🌾 The Work Beneath Our Hands

Opening Scene

The sound and smell that define my mornings on the farm are like time markers — quiet reminders that each day begins with a small act of grace.

In summer, the air is thick and musky, holding the scent of dew and clay. In winter, it’s crisp and sharp, clean enough to clear your head before the coffee even finishes brewing. Most mornings begin the same way: the rooster crowing, frogs still murmuring in the fields, and that one steady ritual — walking over to make my coffee, sitting down for just a moment, and taking in the stillness before the work begins.

Every day I look at my wife and kids here and feel the same pull — to make this place better, not only for us, but for every living thing that calls it home.

Section 1 — The Weight and Worth of Labor

The hardest job so far has been the groundwork for our vegetable plots. When the tractor went down, the weeds took over. I started hand-clearing every inch of the field, one pull at a time. It was exhausting, but it also reminded me that sometimes slower work is the most meaningful. The soil was ready for renewal, and maybe I was too.

The hardest part emotionally hasn’t been the work itself — it’s been living small. The RV that once felt like an adventure has, at times, felt like a test. It’s easy to feel like I’m falling short as a provider. But every egg we sell, every chicken raised, every garden bed that feeds us brings me back to purpose. It’s proof that God’s plan isn’t about comfort — it’s about growth.

When motivation dips, I hold onto a simple motto: just keep moving forward. Even the smallest task counts. As long as you’re doing something each day, progress happens. God provides the rest.

Every time I finish a project — a coop, a garden plot, or a mowed acre — there’s that quiet moment of pride. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, holding up a torch and saying, “I have made fire!” It’s funny, but that feeling is real. You see the result of your labor and know it was worth it.

Every project breaks you down a little before it builds you up again. The deck needed fixes. The coop lost to coyotes. The tractor died mid-field. Each setback stung — but I kept moving. And now, what once felt like defeat has turned into the foundation of what we’re building.

Section 2 — The Hands That Build Together

The kids all play their part in the work, even if their attention spans don’t last long.

Eli is the reliable one. He jumps in quick and gives it his all until a ball or stick catches his eye — then he’s off to the next adventure. Grayson loves building things, but not always the cleanup afterward. If it’s hard work, he’s hesitant — but when we’re constructing something new, he’s in his element.

Lyla finds wonder in everything. A grasshopper, a frog, or a butterfly can stop her mid-task. And Kira — she just wants to be nearby, full of smiles, laughter, and hugs. She’s the light of the group.

Each of them is learning something through this — not just how to plant or build, but how to care. I hope they’re learning that life isn’t about screens or shortcuts, that dirt under your fingernails and a good day’s work matter more than anything digital.

Some of my favorite moments come when we all work together — whether it’s pulling weeds in the field or washing dishes as a team. When it’s all hands on deck, even the most mundane jobs become easier, even joyful. It’s in those small, shared tasks that I see the heart of our family at work.

Emily sees things differently. She’s softer with the kids — loving and nurturing — while I’m the one who pushes harder. She laughs about how easily they talk her into things, but she knows when to stand firm. Between the two of us, we’ve found our balance: she builds hearts, and I build fences. Together, it works.

Section 3 — Lessons for Calloused Hands

There’s something humbling about working with your hands. It’s exhausting and honest, but it brings a peace that’s hard to describe. When the day ends and you see what you’ve built, there’s a quiet pride in it — a pride that feels a lot like gratitude.

It reminds me of prayer.
If you only pray when things go wrong, you miss half the conversation. But when you pray through both the hard and the easy — when you thank God for the small wind across your face or the strength to lift one last shovel of dirt — life evens out. The highs don’t seem so high, the lows not so low.

Galatians 6:9 comes to mind often: “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due time we will reap, if we do not give up.”

And when things feel truly heavy, Psalm 23:4 reminds me that even on the hardest days — “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Sometimes the valley is a field full of weeds or a project gone wrong, but the message holds: He’s with me in all of it.

Failure has a way of teaching grace. I don’t see mistakes as failures — just steps that didn’t land the way I expected. You try again. You keep moving forward. You keep praying. And God provides the rest in His timing.

If one task feels holy, it’s preparing a new garden bed.
You turn the soil, mix in compost, press seeds into the earth. You shape something with your hands, and it feels good. It feels sacred — a reflection of God’s first creation.

Section 4 — Faith

“Planted in faith, reaped in love.”

For me, it means trusting that the work we do here matters — even when it’s hard to see progress. God calls us to be faithful and diligent, not idle. He doesn’t ask us to sit and wait for miracles; He asks us to build, to care, to produce. He blesses the work of our hands when we do it with heart.

I’m not always the most outspoken about my faith, but writing this blog has become my outlet — a way to share how God shows up in the daily grind. I believe this is the path He’s laid before us, and while I don’t always understand it, I know it’s the right one.

We spend Sundays at a church nearly an hour and a half away. It’s not close, but it feels like home — full of genuine people and messages that fill us up. Staying home usually leads to more work, but driving that far reminds me what rest truly means.

The Sabbath isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about pausing to breathe, to reflect, to thank God for the week behind you and to look forward to the one ahead. Rest isn’t idleness — it’s worship.

God’s hand is in every part of this. I see Him in the soil, in the animals, in the laughter of my kids, and in the long days when strength runs thin. We might think we’re choosing our own paths, but every step, even the ones that veer off course, are still part of His plan.

Section 5 — Closing Reflections

The work beneath our hands is more than sweat and dirt — it’s a reflection of God’s own creative power.

When we mix soil, add organic matter, and build spaces for life to thrive, we’re taking part in something divine. It’s the same rhythm He set in motion at the beginning of time: life from the dust, beauty from the work.

What we do now matters not just for today, but for the future. Each seed planted, each lesson taught, each value lived — it all leaves something behind for our children. Stewardship is our inheritance, and our offering.

This farm hasn’t changed what success means to me; it’s clarified it. Success isn’t about wealth — it’s about peace, about sustainability, about teaching my kids what it means to create something lasting. Maybe one day they’ll go on to be doctors, athletes, or vets, and I hope they do. But I also hope they remember this — the smell of soil, the sound of the chickens, the mornings spent in the field together.

And if someday one of them plants a small garden of their own and says, “I remember doing this with my dad,” then I’ll know we did something right.

If I could tell my future self — or my children — one thing about this season, it would be simple:

Keep it up. Don’t stop. It’ll work out in the end.

Because the work beneath our hands isn’t just labor. It’s faith. It’s love. It’s legacy — pressed deep into the same soil that’s shaping us right back.