This week Nate put the final touches on my humble little greenhouse and passed the torch to me — to decorate it, to turn it into the space I’ve envisioned for years.
I sat in there today and peeked out the window. Ziggy was swinging from the tree. The beds were mostly empty except for a few cold-hardy herbs. Piles of mulch waiting to become walkways. Quiet. Still.
But full of promise.
Last week I taught a workshop for a local business — twelve couples on date night with a glass of wine and no idea how to make a starter or discard pizza. I loaded my car like I was hosting something much bigger. Starters. Supplies. Candles. Little details no one asked for.
It was probably overkill.
They were coming for two hours to make dough and eat pizza.
But for me, it was an opportunity to create a moment. A memory. To make someone feel seen and special.
And it was that quiet moment before the workshop started — when the tables were set and no one had arrived yet — that reminded me of the possibility of the night.
Just like these empty beds and cold mornings remind me:
This is the season before visible growth.
It’s necessary. It’s required.
And goodness — when growth does happen, it’s special.
There are so many things we tend that no one else sees.
The seeds started weeks before they ever touch garden soil.
The quiet mornings we wake up to keep a promise to ourselves — to pray, to walk, to show up.
Or, in my case, to train for something wildly audacious like running 50 miles.
No one sees the hours that go into something like that.
I’ll be honest — I’ve wanted to quit more than I’ve wanted to push through.
But I remind myself:
This is the season before visible growth.
It’s necessary. It’s required.
And when the growth does come, it will be special.
It’s no surprise to you by now — I’m a dreamer.
That workshop stirred something in me. Dreams for this farm. Experiences I want to create. A place where people feel seen, heard, inspired.
Years ago when we bought this farm, our goal was simple:
Build it into a place we can invite people into.
After the workshop, I sat across from Nathan with coffee in my hands and tears in my eyes. Because that dream? It’s been years in the making.
It’s the hard, quiet, day-to-day work no one sees.
And when you keep sowing into something — even when no one is clapping, even when no one is rooting you on — you begin to realize:
The quiet work is the real work.
It’s necessary. It’s required.
And when it blooms, it will be special.
I’ll be honest — I don’t love slow seasons.
When I get an idea, I want to full send it. (Which explains why someone who has never run more than a 5K thought signing up for 50 miles was reasonable.)
I am a fast-paced, all-in kind of woman.
But this season is teaching me something different.
You can’t reap fruit until you’ve prepared the beds.
You can’t run the race until you’ve logged the miles.
You can’t host the workshops until the foundation is built.
Right now, in my high tunnel, roots are strengthening underground. Anchoring. Expanding. Drawing nutrients. Preparing for spring.
And I keep telling myself:
I am planting roots for what’s to come.
Roots take time to take hold.
Foundations take time to build.
Harvests don’t happen overnight.
This work is necessary. It’s required.
And when summer comes — oh, how special that growth will be.
If I’m honest, it makes me uncomfortable when things don’t look impressive yet.
When the farm still needs work.
When the dreams are still scribbled in a journal.
When there’s so much left undone.
It can make me feel behind.
Have you ever felt that?
There’s a little insecurity tucked in there sometimes.
What if no one comes?
What if no one cares?
What if this makes no impact at all?
And then I catch myself comparing my winter to someone else’s summer.
We all know where that leads.
So instead, I open my computer and write this love letter to you.
A reminder — to both of us — that winter is essential for spring.
That visible transformation only happens because of invisible work.
That the years of stewarding a dream slowly may have actually been protection from something I wasn’t ready for yet.
The garden has a way of teaching you that.
Quiet does not mean dead.
Still does not mean stagnant.
Underground does not mean unseen by God.
If you’re in a season of dreaming where nothing looks impressive yet… I hope you stay.
If you’re tending something no one else sees — your marriage, your health, your faith, your business, your children — I hope you keep tending.
Maybe you’re in winter.
Maybe you’ve been there longer than you expected.
But summer is not canceled.
This work right now is necessary. It’s required.
And when growth comes — and it will — it will be special.
Friends,
Stay planted.
Keep tending.
Anchor your roots.
And remember not all growth is visible at first.
