“Love leaves a legacy. The way you treated other people, not your wealth or accomplishments, is the most enduring impact you can leave on earth.”

~ Rick Warren

When I look back on my childhood, I don’t remember what we bought or how much money we had. What I remember are the times spent around the dinner table having deep discussions with my dad, the way he always encouraged deeper thought and engagement. I remember my mom as an always steady source of encouragement, support, and love. The way she would sacrifice her time and her own desires to make sure I didn’t miss out on any opportunities in life. I remember late evenings at my grandparents’ house watching the wildlife that would show up at dusk outside my window and the endless wonder from learning about life in the country. I remember my grandmom patiently teaching me how to sew, crochet and knit and my admiration for the amazing things she could make with her hands. I remember my grandma being up before the sun spending time in the Word and always serving – everyone around her, no matter what – with quiet selflessness.

These are treasures that helped shape me. And they didn’t cost a thing. Now, as I raise my own children on our little homestead, I see how every chore, every moment, is an opportunity to pass on something that lasts longer than a full hay feeder or heavy harvest baskets. When my kids learn to gather eggs without frightening the hens, they are learning gentleness. When they help mend a fence, they are learning perseverance. When the whole family rallies to tend to a sick animal in the rain, they are learning compassion and selflessness.

The truth is, the lessons of the farm aren’t really about farming. They’re about love. Love is the heartbeat of a life that matters. Love looks like giving your time when it would be easier to rush, offering patience when tempers are short, and showing kindness when no one’s watching. It’s tucked into the rhythm of daily chores – sharing the first ripe tomato with a neighbor, letting little hands spill more feed than they scoop, pausing to thank God for the rain even when it means mud tracked through the kitchen.

Someday, the barns will be empty. The fields will rest. The things we built or earned will fade. But the way we loved – the tenderness we showed our children, the hospitality we extended to strangers, the grace we wove into ordinary days – that will ripple outward long after we’re gone.

Because love leaves a legacy.

And of all the seeds we plant on this homestead, that is the one I most want to see take root.