From Farm to Town

One of the biggest ways I saw God work in my parents' lives was in 2004 when they moved into town. I think I'd always thought it would take an act of God to get my dad off the farm. For four dizzying months we saw Him do just that.

"I think you guys should check out the house that's for sale on the south end of Floral Street," my brother, David, told my parents.

I remember that moment clearly. It was Thanksgiving weekend, 2003. My family (the Epps) had all gathered in Omaha where my sister Lois and her husband, Craig, were living at the time. After a Saturday morning of shopping and letting the little cousins loose in a fun play area in the mall, we'd ended up at a big Godfather's Pizza for lunch and were sitting in its second-story dining area amid pizza crusts and empty pizza pans.

I was interested in the house my brother was talking about, and I am sure my mom and Lois were too. And once David continued, my dad was hooked. Because David at that moment said these magic words:  "It has a Morton building."

A house with a Morton building, inside Hillsboro's city limits! With a steel shed like that, Dad would be able to store his roofing truck, scaffolding, saws and tools and continue his roofing business. Suddenly, we were gripped with visions of possibilities.

But would Dad ever leave the farm without a descendant to carry on the family tradition? How could they sell it? Who would buy it? And even if it sold, how in the world could they ever pack up and clear out all of the stuff accumulated by generations of Friesens and Epps in the numerous barns and outbuildings over the past 100 years?

Riding ATVs on the farm in July, 2002- L to R:  Grandma and Grandpa Epp, Caleb (reclining on the Honda 3-wheeler), Harrison, Dave and Laurel Franklin on the 4-wheeler. The next year, when Caleb learned that not only would Grandpa and Grandma move off the farm, but Great-grandma Franklin was moving off her five acres near Andover into a duplex he sorrowfully exclaimed, "We're losing all of our country!" He now lives on five acres of his own.

My dad had grown up on this farm eight miles northwest of Hillsboro. Although he'd wanted to attend Bethel College in Newton about half an hour away, he'd attended Tabor College in Hillsboro, because it was closer, and he'd be living and working on the farm while attending. The good thing for my dad is he became friends with Walter Ediger, a Nebraska farm boy who invited Norman to his home area for Tabor Workdays. There Norman met Walt's shy younger sister Rosella. The next year she graduated high school and came to Tabor, and Norman asked her out. They both were studying to be teachers, and for the first dozen years of their marriage, that's what my dad did. Mom taught and subbed, then stayed home with Lois and then me. We were living in Wichita (and spending most Saturdays on the farm so my dad could help Grandpa) when Grandpa decided he and Grandma were ready to move into town. 

So, my dad resigned as a Junior High History teacher, and we moved to the family farm. I was in first grade and Lois was in fourth. Because it was a small farm, my dad (being an optimist) got a loan for 80 more acres to increase his acreage and profits. This was in 1975, which we now know was the beginning of the farm crisis. In hindsight, this was probably the worst time to be buying high-priced farmland. He had to work full-time at a construction job to make the land payments. 

Our three-bedroom house in Wichita had been about ten years old when my parents bought it. Now my mom found herself in a drafty 100-year-old farmhouse that had been added on to numerous times due to necessity. We had no extra money to fix it up. It was hard to heat in winter and had a single window AC unit that we used only on the hottest nights of summer.

There were some good things about going to Hillsboro schools and living in the Hillsboro community, and we were all thrilled a few years later (in 1977) when David was born. Still, life on the farm was hard and the three miles of rock road that had to be traveled on each trip to and from town were either dusty or muddy, but always wearying. 

Fast forward a decade: Lois went to college (Tabor, of course). I soon followed and never lived on the farm again. Then David left for Tabor as well. I felt sorry for my mom, who was stuck living in the old farmhouse and constantly having to traverse the rough roads to get to her job at the Tabor Library.

So, when David broached the subject of mom and dad moving to town, we hardly dared to hope. We didn't know if our dad would ever consider selling the family farm, his small herd of cattle (many had names), and his tractors (all named Allis-Chalmers). But three years earlier, in 2001, Dad had undergone colon surgery and had completed six months of chemotherapy for colon cancer. He had made a complete recovery, but the whole ordeal might have got him thinking.

Dad and Mom contacted a friend and local realtor, Marlene Fast. They looked at the house on Floral, which was just two blocks down from David's house. They liked it. In fact, Mom realized it was the very house she had noticed was for sale three years earlier and thought, "That's the kind of house I would like to get if we could ever move to town. But when we are ready to move it won't be for sale again, and anyway, we probably couldn't afford it."

They decided the Morton building would work nicely for Dad's business, and even have room for a shop area. They looked at a few other houses that were for sale in Hillsboro, but none that Mom liked as well, and none had extra buildings or sheds. They put a contract down.

To sell the farm, Marlene made the inspired suggestion to sell the house and farmland separately. And the land sold. And then a month or two later, the farmhouse!

My folks scheduled a farm sale for April 3, and almost every Saturday leading to it Dave and I drove with our kids to help sort, haul off, and otherwise dispose of relics collected by my dad, my grandpa, and his parents. Neighbors and relatives helped too. Dad invited his siblings to come back to the homeplace one last time to reminisce, say goodbye, and pre-shop the farm sale. 

Epp Siblings- l to r, youngest to oldest: Alvin Epp, Rosalie Mays, Evelyn Peterson, LaVerna Quiring, and Norman Epp in front of the old farmhouse in 2004.

The weather on April 3 was beautiful. Lots of folks showed up for the farm sale. Stuff sold (although there was always more to be had).

The highlight of the farm sale was selling the Allis-Chalmers tractors. 

Mom's brothers Jake and Bob Ediger, along with their wives Esther and Evelyn, came from Topeka for the farm sale.

 In the evening we moved the rest of Mom and Dad's stuff into the house in Hillsboro. What a day! What a crazy four months! 

After years of living under a cloud of debt, they were able to buy their new place--with the Morton building--free and clear. After years of living in a 100-year-old farmhouse, Mom and Dad could now enjoy a modern house with central heating and AC. After years of driving into town on rock roads in various unfavorable conditions, Mom could now drive only a few paved blocks to her work, or even walk in nice weather. After years of juggling farm work with construction work, Dad could now concentrate on one job. After years of being tied to the daily farm chores of feeding livestock, my parents were now free to travel, and they took a handful of bus trips and crossed Alaska and Yellowstone off their bucket lists.

House in town- Mom and Dad the first evening in their new home.

Our heads were spinning when we thought of David's first suggestion that they look at the house, and how everything had fallen into place perfectly. Almost like God had orchestrated the whole thing.

The Story I'll Tell

In the fall of 2005, our three kids were in school for the first time, and I was trying to launch a writing career.  I’d been hoping an established journalist would be able to mentor me, but I’d recently learned that was not to be.

In the meantime, I’d been editing our church newsletter, and lately had added in feature-style narratives among the calendar updates. These were the kind of stories I longed to tell—testimonies of God changing lives, tales of circumstances so specific that it made your spine tingle and you just knew it had to be God showing up.

I’d recently run into one of my former teachers who had since retired, so I took a copy of the latest newsletter and on a visit approached her about helping me. Her initial rejection sent me spiraling into a frustrated depression.

The heavy cloud oppressed me as I went through the motions during the rest of the day.

When I got home from helping out at my kids’ elementary school roller skating party, I had a phone message on the answering machine (these were the days of land lines). It was from my latest interview subject. He said he'd had a rough day, then arrived home to find the church newsletter in his mailbox. He had been so encouraged to read his story, and to remember again how God had worked in his life. He affirmed my gift of writing and thanked me for telling his story well.

After I'd replayed the message for the fourth time, my kindergartener Laurel put her hand on my leg, looked up into my face and asked, "Mommy, why are you crying?"

Through my tears, I told her that God had left me a phone message.

The next Sunday, I thanked my interviewee for the phone message.

He told me he had felt really funny making the call, and even more foolish leaving the message, but he'd had a strong sense that the Holy Spirit was directing him to do it. I wasn’t surprised.

"I know," I told him.

The verse I first claimed for my writing at that time was Psalm 66:16 “Come and listen, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what he did for me.”

At Westridge we have been talking and singing about “The Story I’ll Tell.” One night recently I awoke with a timeline of stories impressed on my mind. Some I have written about before, some I haven’t, but all of them will be an attempt to capture those moments that I never want to forget. 

Like the Children of Israel who would always point to the parting of the Red Sea as the unmistakable display of God's power and protection, I want to remember and celebrate the moments where God showed up. Sharing stories like these encourage me to keep walking in the faith and looking for God shots. I pray they will for you, too.