March)
Back in Spartanburg, I sank into routine. I picked up every shift I could at the restaurant, working late nights and coming in early to prep food for the evening. When I burned out on waiting tables, I worked the salad station or put together plates of cheese fries. One night while waiting tables, I got stiffed on a $100 check, and in frustration I walked out ready to quit. A co-worker caught me in the parking lot, talking me down until I cooled off. Then I went back in, and asked to stay on salads and cheese fries duty.
That month wasn’t much of a life. Work. Sleep. Work again. Except when I spent time with my friend Courtland or a quick trip to my grandparents.
Courtland was around my age, and we shared a similar sense of humor and a deep love for talking about God. We usually hung out at his family’s house or lingered after the closing shift, conversations stretching long after the chairs were stacked on tables. He introduced me to John Piper’s book Don’t Waste Your Life, which hit me like a direct challenge: was I drifting, or living with purpose?
Courtland didn’t change my beliefs so much as give them language. I’d grown up in the Church of Christ, a sect with theology that often didn’t align with what I read in the Bible. By my teenage years, I had started tugging at those loose threads until they unraveled. Courtland handed me voices that articulated what I was already sensing—John Piper first, which led to R. C. Sproul, James White, and John MacArthur. It wasn’t argument; it felt like clarity.
That renewal of mind (Romans 12:2) gave shape to the unease I carried into early April. I wasn’t just tired from work. I was empty, drifting without direction.
The Call (Early April)
The TV murmured in my apartment, sound flickering without meaning. I stared past it, out the patio window at the tree and the facing balconies. The phone rang, and I knew before I looked—it was Mom.
“What’ve you been up to?” she asked. Her voice was bright, almost rehearsed. We talked about work, about nothing. Finally she exhaled.
“Why don’t you move up to the farm?”
I started offering excuses. They sounded thin even as I said them. Then there was a rustle, and suddenly Dad’s voice came through, sharp and urgent, like he was making the deal of the century.
“Bobby! If you move up to the farm, we’ll pay your tuition at WVU and you can live here for free.”
My chest tightened with the weight of it—the numbers, the relief, the chance to move forward.
“Okay,” I said, steady and sure. “I’ll move up to the farm.”
Behind him I could hear Mom cheering. My dad’s voice went up an octave, bright with hope. “Great! We’ll be down to help you move!”
Surprise and Scramble
I expected time to pack, maybe even a going-away party with a few friends. Instead, a day later there was a knock at my apartment door.
I opened it to find my parents, Dad’s head poking in. “Why aren’t you packing?”
I stepped outside and froze. Their black 2003 F-250 sat hooked to a massive gray aluminum horse trailer with a red stripe down the side. All I could think was: all of my stuff is going to smell like horse.
Packing became a sprint. Kitchenware mixed with books, dishes with clothes. It didn’t matter what went into which box, only that the box was full. My big-screen TV leaned against my computer tower, both balanced on a stack of political science books. Buffy, my calico, curled into her laundry basket in the backseat of my car, while Mom’s cocker spaniel, Charlie, wagged and whined at the chaos.
Rain, Hotel, Storage, Cracker Barrel
An hour outside Charlotte, the drizzle started. Mist clung to the interstate, vapor trails rising from the tires of passing semis. I followed behind the trailer, watching the tarp flap wildly, and bungee cords straining to keep it down.
By the time we reached Wytheville, Virginia, it was pouring. We pulled into the Holiday Inn tucked beside a Cracker Barrel, parking all the way in the back. In the dark lot we climbed into the trailer, yanking on ropes and tugging at tarps, making sure every inch was covered. Buffy rode up to the room with us, crouched low in her basket while Charlie curled at the foot of the bed.
The rain didn’t stop all the way to Fairmont. When we unloaded into one of the large storage sheds on NASA Boulevard, I groaned at the sight of warped plywood on my computer desk, bubbles swelling under the surface. A couple of my political science books had soaked through too, their spines curled and ruined.
We finished unloading, unhitched the trailer, and headed to Cracker Barrel for dinner. Dad ordered grilled chicken fingers, his usual. He always claimed they were burnt, though it was just the sear from the Italian dressing marinade.
That night we returned to the farm, fed the dogs first, then the cats, then the ducks and geese last. I pulled my sleeping bag onto the sofa in the fifth wheel. Too tired to complain, I fell into the hum of farm sounds outside.
The emptiness I had felt in Spartanburg was gone. Replaced, finally, with purpose. I was where I belonged—home, helping my parents, stepping into the life God had been leading me toward all along.
I didn’t know it then, but saying yes to the farm was more than just a decision about school or family. It set me on a path that would stretch my faith to its breaking point. In those early days, I only felt the relief of belonging and the comfort of purpose. I couldn’t see the shadows that lay ahead—the neighbor whose darkness would one day collide with our lives, the grief and pain that would test every truth I had ever believed. Yet even in that unseen future, God’s sovereignty was already at work, preparing me for a journey where faith would not be an idea I talked about with friends, but the only anchor I had left.
End of Part 1