Two Months at The Close: Reflections from the GateHouse
February 1, 2026
Nearly two months have passed since we arrived at The Close, and the wonder hasn't worn off. If anything, our days as caretakers at The Close have deepened our appreciation for the quiet rhythms of this sacred space.
The GateHouse has become home in the truest sense. What started as careful unpacking and tentative arrangement has settled into comfortable familiarity. We know which floorboards creak in the morning and where the afternoon light pools warmest. Our books have found their shelves, our routines have found their grooves, and we've found ourselves exactly where we're meant to be.
January has been unexpectedly mild, a gentle introduction to our new role. While we'd braced for harsh winter days, we've instead been gifted soft mornings and temperate afternoons that invite exploration rather than demand hibernation. It feels like grace, this easy season, giving us time to learn the land without the added challenge of bitter cold.
And what land it is. We've spent these weeks walking the trails that weave through the property and beyond, each path revealing something new. Some mornings we follow the familiar loop near the gatehouse. Other days we venture farther, discovering stone walls half-hidden in undergrowth, clearings we hadn't noticed before, vantage points that reframe our understanding of this place. The trails are teaching us what the maps couldn't: the particular slant of light through these trees, the way sound carries differently in different hollows, the small shrines of beauty tucked into unexpected corners.
The deer have become our companions in the margins of the day. They appear at dusk and dawn like clockwork, moving through the property with the ease of longtime residents. We've learned to watch for them, to move quietly near the windows during those liminal hours. There's something profoundly settling about their presence, these wild neighbors who remind us that this land holds more than human activity, that silence and watchfulness have their own kind of ministry.
The work itself has been grounding in ways we hadn't anticipated. There's a satisfying rhythm to the physical labor: clearing paths of fallen branches after windier nights, cutting up and hauling away downed trees, stacking firewood for the retreat center, cleaning gutters before they overflow. This isn't just maintenance—it's an act of care, a practical prayer. Each armload of wood stacked, each cleared path, each cleaned gutter is preparation for whoever comes next. The work connects us to the land in a tangible way, makes us notice the changing weather, the weak spots that need attention, the small damages that could become larger problems if left untended.
We've welcomed a few guests in these weeks, and each arrival has helped us understand our role a little better. We're learning the hospitality of this place, not just the logistics of check-ins and directions, but the deeper welcome that The Close offers. We're learning when to be present and when to step back, how to hold space for people carrying burdens we may never know, how to tend the physical details that allow spiritual work to happen.
The excitement that brought us here hasn't faded. It's simply matured into something richer: a growing sense of purpose, a deepening connection to this place, a daily gratitude for the privilege of caring for ground where so many have sought and found the holy. We're not just keeping the lights on and the paths clear. We're participating in something much larger, tending a threshold where people come to meet themselves and their God.
As we move deeper into winter and our tenure here, we find ourselves more settled and more curious in equal measure. The gatehouse is home. The trails are becoming familiar. The deer are our dawn and dusk companions. And we are still, wonderfully, excited to see what each new day at The Close will bring.
