The other day, I had to drive into a city I used to live in over ten years ago to run an errand. The moment I entered, I felt it… the air was thick, almost heavy. Cars wove in and out of lanes with urgency, drivers crisscrossing as if everyone was in a race. I passed a street that once held a cozy mom-and-pop diner, now replaced by a towering, cookie-cutter building. It stopped me for a second. I called a friend and laughed, “This place is unrecognizable. I can’t wait to get out of here and head back to the boonies.” But as I kept driving, something deeper stirred.
I realized I’ve lived both lives… the city mouse and the country mouse. My parents were farmers, yet they were also successful in their work in the city, so my childhood was split between two worlds, one fast and structured, the other slow and deeply alive. And even now, there’s a charm about the country I can’t quite shake.
I remember mornings around 6 a.m., the kind of mornings when the earth still held its breath. The grass would be kissed with morning dew, tiny droplets clinging to each blade like quiet evidence that the night had been there… gentle, present, unhurried. My shoes would dampen as I walked, and somehow I never minded. It felt like stepping into a world that hadn’t been rushed awake yet.
I’d head to the dairy with a jug in hand, the air cool and soft against my skin. I’d ask the milkman if I could peek at the dairy ledger, scanning eagerly to see if my favorite cows, Ghorofa and Chelimo, were at the top of the milk production list… a small joy that felt so big back then. I’d ask in my native dialect, “How many liters did my girls get today?” Then I’d jump in excitement if they were leading the pack… “Yay!”
On the walk home, I’d slow down even more… stopping to pick flowers, tucking them into my hair, maybe holding a dandelion for a moment before closing my eyes to make a quiet wish. There was no hurry… And when I got home, my mom would take that fresh milk and make Kenyan tea, adding rosemary from her kitchen garden. There was something so whole about it all… simple, full, enough.
Where I live now is considered semi-rural, but it’s slowly becoming an extension of the city. New developments are going up, including a large luxury complex that will no doubt bottleneck the roads, and if I’m honest, I felt something in me dim when I saw that. But then something unexpected happened. On a recent road trip to the mountains in Pennsylvania, we took a quiet back road into a neighboring town, and suddenly, I felt it again.
“Oh, doesn’t this remind you of home?” I said to my aunt. A few miles later, I gasped, “Auntie, look at the cows. I could literally walk over to the neighbor and get a jug of milk.” And I meant it. The entire drive, I kept reacting like that, amazed, delighted, almost childlike. “Oh wow… they have cows and goats?” It made me laugh at myself, but it also woke something up in me.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about a slow, quiet, whimsical kind of life. Not necessarily quieter, because I’m already an introvert, but simpler. More intentional. More anchored. I used to feel so close to God, sitting by a fire on our family farm or watching the sun set, as everything slowed down and nature filled the silence. There was a nearness there, a clarity.
Now, let me be honest… I don’t think I’m called to the full, hands-on farm life again. I’ve done my fair share of chores growing up… hauling molasses across the farm, lowering a bucket into the well to fetch water into milk churns, carrying supplies by hand when the tractor decided not to cooperate, nudging stubborn cows into the dip, and deworming hundreds of sheep… sometimes even on Christmas Day. That version of the “simple life” can be anything but simple. But what I find myself drawn to now is the essence of it all… the stillness, the beauty, the unhurried rhythm… the quiet feeling of enough.
So why am I sharing this? I think I’ve been in a reflective place lately, giving myself permission to dream again, to imagine a life that feels aligned, peaceful, and true, not rushed or forced. And in a quiet way, I’m starting again. And I’m happy.
Jesus loves you. 🩶
Hugs,
