For months, my boys have been counting down the days. Of all the places we visit throughout the year, this is the trip they anticipate most. Not because it is extravagant or packed with entertainment, but because it has become a place filled with adventure, discovery, and memories.

Every year looks a little different. Some years we spend more time hiking. Other years are filled with fishing with nets, exploring waterfalls, riding bikes, or simply sitting around a campfire together. Yet no matter what the trip holds, I am always struck by how much my boys learn without ever opening a textbook.

As an educator, I have spent much of my career thinking about learning. What helps information stick? What experiences shape us? Why do some lessons fade while others become part of who we are?

The older I get, the more convinced I become that some of the most meaningful learning happens when children are fully engaged in the world around them.

But I have learned this: the status quo is not always the best path simply because it is the most common one.

The world will always offer a race to run. There will always be another activity, another opportunity, another expectation waiting around the corner. It is remarkably easy to spend years moving from one thing to the next without ever stopping to ask whether the pace itself is wise.

Paul writes in Ephesians 5:15-16, "Pay careful attention, then, to how you walk—not as unwise people but as wise—making the most of the time, because the days are evil."

That verse has challenged me in ways I never expected.

For years, I felt God gently nudging me toward something different.

I ignored it—then I argued with it. Then I explained to God all the reasons it didn't make sense.

After all, I had spent years preparing for this work. I had invested my education, my career, my time, and my heart into schools. Why would I walk away from something I loved so deeply?

But God has a way of continuing to call even when we are reluctant to answer.

And as a result, after much prayer and consideration, we have officially made the difficult decision to delay the official launch of Rooted Educational Cooperative until August 2027.

That sentence was not easy to write.

When you care deeply about something, delaying it can feel a little like failure at first glance. But the longer I sit with this decision, the more I realize it is actually the opposite.

Because rushing something foundational simply to meet a timeline is rarely wise.

REC was never meant to be hurried into existence. It was meant to be built carefully. Intentionally. Thoughtfully. Brick by brick—both literally and figuratively.

We could force doors open before the space is ready. We could scramble to “make it work.” But that is not the kind of foundation we want to build this school upon.

Instead, we are choosing patience. We are choosing sustainability over speed. Long-term vision over short-term urgency.

The boys laughed, raced ahead, stopped to point things out, and talked constantly about what they recognized from their studies throughout the year.

That may have been my favorite part of all. Hearing them connect what they had learned to what they were seeing.

Watching them recognize rock formations. Listening to them discuss habitats and weather patterns. Hearing questions deepen because now they had context.

Their learning had come alive. That is the kind of education I want for them.

Not isolated facts quickly memorized and forgotten, but knowledge connected to experience. Learning that creates curiosity. Learning that sticks because it has been seen, touched, climbed, ridden through, and lived.

This isn’t just a project. It’s something they have ownership over. Something they’ve built piece by piece, skill by skill, all year long.

Each journal has been thoughtfully scaled to meet them exactly where they are. What that means is that while they’re all working toward the same experience, the expectations, questions, and challenges inside their journals reflect their individual grade levels. First graders and third graders alike are revisiting the standards they’ve worked hard to master—but in a way that feels real, connected, and purposeful.

This year has been full—full of growth, full of challenges, full of small moments that quietly built into something significant.

And now, as we step into this final unit, I’m reminded why we do this the way we do.

Not for perfection or performance. But for connection and meaning. For the kind of learning that doesn’t end when the lesson does.

And as the final pieces fall into place, I can’t help but feel it—this has been a really, really good year.

Maybe it’s a place to build our own stones of remembrance— to pause and mark the ways God has been faithful. Because one day, I will look back on this season— I don’t want to just remember the uncertainty—I want to remember the faithfulness.

This season may turn heads.

It may not make sense to everyone.

But I know this:

It is a blessing I don’t take lightly.
And one I may never be able to top.

Because sometimes, the most meaningful growth doesn’t come from adding more…

It comes from choosing less—and living it fully.

Research shows that children in modern society spend very little time outdoors compared to earlier generations. In fact, global surveys indicate that a third of children worldwide spend less than an hour outside each day — far less than what’s needed for healthy development. Meanwhile, many U.S. schools rarely integrate outdoor time into the daily routine.

Some steps of faith feel quiet.
Others feel very tangible.

This one feels like both.

We’ve made the decision to list our house for sale.

This isn’t just a real estate decision—it’s an act of trust. An essential step toward being able to fund the building for REC and move this dream from vision into reality. It’s practical, yes—but it’s also deeply prayerful.

Our cohort design reinforces that education is not just about academics — it’s about becoming. Becoming confident learners. Becoming thoughtful leaders. Becoming part of a community that values growth at every stage.

At REC, we reject the assumption that more time equals more learning. Instead, we believe better time leads to better learning—and that’s what makes us different.

As we step into this year, my heart is especially aware that this season will be just that: a new and exciting challenge, and one that is beginning to take shape through REC.

REC is more than an idea. It is becoming a place—a community—rooted in faith, learning, and the belief that childhood should be honored. And right now, this season is one of trust, preparation, and prayer

We have loved Christmas Week—but we don’t need Christmas as an excuse to learn and engage creatively.

What this week really reminds us is that meaningful learning is not confined to a season, a theme, or a special set of activities. When children are given space to wonder, to work with their hands, to ask questions, and to laugh while they learn, education becomes something they step into willingly—not something they have to be pushed through.

There’s something about snow that slows the world down—whether we want it to or not. Cars move more carefully. Voices soften. Even children step outside a little more gently, as if they instinctively know that this kind of beauty deserves our attention.

As I watched the flakes gather on the ground, I couldn’t help but think of pace—of how desperately we all need a change of it.

You start to notice the little things: the way your child tells long, winding stories when there’s actual time to listen. The way they learn better when they aren’t rushed. The way peace settles over your home when the schedule loosens its grip.

And in that space…you find pieces of yourself you forgot you’d lost.

So as REC takes shape, this part of the vision feels especially sacred to me. It bridges school and home. It honors parents as the primary disciplers and guides. It lets us link arms instead of handing off responsibilities.

Thirty days—A gift, a challenge, a partnership, a promise.

And maybe most challenging of all—gratitude shows up in the waiting.

Not because we’re thankful for the uncertainty, but because we’re learning to trust the One who stands on the other side of it.

The “time in between” isn’t wasted time — even though it feels like it. It’s preparation. Refining. Alignment. It’s where God grows roots deep enough to hold the weight of what’s coming next.