I’ve never wanted the farm to feel heavy to my children.
From the beginning, my hope has been that it would simply be there—a constant, living presence woven in the background of their lives. Something they could step into when curiosity stirred, walk away from when they needed rest, and return to again when their hearts were ready.
The animals are part of our days, but they are not an obligation placed on small shoulders. The garden grows whether little hands help or not. The goats are fed whether the kids join me or choose to stay inside. I want them to know that this life is an invitation, not a requirement.
And yet, more often than not, they choose it.
Just this evening, as I was heading out for night chores, my two youngest threw on their shoes and grabbed their flashlights, announcing—without asking—that they were coming with me. There was no assignment given, no expectation set. Just eagerness.
I handed them the baby bottle, freshly warmed and filled with today’s milk, and told them to take it to the baby goat for her nighttime feeding. Off they ran, flashlights bouncing, voices full of purpose. Over the gates they climbed…dogs by their side.
They fed baby Selah all on their own and came back to report—proudly—that she’d taken the entire bottle. I thanked them for their help, encouraged their hard work, and sent them back up to the house to wash hands and get ready for bed.
Flashlights blazing the path ahead of them, they ran uphill into the dark with pure joy lighting the way.
Moments like that feel like quiet confirmation.
I see the farm shaping my children slowly, the way good things usually do. They’re learning responsibility without pressure, care without urgency. They notice when something is off. They celebrate new life. They grieve loss honestly. Gratitude seems to come more easily here, rooted in daily provision.
They tell me often how thankful they are that we have a farm. And every time, I tuck that gratitude away gently. Because more than anything, I want them to look back one day and remember this as a place of safety, reverence, and beauty, not strain.
Raising children alongside livestock teaches me restraint.
It would be easy to turn this into curriculum… to insist they participate, to make productivity the point. But I’ve learned that love grows best when it’s chosen… that curiosity flourishes when it isn’t managed too tightly.
So instead, we let the farm teach quietly.
It teaches patience when seeds take longer than expected, humility when plans fail, and wonder when life arrives unexpectedly. It teaches stewardship when care is required day after day. It teaches reverence—because it is difficult to witness birth, growth, and provision so closely without sensing the hand of a Creator.
God feels near out here.
He is present in the reflection of the sunrise on the pond and in healthy animals, in tired hands and satisfied hearts. He is present in children trusted with something small and good and in the confidence of little feet running into the dark, certain the path is safe and the work is meaningful.
I don’t know what paths my children will choose as they grow. They may love this life forever, or they may leave it behind. Either way, my prayer is the same—that they carry with them the memory of a home where the beauty of creation drew them outside, where faithful daily work led to life and sustenance, and where God was intentionally woven into the fabric of everyday life… a life where all was received with thankfulness.
And if this farm helps teach them that—then it has done more than enough.