Garden of Eten

Does anyone else feel like the things meant to bring us peace can sometimes become another thing to keep up with?
Yesterday, as I braided challah for Shabbat, I kept thinking about how much of a beautiful life is built in the weaving.
Faith. Family. Food. Herbs. Gratitude. Rest.
I love learning about herbs and growing food and finding more natural ways to care for my family—but I never want those things to become the center. Even good things can become heavy when we ask them to hold a place they were never meant to hold.
Maybe that’s why I love the picture of a braid so much.
Each strand has its place. Our herbal practices can simply be woven into meals, tucked into the pantry, steeped into an evening cup of tea. Gratitude can be woven into ordinary conversations. Scripture into the way we think and respond. Rest into the rhythm of our weeks.
None of it has to stand alone or become another thing to master.
Like the strands of challah, perhaps the beauty is in how it all comes together—gently held by the One at the center.
What is something you’ve slowly woven into the rhythm of your home that now feels completely natural?

I’m curious… how often do we give our kids the answer before we give them the chance to know?
“Is this a blackberry?”
Instead of answering right away, I’ve been trying to ask her back…
What do you think? How do you know?
She looks at the berry. Remembers what we’ve talked about. Makes her choice.
Then comes the next question.
Now that you picked it, what do we need to do?
Wash it. Then eat it.
It seems like such a tiny thing—but I’m realizing there’s something much bigger being practiced here.
The ability to sit with a question for a moment.
To notice what you already know.
To remember what you’ve been taught.
To make a choice.
And then to become confident in that choice.
I think we need this practice as adults, too.
There are so many decisions where no one can simply hand us the answer. We have to learn to listen, discern, and recognize what we’re being led toward.
And I think our relationship with our Creator can grow this way, too.
What is He whispering to you? What have you already been shown? What do you know because you’ve walked with Him before?
Maybe confidence in hearing begins in a hundred tiny moments of learning to notice.
A blackberry in a little hand.
A pause before answering.
A quiet, “I think I know.”
And over a lifetime, perhaps those little moments become something much deeper: I know His voice.
What’s something you’re learning to trust your own discernment about right now?

Does anyone else crave a “slow life”… while living a life that is anything but slow?
I talk about slow living a lot. And then I look around at my actual life.
There’s a garden that needs tending. Elderberries ready to be clipped. Animals to care for. Children to teach. Meals to make. People to love. Work to do.
It isn’t exactly slow.
And lately I’ve been wondering if maybe I’ve had the definition wrong.
Maybe slow living isn’t about having less to do. Maybe it’s learning to carry peace within, even when there’s plenty happening without.
To notice when the elderberries turn dark. To step outside and harvest them when they’re ready. To let your hands do the work in front of you instead of letting your mind race ten steps ahead.
Scripture talks so much about peace, but never promises us a life without work, responsibility, or even trouble. Maybe peace was never supposed to depend on our circumstances being peaceful.
And maybe that is the slower life I’m actually after.
What does “slow living” look like in your inner and outer life?

There’s something beautiful about trying something you’ve never done before.
A little messy.
A lot of laughter.
Hands covered in clay and glaze.
A giant platter inspired by cabbage from Bethany’s garden.
Sometimes the best creations happen when friends simply make something together.
Now I’m curious...
Should Garden of Eten × Bethany Rose Pottery create a Garden Collection?
Imagine handcrafted pottery inspired by the beauty of the garden—cabbage platters, burdock plates, and herbal pieces made to gather around the table that celebrate the harvest.
Would you want to see it?

There was a season during COVID when my heart felt unusually heavy.
I found myself walking the wooded trails of a friend’s property, venting to a friend on a mission to find St. John’s Wort. I knew it grew somewhere on those sixty-some acres, yet after wandering for what felt like hours, I still couldn’t find it.
Then, almost like a whisper, I sensed the Spirit say,
“Stop... and look.”
I lowered my eyes.
There, at my feet, was the most delicate patch of Hypericum punctatum—tiny golden flowers I would have walked right past had I taken another step.
I had gone looking for a plant.
Instead, I found an invitation.
An invitation to pause.
To become aware.
To notice that even in seasons when hope feels hidden, God has a way of placing reminders closer than we think.
Every summer, I watch and wait for these flowers.
When you gently crush the buds between your fingers, they release a deep crimson stain, almost as though sunlight had been hiding a drop of ruby in each bud.
For centuries, people have woven stories around that mysterious red. Some connected it to John the Baptist. Others told ancient tales of grief and loss. Whether history or folklore, I understand why they searched for meaning.
Creation has always been speaking. Yearning as the word says.
Perhaps that’s why this little flower has become so precious to me.
The herb long treasured for lifting heavy hearts first reveals its hidden beauty when it is gently pressed.
Isn’t that just like the Kingdom?
So often, the places where we feel crushed become the very places where Yeshuah quietly reveals His life within us.
Now, whenever St. John’s Wort stains my fingertips red, I’m reminded that hope is rarely absent.
Sometimes... it’s simply waiting to be noticed.

Years ago, when I was modeling in Thailand, I remember constantly swatting mosquitoes.
One of the local Thai models laughed and said, “I’ve just made peace with them. I offer them a little blood, and they stop bothering me.”
I remember thinking... absolutely not.
This morning, while driving Ari to forest school, I found myself thinking about that conversation. Living closer to the land has taught me that wisdom often looks like working with creation instead of constantly fighting it—wearing long sleeves, avoiding standing water, or simply learning the rhythms God built into the world.
Just then, our weekly Torah portion began playing and included an old Jewish story about Titus. Though it’s found in the Talmud rather than Scripture, the lesson caught my attention. After Titus challenged the God of Israel, God responded—not with an army, but with one of the smallest creatures He had made: a mosquito.
I call that a God wink.
How often do we try to conquer every inconvenience instead of asking how to live wisely within God’s creation?
I don’t believe we’re called to worship nature or simply surrender to it. I think we’re called to steward it—to understand it, respect it, and learn the rhythms God built into it.
Maybe that’s what Adam’s first assignment in the garden was really about.
The closer I grow to the Creator, the more I find myself asking,
“Lord, how did You design this world to work, and how can I walk in step with it?”
Peace isn’t found when everything around us changes.
Perhaps peace begins when wisdom teaches us how to live well within the world God already called good.

A slow July afternoon on the screened-in porch—braiding garlic with my kids while the Kentucky heat hangs heavy in the air.
Out here, we’re still part of summer. We can hear the cicadas, feel the humidity, watch the garden grow, and experience the world around us—but with a little shelter from the harsh sun, biting bugs, and unpredictable elements.
And I started thinking… maybe this is a little like life with herbs.
Herbs don’t remove us from the world or promise that we’ll never experience hard seasons. Instead, they gently come alongside us—supporting the body through seasonal challenges, helping us adapt during stressful times, and offering nourishment as we move through the everyday elements of life. Just thinking of the abundance of herbs that offer heat, mood lifts, relaxation, detox support makes me feel in aw of Gods creation.
We still feel the heat.
We still weather the seasons.
We’re simply tending to ourselves along the way.
Maybe wellness isn’t about creating a life untouched by the elements—but learning how to live fully within them, supported by the good things growing right beside us.

The first fruit of the season.
There is something sacred about finding the first ripe cluster—evidence of all the quiet work that happened before anything could be seen.
And it made me wonder…
What fruit is growing in my own life?
Are my relationships bearing love?
Are my habits producing peace? Are my food choices giving back?
Is the way I spend my time growing something worth gathering?
Every day, we are cultivating something—in ourselves, in our families, and in the Kingdom of God.
The smallest choices become roots.
The repeated rhythms become branches.
And eventually, what we have tended begins to bear fruit.
May we be intentional gardeners of our lives—creating something nourishing, something lasting, and something worth remembering.
“You will recognize them by their fruits.”
Matthew 7:16