CHAPTER ONE
Roots
The sanctuary of the farm, where every sunrise brings a promise of healing.
S
ome children inherit money, traditions, or heirlooms. I inherited something far more valuable—the memory of a place where love was dependable.
Before I was born, my story had already begun on eighty quiet acres outside the small town of Ozark, Arkansas. The land rolled gently beneath wide southern skies, bordered by weathered fences, grazing cattle, hay bales in the fields, vegetable gardens, fishing ponds, and aging barns that had witnessed generations of my ancestors’ ordinary lives, faithfully lived. Nothing about the farm would have appeared extraordinary to a passerby, yet for me it would become the standard against which every definition of home, family, and security would eventually be measured.
That land, however, was only part of the story. The property belonged to the Jeffers family. For generations, they had worked its soil, tended its cattle, and accepted the rhythms of planting, harvest, drought, and rain with quiet perseverance. The farm represented far more than acreage or livestock; it embodied permanence in a world where so much else would later prove painfully temporary. At the center of that permanence stood two people whose ordinary lives would become extraordinary in mine.
My Nana, Ouita Faye Jeffers, was raised there as an only child. Her parents had hoped for more children, but as Nana would often say with quiet acceptance, “God didn’t see fit to bless them with more.” Years later, after she herself had only one child, she would repeat those same words—not with bitterness, but with faith. Her childhood reflected the same steady resilience that defined the land itself.
Each morning, she walked nearly two miles from the family farm to a one-room schoolhouse in the small community of Mulberry. There was no school bus waiting at the end of the driveway, no hurried breakfast eaten in the car, no modern conveniences to shorten the journey—she simply walked, day after day, because education was both a privilege and a responsibility. That conviction shaped the course of her life.
There is a specific kind of healing that can only happen in the gaps between conversations. Out here, the wind doesn't ask for explanations. The trees don't demand a timeline for your restoration. I found myself sitting on the porch for hours, watching the shadows of the oaks stretch across the yard like tired giants. In those moments, the trauma didn't disappear, but it became smaller, framed by the immense patience of the land. I realized then that my journey wasn't about finding a version of myself that was 'fixed,' but about learning to live within the beautiful, jagged architecture of a renewed spirit.
Before reaching the age of twenty, Nana accomplished something remarkably uncommon for a young woman growing up in rural Arkansas: she earned both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in education from the University of Arkansas. She was even photographed alongside Governor Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton in recognition of her achievements. She began her career teaching in a one-room schoolhouse before becoming a librarian. Even retirement never diminished her calling—she simply moved her ministry to the church library, where she continued placing books into eager little hands. Education was never merely her occupation; it was her expression of love.
While Nana brought energy and purpose into every room she entered, my grandfather brought something equally valuable—peace. Harley Curtis Jeffers possessed a temperament that perfectly complemented Nana’s energetic, can-do spirit. Where she filled a room with purpose, Papa filled it with calm.
He had served in the United States Navy before returning home to work for the City of Ozark’s electrical department while managing the family cattle farm. His life was not marked by titles or recognition, but by quiet faithfulness to his family and his community. He rarely spoke at length, never seemed hurried, and I never remember him raising his voice. As a child, I mistook his silence for simplicity; as an adult, I recognize it as wisdom. Together, Nana and Papa created something far greater than a household—they cultivated a refuge.
Their Christian faith was woven naturally into everyday life. Sunday mornings meant church, followed by a simple lunch and reading the newspaper in the den, but God was never confined to Sunday. He was present in conversations around the dinner table, in the chores that needed to be finished, in the generosity shown to neighbors, and in the assumption that every blessing deserved gratitude. Waste was considered ungrateful, promises were kept, kindness was expected, work came before rest, and children were loved. These lessons were never announced; they were simply lived out.
The farm stayed with me like a companion. Even when life grew loud and the world felt small, the open pastures of my memory offered a place to breathe. It wasn't just the land or the house; it was the way time seemed to slow down, allowing the soul to catch up with the body. Nana and Papa didn't just give me a place to stay; they gave me a standard for how a home should feel—solid, warm, and endlessly welcoming.
To a child, eighty acres felt endless—every fence invited exploration, every pond promised adventure, every tree begged to be climbed, and every pasture held another memory waiting to be made. The family garden reflected Nana’s philosophy toward life: it was never extravagant, but it was always sufficient. Tomatoes, potatoes, onions, strawberries, watermelon, and cantaloupe filled its rows. She canned vegetables and fruit for the winter because good harvests were never taken for granted, and nothing was wasted because everything had required someone’s labor.
Her words reinforced what her life already demonstrated: “Waste not, want not,” “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today,” and “No idle hands.” As a little girl, they sounded like simple sayings; years later, I realized they had quietly become the framework through which I approached work, motherhood, and life itself.
By the time I entered the world, my grandparents owned two homes. One remained on the family farm, built brick by brick during the early years of their marriage before being rented to a family who needed an affordable place to live. The second stood on Gibson Street, only a block from the Ozark school Nana wanted my father to attend, and Papa never argued—even though living in town meant driving back to the farm every day before sunrise.
Their farm would become my childhood paradise. My older brother Brian and I bottle-fed orphaned calves with oversized bottles that nearly matched the size of our own arms. We climbed into the hayloft, swinging from thick ropes before disappearing into towering piles of sweet-smelling hay. Papa lifted us onto his tractor to help him steer, as though there were no better place in the world for children to sit, and we bounced across the rolling pastures on his four-wheeler while warm Arkansas wind rushed across our faces.
That modest house in town became my childhood sanctuary. For years I imagined that someday I would live there myself and raise my own children within those same walls. Reflecting on those years , I understand why weekend visits settled something deep inside me: they followed the same comforting rhythm every time. Breakfast was already waiting for us when we woke up, beds were made habitually, church clothes were laid out the night before. Someone always knew where I was and kept an eye on me for safety.
My earliest memory begins on the painted concrete steps outside Nana's house. She buttoned me into a navy blue and white sailor dress, smoothing the front with gentle hands before taking me to church. Afterward, we sat together in the backyard while she asked what I had seen that morning and what I had liked best. I don't remember the sermon. I don't remember the songs. I remember sitting beside Nana as the Arkansas breeze set her yellow tulips dancing. She listened as though the thoughts of a little girl were worth hearing. We sat in matching vintage lawn chairs painted faded green with powder-coated white arms and legs worn smooth by a decade of summer afternoons.. They rocked ever so slightly if you leaned back just enough. Even today, those old metal lawn chairs stop me in my tracks. For just a moment, I'm back in Nana's backyard, listening to the tulips rustle in the breeze while the safest person I had ever known asked me what I thought.
Then during our summer visits she faithfully brought my brothers and me to Vacation Bible School. Those few weeks each year became my only consistent exposure to church throughout childhood. Even now, the smell of old hymnals or the sound of children's Bible songs carries me immediately back to her. She never knew it, but every Bible story she shared, every hymn she sang beside me, and every Sunday she faithfully carried me through those church doors became another small stone in the foundation God was quietly laying beneath my life. The seeds of faith are rarely planted all at once. Mine were scattered quietly through summer mornings beside my grandmother, long before they ever took root in my own heart.
Our mornings rarely varied. Before any of us wandered sleepily into the kitchen, Nana had already been awake for hours. Fresh Pillsbury biscuits rested in a basket beside scrambled eggs, sausage, homemade jam, butter, and bowls of canned fruit waiting on the table. Predictability has a fragrance, and mine smells like warm biscuits. At Nana's house, I never wondered what the day would bring. There was tremendous comfort in knowing exactly what came next.
After breakfast, childhood took over. Brian disappeared into elaborate worlds built from Lincoln Logs while Sean slowly paced the room, quietly spinning colorful Tinkertoys between his fingers. I lined up rows of little plastic people beside a bright yellow toy school bus and became their teacher. Every doll received a lesson. Every student learned something new. Every child climbed aboard the little bus before being sent safely home. I didn't know it then, but I wasn't just playing school. I was imagining the kind of world that made sense to me—one where every child belonged, every lesson ended well, and everyone made it safely home. I was rehearsing the life I would eventually choose.
Nana and I shared a bedroom with matching twin beds covered by pink floral quilts her own mother had stitched by hand decades earlier. Even while I slept, I was wrapped in the work of women who had loved our family long before I was born, while my father and brothers shared another room with their own blue quilts. Papa kept a bedroom and a small office of his own. Long before sunrise, he quietly slipped out the door for work, careful not to wake the rest of us.
The house wasn't large or fancy. Its carpet had worn paths through the hallway; the furniture had been used for years, and the television still depended on rabbit-ear antennas. Yet I never noticed what it lacked. I only noticed how peaceful it felt.
Evenings settled into familiar routines. We gathered around the old television balanced beneath its rabbit-ear antennas to watch The Beverly Hillbillies, Hee Haw, or whatever happened to be on that night. Earlier in the day, we'd study the TV Guide together, circling the times our favorite shows would air so we wouldn't miss a single one. Nothing remarkable happened on those evenings, and perhaps that's exactly why I remember them so clearly. Ordinary nights were something my childhood would not always have.
My favorite place in the den was beside Papa's recliner near the fireplace, where the warmth slowly dried my freshly washed hair. In retrospect, I realize the most meaningful moments of childhood often contained very few words. One afternoon, I snuggled a little too close to the fireplace while holding my favorite Barbie. Before I noticed the heat, the ends of her blonde hair had curled and singed. I was devastated. To a little girl, it felt like a disaster. Nana didn't scold me or sigh over the ruined doll. She simply made sure I wasn't burned, wrapped me in a hug, and said, "Things don't matter. People do." It was such a simple sentence, but it quietly revealed the priorities she lived by. Furniture could be replaced. Toys could be replaced. People could not.
Papa rarely spoke, but he didn't need to. His quiet presence was reassuring in a way I wouldn't fully appreciate until adulthood. He loved taking us fishing in his polished blue boat on Arkansas lakes and along the river, where hours often passed with little conversation beyond the occasional, "You've got one." He seemed perfectly content to let silence do most of the talking.
Whatever we caught, he cleaned on the weathered fish board attached to the back porch for Nana to fry up for dinner. With patient hands, he showed us how to remove the scales, separate the meat from the bones, and recognize the different kinds of fish we had caught. Sometimes we'd discover a female fish filled with tiny golden eggs, and together we'd stop our work just long enough to marvel at what we had found before finishing the job.
I recognize now that Papa rarely taught through lectures. He taught through invitation. He invited us to watch closely, to ask questions, to work patiently, and to appreciate the simple satisfaction of providing food with our own hands. As a little girl, I thought we were learning how to fish. Only years later did I grow to understand Papa had been teaching me something much harder to learn: how to be patient, how to stay calm, and how to find contentment in quiet places.
Nana loved just as deeply as Papa, but she expressed it differently. More often than not, she could be found curled up with a book in her lap. Yet the moment one of her grandchildren climbed beside her and asked, "Will you read to me?" she closed her own book without hesitation. Whatever story she had been enjoying could wait. We couldn't.
She celebrated every birthday as though it deserved to be remembered in grand fashion. Even when money was tight, and I now know those cakes were a luxury item, there was always a bakery cake chosen around our latest obsession—a Barbie cake for me, construction equipment or a sandbox for my brothers. Candles were lit. Happy Birthday was sung. Gifts were
wrapped with care. For a few precious hours, each of us felt like the most important person in the room.
Age has a way of clarifying what youth could not. I realize she wasn't really celebrating birthdays. She was celebrating us. Even today, I sometimes wake on my birthday imagining that somewhere in heaven, Nana is still singing to me.
Every Christmas, Nana spread the thick JCPenney catalog across the kitchen table and gave each of us a pencil. We carefully turned every page, circling possibilities, adding up totals, changing our minds, erasing favorites, and making entirely new lists. Deciding how to spend one hundred dollars felt like the biggest decision in the world. At the time, it never crossed my mind that one hundred dollars per grandchild represented a tremendous sacrifice. Children rarely recognize sacrifice while they're living inside it. Immature adults get angry at the ingratitude, but loving mature adults understand that it is something to be taught and caught.
Somehow, Christmas morning arrived with nearly every circled treasure waiting beneath the tree. We never questioned how she managed it. We simply believed Nana always could. We never wondered whether Christmas would come. We simply knew it would.
Time has a way of revealing which memories mattered most. They are rarely the dramatic ones. They are the ordinary moments that quietly taught my heart what love looked like long before I had words to describe it.
Nana stood at the kitchen counter with one of her aprons tied around her waist, humming softly as she washed dishes in one pre-filled sink and handed them to me to rinse in the other. She never wasted water. Homemade jam was served with the warm biscuits that were resting beneath a tea towel on the counter while sunlight spilled through the small kitchen window. Before daylight, Papa slipped quietly through the house, careful not to wake anyone as he left for work, returning that evening with the same steady presence he had carried out the door that morning.
I remember falling asleep in his big, worn-out brown recliner while the television played softly in the background, only to wake with a quilt tucked around my shoulders. I don't remember anyone covering me. It was simply the sort of thing that happened in that house. Love was rarely announced there. It was practiced.
Outside, the cicadas filled the Arkansas evenings while cattle grazed beyond the fences. When summer storms rolled across the sky, Nana and I would sometimes watch the waterdroplets race each other down the living room windows. Other times, we'd sit under the old tin roof of the back porch and simply sit together, listening. Rain sounded different there. It drummed against the metal overhead until the entire porch seemed wrapped in its own quiet music.
Once the thunder had wandered into the distance and the rain softened to a gentle drizzle, Nana would give me the nod that it was safe. I'd run barefoot to the end of the driveway where the sand and gravel met the road. Kneeling in the wet earth, I traced tiny canals with my fingers, carefully guiding the rainwater wherever I wanted it to go. Nana's voice would eventually drift across the yard, calling us inside before supper got cold. Love doesn't always need conversation or grand gestures. Sometimes it sounds like raindrops on a tin roof while two people quietly share the same moment.
Nothing about those days felt extraordinary while I was living them. Children rarely recognize they're living the moments that will one day become the measuring stick for everything that follows. I certainly didn't. Love was so consistent there that I mistook it for ordinary.
Years later, I would spend much of my adult life trying to recreate that feeling for my own children. Not the house itself. Not the farm. Not even Arkansas. What I wanted to recreate was something much less tangible and infinitely more valuable. I wanted my children to grow up without wondering whether they were loved. I wanted them to trust the adults who tucked them into bed. I wanted birthdays to be remembered without question, Christmas to feel certain, and home to become the safest place they knew. It took me years to understand that I wasn't inventing those traditions. I was passing forward what had first been given to me.
Even now, decades later, I can close my eyes and climb those familiar red-painted concrete steps. I hear the screen door creak before it slams shut behind me, careful not to catch my fingers. I smell sausage and warm biscuits while Nana turns another page of her Bible by the front window and Papa watches television from his recliner in the den. Out on the farm, cattle drift lazily across the pasture beneath an Arkansas sunset, completely unaware they are becoming part of a little girl's definition of home.
I didn't know then how uncommon that kind of love was. I simply believed every child had a place where they could finally exhale. I believed everyone had a Nana. I believed everyone had a home that would always be waiting.
I was wrong.
The road home is never truly finished; it is built with the stones of shared silence and the grace of steady love.
Reader Insights
Foundation of Love
Healing begins in the safety of a dependable space, where love is practiced through ordinary, consistent acts rather than grand gestures.
Inherited Resilience
The conviction and work ethic of those who came before us provide the framework for how we approach our own trials and restorations.
Sacred Stillness
Patience isn't just waiting; it is an active appreciation for the immense wisdom found in silence and the rhythms of the natural world.
Reflective Prompts
Read Proverbs 22:6. How does this chapter illustrate that spiritual formation happens over many years rather than in a single moment?
Read Deuteronomy 6:6–7. What everyday opportunities do you have to model your faith for children, grandchildren, students, or others around you?
Why do you think God so often chooses ordinary faithfulness instead of dramatic events to shape lives?
What "ordinary" act of love could you intentionally practice this week?
If someone were writing a memoir about your life fifty years from now, what everyday moments would you hope they remembered? What kind of spiritual legacy do you want to leave for the next generation?
Experience the Full Story
