Little Farmers: The Field That Teaches

By A-7 Farms – Lexington, Texas

When the kids tumble out the door with me, the first thing I usually hear isn’t just birds or wind in the trees. It’s them.

Some days it’s chattering.
Some days it’s laughter.
And some days, if we’re honest, it’s arguments.

There are evenings like this one where I’m sitting out in the field, watching the sun dip low while Elijah, Grayson, and Kyra bounce around me. They talk over each other, correct each other, and occasionally tattle on each other. I ask them what it sounds like when we’re all outside together.

“Chattering,” one says.
“Laughing,” another adds.
“Arguing,” someone else throws in.

They’re not wrong. It’s all three.

Right now the land around us looks “not finished,” as Elijah says. The garden beds are staked, but still dry and rough from summer. The leaves are starting to fall, the grass is patchy, and the field looks more like potential than beauty.

Grayson looks out across the rows and says he sees plants growing there—fruits, vegetables, all the things we’ve talked about. He doesn’t see what it is. He sees what it can be.

Kyra doesn’t worry about any of that. When I ask how the land looks to her, she just says, “Mom and Dad,” like the land and her parents are all bundled together in her mind. And in a way, she’s right. The land is us, and we’re learning right alongside it.

Out here, the kids aren’t just running around on a farm.
They’re becoming little farmers.
And this field is teaching all of us.

Lessons From Small Hands

I asked each kid what they love most about the farm. The answers are always a little sideways and honest.

They love “driving the tractor” and “making more chicken tractors.”
They love “helping”—at least when they choose the job.
They love the chicks, right up until the moment one flaps too close and startles them.

We’ve had some hard lessons too.
Eli remembers wiping out on one of his bike trails.

“It taught me not to do that again,” he says.
Then he adds, “And to wear a helmet.”

There are other small lessons that don’t seem like much on the surface but stick in my mind—Grayson figuring out how to help lay out garden beds, or reminding himself not to walk up to strangers. They’re learning about the land and the world at the same time.

Out here, we’re constantly balancing freedom and safety. The kids roam, explore, build forts, and turn sticks into swords or rifles or gadgets. At the same time, we’ve drilled into them:

• Don’t approach wild hogs.

• Run toward the house if something feels wrong.

• Respect the electric fence.

• Don’t leave tools in the pasture to rust.

They complain, of course. They complain about chores, about picking up, about doing dishes, about helping when they’d rather be inside playing games. They complain when I’m “too strict” or when I ask them to redo something.

But underneath the grumbling, I hope they’re learning what I’m really trying to teach:
Responsibility.
Work before play.
And that they’re capable of more than they think.

If they walk away from these years knowing how to feed themselves, how to build something with their hands, and how to do hard things even when they don’t feel like it, then this little farm will have done its job.

Growing Together

I’m not sure the kids would say the farm has changed our relationship, but I know it has.

I see more clearly who they are when we’re out here.
Eli is dependable but getting moodier as he grows. He doesn’t like being told what to do, but he still does it. He wants to help; he just wants to do it his way.
Grayson is pure energy. If we’re building, he’s in it. If it’s house chores, he’s “less in it,” to put it kindly. He needs a different kind of encouragement—a little extra emotional backup.
Lyla does what I call “Lyla things.” She’ll work for a minute, but if there’s a frog, a grasshopper, or an interesting rock nearby, she’s gone chasing that.
Kyra is joy in motion, always wondering where I’m going, if she can come, and who she can love on next.

We’ve started telling them they “work for A-7 Farms” now. It’s half serious, half motivational. I want them to feel like this isn’t just Dad’s project; it’s theirs too. One day, I hope they look back and remember not just that they lived on a farm, but that they helped build it.

Evenings are simple and chaotic at the same time.
School days: they come home, we do a quick run of chores, I try to knock out a little work in the field, and then we push toward dinner, dishes, and bedtime with varying degrees of success. Weekends: we might have a movie night, or we might all be out pulling weeds. Some nights we manage to eat together and have real conversation; other nights we’re just trying to keep everyone from bouncing off the walls.

In all of it, Emily and I use these small, everyday moments to work in bigger lessons—patience, sharing, honoring each other, caring for creation. We’re not perfect examples, but we’re trying to model what it looks like to keep showing up, even when we’re tired, overwhelmed, or short-tempered.

Recently, I told the kids more directly:
“You work for me now. You work for A-7 Farms.”

It’s not about cheap labor. It’s about identity—about them knowing they’re part of something bigger than chores and homework. This place is ours, and so is the work.

When Working Feels Like Play

If you ask the kids how they turn chores into adventures, sometimes they’ll tell you they don’t. To them, sweeping or cleaning or pulling weeds just feels like work.

But if you watch them long enough, you see it happen.

Lyla and Grayson once turned cleaning up magnets into a full-blown story with two magnet “characters” and an imaginary tornado that “sucked everything up,” which conveniently meant more got picked up without them even thinking about it.

A random stick becomes a “tiny rifle,” complete with a made-up firing mechanism. A weed becomes a “bubble thing” or some weird little invention only they understand.

They build forts out of scrap, invent rules to games I don’t fully follow, and turn every pile of brush into a potential castle or spaceship. Where I see a rough patch of grass and a list of things to do, they see something that can be played with, climbed on, or turned into a secret base.

I’ll admit, I overlook a lot of that wonder. I see deer sign, soil texture, and what needs to be mowed or mulched. They see shapes in sticks and stories in the dirt.

Sometimes “disasters” don’t turn into tidy life lessons yet. Sometimes it’s just chaos, someone crying, and me trying not to lose my patience. But even in those frustrating moments, there’s something grounding about having them out here—about being reminded that this isn’t just my project. It’s our life.

And even when an interview with my kids turns into them talking about magnets and laser tag instead of deep reflections, it still keeps me humble and thankful. This is what real life looks like with little farmers in the making.

Faith, Little Hearts, and Real Success

Faith shapes how I raise my kids here, even when I don’t always have the right words. I want them to trust that God is present in the everyday things—the chores, the animals, the garden beds, the hard days where nothing seems to go right.

I hope they carry a few things from this life into adulthood:

• A sense that simple, honest work matters.

• The memory of growing food with their dad, even if it’s just a few snapshots in their mind.

• The understanding that you don’t have to be wealthy to have a rich life.

Given what I make working for the county, I hope they can see that success isn’t just about money. It’s about the quality of your relationships, the work of your hands, and the peace you feel when you step outside and know you’re doing what you’re called to do.

When I imagine Malachi’s first steps on this land, I picture him walking on ground that looks a little more finished than it does now. Maybe we’ll have green rows growing in the garden, snap peas he can pick and eat off the vine, or dewberries he can smear across his face.

By then, I hope his older brothers and sisters will see the connection between their work and what he gets to enjoy. That’s part of the legacy I want for them—knowing they helped build something that blesses the ones coming after them.

Psalm 127 talks about children being a heritage from the Lord. Some days that feels poetic and sweet. Other days it feels like a reminder spoken through gritted teeth while someone is melting down over nothing. But either way, it’s true.

They are our heritage.
And this land is part of the story God is writing in them.

Closing Reflections: The Field That Teaches

If there’s one thing the kids have done lately that reminded me this life is worth every ounce of effort, it’s watching them step up in small ways. Not perfectly—not even close. But enough that I can see the seeds taking root.

They still argue. They still complain. They still turn five-minute tasks into 30-minute sagas.

But then they also:

• Help gather tools.

• Pull a few weeds without being asked.

• Sit beside me in the garden just to be near me.

Those little signs of effort tell me we’re headed in the right direction.

If my kids ever read this one day—
Eli, Grayson, Lyla, Kyra, and Malachi—
I want them to hear this clearly:

Your mother and I love you with everything we are.

You’ve tested our patience, stretched our energy, and filled our days to the brim, but not once have we regretted a single moment. Even when you drive us crazy, you are the joy of our lives. You are the reason we work, the reason we dream, and the reason we keep building this farm one small step at a time.

If I had to choose one picture that sums up our family right now, it wouldn’t be a perfect staged photo. It would look more like:

Sandy boots by the door.
Grayson talking too loud at dinner.
Eli trying hard to be grown but still needing hugs.
Lyla wandering off to chase a frog instead of finishing her chore.
Kyra wrapped around someone’s neck, asking where we’re going next.

It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s far from finished.
But it’s ours.

And just like the land in front of us, I believe the heart of our family is growing—rooted in faith, shaped by work, and carried forward by love… even on the days when the kids’ biggest contribution is turning everything into a game.

Out here, the field doesn’t just teach them.
It’s teaching me how to be their dad, too.

Grayson helping lay out beds