by Jason Brown
But God had been working in me. That wasn’t the way blessings are supposed to work.
It was time to let that cup runneth over. It was time to let those blessings flow.
CHAPTER 6
The Farm
When I was a child, I dreamed. I dreamed of a white farmhouse with a white picket fence. When I was in my early teens, when my motives were purer and God sometimes seemed closer, I dreamed I lived there. I visited that beautiful farmhouse only when my eyes were closed, but I knew it well. I knew it by sight.
In May 2012, I wasn’t the same boy I was back all those years before. I’d grown up, gotten married, and played football. I’d lost my way and found it again. Tay and I were looking for tracts of land in North Carolina now, looking for a place to begin a new chapter, to follow God’s call. That old dream was so far in the recesses of my mind that I’d almost forgotten it. But as we rode through Carolina’s beautiful farm country with a real estate agent, looking for a perfect place to start our new dream, I saw it: a white farmhouse with a white picket fence. Then I saw what surrounded it: the green fields and ponds and picture-perfect barns.
I turned to Tay and said, “That’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
In my mind, another word came.
Home.
The farm wasn’t for sale. We were on the way to look at another property. But as we drove on, past the fields and ponds and picket fence, I said a silent prayer.
God, I hope You bless us with a place just like that.
First Fruits
Tay and I were going to buy a farm—that much we knew. We were going to sell our mansion in St. Louis and use the money to buy a big plot of land where we could grow food—not cotton, like many southern farms specialize in. Not tobacco, which made North Carolina famous and powered its economy for so many decades. Not industrial corn that is used to make ethanol. Food. Produce that you can actually pull out of the ground and pick from the trees and put on your table and eat. We knew that growing actual food wasn’t going to make us rich like those cash crops might. But we weren’t getting into farming to get rich. (At the time, we were already rich anyway.) We were following God.
We already knew what we were going to name it: First Fruits Farm.
The term firstfruits is mentioned thirty times in the King James Bible. It refers to what followers of God—the farmers and the fruit growers and the bakers—were supposed to give to the Almighty. We read in Proverbs 3:9–10, “Honor the Lord with your wealth and with the firstfruits of all your produce; then your barns will be filled with plenty, and your vats will be bursting with wine.” In Nehemiah 10:35, we’re told to “bring the firstfruits of our ground and the firstfruits of all fruit of every tree, year by year, to the house of the Lord.” The Bible later extends that to the followers of God themselves. “Of his own will he brought us forth by the word of truth, that we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures,” James 1:18 reads.
Tay and I used those verses as the basis for our new covenant with God. Whatever land God would give us we’d use to grow food. And we would give away the first fruits of that land—the first and the best—to people in need.
We needed to cover many steps before those first fruits could be realized, though. And the first step was to find the necessary acreage.
Under normal circumstances, we never would’ve even seen the farm, which we later learned was called informally (and, ironically, given my first thoughts when I saw it) the Home Place. We were on our way to see a completely different farm—an eleven-hundred-acre property available at a good price. But the straightest route to that farm had been closed. A bridge was down, and construction workers would spend most of the summer building another one. So, we went the long way around—right past the Home Place, that picture-perfect farm.
It wasn’t for sale. But once I got a glimpse of the Home Place, with the farmhouse that had looked so much like the one I’d dreamed about, no other place could compare.
Still, Tay and I tried to get excited about somewhere else.
Real estate agents always talk about location, location, location, and the property we were going to see was in a great one: the Triangle area of North Carolina, between the cities of Raleigh (the state’s capital and home to North Carolina State University), Durham (where Tay’s alma mater, Duke University, is located), and Chapel Hill (where I had played college football). Because of its central location, most of the land in that triangle had been subdivided or broken up into smaller parcels long ago. To find a thousand acres there? Almost unheard of. Of all the properties we’d planned to investigate, this place—more than a thousand acres in an unbeatable location and at an affordable price—was the one Tay and I were most excited to see.
But we learned why the land was so inexpensive. Much of it was unusable. Quite a bit of it was floodplains. It would take a lot of work and loads of money to turn it into a good, functioning farm. If we bought the property, we wouldn’t have much cash to improve it.
We drove away, knowing we probably hadn’t found our farm yet. We weren’t crossing it off our list, but Tay and I thought we could find a property that better suited us.
On the way back to Durham, we passed the Home Place again. Once more, I said the same prayer: Bless us with a place just like that. I was sinning, I knew. Thou shalt not covet, the Bible says. But I admit it: I was coveting thy neighbor’s farm.
We flew out to see that big piece of land—the one we were technically considering—two more times. Tay and I felt that we owed it to ourselves to give the place the best possible chance. On paper, it seemed like just what we were looking for. But when we looked at it, both of us were underwhelmed.
Every time we went to see it, we drove by the Home Place. And each time we went by, I said the same prayer.
Finally, on our third visit to the sprawling farm—a visit I know the agent was sure would be the clincher—we told him no.
“This place, it just isn’t right for us,” I said. “We’re just going to have to look at some other properties.”
I’m sure the agent must’ve been disappointed. When you take a client to look at a property three times, you’re bound to close a sale, right? But he didn’t show his disappointment. He went to an unexpected plan B.
“I know you want a place around here,” he said. “I know you’re qualified. Listen, there’s another tract of land nearby that you might be interested in checking out. It’s not for sale, but I think the owner would be willing to entertain some offers.”
Tay and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure, why not?” I said. “Where is it?”
“Actually, you might’ve noticed it on our way up here. It’s the big farm with the rolling hills. The ponds. The white farmhouse. Do you know the place I’m talking about?”
“Yeaaahh,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Yeah, I think I know the farm.”
This time, instead of driving past the Home Place and praying, we pulled into the driveway. Instead of looking at those barns and ponds from the road, we saw them up close. What I told Tay before seemed even truer now: it was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. We drove across all eleven hundred acres of it, and every inch fit. The silos were framed against the North Carolina sky. The water in the main pond rippled gently. I could hear birds sing in the trees, frogs grumble in the rushes. I tried to keep my poker face, but internally I was absolutely giddy.
Then I learned how much the owners wanted for the place. Beauty like this, apparently, doesn’t come cheap. They wanted twice as much as we could pay. We’d never be able to get close to the asking price. It felt as if God might’ve been playing with us—showing us the perfect place before snatching it away.
We made an offer anyway—much lower than the asking price. Their counteroffer came down a little from their original price. Our counteroffer came up a litt
le. I could see the pattern: if we met in the middle, like we were heading, it’d be far, far more than we could afford.
Tay loved the place as much as I did. But I knew I’d have to break the news to her: the Home Place, as much as it felt like home to us, wasn’t going to land in our laps.
“They’re not coming down far enough or fast enough,” I told her. “I’m sorry. I know we prayed about this, but we’re going to have to look somewhere else for land.”
And then Tay did something utterly unexpected: she challenged me. The woman who I dragged into this crazy dream of mine, who had wanted me to play football for another few years, who’d given up the pay and prestige of being a full-time dentist to follow her husband into a world she and I knew nothing about, looked me straight in the face and stared me down.
“Jason Brown,” she said, eyes flashing. “Where’s this man of faith, this man of God, this man who claims that God led him away from the NFL to be a farmer and feed his people? Where’s your faith now, Jason Brown? Huh? Where’s your faith now?”
Man, she said it with such conviction and with such force that I got all teary eyed.
“Yeah!” I said, blubbering a little. “Where is my faith?” I didn’t know if God intended this farm for us. But I knew that He wanted us to be farmers. I knew that where our resources were limited, God’s were without limit. He could move mountains. He could drain oceans. If God meant for this to be First Fruits Farm, He would make it so.
I took a big black Sharpie pen and on the offer sheet wrote a dollar figure that brushed close to the very limit of what Tay and I could afford—and still much less than what they were asking. Next to the number, I wrote, “Final Offer!” Then I underlined those two words. We knew it was a long shot, but we submitted the bid in faith. God’s will be done.
We waited patiently for a response, and finally our real estate agent called.
“If you can close in thirty days, the farm is yours.”
Moving Mountains and Millionaires
I didn’t know it then, but the farm had another suitor—one with a lot more zeros at the end of his bank account.
North Carolina has its share of relatively small family farms and huge commercial operations. Much of the land here is owned by wealthy, largely absentee, owners. When I say wealthy, I’m not talking about retired–NFL lineman wealthy. These “gentlemen farmers” have a net worth in the hundreds of millions, or even the billions. They’re not typically interested in using the farms they buy as farms. They don’t want to raise crops or tend livestock themselves; they simply want to add the land to their portfolios and to have a place where they can go and do some hunting and fishing. They don’t want to work the land; they want to play on it. The eleven-hundred-acre parcel we looked at three times? The place that we didn’t want? That’s owned by a billionaire now.
I understand why those big-dollar “farmers” are drawn to the land around here. Many farms like ours almost serve as wildlife refuges too. They can be home to deer and turkeys, raccoons and foxes, otters and even bald eagles. All sorts of fish populate the ponds. I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful than a North Carolina farm. Our farm has, I’m told, some of the best wildlife, best fishing, and best views to be found anywhere in the state. In fact, long before we owned it, the farm had help with managing the wildlife (especially what was found in the ponds) from ecology experts, many who were current or former professors from North Carolina State.
One of the experts who helped manage the ponds and wildlife on the Home Place also managed properties for several wealthy businessmen. More than a year after we purchased the farm, he shared with me that a few of those wealthy men were also interested in purchasing the Home Place at the very same time I did.
He called up one of the gentlemen and described the property, with its white farmhouse and picket fence and beautiful ponds. He reminded the would-be owner of its barns and silos and acres and acres of beautiful earth. He likely talked about how good the land was, how rich in wildlife it was. He knew the Home Place might be the best farm in the region, and the would-be owner knew the property well.
“I think they want six million for it,” the manager said. “If you wanted the place, I’d open with an offer of around four million, but I wouldn’t pay a penny over four and a half.”
“You think they’d sell it for that?” the rich would-be owner said.
“I do,” said the manager.
“Well, call them up right now!”
Now, this new bidder had far deeper pockets than Tay and I did. His starting bid was more—way more—than what we could afford. Most property owners would salivate over the prospect of a bidding war, particularly when you’re talking about high-dollar pieces of real estate that typically take longer to sell. So, when the wildlife manager called up the Home Place owner to make an offer, the owner was just a few words away from what might’ve been a real estate jackpot.
“Hey, I heard you might be willing to sell your farm,” the manager said. “I have someone who might be—”
The owner responded in a way that I can only attribute to divine intervention.
“We’re already negotiating with someone,” the owner said. “We don’t need your help.”
Click.
“He hung up the phone on you?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the manager replied. “He hung up on me.”
I raised my hands to heaven in amazement. “Praise God he did!”
Why would he do that? The farm’s owner didn’t owe us anything. He didn’t feel any particular loyalty to me. To him, I was just a dumb jock with money to spend. But somehow God made it happen. It’s as though He hardened the owner’s heart to other offers, just like He hardened the heart of Pharaoh when Moses begged him to let his people go (see Exodus 8).
A few weeks later, we closed on the property. The Home Place became First Fruits Farm. The farm I prayed for, the home I dreamed of, was ours.
A Mighty, Miraculous God
Jason Brown, where is your faith? That’s how Tay challenged me. Every day since, the challenge has been put before me. Where is your faith, Jason Brown? Who do you trust? What do you believe?
Sometimes in this logical, rational, cynical world of ours, we sell God short. We say we have faith. We say we believe in a God of miracles. We read the stories of how, through His power, the Red Sea was parted and the sun stood still. We teach those stories to our children. We tell them how awesome, how powerful, our God is. How He can do anything. Absolutely anything.
But do we believe it? Where is our faith? Do we believe that some challenges are too big for God? That some requests are just too great?
I’m not saying that God will give you every luxury, every earthly delight you ask for. This is not some pitch to embrace a prosperity gospel. I never believed in that. Even if I had, my years on this farm—this miraculous gift from God—would’ve beaten that belief out of me. We serve God, not the other way around.
But I do believe in a God who can move heaven and earth to fulfill His designs. He can heal relationships that seem impossible to heal. He can orchestrate miracles. He moved a billionaire out of the way so that we could have this farm, and I believe that He can move any mountain, any obstacle, He sees fit to move.
Set foot on First Fruits Farm and you set foot on a miracle. Every rock, tree, and ripple of water, every squirrel and fish and bird, is a testament to God’s holy power. Every square inch of the planet contains countless little miracles, of course, but here it’s a miracle twice given. The nature around us is a declaration of God’s design. The fact that my family is able to enjoy that miracle—to walk through the fields, to gather chicken eggs, to pick fruit, to fish in the lake—is a witness to God’s generosity. We’re God’s children. And like any good father, our heavenly Father wants the best for us. He wants to shower us with love and
blessings that fit in His greater purpose.
Where is my faith? Sometimes even today, after I’ve seen God work so powerfully and so personally in our lives, I’m tempted to place my faith in the wrong things. The temptations and worries of this world push us that way, and sometimes even the most faithful of God’s servants can lose sight of where our hope really lies. Then I look out the window and see the provisions of God: the trees, the fields, the pond, the silos. It’s a view made possible only, solely, by God’s grace.
When I was still in the NFL trying to really follow God—when I handed over my life to Him—He kept bringing me back to the story of Joseph. He was a dreamer and an interpreter of dreams. And always, without fail, those dreams came true for him. God had a plan for him, just like He has a plan for you and me. The plan wasn’t always easy to follow or easy to see, but Joseph trusted.
When I was a child, I dreamed. And my dream came true for me too.
CHAPTER 7
Disaster and Deluge
We had our calling. We had our family—intact and loving, with a new member on the way. We had our farm—the most beautiful farm in North Carolina.
Now we had to do something with it.
It wasn’t as if working with the land was completely foreign to me. From Grandpa Jasper and before, I come from a family of farmers. And I got a bit of a green thumb from my father too.
When Ducie and I helped my dad with his landscaping business during the summer, we learned how important the land was and how beautiful it could be with a little work. It seemed like Dad knew how to grow anything. Maybe his biggest skill was in unveiling the finished product. He’d start a job in the morning, ideally after the homeowners had all gone to work. The three of us would work like crazy—planting trees and bushes, grooming flower beds, cutting the grass. Then, late in the afternoon or early evening, the homeowners would come back, see how beautiful their yard looked, and, very often, start tearing up. It was like one of those HGTV big-reveal moments before HGTV was a thing.