Cats love me. Chicken fear me.

I spent the night on Shalom Hill Farm farm in southwestern Minnesota.

It was established as a place for pastors-to-be and city kids to come an learn about rural life and stewardship, and I found it altogether restful.

At your first meal there, you get a cloth napkin and a paper ring with which to reserve it for future meals. The creatively-named shoots in the green house will soon be planted on the path to the main entrance so you can walk past your salad. Every room gets at least a smidge of sunlight. The chickens are allowed to roam free and scratch in the dirt. The cats are plentiful and will follow you (well, me) around the whole farmyard if you call them just once. The dog, King, will go to great lengths to retrieve a morsel of pork chop from the pile in the chicken coop that is left over from dinner. The horses will turn, stare curiously, and come running if you should be riding your bike up the middle of hilly gravel road and have to stop. The water does not like to be run while your teeth gets brushed or your body gets soaped.

The people who come there...at least this weekend...drink wine, eat cheese, and stay up late throwing Sugar Babies and gabbing like teenagers. Old friends from camp days bring their new babies. Wise people talk about their years (or months) in ministry. Life is good. We feel called.