A Porch-Side Sunday: The Slow Work That Still Counts

If you’ve got a quiet house (or a loud one) and a few minutes between coffee refills, pull up a chair with me. Sundays on the homestead don’t always look like a picture, sometimes they look like catching up on laundry, feeding animals with sleepy eyes, and trying to remember where I set my phone down.

But I’ve learned something the hard way: rest isn’t only what happens when everything is finished. Rest is what we practice because we’re human, and because God never asked us to earn our worth by staying busy.

This morning I kept thinking about my sourdough starter, Myrtle, sitting on the counter. She’s not doing anything loud. No announcements. No big show. Just quiet, steady work beneath the surface.

And that’s how a lot of healing looks too.

The Unseen Rise

There are seasons when you don’t feel like you’re “making progress.” You’re showing up, you’re praying, you’re doing the next right thing, but you don’t see the change yet.

Sourdough teaches me to respect the unseen.

When I mix flour and water and fold that dough, it doesn’t look like much. It’s sticky and plain and honestly a little unimpressive. But give it time, give it warmth, give it patience, and something begins to happen that I can’t force.

That’s the part I’m always tempted to rush.

But God doesn’t rush the rise.

He works in the quiet places. In the waiting. In the “nothing is happening” moments. In the ordinary days that don’t make good stories yet.

A Small Sunday Practice (No Pressure)

If your week has been heavy, I want to offer you a simple Sunday practice—something gentle, something doable.

Name what’s been hard. Not to spiral, just to be honest.

Thank God for one steady thing. A person, a provision, a breath, a warm mug.

Do one small act of care. For your home, your body, your heart.

That’s it. No gold stars. No perfect routine.

Just a little “yes” to the life you’re living right now.

From My Hands to Your Home

This business was never only about bread.

It’s about legacy. It’s about love. It’s about honoring the women who shaped me, and building something that feels like a table you can come sit at.

So if you’re reading this and you feel behind, or tired, or like your faith is smaller than it used to be, let me tell you what I’m learning:

Small faith still feeds people.

A little starter makes a whole loaf.

A little hope carries a whole heart.

And a Sunday that looks ordinary can still be holy.

A Closing Prayer

Lord, teach us to trust the slow work.
Give us grace for the unfinished things.
Meet us in the quiet rise, where You’re working even when we can’t see it.
Help us rest without guilt, and love without striving.
Amen.

If you’d like, hit reply and tell me: What’s one “slow work” thing you’re trusting God with right now?

No spam, no pressure, just porch talk.

It happened last week. I mixed everything right. Fed my starter the night before. The water was the right temperature. But something in the timing, or the room, or maybe just the way the world was turning that day, meant the dough stayed small. Waiting. Not ready.

My first instinct was the same one I’ve had my whole life: I messed up. This is ruined. Start over.

But I didn’t. I sat with it instead

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When Waiting Feels Like Failure

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Not the kind of peace the world talks about, you know the kind that depends on everything going right.

But the kind that comes when you know, deep in your bones,that you are exactly where God has placed you for this season.

Out here on the homestead, purpose doesn’t always look big. It looks like feeding sourdough starter before the sun rises. It looks like gathering eggs with sleepy eyes and grateful hands. It looks like flour dust on the counter and dough resting under a linen cloth.

It looks… ordinary. And yet, it isn’t.

🌾 The Sacred in the Simple

There’s something holy about working with your hands. Every loaf I bake starts the same way—just flour, water, salt… and time.

That little jar of starter we call Myrtle~alive, steady, faithful.

I don’t force it to rise. I don’t rush the process.I trust it.

And isn’t that what God asks of us too?

To show up.

To be consistent.

To do the work placed in front of us

…and trust Him with the outcome.

🍞 Purpose Doesn’t Have to Be Loud

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And what I will carry with me most wasn’t the cake or the celebration…

It was the quiet moments.

The ones where it was just the two of us, coffee in the morning, or sitting later in the evening, and I simply listened.

Gramps lived a life many today only hear about in stories.

He was a ranch hand… a cowboy.

He worked horseback—wrangling horses, milking cows, tending land.
He worked in the orange groves in a small Florida town.
He farmed.
He provided.

They raised chickens.
Grew their own vegetables.
Pumped water from a well.

A simple life by today’s standards…

But a full one.

Their home was small.

Two bedrooms.
One bathroom.
Seven children… and the two of them.

And yet, somehow, it was enough.

More than enough.

As I sat with him, he shared something that stopped me in my tracks.

He told me about his brothers—how when they would get together, they would often complain about their jobs… their lives… what they didn’t have.

And then he looked at me and said something I don’t think I will ever forget:

“I loved the work I did. I loved my family.
I made very little money… but I never had anything to complain about.”

Let that settle for a moment.

In a world where we are constantly told we need more…
To be more…
To chase more…

Here is a man who lived through harder times than most of us ever will…

And he said he had nothing to complain about.

He lost the love of his life two years ago this May.

And then, just this past November, he lost his eldest daughter.

Grief has visited him deeply.

And still…

There is peace in him.
Gratitude.
A quiet steadiness that only comes from a life well lived.

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Out here on the homestead, we’re watching baby goats being born, and at the same time, I’m watching my grandson turn six months old. Two kinds of new life. Two kinds of miracles. And somehow, both are teaching me the same lesson:

God doesn’t just bring life ~ He sustains it.

The holy hush of new beginnings

There’s a moment right after a baby goat hits the straw where everything gets still.

Mama is tired. The barn is warm. The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

And then there’s movement. A tiny wobble. A first attempt at standing. A little mouth searching for milk, like it’s always known where to go.

It’s messy and ordinary and sacred all at once.

And isn’t that how so much of life is?

Not polished. Not picture-perfect. Just real. And somehow, still covered in grace.

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Some mornings, health doesn’t look like a perfect routine or a perfectly packed lunch.

Sometimes it looks like stepping outside before the day gets loud. It looks like hands in the dirt, bread on the counter, and the steady work of caring for what God has placed in front of you.

Homestead living isn’t a magic fix for everything, but it does naturally pull life in a healthier direction: more movement, more time outdoors, more real food, and a pace that invites your nervous system to exhale.

Below are a few of the biggest reasons homestead life can be a gift to your body and mind, plus research links you can read for yourself if you like research / read further.

We now offer online sourdough classes at your pace that fit your schedule! Enroll once for lifetime access click here!

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Today marks one year since my mama left this world and ran into the arms of Jesus.

And somehow, it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.

I think back to those last two weeks when she lived with us… when brain cancer tried its best to steal her from us slow and unkind. We didn’t know it at the time — how close the end really was — and in a strange, tender way, I’m grateful we didn’t. Because we loved her like she had forever.

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The wind has changed its tune here on the homestead.

Mornings arrive with a hush, and the first light filters through the oak trees in golden ribbons.

I watch the leaves tumble and scatter across the yard — each one a soft sermon about surrender.

There’s a peace in their falling.

No striving. No resistance. Just release.

It’s easy to love the beauty of autumn, but it’s harder to live it.

Letting go is holy work — and it doesn’t always feel gentle.

Sometimes it’s the quiet loss of routines we once depended on.

Sometimes it’s the pruning of plans that no longer fit the season we’re in.

Sometimes it’s saying goodbye to who we thought we were supposed to be.

Out here, surrounded by fading flowers and crackling leaves, I’m learning that letting go isn’t the end it’s an invitation.

Because just beneath the soil, something sacred is atirring.

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Out here, surrounded by the gentle bleating of our Oberhasli goats and the proud crow of our roosters, I'm reminded that fall doesn't announce itself with fanfare. Instead, it arrives like a gentle friend, tapping softly on our hearts with cool mornings and the promise of pumpkin dreams.

This morning, as I checked our latest batch of pumpkin spice goat milk soap, still curing and filling the air with its warm, comforting scent, I found myself thinking about the layers of blessings that surround us. There's something about this season that makes everything feel more intentional, more precious.

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If you’ve followed along here for a while, you know that on our little patch of land, we try to live intentionally and with gratitude. Recently, our homestead has been blessed by a partnership with Café Campesino right here in Americus. They’ve been so generous in sharing their used coffee grounds and chaff with us. What some see as waste, we see as life:

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The morning air carries just a hint of what's coming, with that subtle shift that whispers autumn is waiting in the wings. Here on the homestead, late summer feels like God's gentle reminder to pause and count our blessings before the season turns.

This morning, as I fed the ducks and chickens and watched the Oberhasli goats graze in the golden light, I found myself overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. Not just for the obvious gifts - though those fresh eggs in my basket daily and the promise of fresh milk for the next soap batch and my morning coffee are certainly blessings; but for the quieter graces too.

I'm grateful for the rhythm of seasons that teach us when to plant, when to tend, and when to harvest. For the way sourdough starter bubbles with life on my counter, connecting me to generations of bakers who understood that good things take time. For hands and a heart that still remember how Mom Sharon and Mama Beth tended to their families, gardens, and grandchildren, even though they're no longer here to show and watch me do the same.

There's something sacred about this in-between time - when summer's abundance is still flowing but we can sense the approaching rest of fall. The herb garden is at its peak, basil leaves heavy with oil that will carry summer's warmth into our olive oil bottles through the darker months ahead. The tomatoes are giving their final, sweetest gifts.

I'm grateful for customers who've become friends, who trust us with their families' bread and understand that love is, indeed, the secret ingredient. For the way this work has become prayer, kneading dough in the early morning hours, milking goats as the sun rises, stirring soap while remembering our mothers and grandmothers who shaped us.

Even in the face of challenges - the long days balancing patient care work with homestead life, the learning curve of running a business, and the moments when grief still catches me off guard. These too are part of the harvest, teaching resilience and reminding us that growth often comes through the hard seasons.

As we head toward September, what are you grateful for in your late summer harvest? Sometimes the sweetest blessings are the ones we almost miss, the everyday graces that hide in plain sight.

What's one unexpected blessing you've discovered this summer? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

I'm finally settling down with my coffee after an early morning of baking bagels, muffins, and a batch of hot honey jalapeño sourdough that has me excited for the weekend's customers. Myrtle, my faithful starter, got her morning feeding too, and there's something so grounding about starting the day with your hands in dough and the smell of fresh bread filling the house.

No porch sitting this morning – just the rhythm of kneading, shaping, and tending to the beautiful chaos that is Mother's Love Homestead. And as I watch the morning light stream through the kitchen window, I can't help but think about how different this summer feels...

The Beautiful Mess of Summer

If I'm being honest, this summer has been a beautiful mess. The garden is producing more than I can keep up with – tomatoes splitting on the vine before I can reach them, herbs growing wild and free, and the goats... well, the milk is flowing, and early morning milking is another peaceful time to sit and be grateful for all the gifts.

But isn't that just like life? We make our plans, tend our gardens with care, and then summer arrives with its own agenda. The cucumbers I planted with such hope are struggling in this heat, while the basil I almost forgot about is thriving beyond my wildest dreams – perfect for those infused olive oils that pair so beautifully with fresh bread.

When Birthdays Become Holy Ground

Wednesday marked a milestone I never wanted to reach – my mama's first birthday in heaven. For the first time in my life, I couldn't pick up the phone to wish her a happy birthday. Instead, I found myself surrounded by family around the dinner table, sharing stories that made us laugh and cry in the same breath.

We talked about her laugh, her hands that never stopped working, and the way she could make anyone feel loved with just a look. And as the tears came – because they always do – I felt something I didn't expect: gratitude. Not for the loss, never for that, but for the gift of knowing that she's no longer fighting for her life. She now has a new life, fully restored and completely whole.

There's something profound about celebrating someone's birthday when they're experiencing their first real birthday – free from pain, free from struggle, wrapped in perfect love.

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Learning to Thrive, Not Just Survive

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to truly thrive on this homestead, especially in the wake of loss. It's not about having the perfect Instagram-worthy setup or the most productive week. It's about finding rhythm in the chaos, grace in the imperfection, and joy in the simple act of showing up each day – even when your heart feels tender.

This morning, while shaping bagels in the pre-dawn quiet, I felt Mama's presence in the familiar motions. She would have loved watching Myrtle bubble and grow, would have had opinions about the perfect balance of heat and honey in that jalapeño bread, but how she could not eat a slice because jalapenos are too hot! Each fold of the dough felt like a prayer, a way of honoring the life lessons she taught me about making something beautiful from simple ingredients.

The Gifts Hidden in Plain Sight

There's something magical about preservation season – not just the canning and drying, but the way it teaches us to see abundance in a different light. That basket of slightly imperfect tomatoes becomes sauce for winter soups. The herbs that grew too quickly become dried treasures for cold-weather cooking. And the sourdough that started as flour and water becomes nourishment for neighbors and strangers alike.

Yesterday, while making a batch of goat milk soap, I found myself thinking about how these simple acts connect me to generations of women who knew how to make something beautiful and functional from what they had. I could almost feel Mama's hands guiding mine, her voice whispering the wisdom she'd shared so many times: "Waste not, want not, but love always."

A Gentle Reminder

If you're feeling overwhelmed by the pace of summer – the preserving, the gardening, the constant cycle of growth and harvest – take a breath. You don't have to do it all. You don't have to do it perfectly.

And if you're walking through your own season of grief, know that it's okay to feel joy and sorrow in the same moment. It's Okay to celebrate birthdays in heaven, even if it means missing earthly hugs. It's okay to find God in the garden dirt and hear the voices of loved ones in the quiet morning kitchen.

Sometimes the most radical act is to feed your starter with intention, to shape dough with love, to let the simple rhythms of creation heal your heart. Sometimes it's okay to let the tomatoes split and the herbs go to seed. Sometimes the most important harvest is the peace we find in simply being present – to our grief, to our joy, to the sacred ordinary of each day.

What's Growing in Your Heart?

As I finish this morning's reflection, I'm curious about you. What's growing in your heart this summer? How are you finding ways to honor those you love while still embracing the life in front of you? What small joys are you discovering in the midst of the beautiful chaos?

I'd love to hear from you – whether it's about your own baking adventures, your preservation victories (or failures!), or just how you're finding peace in this season of both growth and remembrance.

Until next time, may your starter be bubbly, your bread rise perfectly, and your heart be full of both memories and hope.

With love from the homestead kitchen,

Mary

Your friend with flour-dusted hands

I'm sitting here on the porch this evening, and I honestly can't believe what I'm about to share with you. My little sourdough guide, "Grit & Grace The Wild Yeast Way," has found its way into the hands of almost 30 aspiring sourdough bakers! 🥖✨

When I first poured my heart into those pages (and there are only about 25 pages to keep it simple for the beginner), sharing the healing journey I've found through working with wild yeast, I never imagined it would touch so many lives. Each purchase represents someone ready to embark on their own path of growth, patience, and discovery through sourdough.

To every single one of you who has trusted me with your sourdough journey - thank you. Thank you for believing that bread can be more than just flour and water. Thank you for understanding that sometimes the most profound healing happens in the quiet moments of kneading, waiting, and watching wild yeast work its magic. Thank you for reaching out, sharing your successes, and asking for guidance and encouragement!

Click for your copy!

This guide isn't just about making bread; it's about finding grace in the process, discovering grit in the challenges, and learning that some of life's most beautiful transformations happen slowly, with patience and love.

If you're feeling called to begin your own sourdough journey, or know someone who might find comfort in the therapeutic art of bread-making, you can find "Grit & Grace The Wild Yeast Way" here:

Find your guide here!

From my homestead kitchen to yours, with endless gratitude and love,

Mary

P.S. I'd love to hear about your sourdough adventures! Share your stories, your struggles, and your successes - we're all learning together on this beautiful journey. 💕

From Mother's Love Homestead with Love!

There's something magical about early mornings on the homestead – when the world feels quiet and full of possibility, and the day's work stretches ahead like a familiar, well-worn path.

Here at Mother's Love Homestead and our Grit & Grace microbakery, we've chosen to do things the old-fashioned way. Not because it's trendy or because we're trying to make a statement, but because we've learned that the methods our grandmothers used – the slow, patient, intentional ways – they simply work better.

The Art of Slow Bread

Take our sourdough, for instance. Every morning, I tend to my starter like it's a living thing (because it is!). This culture has been bubbling and growing in my kitchen for years now, fed with organic flour and time and patience. No shortcuts, no instant gratification – just the ancient dance of wild yeast and flour and water, working together to create something nourishing and beautiful.

For those of you who've been asking about starting your sourdough journey, here's the simple recipe that's been passed down through generations:

Basic Sourdough Starter Recipe

• Day 1: Mix 50g of all-purpose flour with 50g of room-temperature water in a clean jar. Stir well, cover loosely, and let sit at room temperature.

• Days 2-7: Discard half of the mixture, then add 50g flour and 50g water. Stir, cover loosely, and repeat daily.

• By day 7, your starter should be doubling in size within 4-8 hours of feeding and have a pleasant, tangy aroma.

Once established, feed your starter regularly (daily if kept at room temperature, weekly if refrigerated) with equal parts flour and water. Treat it with love and patience – it's a living culture that will reward your care with the most beautiful, flavorful bread.

When I shape each loaf – whether it's our classic sourdough, the double chocolate that makes the kids' eyes light up, or the sun-dried tomato with seasoned feta that tastes like summer – I'm using the same techniques bakers have used for centuries. My hands know the feel of properly developed dough, the way it springs back when it's ready, the satisfaction of scoring that perfect ear.

Gifts from Our Four-Legged Family

Our goats aren't just livestock to us – they're family members with personalities as distinct as any human's. Sweet Fluer always greets me first at milking time, while Zoe prefers to take her time, surveying the morning like a queen holding court. When I collect their rich, creamy milk, I'm reminded daily of the sacred trust between human and animal.

That milk becomes our beloved goat milk soap bars that are gentle on the skin and made with the same care our great-grandmothers would have recognized. No harsh chemicals, no artificial anything. Just pure goat milk, natural oils, and time-honored saponification methods that create something truly special.

Respecting What They Provide

Every egg I gather from our hens, every drop of milk from our goats, every herb I snip from our garden – these aren't just ingredients. They're gifts. Gifts that require respect, gratitude, and the understanding that we're stewards of something precious.

When I infuse our olive oils with basil from our garden or the chilis we grow ourselves, I'm not just making a product. I'm capturing the essence of this place, this season, this moment in time. The old ways teach us to waste nothing, to honor everything, and to find the sacred in the everyday.

The Grit and the Grace

Our microbakery's name – Grit & Grace – tells the story of how we work. The grit is in the early mornings, the flour under my fingernails, the persistence it takes to perfect a recipe. The grace is in the patience required for proper fermentation, the gentleness needed when handling our animals, and the faith that good things come to those who wait.

Speaking of grit, this past month has certainly tested ours! Our oven decided to give up the ghost in June, right in the middle of our busiest baking season. Then, just when we thought we'd weathered that storm, our refrigerator followed suit in July. We had to laugh about it – if we'd had a 30-year-old appliance, it probably would still be humming along perfectly! But that's homestead life for you. Sometimes the grit isn't just in the work itself, but in rolling with the punches and finding the humor in the chaos.

These moments remind us why the old ways matter so much. Our great-grandmothers didn't have fancy appliances that could break down at the worst possible moment. They had cast iron, wood-fired ovens, and root cellars – things built to last generations, not just until the warranty expires.

In a world that's always rushing, always looking for the faster way, the easier path, we've chosen differently. We've chosen the way of our mothers and grandmothers, the way that honors the process as much as the product.

Monday Blessings

As you start your week, I encourage you to find your own "old ways" – the practices that connect you to something more profound than efficiency or convenience. Maybe it's handwriting a letter, growing your herbs, or simply taking time to taste your morning coffee. Or perhaps it's starting your sourdough starter and beginning the beautiful journey of wild yeast bread making.

The old ways still work best because they're rooted in love, patience, and respect. They remind us that the best things in life – whether it's a perfectly risen loaf of bread or the trust of a gentle goat – can't be rushed. And when modern conveniences fail us, we can always fall back on the tried and true methods that have sustained families for generations.

Here's to a week filled with intention, gratitude, and the simple joy of doing things right – even when the appliances don't cooperate!

With love from our homestead to yours,

Mary

P.S. – If you're ever in Americus, Georgia, and want to experience these old ways firsthand, our sourdough and goat milk soap are available for pickup. Reach out ahead of time to make sure we are available. We also offer both dehydrated and live sourdough starters for those ready to begin their bread journey. Because some things are worth the wait, unlike modern appliances! 🏡

Good evening from our little corner of South Georgia,

When we first started Mother’s Love Homestead, I never imagined our licensed cottage bakery would become such a source of healing - not just for our family, but for our community. Every loaf of handmade sourdough bread that comes from our kitchen carries a piece of our story, our faith, and our commitment to simple, wholesome living.

The Healing Power of Bread

There’s something deeply therapeutic about working with sourdough. The patience it requires, the gentle rhythm of kneading, the trust in the fermentation process - it mirrors so much of our own healing journey after losing both our mothers. In those early days of grief, when words felt inadequate, I found solace in the ancient art of bread making.

Our naturally leavened sourdough has become more than just our livelihood; it’s become our ministry. When neighbors and friends stop by for their weekly loaves, they often linger on the porch, sharing their own stories of loss, hope, and healing. This little Georgia cottage bakery has become a gathering place for hearts that need mending.

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Simple Ingredients, Profound Impact

Just like healing, our artisan bread starts with the simplest ingredients - flour, water, salt, and time. No shortcuts, no artificial additives, just the patient work of transformation. Isn’t that how God works in our lives too? Taking the basic elements of our broken hearts and, with time and His gentle touch, creating something beautiful and nourishing.

From Our Kitchen to Your Table

Every Friday and Saturday, as families arrive to pick up their orders, I’m reminded that we’re not just a South Georgia sourdough bakery - we’re part of something bigger. We’re feeding families, creating traditions, and yes, participating in the quiet work of healing that happens around kitchen tables across our community.

A Prayer for Your Week

As you break bread this week, whether it’s our sourdough or another baker’s creation, may you remember that you too are being transformed. Like the grain that becomes flour, like the starter that becomes bread, you are becoming something beautiful in God’s hands.

With love from our homestead to yours,

Mary

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A practice for turning your kitchen into a sanctuary and your bread into a meditation

When I first started baking after losing my mother and mother-in-law, I didn't realize I was praying. I thought I was just trying to keep my hands busy, to create something good from a season that felt so broken. But as months passed and my sourdough starter grew stronger, I began to understand that something sacred was happening in my kitchen.

The rhythm of mixing, kneading, waiting, and baking had become my daily prayer—a conversation with God that happened not in words, but in the ancient language of flour and water, salt and time.

The Sacred Foundation

There's something profound about bread that connects us to the divine. Jesus called himself the "bread of life," and throughout history, breaking bread has been both sustenance and sacrament. When we bake, we participate in an act of creation that mirrors the way God works in our lives—taking simple ingredients and transforming them into something that nourishes both body and soul.

Your sourdough starter is alive, growing, requiring daily tending and trust in the process even when you can't see immediate results. Isn't that exactly how faith works? How does healing happen? How do we learn to live again after a loss?

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Mindful Mixing: Setting Sacred Intention

I've learned to begin each baking session with a moment of stillness. Before I measure the first cup of flour, I pause and acknowledge that I'm about to participate in something sacred. Each ingredient becomes a prayer:

• Flour: The foundation of faith, ground fine through life's experiences

• Water: The flowing grace that sustains us through difficult seasons

• Starter: The living hope that continues growing, even in darkness

• Salt: The preservation of precious memories and the seasoning of hard-won wisdom

As I combine these elements, I breathe deeply and set an intention. Sometimes it's gratitude for my mother's legacy. Sometimes it's prayers for healing—mine or someone else's. Sometimes it's simply openness to whatever the process might teach me today.

The Meditation of Kneading

This is where the real prayer work happens. The repetitive motion creates a natural rhythm for meditation, similar to the way monks use prayer beads or engage in walking meditation. I've developed my pattern—sometimes counting breaths, sometimes repeating a meaningful phrase, sometimes just staying present with the sensation of dough transforming under my hands.

The physical act of kneading mirrors the spiritual work of processing grief and building resilience. Just as gluten develops through pressure and gentle folding, our faith and healing strengthen through life's stresses and the gentle folding of grace back into our lives.

When the dough resists, I acknowledge that resistance is part of growth. When it becomes smooth and elastic, I celebrate the transformation happening, even if it's slow.

Sacred Waiting: The Rising as Spiritual Practice

The rising periods offer natural pauses for deeper reflection. Instead of seeing this waiting time as inactive, I've learned to frame it as essential spiritual work. Just as dough needs time to develop flavor and structure, our healing journey requires patience and trust in the timing we can't control.

During the first rise, I often journal or sit quietly, reflecting on what's "rising" in my own life—new insights, growing peace, emerging purpose. The second rise becomes a time for gratitude, acknowledging how far I've come since those early days of loss.

These waiting periods teach us that some of life's most important work happens in the quiet, unseen moments.

The Transformation of Fire: Baking as Release

The final stage—baking—represents release and transformation. As I place my loaf in the oven, I practice letting go of the outcome. I've done the work of mixing, kneading, and waiting. Now I trust the process to complete itself, just as I've learned to trust that healing happens in its own time.

The aroma filling my kitchen becomes a form of prayer itself—an offering of gratitude that rises and fills the space around me. When I hear the crust crackling as it cools, I listen to it as a celebration of the transformation that has been completed.

An Invitation to Your Own Kitchen

You don't need special equipment or extensive time to practice "baking as prayer." You just need the willingness to approach something you might already be doing with greater intentionality and openness.

Whether you're dealing with loss, seeking deeper spiritual connection, or simply wanting to find more meaning in daily tasks, this practice offers a gentle entry point into mindfulness and prayer.

Start small. Set an intention before you bake. Notice your breathing while you knead. Use the rising time for quiet reflection. Let the aroma become your prayer of gratitude.

Your kitchen can become a sanctuary. Your bread can become a meditation. Your daily work can become a conversation with the divine.

What daily tasks in your life might become opportunities for prayer and reflection? I'd love to hear about your own experiences with finding the sacred in the ordinary.

The alarm goes off, but honestly, I'm usually already awake. There's this pull toward the garden and the animals in the early morning hours - before the Georgia heat settles in, before the world gets noisy. It's just me, the goats stirring in their pen, and God's creation waking up around me.

The Garden as Cathedral

Y'all, I've been thinking lately about how the garden has become my church in ways I never expected. Not replacing Sunday worship, mind you, but adding to it. When I'm out there checking on my herbs - the basil that'll flavor the pesto, the jalapeños that'll spice up next week's sourdough - I find myself praying without even realizing it.

"Thank you for this growth, Lord. Help me be as patient with myself as I am with these plants."

There's something about tending to living things that makes you more aware of the One who tends to us. The way a seedling pushes through hard soil reminds me of how faith pushes through our hardest seasons. The way plants lean toward the sun? That's precisely how our hearts should lean toward Him.

Lessons from the Herb Garden

This summer, my little herb patch has been teaching me more than any sermon:

Patience: That basil I planted in May? It's just now getting full and fragrant. Good things—whether it's herbs or healing—take time.

Consistency: A little water every day beats a flood once a week. The same applies to prayer and showing up for the people we love.

Pruning: Sometimes you gotta cut back the good to make room for the great. Those herb stems I pinch back? They come back stronger.

Finding Sacred in the Simple

When I'm out there in the morning quiet, harvesting what we'll use for the day, I'm reminded that God meets us in the ordinary. The smell of fresh earth. The satisfaction of picking ingredients for tonight's dinner. The way the goats call out their morning greetings.

These aren't just chores - they're rhythms of grace.

Your Summer Rhythms

Maybe you don't have a garden, but I bet you have rhythms too. That first cup of coffee on the porch. The way you fold laundry while thinking through your day. The bedtime stories with little ones.

What if we began to see these moments as holy? What if we invited God into our ordinary Tuesday mornings?

What summer rhythms are teaching you about God's faithfulness? I'd love to hear about them in the comments below.

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Until next time, from my porch to yours, Mary

P.S. - If you're looking for simple ways to add herbs to your cooking, try my infused olive oils! A little basil oil drizzled on fresh bread is pure summer magic.

As I write this, the morning sun is painting golden streaks across our South Georgia homestead, and I can hear the goats calling from their pasture - that familiar sound that means home, that means life continuing in its beautiful, messy, abundant way. The garden is full to bursting, the bakery is humming with sourdough activity, and there's something about summer that makes everything feel more possible, more hopeful.

But I know some of you are reading this while your hearts still carry the weight of loss. Perhaps you're like me, learning to navigate joy and grief simultaneously.

Perhaps summer feels bittersweet because it reminds you of someone who is no longer here to share it with you.

Today, I would like to offer you a meditation that has been growing in my heart - one that honors both the abundance around us and the love that continues even after loss. It's a practice I've been walking through myself as I prepare to welcome my first grandson, Marshall Blaise, while still missing my mama and mother-in-love deeply.

Finding Your Sacred Space

Before we begin, find a comfortable place where you can sit quietly for a few minutes. If you can, step outside - let the summer air touch your skin, feel the warmth of the sun. If you're inside, maybe sit by a window where you can see something growing, something alive.

Close your eyes and take three deep breaths. With each exhale, let your shoulders drop a little more. You're safe here. You're held here.

The Meditation: A Summer Morning on the Homestead

Breathe in slowly... breathe out gently...

Imagine yourself walking with me through a summer morning here at Mother's Love Homestead. The air is warm but not yet heavy, carrying the scent of fresh bread from the Grit & Grace kitchen and the sweet smell of hay from the goat pasture.

Breathe in that abundance... breathe out any tension...

We're walking together toward the chicken coop, and you can hear the gentle clucking of our hens, content and busy with their morning routines. As we gather the warm eggs - each one a small miracle, a gift of provision - feel the weight of abundance in your hands. Not the abundance of having everything, but the abundance of recognizing love in simple forms.

Breathe in gratitude... breathe out worry...

Now we're walking past the garden where the tomatoes are heavy on the vine, the herbs are fragrant in the morning sun, and the jalapeños are growing strong for our next batch of jalapeño cheddar bread. This is summer's gift - the reminder that growth happens, that life continues, that beauty emerges even after the coldest most brutal winters.

Breathe in hope... breathe out fear...

Let's pause here by the lavender plants - can you smell that sweet, calming scent? This is where I want you to think about the love that continues. The people we've lost, they're not gone from our hearts. Their love is like this lavender - it fills the air around us, bringing peace and reminding us that some things are eternal.

Breathe in that enduring love... breathe out loneliness...

As we walk toward the goat pasture, you can see our Oberhasli girls grazing peacefully in the morning light. There's something about watching animals in their contentment that teaches us about being present, about finding peace in simple moments. Even in our grief and during our healing, we can still find these pockets of peace.

Breathe in peace... breathe out restlessness...

Now imagine us sitting together on the porch, maybe with a cup of coffee and a slice of warm sourdough bread. The morning is getting warmer, and you can feel the promise of a full summer day ahead. This is what I want you to remember - that you can hold both joy and sorrow. You can miss someone deeply and still feel grateful for the morning sun. You can grieve and still notice the beauty around you.

Breathe in this truth... breathe out any guilt about feeling joy...

Summer teaches us about abundance, but not the kind the world talks about. It's the abundance of memories that makes us smile through tears. The abundance of love that doesn't end when someone dies. The abundance of small graces - warm eggs, fresh bread, the sound of goats calling, the scent of lavender on the breeze.

Breathe in this sacred abundance... breathe out any sense of scarcity...

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Carrying This With You

As we finish this meditation together, I want you to place your hand on your heart and feel it beating. This is life continuing. This is love continuing. This is hope continuing.

When summer days feel too bright for your grief, remember that you can borrow some peace from this morning we shared. When abundance feels impossible because of what you've lost, remember that love itself is the most incredible abundance - and that never leaves us.

Take three more deep breaths with me. Feel your feet on the ground. Feel the air in your lungs. Feel the love that surrounds you, seen and unseen.

Breathe in blessing... breathe out gratitude...

You are held, sweet friend. You are loved. And summer's abundance includes you.

A Prayer for Summer Hearts

Lord, thank You for summer's reminder that life continues, that growth happens, that beauty emerges even after the hardest seasons. Help us hold both joy and sorrow with grace. Help us recognize abundance not in having everything, but in knowing we are loved beyond measure. May we find You in the simple gifts - warm mornings, fresh bread, the laughter of loved ones, and the peace that comes from knowing some things are eternal. Amen.

What season of your heart are you walking through right now? I'd love to hear from you in the comments below. Sometimes, sharing our journey helps lighten the load for everyone.

With love from the homestead,

Mary

Mother’s Love Homestead / Grit & Grace

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There’s something about the beginning of June that feels like a second spring. Maybe it’s the way everything starts to burst with life—not just grow, but truly flourish. The lettuce leaves are full and crisp, the squash blossoms are flirting with bees, and my hands seem to smell like basil and soil more days than not. (Speaking of basil—over the weekend I stumbled across African blue basil at a little plant stand in Tennessee, and you’d have thought I’d found buried treasure.)

Now I’ll be honest: I don’t love bees. A bumblebee swarmed me as a child and left a memory I can’t quite shake. So while I understand their holy mission in the garden, I prefer to admire them from a respectful distance. Still, when I brushed the velvety leaves of that basil and the scent bloomed up wild and sweet, even I could see why the bees adore it.

In the kitchen, my sourdough starter has never been happier. The warmth speeds up fermentation, and the rhythm of bake days has settled into something sacred. This month, I’m trying out a few new ventures with sourdoughs ~ honey oat, and maybe even a rosemary olive oil boule. There’s a quiet joy in shaping dough by hand in the early morning while the world is still yawning awake.

Over in the chicken pen , the newest batch of chicks is chirping up a storm. Fluffy, curious, and full of personality already. They remind me how fast life moves out here—how one day it’s an egg, the next it’s a feathered blur under a heat lamp. The cycle of life feels so close in June. And somehow, it never stops being a wonder.

I hope wherever you are, you’re feeling the shift too. June is here to remind us that life doesn’t always rush in—it often unfolds slowly, sweetly, and in full bloom. Maybe this is your month to try something new, to dig your hands into something meaningful, or simply to sit on a porch swing and let the breeze remind you how loved you are.

Wishing you tomatoes on the vine, fresh bread on your counter, and peace that lingers like sunset light.

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With love from the homestead,

Mary

I did something so far out of my comfort zone that I do not even have the words to express the gravity of it – I submitted an entry to the 2025 MicroBakery Awards—a celebration of small-scale bakers who pour their hearts, hands, and heritage into every loaf, pastry, and crust. My mama(s) would be so proud of me.

When I started baking sourdough on our little homestead, I was not chasing awards or giveaways. I was chasing peace. After a year of sourdough failure, God placed on my heart to reattempt sourdough after my mama lost a long battle with cancer. Devastation does not begin to encompass the ache in my heart, but I needed something to bring me closer to all she taught me. You see, Mama was the bread baker in our family. Every Christmas, we were gifted a loaf, and it was one of the best parts of the holiday.

I needed something real—something slow and sacred, something I could shape with my own hands in the stillness of the early morning or after a busy workday, a quiet time to talk to God and share my thoughts, even chat with both my Mamas. Baking gives me that. It has become more than food; it has become a ministry. It is healing.

The Heart Behind the Oven

Our logo features a distinctive heart, formed by two merging halves—a tribute to Sharon (my mother-in-love whom we lost in 2019) and Beth (my mama, who lost a hard battle with cancer in 2024). These remarkable women, known for their strength, faith, and unwavering love for others, continue to inspire me deeply. This heart represents the truth that even in brokenness, God is constantly shaping something whole and beautiful.
It’s this spirit I pour into every loaf of bread, bar of soap, and every creation from our homestead.

For the One Thinking About Starting…

To anyone out there thinking about starting a new thing—be it bread baking, beekeeping, or believing in yourself again—I want you to know:
You do not need a perfect kitchen or the right equipment.
You do not need to know everything before you begin.

You need a little courage, some flour, and a whole lot of heart.

Start where you are.
Use what you have.
Do what you can.

God will meet you there—in the dough, in the dirt, in the quiet. And one day, maybe you’ll look up from your loaf and realize you’ve baked your way into something that has brought joy to you and maybe even others.

With flour on my apron and joy in my heart,
Mary