Waiting for the Meadow

There is a stretch of our property that, at first glance, looks like we simply gave up.

The grass is tall. Weeds have appeared. There are no colorful wildflowers dancing in the breeze. If you drove by today, you might assume we stopped mowing because we ran out of time—or motivation.

In truth, we are doing something much harder.

We are waiting.

When we first imagined this space, I pictured a meadow overflowing with native flowers. I envisioned butterflies drifting from bloom to bloom, birds nesting in tall grasses, and winding paths inviting quiet evening walks.

Instead, what we have today looks unfinished.

It would have been easy to buy bags of wildflower seed, spread them across the field, and hope for an instant transformation. It also would have been expensive.

Instead, we chose a slower path. We simply stopped mowing and decided to see what nature wanted to do on its own.

So far, nature has offered us a lesson in patience.

The field isn't beautiful—yet.

But something interesting has happened.

We've used less gasoline. We've spent fewer hours riding the mower. We've had more evenings to sit by the lake, notice the birds, watch the changing light, and enjoy our home instead of constantly maintaining it.

What first appeared to be doing nothing turned out to be creating space for something else.

Life often looks this way.

We reach seasons where the progress isn't obvious. We wonder if we've made a mistake because the beautiful picture we imagined hasn't appeared. We compare our unfinished field to someone else's blooming garden and quietly question whether we should start over.

But perhaps growth isn't always meant to impress us immediately.

Sometimes the roots are growing long before the flowers arrive.

Sometimes the most meaningful work is invisible.

And sometimes what looks like neglect is actually intention.

I've begun to realize that this little field is teaching me more than I expected.

It reminds me that not every worthwhile change can be rushed.

It reminds me that beauty often arrives after long seasons of uncertainty.

It reminds me that saving money and saving time are blessings too.

It reminds me that nature has its own rhythm, and perhaps so do we.

So for now, we'll keep our winding paths mowed. We'll continue walking through a meadow that doesn't yet resemble the picture in my mind.

We'll wait.

Because the most beautiful gardens—and perhaps the most meaningful lives—are rarely built overnight.

Sometimes they simply ask us to trust the season we're in.

I don't know what this meadow will look like a year from now. Perhaps it will be filled with wildflowers. Perhaps it will need a little more guidance from us. Either way, I'm learning that not every season is meant to be judged by what it looks like today.

Some seasons are simply meant to be lived.

Some are meant to teach us patience.

And some quietly prepare us for beauty we cannot yet see.

The House is Open.

If you're in a season of waiting, I'd love to hear your story. Join the conversation. We have a place waiting for you.