There are moments on this farm that test not just your strength—but your spirit. One of those moments has become all too familiar over the past few years: flooding in our barn. And it’s not just about the water—it’s about the lives that barn holds.
Before Hurricane Francine made her slow, heavy approach, I had a routine during every torrential downpour. I’d rush to the barn, heart pounding, rain soaking through my clothes as I carried my babies—one by one—through wind and water to the safety of our home. Each goat, over 50 pounds, trembling and confused, was lifted into my arms ten times over. My muscles screamed, my joints ached, but my heart knew there was no other choice. I wasn’t going to let them suffer.
But when Francine came knocking, something in me shifted. The barn was already struggling—walls soaked and moldy, floors turning to mud, and still, it was their shelter. And I realized, I couldn’t keep moving them in and out every time the skies opened up. So I stayed.
As you can see in the video, I made preparations as usual and followed the wisdom my parents engraved in me: “Hope for the best; prepare for the worst.”
That night, I brought blanket, pillow, flashlight, and my resolve. I sat down next to them in a barn stall, listening to the winds howl and the rain hammer the roof, whispering to them that they were safe. My body may have been shaking for fear and tired, but my soul was warm—because I knew they weren’t alone in that storm.
But this shouldn’t be our reality. Our barn was built on the highest point of our land, and yet it floods—not because of nature, but because of poor drainage decisions made without our say. Now, water backs up from a retention pond that no longer drains, pooling into our sanctuary—the heart of our farm.
The rain was so loud that night, pounding on the barn roof like a war drum. Even the goats, usually so peaceful and trusting, couldn’t rest. Their eyes were wide, ears twitching at every crack of thunder. The air inside the barn was thick, heavy — you could’ve cut it with a knife. I could feel the tension from their little bodies pressing against mine, their hearts racing. The anticipation of what was to come settled over us like a weight. All I could do was whisper over and over, “Rain, rain, go away… please, not today—not the barn, not again.” I closed my eyes and prayed harder than I have in a long time. I begged God to protect us, to hold back the flood, to keep my goats and me safe through one more storm.
We’ve fought hard to get answers. And while we’ve finally been heard, the damage is already done. The barn walls are rotting. The floor needs raising. And my biggest fear? That one day I won’t be able to protect them in time.
This is why we’ve launched our fundraiser—to restore not just a barn, but a safe space for the animals we love with all we have. If you’ve ever smiled at a picture of our goats, felt comfort in our products, or simply believe in kindness—we need your help.
Thank you for being part of our journey. Every share, every dollar, every kind word helps us take one step closer to making sure no goat will ever stand in floodwater again.
With love and gratitude,
From all of us at the Mini Farm—especially the goats