I grew up believing every barn had a story to tell.

The barns have changed — different colors, different seasons, different kinds of hard — but the view from my side of the barn has always taught me something. Slowly, the way farm lessons tend to come. Not all at once, but worked in, like compost into tired soil.

Faith. Loss. Patience. The strange mercy of starting over.

Every barn has a door that is either closing on a season that's ended or opening to the beginning of a new season of planting. Either way, every season holds a harvest of its own.