The Cure
I can’t point to the exact moment I realized the farm itself was the medicine. For a long time, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a hassle—one big, messy experiment that sometimes made us wonder if we’d made the right choice. We knew this was where we wanted to be, but like many things in our story, we worried we’d jumped in too fast.
Still, as time passed and I worked the land little by little, something in me began to shift. Each fence post, each garden bed, each coop reminded me there was purpose here—that this life was shaping us as much as we were shaping it.
One evening made that truth clear. The kids and I were in the field, cutting weeds before sunset. The sky turned orange, and the light caught their faces—sweaty, smiling, content. For a moment, everything stopped. That was it. That was the cure.
Elijah, Grayson, and Lyla build a scarecrow for the garden.
The Heart of Healing
For Emily and me, the heart of the cure has been watching our children grow up as little country kids.
I never imagined how much they’d love this life—the dirt, the animals, the freedom. Lyla surprises me with how deeply she cares for wildlife, always spotting birds and following butterflies. Elijah and Grayson are happiest outside, building everything into forts, creating worlds to play in the brush and turning every object into an imaginary thing.
We’ve noticed that the more time we spend outdoors, the calmer everyone becomes. The kids still argue—that’s life—but the things they argue about out here are small and fleeting. A broken stick. Who gets the green bucket. A chicken that got “too much” attention. It’s the kind of noise that fills a home, not the kind that breaks it.
We’ve grown closer as a family. Even with the chaos, we don’t need much space away from one another. When I leave for work, I miss them more than I ever thought I would. The best days are the ones when we’re side by side—even if we’re just pulling weeds or sitting in silence.
The Children’s Voices
Elijah
When I asked Elijah what makes him happiest on the farm, he didn’t hesitate:
“Working together.”
When I asked what makes a bad day better, he thought for a moment:
“Driving the tractor—if it wasn’t broken.”
He likes living with animals because the dogs keep coyotes and hogs away, and the chickens provide food. “They protect us,” he said, plain as truth.
He’s still learning patience and hard work—his first answer was, “Y’all tell us to be patient.” He’s not wrong. That’s how we all learn here: repetition, frustration, and grace.
Kira
For Kira, the cure is simple—it’s just being outside.
What makes her happiest?
“Outside.”
Bad day?
“It feels so good being outside.”
She loves the horses and the puppies. Ask what “the cure” means and she’ll say, “Neigh,” like a horse—which somehow feels exactly right. When I asked what she loves most about being outside with everyone, she answered, “Grayson… and Mommy… and Daddy.” Then she looked up and whispered, “I love you.” It’s hard not to feel cured after that.
Lyla
For Lyla, everything starts with a baby chick.
What makes her happiest?
“Baby chick hatching.”
Bad day?
“Baby chick hatching.”
Best thing about living with animals?
“Baby chick hatching.”
She was being a little silly, but that’s Lyla—full of laughter, finding joy in the smallest things. Watching those tiny birds break free never stops feeling like a miracle to her. Funniest memory?
“Squishing your face.”
Her happy place?
“Hugging a cat.”
For Lyla, the cure is soft fur, tiny wings, and laughter. Life, new and gentle, always beginning again.
Lessons from the Chaos
If one word defines our life, it’s chaos.
Our days are loud, busy, and full. We joke that the kids run the place, and most days they do. But when it’s time to work, they listen.
Parenting out here is its own kind of wild. Emily and I balance the rescue, the animals, the kids, and the farm with as much grace as we can find. She spends her days training dogs, nursing them back to health, and helping them find homes. I juggle my day job and the chores, trying to keep everything moving.
We both feel the strain. Some days the noise feels endless. Some days you can’t build the garden bed you planned—you just keep everyone fed and safe. That’s enough. There’s grace in that, too.
Emily says she’s seen changes in me—that I’ve taken more ownership and care in the work. I see changes in her as well—how she finds strength in chaos and keeps the rhythm steady when I can’t. The kids are growing fast—too fast—learning to do more for themselves and finding small bits of independence even in this unpredictable life.
The truth is, you can’t schedule this kind of living down to the hour. You live it—one task at a time, one day at a time.
Much needed rest.
The Faith
If this season has taught me anything, it’s that God’s design for rest, work, and family is perfectly balanced—even when ours isn’t.
“He restores my soul.” (Psalm 23) means more to me now than ever. The rest we find doesn’t come from doing nothing; it comes from doing what matters.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) has become our rhythm: work honestly, come back to Him, and find the peace that follows a long day of sweat, dirt, and laughter.
Even when we’re tired, even when the work feels endless, God gives us what we need to keep going. Sometimes I look at Elijah—ten years old already—and I can’t believe how fast it’s all moving. It feels like yesterday he was learning to walk, and now he’s out in the field beside me, learning to live. It’s humbling and a little terrifying, but it’s beautiful, too.
Through the noise and the chores and the late nights, I’ve come to see that the cure isn’t comfort. The cure is connection—our children’s laughter, the smell of the earth, and the quiet reminder that God is at work in every small thing we do.
A-7 Farms
Planted in Faith. Reaped in Love.
