Patti has been a loyal friend of mine for 30 years. I can always count on her, and I hope she feels the same about me.
We both grew up on farms about four miles apart. Patti has lived the American dream. She is one of my heroes, though history will never record her life, nor will towering monuments be built in her honor. Still, she has my deepest admiration.
More importantly, she will leave the world better than she found it because of the three incredible daughters she and her husband, Barry, raised—and the children those daughters will one day raise with the same faith, work ethic, and compassion. In a confused and hurting world, that is a remarkable legacy.
From the day they married, Patti and Barry worked tirelessly to build a good life. She clipped coupons, planted a vegetable garden every summer, then canned and froze enough food to carry them through the winter. Another friend of mine was a hunter who didn't care for venison, so he'd call Patti whenever he had extra meat. She was always delighted to get those calls.
Their greatest goal was to pay off the little house they had lovingly built, doing as much of the work themselves as possible—from building the cabinets to painting every room.
"Barry and I pray every day for the day we'll have this house paid off and be debt-free," she'd tell me from time to time.
Her daddy had given them a few acres on his farm to build their home.
Then, just as their daughters were entering their teenage years, Barry received news that shattered their peaceful life. A large utility company informed them that it was taking their home through eminent domain.
The bad news didn't end there. Patti's daddy received the same letter. The company planned to cut massive utility lines straight through the middle of his farm.
Patti cried for days.
"Our family and our memories were made in that house," she told me.
I listened, sharing her grief.
"They have to pay you, don't they?" I asked.
She nodded. "But there's not enough money to pay for our memories."
They fought back. The company increased its offer, then turned the matter over to its lawyers. In the end, the family had no choice but to move. They built another home—twice the size—on a different part of the farm. The settlement paid off their original house and made building the new one financially possible.
I laughed.
"Y'all prayed for years to pay off that house. The Lord answered your prayers—it just wasn't the way you expected. God's crafty."
She smiled.
"We're grateful for this beautiful house."
Patti's daddy, a humble, soft-spoken man who farmed while teaching carpentry at a technical school, wasn't about to let the matter end there. If the big-city lawyers intimidated him, he never let it show.
"I worked all my life for this farm," he said. "The Lord will see me through."
About 20 years ago, he sued the utility company.
His attorney explained how slicing through the middle of the farm would permanently damage it. The judge ordered the jury to visit the property so they could see it with their own eyes. After hearing closing arguments, they retired to deliberate.
An hour later, they returned.
Their verdict acknowledged that eminent domain was the law. Still, they ruled the utility company would have to pay an extraordinary price for the privilege of destroying one man's life's work.
The amount stunned everyone in the courtroom.
Reluctantly, the utility company paid exactly what the jury awarded.
Then something remarkable happened.
Last summer, I was at Patti's house picking green beans from her garden. I looked at their picturesque home, then across the rolling hills where the utility lines were supposed to stand.
I smiled.
Despite paying a significant settlement, the utility company abandoned the project altogether.
The family kept the money.
The farm remained untouched.
I love God's craftiness.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the beloved Southern series featuring Stella Bankwell. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.