Nights at grandma and grandpas carried their own kind of peace.

We slept with the windows open to let in the cool summer night air. The drifting breeze carried in with it the scents of grass, rich soil, and something sweet I just can’t put a name to.

The sounds filled the night too – crickets chirping, frogs croaking, the chorus of summer evenings in the country. As a child they lulled me to sleep without a thought. As an adult, I sometimes wonder if I’d find them distracting – but if I could, I’d give anything to lie back again in that north facing room and let those simple songs of nature ease me into rest. No nightlights, no hum of machines – just the glow of moonlight and stars across the ceiling, with a light flickering from the lightening bugs.

Morning came with its own music.

The snorts of hogs rooting in the dirt carried through the window, followed by the clap and snap of the feeder lids as they knocked them about. Today, those sounds might keep me from a full night’s rest – but back then, it was the farm’s alarm clock, and it was perfect!

Breakfast was usually a bowl of cereal, poured into those green glass dishes that looked more like a flat plate than bowls. No matter how carefully I tried, drinking the milk always ended with it running down my chin. A small frustration then, but a detail I remember clearly now.

Grandpa was always one step ahead of the day, already out doing chores before I rolled out of bed. By the time I dressed, he was waiting for me, ready to let me tag along.

Every morning while I was eating breakfast, grandma and grandpa took the time to read the daily devotional from “Our Daily Bread”. The softness and tone of his voice reading from the word is forever engrained in my memory. A blessing that it was a foundation builder of my life today.

The door from the house to the garage had its own voice – a squeak, a creak, and often a slam. You learned quickly not to let it slam, and you never wanted to be the one who let flies in the house. That door was the threshold between the quiet of the house and the work that always waited outside.

The day was young, and there was always plenty to do.

Maybe that’s the part that stuck with me most – the farm never waited on anyone. The animals didn’t care if you were tired. The chores didn’t ask if you felt ready. The sun came up, and it was time to get moving.

Those mornings in Missouri taught me that life works best when you lean into its flow, not when you fight against it. Even now, years later, I still wake early and step into the day with that same lesson in mind: There’s always work to be done and the best time to start is when the day is young.