🪵 Home Made by Hand
Finding the sacred in the everyday work of building a home
By A-7 Farms
The Shape of Home
Home isn’t just the RV or the land beneath it—not even the trees or the fences we’ve built. For me, home is the dream of what’s coming next. It’s the place I’m slowly shaping with my hands and my heart—piece by piece, week by week. It’s the vision that keeps me moving when I’m tired, the picture that reminds me why I’m out here pulling weeds and turning soil instead of sitting still.
It’s a place where I can relax, let off steam, and just be—working beside my kids, sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, or watching the day fade over the trees.
If I had to name a sound that feels like home, it wouldn’t be silence. It’s the rhythm of our daily chaos—the kids laughing and arguing and running in and out of the RV—with little moments of quiet tucked in between. Those are the moments that mean the most.
There wasn’t one single evening that made me realize, this is what we’re building toward. But sitting here now, taking a break from leveling out garden plots, listening to frogs in the field and birds overhead—I know we’re on the right path.
Our home reflects the people inside it: noisy, imperfect, full of love. There’s attitude and forgiveness in equal measure. There’s mess and laughter, sometimes in the same breath. And though it’s far from finished, it’s ours—built with time, effort, and grace, one small act at a time.
Building by Hand
The latest project that’s really made this place feel more like home has been the garden plots. We’ve got four blocks staked out, ten rows in each—forty beds in total—for next season’s crops. It’s hard, honest work. Every row I level, every weed I pull, every bit of compost I spread… it all feels like building something that will last beyond me.
There’s a rhythm to it, too. I set small goals: one corner leveled, one bed finished, one day at a time. It’s how I manage the work without letting it swallow me.
Even the RV gets its share of attention. Recently I found a set of jack stands—free, by the grace of God—that fit perfectly under the slide-out where the kids’ bunks are. It used to rock every time someone rolled over. Now it’s steady and quiet. Small thing, big difference.
Most projects don’t follow a tidy plan. They come at us as they will. The van acts up; a fence post rots; something else needs attention. We move toward what needs us most. It’s a little chaotic, but that’s life out here. And we’re blessed with family who show up when it counts. Their help is humbling. I don’t know that I’ll ever repay it, but I hope they know how deeply grateful we are.
There’s something different about building with your own hands. It changes the way you see the thing you’ve made. Crooked or clean, rough or refined—it carries a part of you in it. When you just buy something, it fills a need. When you make it, it also fills a space in your spirit. The mistakes and repairs are part of the story. Maybe someday I’ll look back and see which ones turned into something more. For now, I keep working, trusting each fix and small effort is another piece of what we’re meant to build.
The Family That Builds Together
When we work together, it feels like we’re really doing this as a family. I know that sounds obvious, but it’s true in a way that’s hard to explain.
This morning, for instance, I was having one of those rough starts—mind scattered, heart heavy. I told Emily I was heading to the garden to clear my head and work quietly for a bit. I hadn’t been out there long when Lyla came running out: “I’m helping, Daddy.”
So much for quiet time.
But that was the gift. She stayed with me a while, pulling twigs and weeds, talking about everything and nothing. I realized I didn’t need silence; I needed her. That’s what the kids do—they shape what home means just by being themselves. Out here, I might be a farmer, a builder, a planner—but first, I’m a dad. You can’t get away from that, and truthfully, I wouldn’t want to.
Each of them brings something different to this little world we’re building.
Eli is dependable—steady when he wants to be. He’ll roll his eyes and grumble, but he gets the job done.
Grayson has a mood all his own and will flat-out tell you no, but he’s got a big heart once you learn how to reach him. He needs presence—a hand on the shoulder, a word of encouragement, a reminder we’re in this together.
Lyla is pure energy. She writes her own rules, keeps us on our toes, and reminds me to loosen my grip and laugh.
Kyra is the light—always asking where I’m going, what I’m doing, and if she can come along. Joy in motion.
Emily keeps the balance. She’s calm when I’m the storm, and when she’s the storm, I try to be her calm. Somehow, it works. She softens the air around her—turning tension into laughter, frustration into grace. When she’s centered, the whole house feels lighter.
The moments that remind me this messy, beautiful life is ours are usually small. Watching church together online when we can’t make it to town. Working in the field while the kids kick a ball through the grass. Evenings spent cooking or cleaning side by side.
This is the adventure. We’re not waiting for it; we’re living it. And when life feels tangled or tiring, I remind myself: the mess is ours, and it’s blessed. God doesn’t put anything on our plate we can’t handle. In time, it all works out.
Lessons from the Living Space
If small spaces have taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need much to live well. Sure, a big living room or spacious bedroom would be nice, but space doesn’t make a home—life does.
We’ve grown used to living with less, and in doing so, we’ve started living more. These days, most of our lives happen outside. When the weather’s good, we’re out from sunup to sundown—tending animals, walking the fields, sitting together on the porch. You don’t notice the limits of an RV when the world past your step is wide open.
It’s shaped the way I think about our future home, too. The dream won’t be large or fancy. It’ll be smaller, more organized, full of intention. Every corner will have a purpose; every wall, a story. I want it to reflect how we actually live—close to the land and close to each other.
The farm has changed how I think about comfort and success. It’s easy to measure success by things, but real comfort comes from freedom—the kind that lets you choose your day and your work. If we can build a modest, sustainable farm that keeps our family cared for and our hearts steady, that’s enough. This work is hard—blisters on your hands and dust in your lungs—but it leaves peace in your soul. There’s comfort in knowing you can provide for yourself.
There are a few places that remind me of that truth. On cool mornings, I sit on the deck with coffee and watch the world wake. Under the old oak, I hung a swing that’s become a quiet retreat when I need to breathe. Lately I’ve set a chair out where the garden plots will be. Sitting there, surrounded by open space and possibility, helps me see the future we’re working toward.
As for rest, I’ve found it’s woven into the work. The harder you work, the deeper you rest. Like the old story of the farmhand who could sleep through the storm—because everything was done, and done right. When you’ve given your best, rest comes easy.
Faith in the Frame
Working with my hands feels like a conversation with God’s design. Every shovel of dirt, every board cut, every nail driven—somehow it all ties back to something He set in motion long before me. I think of Proverbs 24:3–4:
“By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established;
through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.”
That’s the blueprint. God gives wisdom; our hands do the shaping.
Home, in my walk of faith, has come to mean rest. Not rest as in doing nothing, but rest as in peace—the quiet confidence you are where you’re supposed to be. Out here, rest doesn’t mean stopping; it’s the calm that settles in after the work is done, when you can see what’s been built and know it’s good.
This journey has changed how I see provision and blessing. Nothing is simply handed to you. God provides the path; you still have to walk it. He gives the land; you tend it. He gives the dream; you build it with patience and sweat. The work itself is part of His plan, and the effort is an offering back to Him.
Closing Reflections
When I think about the foundation I’m laying for my family, I hope it’s solid. I hope my kids see that hard work and dedication matter—that good things take time, and that some of the best lessons grow out of hard days. I want them to know it’s okay to fail, to get dirt on their hands, and to keep showing up.
If I had to describe our home in one word, it would be messy. Not just toys on the floor or boots by the door, but life itself—full of love, noise, and the daily chaos of a family growing together. It isn’t perfect. It’s ours.
What I hope my children remember about this season is that joy can be found even in hard times. I want them to look back and see that the work we’re doing now—the rows, the coops, the chores—was planting seeds for their future. The sweat and effort they saw weren’t burdens, but blessings waiting to bloom.
To live a life that’s home made by hand is to build with your own two hands, guided by love and faith. Every board nailed, every meal cooked, every bedtime story told is a piece of that handmade home.
And at the end of the day, when the fields go still and the work quiets, I can look around and see what we’re building—not just a house, but a life crafted with care, one day and one prayer at a time.
Galatians 6:9 — Planted in faith, reaped in love.
