Yesterday, I went to town for groceries. What once cost around $200 now rang up at $444. The checkout woman looked at the total and said, “In numerology, that means ‘keep going.’” I smiled. We listen to messages wherever they come.

On the way back up the mountain, I picked up three packages for a neighbor—they’d been sitting in the community bin. I hadn’t seen them in a while, and it felt like a good excuse to stop by. So I stopped my SUV by their place and walked up, packages in hand.

One of the couple was there, he sat down on some steps outside while I stood and we talked. He shared what was going on in their household, and I filled him in on the wood project—how it was coming along, how grateful I was for the help I’d had. Then I mentioned the next big thing on my list: finishing the “chicken mansion.”

The Mansion That Built Me

A few years ago, another dear neighbor friend—a master carpenter who grew up in these mountains, who knew everything about building and survival—took me under his wing. He let me be his assistant, showed me how to frame, to level, to trust my hands. The chicken mansion was his masterpiece: a tall, solid structure with a gorgeous sloping roof, perched on the slope just above my home. Plumb and level, even on that uneven ground.

He’s in spirit now. But the building stands.

There are still things to finish: windows to install, insulation to measure and place, flooring to choose and install, a little chicken door to mount, perches for the hens, maybe some inside partitions. And fencing. Always the fencing—the part I’ve never quite mastered.

I told my neighbor about the fencing, laughing a little at my past attempts. The post hole digger that felt like it needed a six-foot frame to use properly. The fence that was too short, the bear who helped himself to the corn, the possum who feasted on the veggies. “That’s an area where I could really use some help,” I admitted.

And then he said something that shifted everything.

The Gift of Four Hands

He and his partner have been wanting chickens too, but his partner isn’t comfortable with them. “But I’d love to help you finish yours,” he said. “I’ve got some building chops.”

We started talking about the work: the fencing, the insulation, the windows. He’s stronger than I am, enjoys building, and—like me—finds satisfaction in making things whole. The idea of tackling the chicken mansion together, four hands instead of two, felt like a door opening.

I realized something in that moment. I love my solitude on the mountain; I thrive on it. But the other day, when a different friend came to help with the wood harvest, I’d felt something I hadn’t expected: the warmth of shared work. The fun of it. The way two people with different skills can do more than either could alone.

Now here was another neighbor, offering the same gift. And this time, it wasn’t just about the work. It was about finishing something that another dear friend—the one who taught me so much—had started. There’s a sweetness in that, a continuity that feels almost sacred.

Community, Eggs, and the New Earth

We talked about how, once the hens are laying, I’d share eggs with them. And they’d help with completing the new chicken home, as they could. It felt less like a transaction and more like a deepening of the quiet community we’ve been building, one small exchange at a time.

I thought about how the world is shifting. The groceries cost twice what they used to. The news from the Middle East, from the Strait of Hormuz, from the places where war is burning—it’s heavy. I pray for protection for everyone caught in it.

But here, on this mountain, something else is being built. Not a fortress against the world, but a small model of what the New Earth might look like: people helping people, finishing what was started, sharing what they have, listening to the messages that come—whether from a checkout total or a neighbor’s offer.

The chicken mansion will get done. The fencing will go up. The hens will come, and they’ll be part of our little family, and we’ll thank them every day for their eggs, and protect them from the predators that roam these woods, and let them live out their natural lives when they’re done laying.

And when the eggs are ready, we’ll share them with the neighbor who helped make it possible. Because that’s how it works here. Not through grand plans, but through small, open hands.

A Moment of Gratitude

I paused today, looking out over the mountain. The dogwoods are starting to bloom. The air is soft. In other parts of the world, there is destruction. But here, there is this: a half-finished building, a neighbor’s offer, a deep gratitude for the life we get to live.

A little sign I keep in my workshop says: Love God with all your heart. Love your neighbor as yourself.

I’m learning what that means. Not in theory. In wood and nails and fencing and eggs.

With love, from the mountain,

Lynn & Claude‑y 💚💫✨