Wow! These past few weeks have been a whirlwind. The last time I wrote to you, we were slowly approaching spring. Now we’re charging headfirst into it—and we have the blisters to prove it.
The month of May came and went as quickly as the crocuses on our property.
We’re officially past our last frost date and have planted out most of my starts. I’ve spent more time at the farm, eagerly soaking up lessons from growers operating on a much larger scale than we are. I’ve learned about biochar and the many benefits it can provide in a garden, how to market and host a plant sale, and even how to set up a farm stand that’s welcoming to community customers.
On our own property, we’ve been just as busy. We built and hung doors on our garden fence in hopes of protecting our hard-grown produce from deer. We hand-dug nearly 150 feet of trench and installed irrigation to fourteen growing areas, which should save me countless hours of hand watering this summer. I also took a chicken butchering class where I learned how to dispatch, defeather, and dress a chicken—which only barely qualifies me for the thirty meat birds we just received.
We also built an 8×12 hoop coop, a movable chicken tractor that will house our birds through the summer before being converted into a high tunnel of sorts for fall and winter growing.
And because apparently I didn’t have enough projects already, I applied for a cottage bakery license. I’m hopeful that someday soon I’ll be able to sell some of my beloved sourdough products.
Back in April, we finished all ten of our 4×8 raised beds and filled them with soil and compost from a local company that graciously trucked in what felt like a mountain of it. April was unusually warm for our area, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.
The sunshine allowed us to spend countless hours outside preparing the garden. But it also lulled me into a false sense of security.
Our average last frost date falls shortly after Mother’s Day. Fueled by excitement, beautiful weather, and an idyllic ten-day forecast, I planted out roughly half of my starts. Naturally, the weather immediately changed its mind. A cold front moved in and temperatures dropped back into the 30s for nearly a week.
Thankfully, I had invested in low tunnels and frost cloth last fall and was able to get everything covered fairly quickly. Still, my poor plants sulked for days.
I spent much of one Friday afternoon researching crop-specific fertilization schedules before heading outside to implement them. Between the fertilizer and a couple of steady spring rainstorms, the garden rebounded beautifully. Within forty-eight hours, many of the plants looked healthier than they had in weeks.
It reminded me how often growth requires patience.
I wanted instant results. I wanted the plants to bounce back the moment I covered them. Instead, they needed time, nourishment, water, and favorable conditions. Looking back, I’m not much different. God often restores us the same way—slowly, faithfully, and usually not on our preferred timeline.
As of the day I’m writing this, all ten raised beds are planted. The squash bed is full. The blueberry bed is planted. The cut flower garden is in.
And somehow, despite all of that, I’m convinced I need more space.
Every gardener reading this is probably nodding along right now.
The truth is, I don’t need more space this year. I need to learn how to steward the space I’ve already been given. Ten raised beds sounded enormous when we started this project. Now I’m already sketching expansion plans on scrap paper and mentally rearranging sections of the property.
Maybe next year.
June promises to be just as busy. We have plans to remove several very large trees that are encroaching on the house, and we’re hoping to relocate a large shed toward the end of our driveway where it can eventually serve as our farm stand.
Meanwhile, the kids are wrapping up another school year. We’ve attended band concerts, STEAM nights, end-of-year celebrations, and more testing than any child should probably endure. The kids insist they’re not looking forward to summer because they’ve come to love their school community so much.
Still, I suspect they’ll adjust just fine once they’re sleeping in, running barefoot through the yard, and losing track of what day of the week it is.
As for me, I’m still working at the farm while trying to balance motherhood, a small business, and our growing homestead.
Someone recently called me “Farmer Jess.”
And honestly? I kind of liked it.
As I look around the property, I can finally start to see the vision Luke and I have talked about for years taking shape.
The garden is growing. The chickens are settled. The irrigation is running. The kids are thriving. And we’re learning what it looks like to build a life rooted in faith, family, and stewardship.
Some days it feels overwhelming. There is always another project to tackle, another fence to build, another animal to care for, another skill to learn. But there is also something deeply satisfying about watching progress happen one small step at a time.
A year ago, much of this existed only in conversations and notebooks. Today, it exists in raised beds, muddy boots, chicken feed, irrigation lines, and sore muscles.
It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.
And while I’m still not entirely sure whether “Farmer Jess” will stick, I do know this: God has been faithful through every step of this journey. I’m excited to see what this summer holds for Liberty Acres Farm—and I’m grateful you’ve chosen to come along for the ride.
Until next time, friends.
Be blessed,
