There’s a calm to this morning—the kind that lingers in the air like lavender steam rising from a chipped ceramic mug. Outside, the birds are telling stories to the trees again. Inside, bread dough rests under a linen cloth like a prayer whispered over our home.
And I find myself thinking of you.
I want the most beautiful life for us.
Not the loudest or the fastest, not the trendiest or the most impressive. I want a life that feels like morning light on bare feet. A life of depth and delight. A life rooted in purpose, bathed in peace, and kissed with adventure. I want a life that smells like warm cocoa and fresh earth, where you know where your food comes from and who your neighbors are. A life where love lingers in everything your hands touch.
This is part of many reasons why we homestead.
The Heartbeat of Our Calling: Strong Roots
It began, as most sacred things do, in the quiet. In the silence of winter evenings, when my grandmother would visit. She would braid my hair with her soft, worn hands at midnight—hands that had stirred stews and buried seeds and held babies through long nights. She’d sneak me Hershey’s kisses after my family went to bed, and we’d whisper like co-conspirators under the low hum of the heater. Those nights stayed with me. Not because they were extravagant, but because they were full. Full of being seen and heard, full of stories shared, full of something that didn’t need to be taught—it was just known.
Our grandparents didn’t live easy lives. They lived layered ones. Victory gardens out back, clothes on the line- and paper towels, soup made from varieties of beans and wisdom passed by example, not platform. And while much of the world doesn’t celebrate that kind of knowing anymore, my heart aches to preserve it. The kind of wisdom that doesn’t make the headlines— but I often wish it would. It shows up in how you sweep a floor with intention. In how you open your door to someone who’s weary. In how you keep on loving through the bitter and the frost.
Homestead living isn’t easy—it asks for your attention, your consistency, your surrender. But it is worthwhile. And that’s what I want our children to inherit. Not just land or a pantry of preserves, but a sense of place. A home rich with stories, soft with kindness, and strong with the roots of those who came before us.
The Quiet Power of Purposeful Work
There’s a rhythm to this life that comes from the ground up. The kind that tells you when to plant by the feel of the air. Homesteading has taught us to listen again—to nature, to each other, to both the silence and the laughter between tasks. To find comfort in the cadence of chores together that seem small but hold great meaning. Planting. Baking. Tending. Mending. The kind of work that wears on your hands but steadies your heart.
There is a sacredness in using your hands to create rather than consume. These aren’t just chores—they’re acts of worship. Devotion stitched into the everyday, each one a soft rebellion against a world that moves too fast and forgets too easily.
And it’s not just the homesteading that anchors us. It’s the homemaking and homeschooling too. The folding of clothes and the folding in of character lessons. The reading aloud of Proverbs beside chemistry tables. The teaching of words and life all in the same breath. There’s dignity in the way we make a home— as a sacred space where learning, loving, and laboring are all intertwined.
We’re not perfect in our unity, but we’re present. We take turns stirring the pot- in more than one way- and feeding the animals. We learn alongside each other, as much from books and lessons as from each other.
Somehow, in the learning of these old ways, something new has awakened in me. Deeper gratitude. Slower breath. Longer days and joyful nights. Stronger roots.
Purposeful work has not made our lives easier—but it has made them fuller. And in that fullness, we find peace. Together.
Legacy as an Everyday Act
I used to think legacy lived in the grand gestures—the celebrations, the photo albums, the milestones captured and framed just right. But here, in the dailiness of our homestead/homeschool life, I’ve come to believe legacy is something less ostentatious. It’s in how we greet the morning—whether with gratitude or grumbling, how we speak to one another, how we model our values and beliefs, how we love God and love others.
We build our legacy when we repair, tangibly and emotionally and spiritually. When they see us plant seeds and trust God for the harvest. When they help gather eggs and learn that nourishment isn’t instant—it’s earned through care and consistency. It’s in the way we teach them to pray before meals and to look someone in the eyes when they speak. It’s in how we open our door to friends and strangers alike, because love is meant to be shared, even when our home isn’t perfect.
There is no blueprint for passing down a life of meaning. But we try, one small act at a time. We offer our children a home with roots. A home that welcomes. A home that teaches by example that slow and steady is holy ground.
A Gentle Commissioning: Reaching for Rest
If your soul feels worn thin from the noise, from the pressure to go faster and and the hollow promises of “more”—you’re not alone. There’s another way to live. One that honors presence over performance. It doesn’t ask for perfection. It simply asks for an open heart and the courage care.
You don’t need a farmhouse or a barn or acres or animals to begin. You don’t even need a reel-worthy pantry, though all those things can be lovely. Start with what’s in front of you—a windowsill herb garden, a homecooked meal, a lingering conversation at your kitchen table. When we choose to notice the beauty tucked into our ordinary days, something in us begins to settle.
Slow living asks us to pay attention—to how we rise in the morning, how we speak to those we love, how we fill the hours we’ve been given. In those hours, we begin to grow roots that hold steady through changing seasons. And strong roots aren’t built in a day; they’re built in the dedicated, often unacknowledged hours of showing up again and again for the people and places you’ve been entrusted with.
This is why we chose a homestead life. Not because it’s easier, but because it’s truer to us. In the quiet work, the ordinary days, the simple beauty as much as the chaos and tragedies—we’ve found God’s goodness staring back at us.
So may today be a day of small things done with great love. May your hands find something meaningful to tend. May your heart be stirred to fulfill God’s purpose. And may your home, whether in the city or country, become a place where strong roots grow something eternal.
