A Sabbath for the Soil and the Soul
Today, I didn’t rush.
Not because there wasn’t anything to do (there always is), but because I chose not to. The sun rose slow and golden, the air was still, and something deep in me whispered: Let this be a Sabbath.
So I did.
I let the lists wait. I let the tools rest. I let my body breathe.
Morning: Porch Quiet and Coffee with the Word
I woke early, but not urgently. There’s a difference.
I brewed coffee, cracked the kitchen window to let the cool breeze in, and sat at the old farmhouse table with my Bible, a journal, and the smell of earth lingering on the wind.
I read from Isaiah—chapter 55, the part that says:
“You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”
That verse always moves me. I’ve felt it out here. On certain mornings, I swear the trees really do clap. Not with sound, exactly, but with presence. With aliveness.
After reading, I sat in silence for a while. No music. No distractions. Just birdsong, the distant stir of goats, and the creak of the porch swing beneath me.
Brooder Check and the Funny One
Of course, even on Sabbath, care doesn’t stop.
I walked out to the barn to check on the chicks. Their heat lamp glowed gently, casting long shadows on the straw. All twenty-five accounted for, all peeping, eating, and flapping their new wing feathers in awkward bursts of energy.
One little guy—or girl, time will tell—has taken to sprinting full-speed from one end of the brooder to the other. No purpose, no chase. Just speed for the joy of it. The others don’t seem to mind, but they definitely look confused.
I’ve nicknamed that one “Bullet.”
I refreshed their water, added a bit of apple cider vinegar, and topped off feed. No deep clean today. Just tending. Just noticing.
They’re growing fast. I’ll blink and they’ll be in the tractor, then the pasture, then… well, the table. That part always stays tucked in the back of my mind, quiet but present.
Life and purpose, coiled together like new sprouts.
A Walk, Not a Task
Around mid-morning, I laced up my boots—not for work, but for wandering.
I took the long path around the north edge of the property, down through the thicket of wild plum and cedar where the deer like to bed. The trees are just beginning to leaf out now, and everything smells green and damp and new.
I stopped to sit on the flat rock by the creek, the one I call “the prayer stone.” I found it the first year I moved here, worn smooth by decades of runoff, mossy at the edges, and just wide enough to sit with your knees pulled up to your chest.
I prayed there today. Nothing fancy. Just a thank you. A here-I-am. A whispered, Please keep helping me grow, too.
Afternoon Rest and a Bit of Beauty
I spent the heat of the day resting. I don’t mean napping—though that might’ve happened too—but letting myself be still.
I made a light lunch:
- Fresh egg salad with garden chives and lemon balm
- A slice of sourdough toast, crisped in the skillet
- Violets and dandelion blossoms tossed into greens with oil and vinegar
I took it out to the porch, barefoot, plate on my lap, and watched the wind move through the trees like water. It shimmered. It truly shimmered.
Then I read for a bit—something non-farming, non-practical. Just words for the sake of beauty. I think that’s important. Not every moment out here has to produce something.
Sometimes, you just receive.
Evening Chores (The Gentle Version)
Even on days of rest, the basics must be done.
I collected eggs—ten today, including one perfect green shell from Hazel. She’s back to laying steady now. I always whisper a little “thank you” when I take them, out loud. It’s silly, but it feels respectful.
The goats got their evening hay and grain. No fence tests today, thank heavens. Rosemary even let me scratch behind her ears without trying to nibble the hem of my shirt. A small miracle.
I checked the compost temperature—still warm, still cooking—and peeked under the row covers. The carrots are reaching now. Tiny, threadlike greens poking through like they’re testing the air.
Everything felt settled. Nothing rushed.
Final Thoughts
Today reminded me why I chose this life.
Not for the productivity or the pride of self-sufficiency (though those are good, too), but for this: the quiet. The presence. The holiness in small things.
We talk a lot about grit on the homestead. About pushing through, doing hard things, staying tough.
But what we don’t talk about enough is rest. And how sacred it is to pause—not because you’re lazy, but because you’re faithful. Because the land rests, too. And it grows better for it.
Today, I rested. I worshipped in the wind, in the soil, in the stillness of a chick’s heartbeat beneath my palm.
And tomorrow, I’ll work again.
But tonight, I’ll fall asleep knowing that the rhythm of this place—this life—is not all sweat and fence posts. It’s also wild violets. Porch light. And peace.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek