“It’s so peaceful out here,” a dear friend breathed over her sweet tea as she looked out the kitchen window.
I smiled, because she wasn’t wrong, but she wasn’t seeing the whole picture either. Yes, by many measurements, the farm can be peaceful. But peace looks different when you’ve already spent the morning sloshing buckets of water to far corners of the farm, plucking weeds that seem to regenerate by sheer willpower, and coaxing stubborn sheep back into their fence while the washer, dryer, and dishwasher all run their own marathons.
From the outsider’s perspective, it’s quiet. For me, it’s more like chaos with a view.
We were those people who moved to the farm during Covid: first-generation homesteaders, convinced a slower, simpler life would deliver peace-filled days.
“It’s like stepping back in time.” Her eyes fell over fresh eggs on the counter and baskets of blackberries, “But with a dishwasher!”
She heard it roaring, too.
I think there’s a tendency—I do it—to look back at the “good ole days” and assume that life fifty, one-hundred, or-two hundred years ago is to be preferred. We admire what we remember of our grandparents’ gardens, their bread, their front porches, their regular family dinners, their self-sufficiency, but those were the fruits, not the roots.
I took a sip, noticing the dirt under my nails.
So many of us are restless, searching for peace and looking at the past like all the answers are buried there. In reality, that pre-smart-phone age wasn’t perfect, but it did have something we often forget.
I’ve meant to make those berries into jam a hundred times, then pulled away by another, more urgent need. Something like how the printer jammed when I finally found the right recipe, or someone needed help finding their jersey, or a diva-duck was in the swimming pool again, then our internet went out and we had to all but call Elon himself. Those berries would’ve already been jam if I lived in a pre-industrial age… but if proof is indeed in the pudding, is holiness in the jam?
Probably not.
The garden and fields weren’t the source of Granny and Pappy’s peace. It was the place where their trust in God’s providence took root and grew. Their homes weren’t calm because life was easy or they didn’t have anything going on (far from it!). They were, however, as a generation more anchored by prayer, sacrifice, gratitude, and the conviction that every good thing came from the Lord.
It’s a beautiful and even necessary thing to care about what we eat, to steward the land well, to raise children with intention, and to reclaim forgotten skills. Yet, if we pursue the fruit without planting the roots, we’ll always find ourselves chasing something that feels just out of reach. Peace isn’t found in the pace of life; it’s in the posture of the heart.
Let’s not romanticize the lives of those who came before us while forgetting the faith that sustained them. The peace we admire didn’t grow from sourdough starters or flourishing gardens. It grew from hearts that belonged to Christ… and those bloom everywhere God plants them.
“Yes, thank God for dishwashers,” I replied.
Feature photo by David J. Boozer on Unsplash
