There’s a pair of tiny boots by our front door—mud-caked, scuffed on the toes, and almost always on the wrong feet. They belong to our son, John Robert. We call him J.R., though depending on the day, he might answer to “Buddy,” “Bucko,” or “Biscuits.”
He’s two years old now, but it feels like just yesterday he took his first steps. Not out in the pasture or chasing chickens—though those came soon enough—but right in the middle of our living room, towards the ever loving arms of his cousins.
We didn’t catch it on video, but we didn’t need to. That memory is stitched into our hearts: the squeals, the laughter, the look of wide-eyed wonder on every face. His first steps weren’t just a milestone—they were a quiet beginning to a life rooted in family and legacy. The cousins who will build forts with him, feed calves alongside him, and maybe one day chase their own little ones through these same fields. What a gift it is, to raise them together—side by side, hayfield between, hearts knit close.
Since then, those first wobbly steps have turned into full-on sprints. He climbs hay bales, shadows his dad on the tractor, and somehow finds every mud puddle within a quarter-mile radius. He’s now the proud big brother to our younger son, Waylon, who’s just shy of five months old and already being rocked to sleep by the rhythm of chores.
John is the fourth generation to carry the weight and wonder of Central Bridge Farms. And as we watch our boys grow up among the same hills, fences, and barnyards that shaped their dad, we can’t help but dream about the fifth generation that’s now toddling around in our midst.
We don’t take that lightly.
It’s easy to get caught up in the work—calving schedules, pasture rotations, market days—but we try to remember that the most important thing we’re raising here isn’t just beef. It’s our boys. We want them to know the value of honest work, the call to steward God’s creation well, and the peace that comes from trusting Him—in every season: rainy, dry, busy, or quiet.
We don’t know what paths J.R. or Waylon will choose when they’re grown. Maybe they’ll farm. Maybe they won’t. But we hope that whatever they do, they’ll carry this place in their bones—the sights, the smells, the stories. We hope they’ll remember evenings in the barn, the scent of fresh-cut hay, and the way their parents tried to live out their faith—not just on Sundays, but in every chore, every decision, every muddy bootprint across the kitchen floor.
For now, we’re planting seeds—in the soil, in their hearts, and in the stories they’ll one day tell. We’re cheering on first steps, second sons, and fifth-generation dreams. Because when we say family farm, we mean it in every sense of the word.