The Barn

It was far more than "just a barn." More than a building. More than a simple structure. It represented something much deeper than it's beautiful crimson red and white outer shell. Things deeper and more precious than the exterior would allow to be told. It was the lifeblood of the Carlson family for years. It's the legacy of Morris Carlson. The place where his 6 kids would come to later appreciate the hard work ethic and the family values of working together. Hundreds of hours were logged inside those four walls. Numerous pails of grain were carried to each stall to feed the dairy cows as they came in for milking. Bellies became a punching bag when Darla (that would be my mom's dairy cow when I was approx. 5 years old...) or any other cow felt a little uptight and took aim at the person standing anywhere near those back legs. The barn was where many classic country songs were learned and sung along to. (No seriously, I never knew each of my brothers had such a set of pipes until they sang out there!) Muscles were formed as the shiny metal pail was carried to and from the milkhouse. But it was well worth it when that thick white cream came skimming off the top...you knew homemade ice cream was a-happenin!
 

Baby calves were kept warm in this place of solitude from the rip-roarin' storms and frigid winters. They were kept alive as they struggled for breath and yet others breathed their last in that very same place.

That red barn was an escape for city folk. It was a playground for us as kids, for the nieces and nephews that would follow, and for the past 10 years, my own 3 sons each and every summer as they met up with their Carlson cousins. It housed countless sleepovers on the haybales that lined the loft for a number of crazy GLBC counselors & staff, for friends & family, etc. It was the fort-building mansion kids can only dream of.  

It was the place my older brother told me of Jesus' saving grace. The place I committed my life to Christ at the ripe old age of 6. The picture I have of me propped up on a bale next to the upper door where the elevator crept in a few feet, looking up at him with a bale in his hand as he stacked them one after another with his tattered blue jeans and loving smile is vividly burned in my mind.

It was the centerpiece of the classic view that beheld nearly every grandkids' eyes as they stood watching, all of 3-feet tall, from that porch door window, their Grandpa disappear behind the barn's thick, solid white door.  

Selfishly, it's hard not to want more 'barn time' for our own three sons. The others' had their turn...our boys' was just beginning! But even as they shed tears over the loss of the sacred place in which memories have already been stowed away with their cousins/uncles/aunts/grandma/grandpa, it's those very memories that will usher them into the new ones that lie in wait.

watching a classic MN thunderstorm coming rollin in over the barn!

These boys :)

To take away this iconic landmark takes away the landscape of home we've known since the beginning. 

my Dad moving the bobcat with the tractor

my brother Keith running with a bucket of water to cool the hot seat

Still there into the night hours

the view from 'behind'

There really are no words...

As the Carlson clan and all it's extendeds gather together this summer for one sweet reunion after another, it will be bittersweet to hear the beautiful stories that will arise from the ashes. Guaranteed tears. Guaranteed laughter.

The morning after....

The door may be gone but God's truth will remain to be the message of the Carlson heritage!