Cultivating Redemption on the Land We Didn’t Expect
The Unexpected Gift of Staying
We bought this house with a two-year plan. It was meant to be a stepping stone—a place to build equity before finding “the one.” The family farm. The big dream. The land that would finally hold all the visions we’d scribbled into notebooks and whispered about after the kids were asleep.
On paper, this house didn’t check the boxes. The lot was smaller than we hoped. The layout wasn’t ideal. But we’d seen over a hundred homes, and the moment we walked through the door, something in us settled. We looked at each other, and we just knew. This one—for now.
That was 2018. Seven years later, we’re still here.
This house, this land, this in-between—it’s where we’ve buried dreams, yes. But also where new ones have taken root.
What no one saw behind the front door was that our marriage was hanging on by a thread. We were smiling through storms—determined, but worn thin. This house became our battlefield and our shelter, often in the same breath. We’ve endured more hardship here than in any other season of our lives. Yet here, in these walls, something miraculous has happened: we’ve learned to repair.
We’ve fixed more than broken furniture and chipped paint. We’ve restored trust. We’ve repainted weary expectations. We’ve stripped down the old, selfish patterns and rebuilt something genuine.
This home has witnessed it all. The tearful prayers over scrubbing floors. The quiet victories of choosing kindness when it was the harder road. Physical and spiritual healing. It’s not just where our kids have grown—it’s where we’ve grown. As individuals. As partners. As parents. As a family.
The land we didn’t expect has become the place we were meant to be all along. It’s been the place of our deepest becoming. It’s not the farm. But it’s holy ground all the same.
Planted in Purpose
We didn’t plan to stay. But grace doesn’t always follow our timelines—it roots itself where it’s most needed.
The longer we stayed, the more this place revealed its purpose. At first, we were just trying to get through. Trying to fix what was broken, to survive one more year, one more setback, one more impossibility. But slowly, the pace shifted. The striving softened. We stopped bracing for the next move and started building something that would last.
We planted things—some in the soil, others in the soul. Fruit trees, of course, and raised beds. But also rhythms of peace. Habits of togetherness. This house became a place where we learned to stay. To stay at the table when conversations got hard. To stay in the work of rebuilding trust. To stay rooted even when the winds picked up. And unexpectedly, this place that looked, on paper, like a compromise became a gathering ground for home-grown connection.
I used to think “calling” was something bold and obvious—something you pursue feverishly. But I’m learning it’s often quieter than that. Sometimes, purpose looks like making dinner- again. And again. And again. It looks like showing up to homeschool when you feel like you’re failing. Like walking barefoot across a yard with a partner you once despised and realizing, I’m home.
Sometimes purpose looks like saying yes to the little things that are actually the big things; or holding space for friends and maybe the occasional abandoned animal; space that says: you’re safe here. I never imagined this home, this “for-now” house, would become a refuge for so many. But that’s how God works. He plants us where we’ll feed more than just our own roots.
We thought we were waiting for the dream, but the purpose was already unfolding here in every meal shared, every heart held, every child laughing in the yard.
The heartbeat of our calling was never in the farm we longed for. It’s in the faithfulness we choose, day after day. We were placed here for a reason—as a commission for connection. While we still carry that vision of the farm in our hearts, we know that faithfulness will meet us there when the time is right.
For now, we embrace this season with a warm welcome—open hands, open doors, and the kind of love that grows deep where it’s planted.
The Quiet Power of Purposeful Work
Tending to this land, this home, our people—even in a place that didn’t match the dream—has reshaped not just how we live, but how we love. The work is layered. Some days it looks like garden soil under our nails or cozy read alouds by the fire and other days it’s quiet patience through long division and sibling squabbles. The porch has become a classroom, the kitchen a chapel and a triage, the laundry room a place of prayer.
Homeschooling is one of the hardest and holiest labors of our rhythm. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t offer immediate rewards. But it forms us. It humbles us. It reveals what kind of soil we’re really growing in—and gives us a daily chance to nourish something better. We’re not just educating our children. We’re shaping their view of what it means to live well—imperfectly, but with purpose.
This home, though not our dream home on paper, has held the truest kind of life. We’ve patched walls and relationships. We’ve baked birthday cakes and burned dinners. We’ve grieved deeply and laughed loudly—often all in the same week. Somehow, this place has stretched just wide enough to hold not only our family, but our community.
And that, too, is part of the redemption. Fellowship, in its purest form, doesn’t need Pinterest-worthy décor. It needs people willing to show up and be seen. We’ve sought to build that kind of community right here, on this land that surprised us. Our dining table isn’t grand, but it holds the weight of relationships. We open our home- hosting family for simple meals, letting our home be a resting place for friends- and meet them with sincere welcome.
We offer what we have, whether it’s a pot of soup or a listening ear. The goal is never perfection—it’s presence. And that, we’ve learned, is what heals.
We hope fellowship here is slow and sacred. Children underfoot, candles flickering low, a stack of clean plates waiting on the counter. There’s something holy in this simple rhythm: setting a table, opening a door, letting the mess stay, just for now. Our home is more for communion than for show.
Every loaf of bread, every mended hem, every painting taped to the fridge, every hard-won math lesson— it’s all part of the liturgy of our life. This is our life formed by work done side by side.
We’re still learning. Still growing. Still tending. While we wait for the next chapter of our story, this one has become the very soil where redemption takes root.
Legacy as an Everyday Act
We used to think our greatest legacy would come after we made it to the farm, after the dream matured into reality. But what we’ve found is this: legacy begins in the ordinary places we’re tempted to overlook. In the morning routines. In the nightly prayers. In the sacred repetition of showing up for the people we love.
This house, this land, this “for now” season—it’s becoming the most meaningful part of our family story. Not because it’s impressive, but because it’s intentional. Our children don’t remember square footage or Zillow listings. They’ll remember how it felt to grow up in a home that was always in progress—but never lacking in love. A home that welcomed others, even when the floors were scratched and the dishes weren’t done.
We’re teaching them more than math and manners. We’re teaching them how to stay when things are hard. How to repair what’s broken. How to find beauty in the unfinished. These are the lessons that outlast trends and timelines. This is the inheritance we want to give them—not just land, but the ability to live grounded, no matter where they are.
We still dream of the farm. But we no longer see it as the start of something. It will be a continuation- of faithfulness, of welcome, of the quiet work that’s already been growing here.
Legacy isn’t what we’ll one day leave behind. It’s what we’re living right now.
A Gentle Commissioning: Redeemed in the Staying
If you’re in a place you didn’t plan to be—geographically, emotionally, spiritually—take heart. Some of the most beautiful stories begin where the map feels unclear. Maybe the dream hasn’t unfolded the way you imagined. Maybe the place you’re in feels temporary, too small, not quite right. But still—this could be the very soil where something eternal begins to grow.
This life of slow work, of faithful presence, of small beginnings—it’s not lesser. It’s worthy.
You don’t need acreage or a white farmhouse to begin living well. You need open hands. You need a heart willing to be faithful with what’s in front of you. You need the courage to love what you’ve been given, even while you hold space for what may still come.
So plant something. Open your doors. Teach your children gently. Share your table, even if it’s mismatched. Welcome people into the real and sacred middle—not the polished arrival.
Your legacy is not waiting for the next house or next season. It’s here, in the staying. In the working and the worshipping. In the redemption that happens when we choose to love what we didn’t expect—and find God already here, making it beautiful.
