Samson runs barefoot through the tall grass, giggling as he chases a butterfly. The sun slips through the leaves overhead, dappling his face with golden specks. He’s sticky from watermelon juice, dirt clinging to his knees, and joy brimming from his whole being. I watch him from the porch, heart soft and full, knowing deep down: this is the kind of childhood I prayed for him.
Not one tethered to screens and hustle. Not hurried. Not sterile. But wild. Sacred. Simple. Real.
Out here in the quiet curves of southeastern Oklahoma, surrounded by the land that raised me, I’m learning what it means to raise a child not just on the land—but with it.
Raised by Roots
My own childhood was spent beneath these trees, beside this creek, around family dinner tables where the food was hot and the prayers were long. We didn’t have much in the way the world defines it—but we had everything that mattered.
I remember treehouses made of old scrap wood and summer nights where lightning bugs lit up the pasture. I remember my great grandmother’s voice, the sound of cows lowing in the distance, and the rhythm of a life lived slowly.
When we lost our house, something inside me shifted. All of the modern comforts we had built melted away. But the roots? They remained. The love, the land, the legacy—they couldn’t be burned.
And so, we begin again. Not with materialistic perfection, but with intention.
Letting Nature Be the Teacher
There is something holy about watching your child learn directly from the world God made.
Samson knows which flowers the bees love best. He knows how to talk to animals with gentle hands and a quiet voice. He’s learning that dirt isn’t dirty, it’s alive. That food comes from the earth, not a box. That sometimes, the best medicine is a walk outside in the sunshine and a handful of herbs.
And he’s learning that his days don’t have to be filled with noise to be meaningful.
We read books under the sky. We splash in the creek. We pray aloud while picking wildflowers. And every now and then, when I watch him kneel beside a bug or listen to a bird’s song, I can hear the Lord whisper, “This is what I meant when I said I had a plan for you.“
Slowing Down, Staying Home
We don’t have it all figured out. Our house is still in construction mode. Our dreams of gardens and chickens and homeschooling are still taking root. But home isn’t waiting for us on the other side of “someday.”
It’s right here—in the soil under our nails, the laughter in our evenings, the peace that fills our hearts when we choose less of the world and more of what matters.
We’re not chasing the American dream. We’re chasing Eden—that closeness with God, with nature, with each other. The kind of life where the fruit of the Spirit grows better than anything you could plant in a garden.
The Legacy We’re Leaving
I don’t need Samson to remember every detail of this season. But I do hope he remembers how it felt.
I hope he remembers the warmth of our arms around him.
The sound of his daddy’s boots on the gravel driveway.
The taste of tomatoes straight from the vine.
The softness of a life lived close to the earth and closer to God.
If he can carry that with him… then we’ve done something right.
Because This Is the Way We Were Meant To Raise Them
Not perfectly.
Not performatively.
But prayerfully. Purposefully. Peacefully.
We were meant to raise children who know how to wonder. Who see God in the garden and grace in the mundane. Who can weather storms because they know where their roots are.
And so here we are—building a home out of ashes, raising a boy on the land that raised me, and leaning into the quiet, radical truth that less is more and love is everything.
