🌾 Harvest of Small Things

Signs of the Season

The first sign that harvest season has arrived here isn’t so much the cool air — though sometimes we get lucky — but more a feeling that settles over the land. The light shifts, the mornings carry a faint crispness, and the trees along the pasture edge turn from deep green to dusty gold.

Of course, in Texas, “harvest weather” can still mean 90-degree days. Cooler than summer, sure, but not exactly sweater weather. Still, late October into early November brings a new rhythm. The leaves begin to fall — carbon-rich gifts for the compost pile — and shorter days nudge everything, including us, toward a slower pace.

The air out here has always been wild and clean. After a day working the field, morning greets you with the smell of fermenting grass and freshly turned soil, stirred by a quiet breeze that feels like peace itself.

For me, the image that captures this season best isn’t the big basket of produce; it’s the chickens. As the days shorten, they lay fewer eggs — nature’s reminder that even good workers need rest. We don’t push them with artificial light. Through winter, we collect just enough for the family and a few to share.

Fall and winter are our time to breathe: to mend the soil, rest the flock, and prepare for what’s ahead. The compost builds, tarps suppress weeds, and cover crops stitch organic matter back into the earth. We seeded last week; if the temperatures hold, tiny shoots will break through soon. Every sprout is a small promise — proof that even in quiet seasons, the land is still at work.

To me, harvest is the last good push before the rest — a time to gather what we can, tend what remains, and give thanks for the slow, steady work that keeps us moving forward.

The Small Rewards

It’s not always the big things that show we’re headed in the right direction. Out here, progress is quieter.

Right now, I’m sitting in the field that will become next season’s garden plots. The frogs are chirping. A dove lifts and skims low across the grass. Grasshoppers launch like tiny sparks. These small sounds — frogs, birds, even the hum of insects — tell me the land is healing. We’ve made space for life to thrive again. That doesn’t show up on paper, but it speaks loudly in the quiet.

The happiness of my kids adds its own measure. When the air cools and they run outside in sweatshirts, laughing about how “cold” 70 degrees feels, it’s hard not to share their joy. This life gives them room to grow wild and free.

There hasn’t been one big “we did it” moment yet. No finish line, no flag planted in the soil. But when I look around at what’s changed, I realize we are doing it — one day, one task, one breath of clean air at a time. Every small success — a new sound, a healthy patch of soil, a child’s smile — is part of the harvest we’re gathering. And it’s enough.

The Family in the Field

Work feels lighter when we do it together — even if “together” looks different for each of us.

Eli, our oldest, is the biggest help. He takes work seriously until a football idea strikes, but he’s dependable, and when he’s beside me, it feels like real progress. Grayson likes to do things his own way. Give him something to build or figure out, and he’s all in; make it routine, and his motivation wanders.

The girls bring the joy. Lila turns everything into a game — cracking jokes while we pick up branches, laughing when the chickens chase bugs. She reminds me not every task has to be serious. And Kira? She’s our little shadow. Small enough that “helping” is really just being there — handing me tools she can barely carry, smiling like every day is an adventure.

Emily loves this Texas version of fall — warm, bright, and only slightly cooler than summer. She looks forward to small-town rituals: Halloween gatherings on the square, the harvest festival, and winter events that give this place its charm.

And then there are the moments that catch us off guard — like a soft rain starting as we work, the scent of earth lifting into the air, and the kids bickering and laughing in the distance. Chaotic and perfect, all at once.

Lessons from the Bounty

There’s a different kind of feeling that comes from growing your own food. Pride, gratitude, and the weight of it — all at once. The first egg from a new hen, a basket of vegetables, even the bittersweet moment of processing a chicken — there’s sadness, yes, but deep thankfulness too. Food from the store might fill you up; food from your soil fills something deeper.

If the land keeps teaching me one lesson, it’s patience. Nothing worth doing happens fast. Growth — garden, faith, or family — takes time. The slower I work, the better the results seem to be. God’s been patient with me; I’m learning to reflect that back into the work.

There are disappointments. Early crops were hard lessons. I spent days prepping rows, only to find everything chewed or carried off overnight — rodents, rabbits, and harvester ants that can strip a section bare. It’s a gut punch to see corn nearly ready one evening and gone the next morning. But every failure teaches something: better protection, gentler methods, and grace when things don’t go our way.

Verses that stay close to heart this time of year:

“They sowed fields and planted vineyards and yielded a fruitful harvest.” — Psalm 107:37
“He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness.” — 2 Corinthians 9:10
“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

What’s planted in love — even if it takes time — will always yield something good.

Faith in the Little Things

Faith guides us everywhere — in the work, the waiting, and the in-between. When harvests are small, faith grounds me. Looking back, there have been plenty of hard times, but I can’t think of a single one we didn’t make it through — and come out stronger.

Sometimes faith looks like something small — like giving away more eggs than I sell. What we produce is a gift from God; I’m not turning someone away because they don’t have cash in hand. Tithing is more than money — it’s time, food, kindness. Those little acts ripple outward. A free dozen eggs becomes a conversation, then a friendship, then a helping hand when we need it. That’s community. That’s love in action.

I don’t do this to get rich — though a little extra pocket change never hurts. I do it because I love it. Working the land gives me peace. It gives my family good food and a rhythm that feels right. It gives me time to think, to pray, to breathe.

“Reaped in love” may sound like taking, but true reaping is about timing and care — knowing when to pull back, when to let grow, and when to gather what’s ready. That lesson applies to everything: our home, our marriage, our family, our community. Emily and I have had testing seasons like everyone. Because we tend to each other, we’re strong.

We’re naturally introverted — happy to work alone in the field — but life isn’t meant to be lived in isolation. We’re called to serve, support, and show up for others, even in quiet ways. If I’m given many more years, I hope to use them to make a difference — one kind act, one good harvest, one faithful step at a time.

Closing Reflections

When I look at my family, I see a real harvest — growth in the hearts of my kids. They test limits at home like all kids do, but with friends and in public I see the fruit of what we’ve been planting: kindness, respect, curiosity, responsibility. Grayson will talk to anyone; Eli is learning to lead; Lila brings laughter and wonder; Kira is the glue.

We’re not perfect. No family is. But we’re close. The hard days and small victories have bound us tighter. We depend on one another. We lift each other up. Working together makes even simple chores meaningful.

If I had to picture this season, it wouldn’t be spring — it would be now. Many see fall as an ending. I see the beginning of renewal. When oaks start to turn and tall grasses gray, it isn’t death — it’s preparation. The land sheds what’s old to make room for what’s new.

That’s life, too. You have to let go of what’s behind to grow stronger in what’s ahead. Renewal starts when you loosen your grip and trust that better things are coming.

To anyone starting down this path — homesteaders, dreamers, families on the edge of a decision — embrace the hard. If you want easy, this isn’t it. But if you’re willing to work, to fail, to try again, and to keep going when results are slow, this life will fill you in ways comfort never will.

As for what’s next, this season lays the groundwork — literally and spiritually. Every seed, every fence, every whispered prayer is building toward something greater. You let go of the old, give thanks for what’s been, and step forward with faith into what’s coming.

Because the harvest of small things isn’t measured in pounds. It’s measured in peace, patience, and the people we’re becoming.

A-7 Farms
Planted in Faith. Reaped in Love.