For more than a decade, I searched for it: a cabin in the wilderness. In my mind’s eye, I pictured my family home-schooling in thick woolen socks, in front of a cozy wood stove. I pictured us walking down a familiar country lane holding hands with the sun on our backs, casting a shadow on the road before us: my husband Rich and me in the middle, our oldest, Thomas, on one side and our youngest son, Robert, on the other.

But those hopes had been dashed.

A few months before, Rich and I had argued for the last time over a dilapidated cabin in the woods. I stomped off, grumbling under my breath, “You’re where my dreams go to die.” His “crimes” were pointing out our extremely limited budget and knowing what he couldn’t fix. He also reminded my aching mother’s heart that our home-school journey was nearly at an end. Our family was changing. Our kids were young men now.

“This dream is gone, Therese,” I declared to my friend and fellow home-school mom over coffee. “We’ve almost run out the clock, and I’m done being heartbroken about it.” 

Therese listened to every word. “Well,” she said thoughtfully. “It is March. It’s St. Joseph’s month. Did you ever ask him to help?” 

I blinked. No, I never asked St. Joseph. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? 

It was March 5. That night, as I drove to Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio, to pick up Thomas for spring break, Therese’s words about St. Joseph rang in my ears. I had five hours to go on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. 

“Okay, St. Joseph,” I said aloud. “Let’s talk …”

12 Hours Later …

Thomas drove us home from Ohio. He howled with laughter as I told him about my one-way conversation with St. Joseph the night before.

Wagging my finger, I’d told St. Joseph I wanted a house in Vermont, but not just anywhere in Vermont, Southern Vermont (I wasn’t driving 10 hours). And I wanted it next to a ski resort. It had to be furnished, right down to the pots and pans. I had to be near a nice church community. And I wanted a house all of wood, like the Ingalls’ house in Little House on the Prairie.

Thomas pointed out that the Ingallses did not have indoor plumbing. I’d thought of that. I told St. Joseph I would settle for an outhouse. 

While Thomas was still laughing, I decided to scan my super-secret real estate websites. I hadn’t looked at them in months.

“Let’s see how fast St. Joseph can cook this up.”

I put in the parameters: cabin … Southern Vermont … furnished … send!

“What?!?” My eyes grew wide. I knew it when I saw it.

For Sale by Owner

Later that day at home, Rich scrolled through the listing. I waited to tell him the part about St. Joseph. I didn’t want Rich to think I was pulling rank on him. 

Breathless, I waited for the big kibosh. This cabin was in the right place, Jamaica, in Southern Vermont. It was fairly new. It was near several ski resorts. It was in our budget. Surely, he couldn’t find anything wrong with this.

Rich put his phone down and took off his glasses. He looked square at me, the way he does when he’s serious. Then he said three words I never thought I’d hear: “This looks good.”

It was for sale by owner, so I called the number.

“Yeah, it’s still available. We just listed it a few hours ago!” said the owner. “We’ve put a lot of love into this place, and we want it to go to a family.” 

“I’m a handyman and an amateur carpenter,” he added.

I almost fell off my chair. We made an appointment to look at the place the next day. 

The Carpenter’s Cabin

We drove through the winding roads of Green Mountain National Forest, until we came to a country lane with an old tree at the bottom of it. Nailed to the tree were homemade wood signs with the names of families who lived up the mountain. This was it! 

About a half-mile up, a cinnamon-red cabin with evergreen trim emerged. It had a small barn with the American flag painted on it and a woodshed. It had a porch, a water tower and a stone wall behind it. Below the house was a snow-covered meadow.

We shook hands with the owners. They were a couple about our ages. He shared that their kids were grown and had moved out of the area. With aging parents, it was time for them to simplify. 

Inside the house, my knees went weak. There was a loft, like Little House on the Prairie! It was more than furnished, with dishes, pots and pans, and even a Crock-Pot. Everything had been hewn out of local wood. There was a great room, a bedroom and a small kitchen. Its walls were adorned with antiques … carpentry tools.

I elbowed Rich and pointed to the tools. He looked square at me with that serious look again. Then Rich said three more words I never thought I’d hear: “We’ll take it.”

A New Dream

A few days later, I dreamed about a wooden statue of St. Joseph, depicted with Baby Jesus in his arms. I’d seen it before. There was a man who came to our church every year or so, selling olivewood statues and religious items from the Holy Land. I immediately tried to find him online, but nothing came up.

The snow was melted when we went back for the inspection. We could see this house was in perfect shape. Since we were up in Vermont, we decided to find an early Saturday night Mass before driving home. The nearest Mass was 30 minutes away in Chester, Vermont. The parish was St. Joseph the Worker. 

The tiny wood-and-stone church was filled with Vermonters, young and old. During the Sign of Peace, we turned to find friendly faces and warm handshakes. After receiving Jesus, I had to cover my face. My heart was so full. 

My dream had changed, but God was still creating our family. Time had not run out. Time had informed us, polished the picture, and filled us with wisdom. Through the graces lavished upon us in marriage, love had taught us to honor one another’s ideas and constraints, instead of trying to change each other. Only then could we recognize the gift in front of us. 

We knew it when we saw it, just like we knew we’d be husband and wife on our first date, on March 19, 2004, the feast of St. Joseph.

Before the final blessing, Father invited a guest to speak to the congregation. A man approached the altar. It was the man who sold wood carvings from the Holy Land. I looked at Rich. He was slack-jawed. I whispered to him, “I should have asked for indoor plumbing.”

Sitting on the table in the gathering space was the statue I’d seen in my dream. It was St. Joseph, with dark lines in his face from the knots of wood. Sitting high in his arms with a hint of a smile was Baby Jesus. It had been carved by a Palestinian carpenter. 

We drove home with St. Joseph and Baby Jesus on the seat between us. From my prayer for St. Joseph’s intercession to the moment the cabin was listed as “sold,” it had been a little more than two weeks. It was March 19, 22 years since our first date and the feast of St. Joseph.