War Wounds & Wide Driveways: The Day We Laid the Pipes (And Almost Lost Our Minds)
This is what they don’t put on the Pinterest boards.
You can find photos of dreamy barndominiums, hand-painted mailboxes, wildflower fields, and perfect homestead picnics in golden hour light.
But what you won’t find is this:
Two people, dead silent in the Florida heat, both bleeding from the hands, too mad to speak, too stubborn to say sorry first.
Welcome to The Hammie Ranch.
This weekend, we officially began our first big foundational project—installing culvert pipes so we could start forming our driveway. A wide one. Because the dreams God’s planted in our hearts are big. And we’re going to need room for trucks, trailers, hay deliveries, horses, maybe even a little wedding arch down the line (👀), and whatever else this life of purpose throws our way.
We found two culvert pipes for $250 total, and we knew it was time to get moving.
But before we put them in the ground, I did something I’ll never forget:
I grabbed a Sharpie and wrote Scripture on those pipes.
Ezra 3:10 — “When the builders laid the foundation of the temple of the Lord…”
Psalm 127:1 — “Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain.”
Because I don’t want to build anything—not a ranch, not a home, not a marriage—without God in the middle of it.
And I meant that with my whole heart.
But then… life happened.
Somewhere between the excitement and exhaustion, Trevor asked me to help him step into this murky, swampy part of the land to help position one of the pipes.
But the second I saw the water, my whole body tensed.
I froze.
Because here’s the thing: I had just seen a news story about a woman being taken by an alligator in water just like that. And fear? It got in my bones.
I didn’t feel safe.
I didn’t want to do it.
I wasn’t budging.
And we fought.
Not a little fight.
A real one.
The kind where tension turns into silence.
Where both people feel unseen.
Where fear on one side feels like betrayal on the other.
Where words get said that aren’t really meant, but once they’re out, they hang heavy.
Marriage isn’t all date nights and holding hands while watching sunsets from the porch.
Sometimes it’s muddy boots, swollen pride, and trying to be the bigger person when your heart feels small.
We both ended up with sliced-up hands, bleeding from trying to lift heavy pipes, sharp edges, and even sharper emotions.
We both ended up with sliced-up hands, bleeding from trying to lift heavy pipes, sharp edges, and even sharper emotions.
And it would be easy to say, “Well, at least we got the job done,” and leave it there.
But that’s not the full story.
Because this is also the moment God reminded me that faith isn’t just about the beautiful beginnings—it’s about how you hold on in the messy middle.
We circled back.
We apologized.
We forgave each other.
And we remembered that this life we’re building isn’t based on perfection—it’s built on purpose.
The wide driveway is officially taking shape.
And underneath it? Literally?
Are Scriptures that we prayed over.
This is what we’re standing on—even when our trust wobbles, even when our communication fails, even when our fears get louder than our faith.
✅ The culvert pipes are down.
✅ Our hands are healing.
✅ And so is our trust.
Next up?
We bring in the rock and shell.
We lay the path that will welcome every dream, every visitor, every answered prayer down that driveway.
Because trials make you stronger.
Forgiveness makes room for joy.
And God builds the foundation, even when we don’t always get it right.
So no, you won’t find this moment on Pinterest.
You won’t see a curated snapshot of two sweaty, scratched-up people trying to choose grace over grudge.
But this is what real love looks like.
This is what faith in motion feels like.
This is The Hammie Ranch—and this is only the beginning.
Please make sure you subscribe!
Thank you for following along from the very first driveway. We’re building more than a home out here. We’re building legacy. And we’re so grateful you’re walking this path with us—war wounds, wide driveways, and all.
