There’s something deeply anchoring about living on land that’s been in the family for generations. It’s more than just dirt and grass—it’s the place where stories began, where meals were shared under open skies, where prayers were whispered over fence posts and morning fog rolled gently over the fields..
Country living isn’t flashy or curated. It’s not always tidy. But it holds meaning in every weathered tree and hand-built barn. This land was here before us, and Lord willing, it will stretch out beyond our time here—still offering its quiet rhythms to generations to come.
We’re Living in the Pages of Their Story
There are days I walk across the pasture and think about those who stood on this very soil long before I was born. My grandparents. Great-grandparents. People whose lives and labor still echo in the way the land rolls and the fences run.
We’re living in the pages of their story. We’re building a life on top of memories we didn’t make—but ones we feel all the same. Every time we plant something new or fix what’s been worn by time, we honor what they started.
That thought humbles me. It reminds me that we’re not just “owners”—we’re stewards. And what a privilege that is.
The Slow Work of Building a Life
We’re still in the in-between phase. The house is taking shape, one project at a time. The garden is coming together on paper. The animals we hope for—chickens, maybe quail, definitely a cow—are still dreams.
It can be tempting to wish we were further along. To want it all finished and pretty. But there’s wisdom in the waiting. There’s something holy in building slow—trusting that it’s not about crossing a finish line, but about forming a foundation with intention.
Some nights, we sit on the porch with muddy boots and tired eyes and just breathe. We talk about what’s next. We remember how far we’ve already come. And we thank God that He’s writing our story in this place.
A Childhood Wrapped in Dirt and Wonder
Raising our son here feels like the greatest blessing of all.
He’s growing up with wide-open space, not just for wandering—but for wondering. He knows the difference between purple dead-nettle and henbit dead-nettle. He digs for earthworms in the garden and doesn’t mind mud under his fingernails.
His childhood isn’t packed with schedules—it’s full of curiosity, creation, and connection. He gets to grow up close to nature, and even closer to family.
Mimi’s house is just a small walk away and cousins come to play in the yard almost daily. There’s something grounding about having generations within reach—people who teach him with their hands and stories, not just their words.
Simple Tools for a Meaningful Life
Life on family land teaches us to slow down, not just because it’s quiet—but because it requires you to be present.
You notice when the seasons change because you feel it in your bones. You plan your days around the sun and the rain. You learn to cook what you grow and use what you have.
We’ve found comfort in the simplest things:
Gifted plants from my Mimi.
A line of laundry swaying in the wind.
Coffee on the porch in the cool morning.
A warm breeze drifting through an open window.
We’re not chasing after more—we’re learning how to live with less, but better.
Living with Legacy in Mind
When you live on family land, you begin to see life differently. You think about what kind of legacy you’re leaving—not just in memories, but in choices.
What are we planting that can serve us for years to come?
How are we teaching our children to tend what they’ve been given?
Are we pointing them toward creation, or consumption? Toward rest, or rush?
We want our home to be a place of peace, even in the mess. We want our land to reflect what matters—not the perfection of it all, but the faith and fruit woven into the everyday.
Because the truth is, we may not always have everything we think we need—but we have this land. And that is more than enough.
A Final Word from These Quiet Acres
I don’t take a single sunrise for granted.
Even on the hard days—even when nothing goes as planned and the to-do list seems endless—there’s still so much goodness here.
This land holds more than our belongings. It holds our beginnings, our memories, and our prayers. It’s a place where God meets us in the simple things—tired hands, a harvest of potatoes, a handmade swing hung on an old pecan tree.
We don’t have it all figured out. But we know we’re home.
And we’re learning to live like it—slowly, humbly, gratefully—right here where our roots run deep.
