This morning, as I watched the frost settled on the greenhouse roof, I found myself thinking again about Stephen Covey’s Law of the Farm.
As the day wore on, I kept coming back to a concept I first encountered while reading Covey’s books. When I was about to turn eighteen and preparing for my first semester of college, I stopped at Staples to buy supplies. While browsing the book section, one cover caught my eye. It featured the quote:
“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach him how to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”
That simple quote prompted me to pick up and buy Principle-Centered Leadership by Stephen R. Covey.
Among the many ideas in that book, one concept stood out — the Law of the Farm. Covey wrote that in life, just like on the farm, there are no shortcuts. You can’t rush growth. You can’t cram for a harvest. Success comes from steady, consistent effort — planting, nurturing, and living through the seasons.
You can’t plant a tomato seed in October and expect to be slicing one for your salad the next week. There’s a natural order to things — a rhythm that requires patience, care, and perseverance.
In late February or early March, with the ground still frozen and snow-covered, I begin my seeds under grow lights, warmed gently by heating pads. They start in small trays, later transplanted to larger pots. By April, the greenhouse is alive with young plants — vegetables, herbs, and flowers all competing for space and sunlight.
By late May and early June, the gardens begin to take shape. Then come the weeds, the insects, the critters. Through June and July, we fight them off, keep planting, and stagger the crops for continuous harvests. We watch the weather, adjust watering, pick loads of vegetables, share some, eat plenty, and preserve what we can for winter.
The harvest — the bushels of cukes and potatoes — comes in August into September, and it’s life-giving in so many ways. The baskets are heavy, the shelves fill with jars, and the air carries that familiar blend of soil and satisfaction. But it all begins in the chill of winter, when I sit on the stool in my potting shed, hands in the soil, preparing trays and tucking the first seeds into warm, fertile mix. Later, in December, when I close down the greenhouse, I’m already preparing for what comes next.
And now, as I approach surgery, I find myself once again in that same season — the chill of winter. It’s the quiet time of preparation, faith, and unseen growth. The soil is cold, the work feels slow, but this is where the roots take hold. This is where growth and a new life begin.
The seasons change, and each brings its own tasks, obstacles, and milestones. That’s the Law of the Farm — being prepared, marking the milestones, and doing the work so you can achieve your goals. Over time, the effort compounds. What begins as a quiet act of faith — planting a seed, taking a step, trusting the process — grows into something that nourishes not just you, but everyone your life touches.
Growth doesn’t happen all at once. Whether it’s a garden, a goal, or a new knee, there’s a process that can’t be rushed. We can anticipate the weeds, the pain, and the slog of recovery — but in the end, we only have today. We keep moving forward, accepting the moment, dreaming of the future, and doing the work.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how this same law applies to preparing for surgery — and to the long-term goal that keeps me moving forward: hiking the Appalachian Trail.
I’ve put in the prep work. I have a plan for recovery. I’ve mapped out the cycles — using the winters to plan and the springs to begin again. Nutrition goals, physical milestones, hiking skills — each phase has its own energy and purpose. There’s excitement in what’s ahead but also joy in what is.
So, I’ll leave you with this:
How does the Law of the Farm show up in your life?
What are you planting, nurturing, and working toward?
The coach in me can’t help but ask — what’s your plan?
The harvest always comes to those who do the quiet, patient work.
We’ve got this!
Two knees rebuilt. One dream revived. A life rebuilt, one step at a time.
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