The barn was built into the side of a hill, perhaps as early as 1840. Its earthen bank provided cool stables for livestock in the summer and protection from wind in the winter. A room on the east wall contains cement tanks for milk storage. Their concrete construction, a later addition, stands in contrast to the barn’s rock foundation and retaining wall.
            Hay was hauled to the upper level by way of the hillside ramp. Wooden support posts, hewn with ax and adze, still stand straight as plumblines.
            The brick house across the road was built in the 1880’s. The doors need paint and the brick needs tuck-point. Once an elegant home, it has been unoccupied for a generation. The northside porch has collapsed and the southside porch is stacked with discarded appliances. Several upstairs windows are overgrown with ivy. 
            The worn edifice will soon be the “new home” for a couple who will be married in a few months. Young and energetic, they plan to renovate the house room by room, year by year. On a tour of the place, they point out newly-patched holes in the ceilings and wooden floors slated to be planed and varnished. Upstairs, they lead me through bedrooms awaiting children who will help their parents plant gardens, plow fields and gather harvests.
            It sounds Amish, but the man and woman are devout Catholics. Alongside Methodist friends, German Baptist neighbors and Roman Catholic relatives, they live in a rural region rooted in history and religion.
            Their reverence for the past is obvious. When the soon-to-be husband takes me into the basement, he points to a boulder in the south wall. “Just look at the size of it!” He rubs his hand across the pocked surface. “It’d take four men to shove this in place.”
            I nod and scan the rocks that comprise the rest of the wall. They are smaller than the boulder, yet each would require two strong backs to heave them from the floor and mortar them into place. Clearly, this was a house built on rock.
            Later that evening, while gazing across a soybean field, the young man points to a lone oak a half mile from the house. “A township road once ran alongside this field.” The matter-of-fact tone in his voice changes to perplexity. “Back in 1915, a father got in an argument with his son and shot him under that tree.”
            His knowledge of the incident does not surprise me. Years in rural ministry have taught me that rural folks are much closer to their history than the rest of the population. Their awareness extends beyond folk tales and family stories. Injury and injustice get equal billing. A few months ago, for instance, a young woman shared with me a photograph on her phone. It showed the gravestone in a local cemetery of a woman who had been lynched by a racist mob.
            Such stories make my soul wince. Yet, just as disturbing is the division in contemporary America. What will unfold, I wonder, when society no longer yearns for a day when justice and mercy meet, and kindness and truth embrace? (Ps 85:11).
            A week later, I mentioned my tour to another farmer who lives in a similar house. He said that the brick in his home was made from the clay ground of the family’s farm. “And the story goes,” he continued, “that our ground provided bricks for the parish church, too.”
            This man is a hard worker and an excellent husband and father. His words were proud but his eyes were wise. I thought to myself, “So this is how soil, once reddened by blood, is transformed into a dwelling fit for God: through maneuvering the boulder of love into the foundation of life.”
            Love of God. Love of Neighbor.
            Day by day. Year by year. Generation upon generation.