The final straw came in mid-January. The days were short, energy lagging, and patience in short supply.

As we drove down our gravel road, we saw the sheep had gotten out again. My husband said he was over it, and my anxiety spiked. I knew if he was done, so were we. I didn’t have the capacity, knowledge, or funds to fix our fences completely, and we needed an immediate solution.

Ignoring the still, small voice that whispered, “Wait,” I impulsively texted a friend who might be interested in our sheep. Sure enough, they were — and preparations began.

At the end of January, our HOA called. The sheep had made it as far as the main road. I thanked them, reassured them the sheep were being re-homed soon, and we rounded them up. My oldest patched the fence yet again.

By early February, serious interest had emerged for Vlad. That very day, he was safely loaded and traveling to his new home on a nearby ranch. Relief washed over me — my shoulders dropped, my jaw relaxed, I could finally breathe. We were no longer held hostage by an unsafe animal on our property.

But a knot had formed in my stomach.

The girls’ new pen was completed within a day. The following day, Cho and Luna were loaded into the trailer and taken to their new home, also just 20 minutes away. Less than 48 hours, and our flock had gone from three to zero.

It was the best decision for everyone — for us, for the sheep, for our neighbors, for our friends. I kept repeating it to myself, trying to believe it.

Updates trickled in over the next couple of weeks. The girls were adjusting well — though they escaped their pen within five minutes of arrival! Minor tweaks soon had them safely contained. Then came the news: Cho looked pregnant.

I had hoped to breed her, and the possibility was now real. My heart ached knowing I would miss witnessing lambing season. When I asked if I could visit to observe, my friend graciously agreed.

Two days later, the floodgates opened. I couldn’t stop crying. Fresh waves of grief kept hitting me — I had sold them just before the fruits of our labor were to appear. I was heartbroken.

That same day, I visited. And seeing the sheep in their new environment gave me peace. They clearly belonged together, and I couldn’t shake the impression that this was a God thing — even if I hadn’t waited for His timing.

I went home full of peace, joy, and grief. That chapter had ended — though my heart didn’t like it. I missed their morning baas, grazing on our property, the daily pets.

And slowly, I began to hope again. Perhaps this grief was showing me just how important these silly sheep were to me. Cho and Luna had found a wonderful new home — but that didn’t mean my sheep story was over.

Be sure to catch Redemption, coming April 4.

Our bird run is currently dominated by nine laying hens, each with her own personality. These ladies are absolute machines, laying one egg per day—even through the winter. Let’s meet the ladies one by one, starting at the top of the pecking order…

Head Hencho

• Breed: Isa Brown
• Plumage: Red and Gold (the lightest of our Isas)
• Egg Color: Medium Brown
• Quirks: This lady is 100% Girl Boss material. Her throne has been challenged a few times, but no one’s been able to unseat her yet…her throne being the DIY bird waterer: an upside-down 5-gallon bucket. She occasionally lays extra-large eggs—sometimes even over 100g, while the norm is closer to 80g.

Isa

• Breed: Isa Brown
• Plumage: Red and Gold
• Egg Color: Medium Brown
• Quirks: Often enjoys hanging out with the ducks.

Bella

• Breed: Isa Brown
• Plumage: Red and Gold, but with looser feathers than Isa.
• Egg color: Medium Brown
• Quirks: She gets…distracted. Each night, when my son calls all the birds back to the run, she frequently stops for one last bug.

Mrs. White (A.K.A. Bianca)

• Breed: White Leghorn
• Plumage: White
• Egg Color: White
• Quirks: She’s the smallest of all the fully grown hens and the easiest to catch and pick up. Even though she’s always taking dirt baths, she remains the cleanest of our chickens.

Mary (A.K.A. Bloody Mary, A.K.A. Zombie Chicken)

• Breed: White Leghorn
• Plumage: White
• Egg Color: White
• Quirks: This little lady clawed her way back from the brink of death, earning the nicknames Bloody Mary and Zombie Chicken. She’s not the prettiest chicken in the flock—she’s missing many of her neck feathers from her near-death experience—but she’s a survivor. She’s also second in the pecking order, right behind Head Hencho.

Brownie

• Breed: Speckled Sussex
• Plumage: Brown with Flecks of Black and White
• Egg Color: Light Brown
• Quirks: All her feathers are soft and silky with her darkest black feathers actually shining bright green in the sunlight. Her ride-or-die is our next lady, Stormwing.

Stormwing

• Breed: Silver-Laced Wyandotte
• Plumage: Black and White
• Egg Color: Light Beige
• Quirks: Easily the prettiest chicken in our flock, Stormwing is the best at jumping and flying. She loves perching on my middle child’s shoulder and enjoys roosting atop the coop during the day.

Goldie & Hei-Hei, The Dynamic Duo (A.K.A. We can barely tell them apart…)

• Breed: Rhode Island Red
• Plumage: Red
• Egg Color: Light Brown
• Quirks: You won’t find one without the other. They always stick together. They like to pretend they’re the head hens, but then they get hen-pecked…

From Girl Boss to Zombie Chicken, each of these ladies brings her own energy—and a fresh egg—to our homestead daily.

The ladies may rule the roost, but they’re only part of our feathered flock. Meet the whole crew in Flocks of a Feather.

P.S. Thanks a million to my middle child,—the official caretaker of the birds—for filling me in on the quirky information for a few of the ladies I don’t know as well and for helping identify a few of the harder-to-tell-apart ladies.

As the days got shorter, I admit my patience did too.

Vlad was getting harder and harder to handle, becoming pushier by the day. His aggression escalated until one afternoon he finally decided to challenge me.

This once-sweet boy that we brought home at one-week-old and bottle-fed for nearly two months was suddenly charging me—once, twice, three times. I fended him off repeatedly, barely keeping my feet under me.

I’m not gonna lie—I was scared.

He was a big boy now, and I knew he could seriously injure me, especially if he managed to knock me off my feet.

I called loudly for my son, a teenager who is both bigger and stronger than me now and could hold his own with Vlad quite well.

As he came to my defense, Vlad continued charging—the fourth, fifth, and sixth time. My reflexes were slowing while his attacks came faster and faster.

For a split second, I realized I was about to lose this challenge.

Finally, I made the inevitable miscalculation, and he headbutted me. My thumb took the brunt of it.

I cried out in pain, shouting a few choice words and wondering if he had broken it. I was thoroughly shaken.

About that time, my son caught up to us and grabbed Vlad by the collar. He led him off to the Sheep Shed to be safely contained.

In the moment, all I could feel was the adrenaline and the pain in my hand.

Looking back now, I think God was using that encounter to shape me further.

Meanwhile I retreated to the safety of my house fuming. My rage was fueled by fear and pain as I contemplated the best recipes for Shepherd’s Pie. Katahdin sheep are, after all, well-known for their delicious meat.

However, the weather was unseasonably warm for October so it wasn’t exactly the best time to learn how to butcher and process meat. (Besides, I doubt I could have followed through on my threats. I’m not sure I have the stomach for processing meat we’ve raised.)

Instead, we put a few stop-gap safety measures in place and listed Vlad as up for discussion, hoping to re-home him quickly.

But the tension on our land was palpable.

There was some interest—but no serious buyers through October, November, or December.

Come January, a new challenge emerged.

The ladies were getting through our fences and wandering onto our neighbor’s property.

At first, it was more annoying than alarming. Our neighbors were gracious about it. They enjoyed seeing the sheep and even appreciated them clearing away some of the overgrowth.

Each time it happened, my son would search for the spot he thought they were slipping through and patch the fence.

But somehow, they kept getting out.

Again and again.

And each time they wandered a little farther from home.

By mid-January, the peace we’d known when the lambs first came home had started to unravel.

Vlad was unpredictable. The fences were failing. And the tension on our land was impossible to ignore.

Something had to give.

Stay tuned for The Fall, coming March 28.

Murder, zombies, and…feathers? Welcome to our homestead. Our five acres is wild, messy, and completely ours, a far cry from the suburbia we left behind. The air is fresher, the sky wider, the land less tame. We have woods with the towering trees, open meadows of tall grass, and even a shallow pond affectionately nicknamed The Puddle.

Yet the same wildness that drew us to this property also comes with a few… drawbacks. A whole host of evils, really: evil sticker plants (field sandburr stickers, also known as sandspur), evil thorn vines (likely some kind of greenbrier), evil snakes (copperheads), and evil bugs (mosquitos, sand fleas, wasps, and ticks).

So I began to research. What could we do to temper some of the evils we encountered?

Well, for starters—we could get chickens.

I loved the idea of chickens dotting our homestead—after all, what says “homestead” more than a flock of clucking hens?

Ironically, however, I am allergic to chicken eggs. Super allergic.

So in addition to chickens, my family voted to get ducks which could also help with insects and even some small snakes. Our plan was simple: we could sell the chicken eggs while my family enjoyed the duck eggs without jeopardizing my health.

So the very same week we brought home three bottle-fed lambies, we also picked out eight chicks—four Isa Browns and four White Leghorns—as well as six Khaki Campbell ducklings.

And let me tell you… that was its own learning curve separate from the sheep.

Multiple friends had warned us how messy ducklings are.

They were not exaggerating.

At first, the ducklings and chicks shared a brooder. But the poor chicks were endlessly splashed, and duckling poop appeared everywhere—even minutes after we replaced the bedding. Before long, we had to separate everyone just to keep the chicks dry.

They all grew quickly. But the ducks grew twice as fast.

Within weeks we were able to move everyone outside into our makeshift bird enclosure, using some kind of metal contraption we found on our property.

Each morning we let them out to free range across our five acres, and each evening we coaxed them back with feed and secured them safely for the night to protect them from the numerous nighttime predators.

Since then, we’ve lost three chickens and two ducks… gained seven more chickens… and then lost another three chickens.

Along the way, we’ve learned a few things:

Chickens are simultaneously dumber than you can imagine, smarter than you’d expect—and yes, surprisingly dinosaur-like.

A pile of feathers? Never a good sign.

And just when you think it’s over, chickens can sometimes claw their way back from the brink of death, earning themselves the nickname “Zombie Chicken” in the process.

And ducks? Well…duck society is not for the faint of heart. Murder, suspicion, intrigue—they live it daily. They will quite literally try to murder each other. (In unrelated news…we may have discovered that the proper ratio of drakes to ducks is roughly 1:6 or 1:8—very different from the two drakes and four ducks we ended up with from our straight-run batch. Whoops.)

We’ve watched chickens take luxurious dirt baths while the ducks splash happily in their kiddie pool.

We’ve even witnessed a duck slurp up a snake like a noodle.

And somewhere along the way, we realized something unexpected:

We genuinely love having chickens and ducks roaming and foraging across our property each day.

And just like that, our little homestead had two very different flocks—one feathered and one hoofed.

Now that you’ve gotten a glimpse at our feathered flock, you can follow the rest of our story.

With the arrival of our three little lambs, came a complete upheaval of our routines. Suddenly, we were bottle-feeding three lambs three times a day. I quickly learned to throw my overalls on over whatever I was wearing, shove a washcloth in my pocket, and slip on my muck boots as I headed out the back door with three dollar-store baby bottles—filled with milk replacer—in hand.

I would tromp across the narrow strip of land between our house and our detached garage, circle around the carport, and head for the door of our little Sheep Shed. As soon as those three babies heard me coming, they would clumsily scramble to their feet and the baa-ing would begin.

To say they loved their milk is an understatement.

The moment I opened the door, they would come gleefully sprinting out, immediately bumping the bottles with their noses. As soon as I flipped a bottle upside down, they would bump it several times before finally latching on and going to town, chugging the 9oz as fast as they could. Milk foamed around their mouths, which they would promptly wipe on you if given the chance–thus the overalls and the pocket washcloth.

Admittedly, there was a bit of a learning curve to feeding three bottles to three lambs all at the same time with only two hands. Somehow I managed it—though I was often grateful for extra helping hands–until they grew bigger and their boisterous bumping made it impossible to hold on to all three bottles at once. At that point, those extra helping hands became a necessity!

We learned to check their poop for signs of parasites and their eyelids for signs of anemia. They learned, very quickly, to stick together and to follow my family and me all around our property. They made circles around the house, their baa-ing drifting through the open windows. They were curious about our ducks and chickens and cats. The cats, for their part, were equally curious about the lambs.

Our three lambs grew so fast.

Soon, Cho and Luna were reluctantly weaned from their bottles, and a few weeks after that, Vlad joined them. Mornings were their most energetic time. They would run in wild loops around the yard, leaping as they went.

We slowly settled into new rhythms. Each morning, one or more of us would make the rounds—letting the lambs and our birds out of their respective pens to free range, filling waterers, and checking feed levels as needed. Each evening we made the rounds again, putting everyone up for the night, ensuring water, hay, and feed were available, and securing all latches.

As summer turned to fall, we began preparing for winter. We made sure heat lamps and extension cords were ready in case of cold weather. We stocked up on hay for additional feed as the grass dried up and straw for warmer bedding. We continued to clean out and refill waterers again and again, the ritual both calming and exhausting.

As they continued to grow and their teenage hormones hit, Vlad began pushing us with his head. At first it was playful, harmless. But soon he pushed harder and we realized we couldn’t let our youngest be outside alone anymore when the sheep were out.

As the months passed, life with Vlad, Cho, and Luna settled into a rhythm—but the challenges grew right along with them. We learned quickly and sometimes stumbled awkwardly through our first year with them, thinking we were starting to figure things out. We would soon discover that greater challenges lay ahead.

Next Up: The Turn.

Only 2 days after John 21:15-19 began settling deep into my heart, we finished replacing that section of our north fence and got our little “Sheep Shed” all set up for its very first residents.

Then we drove an hour and a half to the farm where three bottle-fed lambs had been born over the previous three weeks and finally got to meet them face-to-face.

They were unbelievably precious.

It was honestly difficult to come home with only three.

I decided to start small: one ram and two ewes. My hope was that when they reached maturity we could breed them and—Lord-willing—welcome our very first lambing season in the spring of 2026.

And so, the first members of Potter’s Sheep arrived.

Luna
Hair Color: Solid white
Named for Luna Lovegood of Ravenclaw, of course—loyal friend to Harry, member of the D.A., and certainly the most whimsical character of them all. She has always been one of my absolute favorites.

Cho
Hair Color: Solid black
Named for: Cho Chang of Ravenclaw—Harry’s first girlfriend, member of the D.A, and a talented Quidditch player.

Vlad
Hair Color: Patchy red & white
This is where the theme went a bit off the rails. My children and I argued over which name would suit him best, and somehow the name Vlad stuck. A.K.A. Vladdie Boy. So I’ve chosen to imagine that Vlad is Vladimir Krum, Viktor Krum’s lesser-known brother.

And just like that, with three tiny lambs and a lot to learn, the journey had begun, as life with Vlad, Cho, and Luna continued to unfold. The story continues with In the Beginning.

The name Potter’s Sheep actually carries two meanings.

The first layer is the heartbeat of our homestead.

Isaiah 64:8
“But now, O Lord,
You are our Father;
We are the clay, and You our potter;
And all we are the work of Your hand.”

Growing up in church—way back in the 1900s—we sang a song that echoes in my heart today:

🎶 You are the Potter
I am the clay
Mold me and make me
This is what I pray 🎶

We are mere clay that God our Father, the Potter, shapes and forms according to His will—refining us and crafting us into something truly beautiful. These silly sheep have already been just one of the many tools He uses to mold me into His likeness.

But, to be honest, if that were the only meaning behind the name, it might feel a little too stiff for me. After all, what’s life without a little whimsy?

So there’s a second meaning, too.

As a teenager, I was introduced to the wonderful world of Harry Potter—and I was instantly hooked. (Books > movies, of course.) I love a good theme, and when it came time to name the three sheep we were bringing home, the Harry Potter universe offered endless possibilities.

And suddenly I realized something.

The name worked in both directions.

Potter’s Sheep.

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Sheep belonging to the Potter
…and sheep named after Potter characters.

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Perfection.

I may joke about our “Potter sheep,” but the truth is that they serve as a daily, tangible reminder that I, too, am one of The Potter’s sheep—still being shaped by His hands, still learning to trust, and still learning to follow my Good Shepherd.

And now that you know the story behind the name, let me introduce you to the sheep who started it all…

Meet the OG Flock

One year ago, spring was springing. The grass had just begun to poke up. Yellow dandelions dotted our yard, and the irises were shooting up once again.

In stark juxtaposition, smoke filled our once-blue sky as wildfires raged across our state.

And there we were, placing new fence posts and stretching wire across a dilapidated section of our north fence.

Perhaps the timing could have been better, but we were preparing for new arrivals to our little acreage in a matter of days.

Grieving an unexpected loss, and with the siren call of spring’s invitation to bring forth new life, I jumped at the chance to purchase three bottle-fed lambs.

Did I have any idea what I was doing?

Absolutely not.

Had I given up “the internet” for Lent?

I sure had.

Did I have faith in our ability to “just figure it out?”

Absolutely.

By “our ability,” did I mean my husband’s life experience, numerous skills, and his uncanny ability to learn new things on the fly and fix just about anything?

Yes, yes I did.

Sleep has long been a struggle for me.

It sounds simple, sure: lay down, close your eyes, and your body pretty much does the rest.

Well, this body likes to wake up around 3AM.

Or 1AM.

Or anytime that is Sleeping Time.

And then I’m just…awake.

For hours. I used to stress about this. I used to try to force myself back to sleep.

Ha.

To quote the 90s icon Cher Horowitz, “As if!”

Eventually, though, I learned to accept it for the gift that it can be.

As an introvert, quiet time to myself is like delicious, life-sustaining water. As a homeschooling mama of 3, I often feel like I’m living in a desert.

So for years now, I’ve used these hours to pray, to plan, to read, and to follow whatever my hyperfocus-of-the-moment happens to be.

Well, overnight on March 13-14, my hyperfocus was those three Katahdin lambs.

How I ended up reading the passage I’m about to share, I truly can’t remember. But I know this: God very clearly impressed it upon my heart.

The passage is from John 21:15-19. In case you’re unfamiliar with it, let’s read it together:

¹⁵ So when they had eaten breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me more than these?”

He said to Him, “Yes, Lord; You know that I love You.”

He said to him, “Feed My lambs.”

¹⁶ He said to him again a second time, “Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me?”

He said to Him, “Yes, Lord; You know that I love You.”

He said to him, “Tend My sheep.”

¹⁷ He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me?” Peter was grieved because He said to him the third time, “Do you love Me?”

And he said to Him, “Lord, You know all things; You know that I love You.”

Jesus said to him, “Feed My sheep. ¹⁸ Most assuredly, I say to you, when you were younger, you girded yourself and walked where you wished; but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will gird you and carry you where you do not wish.” ¹⁹ This He spoke, signifying by what death he would glorify God. And when He had spoken this, He said to him, “Follow Me.”

Now, the context here is unspeakably beautiful. This conversation takes place after the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the son of God, before His ascension into heaven.

After Peter had denied Him three times.

And here, Jesus restores him.

For every denial, Peter is given the opportunity to reaffirm his love and loyalty.

There is so much more to glean from this passage, but that night, God was impressing three particular sentences on my heart:

“Feed My lambs.”

“Tend My sheep.”

“Feed My sheep.”

As the meanings unfolded, I understood that each command was tied to a very clear, practical application in my life.

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“Feed My lambs.”

Actual, literal lambs—the three bottle-fed lambs we were days away from bringing home.

“Tend My sheep.”

Encourage, serve, love those around me well.

“Feed My sheep.”

Volunteer in our church’s Food Pantry.

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Within a month, all three had become a reality.

I was bottle-feeding three precious lambs.

I had begun volunteering at our church’s Food Pantry.

And I was recognizing a calling I had already been living out without fully appreciating its value: intentionally reaching out to encourage, serve, and love those around me.

Now here we are, one year later.

What a road it has been.

There has been joy and grief, frustration and victory, surprises and setbacks. And yet the road stretches on toward the horizon, promising more of the same.

At Potter’s Sheep, I hope to share glimpses of life on our little homestead, along with reflections on the lessons God is teaching me through this life He has so clearly called me to.

I am very much still a shepherdess-in-training.

But thankfully, I have a Shepherd who never forsakes me—One who continues to care for me as I seek to care for others.

Of course, that still leaves one important question.

I share the story behind the name next:

Why “Potter’s Sheep”?