A farmhouse birthday reflection on what really fills our cup.

Yesterday was my birthday, and as the calls, texts, FaceTimes, and sweet gifts came in, my heart kept drifting back to one simple truth:

It’s the little things — the simple, quiet things — that really fill your cup.

I grew up as an only child on a 129-acre farm in Southern Illinois, a good quarter mile from our nearest neighbors who were also my godparents, Allan and Wanda. They ran a cattle farm too, and their place felt like an extension of ours. Out there, community wasn’t measured in distance — it was measured in heart.

Every so often I’d get to have friends come over for my birthday. Nothing extravagant. No big themes or Instagram-worthy decorations (we didn’t even know what that was). Just a home-cooked meal, a homemade cake, and a bunch of kids ready to run wild across the farm.

We’d take off across the yard laughing, chasing Dad’s calves in the pasture, playing in the creek or climbing around in the old barns. Some days we’d play in the corn crib until our hair smelled like dust and adventure. Other times we’d climb up into the wagons and pretend they were houses or whatever our imaginations dreamed up.

Eventually, we’d make our way to the pasture and hope the horse was still close enough to give us a bareback ride back home. No saddle, no reins — just trust and a whole lot of childhood courage.

The Parks family was woven through all of this long before I ever stepped foot into school. Jug was Dad’s best friend since they were little, and Kelly — his and Arlene’s youngest daughter — was my very first friend. Her older sister Kim was the sister I never had. I’ll never forget getting chicken pox in kindergarten and missing our Valentine’s Day party. I was heartbroken. But Kim brought home every single valentine and all the candy for me so I wouldn’t miss out. She probably wanted to ring our little necks sometimes — as Mom would say — but she loved us deeply.

As the years have gone by, I’ve realized just how sacred those memories are. So many of the people woven into that chapter of my life — my dad, Jug, Kelly — have gone home to Jesus. And sometimes I’m amazed that of everyone mentioned in these stories, it’s really just Kim, her mom, and me still here. Maybe that’s why these moments feel even more precious now… because I get to carry their part of the story forward.

Birthdays back then were simple and sacred.
Mom baked me a homemade red velvet cake — the best I’ve ever tasted.
Sometimes we had paper party hats and those noisy birthday horns, or the “special” party plates she saved for occasions.

But honestly? What mattered most was being together.

Good food.
Good friends.
Family who felt like more than family.
And the wide-open world of a farm that held every memory tenderly.

This year, on a much different birthday — as a 55-year-old woman with grown boys and a whole lot of life lived — I felt that same fullness. Because the same sweetness that filled my cup as a child showed up again through the people who reached out with love.

It reminded me of something I want to carry into this next season:

The things that truly fill your cup rarely change.
It’s still love.
It’s still togetherness.
It’s still kindness, connection, and the people God places on your path at just the right time.

Simple joys. Homemade moments. Soul-deep gratitude.

So I’ll ask you now just like I asked myself yesterday:

What fills your cup?
What small, beautiful things do you never want to overlook?

May we always make room for those. 🤍🌾

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