There was a moment a few weeks ago that has stayed with me.
The coffee in my mug had long since cooled. The last light of the day was slipping behind the ridgeline, painting the mountains in those impossible shades of blue and gold that never quite make it into a photograph. Somewhere down in the valley, a thrush was finishing its evening song. Krista sat beside me, enjoying the silence as only she can. We weren’t talking. We didn’t need to.
After more than twenty years, Spirit Mountain has taught us that silence is often where Jesus does some of His best work.
As I looked across the valley, I found myself asking a question I’ve asked countless times over the years.
Why does this place affect me so deeply?
I’ve never completely answered that question.
Perhaps it’s because mountains have absolutely no interest in our schedules. They don’t care how many emails are waiting to be answered, how many projects remain unfinished, or how many meetings fill our calendars. They aren’t impressed by résumés, titles, or accomplishments. The mountain simply whispers the same invitation every time we arrive.
“Would you slow down for a while?”
I’ll admit, that has never come naturally to me.
Anyone who knows me knows that I usually have multiple business ideas, half a dozen construction projects, a handful of impossible ideas, and at least one dream that makes my family gently shake their heads. My mind has always operated somewhere between espresso and controlled chaos. Krista has learned that when I casually say, “I have one quick idea,” there is a reasonable chance neither of us will be going to bed anytime soon. Somehow, after thirty years together, she still smiles, pours another cup of coffee, and patiently listens anyway. I have long suspected that one of God’s greatest gifts in my life has been giving me a wife with far more patience than I deserve.
Yet every single time we return to the farm, something changes.
It doesn’t happen dramatically. There are no fireworks or life-altering revelations. It happens quietly. Our breathing slows. The conversations become richer. Meals last longer. Coffee somehow tastes even better. The urgency that so easily consumes our daily lives begins to lose its grip, and life starts moving at the pace it was probably intended to all along.
When we first purchased this land over two decades ago, we had little idea what we were doing. We certainly weren’t coffee farmers. We knew almost nothing about cultivating exceptional coffee, restoring a forest, or building healthy ecosystems. Looking back now, it’s almost humorous how confidently inexperienced we were. Had someone shown me a list of everything that lay ahead—the washed-out roads, broken equipment, hurricanes, failed experiment, sleepless nights, and more coffee trees than I could ever count—I might have smiled politely and found another mountain.
Thankfully, God rarely shows us the entire journey before inviting us to take the first step.
Instead, He simply asks us to trust Him.
Over the years, the mountain became our teacher. It taught us that forests are not built; they are patiently nurtured. Great coffee isn’t manufactured; it is stewarded. Relationships aren’t managed; they are invested in. Dreams are rarely accomplished through dramatic moments. More often, they are quietly built one faithful day after another.
Some of my favorite memories have nothing to do with buildings or business plans. They are the ordinary moments that somehow became extraordinary. Watching Keren and Kate disappear down a trail on horseback. Hiking ridgelines together in search of another breathtaking view. Building trails that often seemed to lead nowhere in particular, only to discover a hidden stream or a place that begged us to stop for lunch. Around here, “going for a short hike” became family code for returning just before dark, muddy, exhausted, and somehow happier than when we left.
Those years passed far too quickly.
Today, when I walk those same trails, I don’t simply see trees or coffee. I see memories. I remember little girls who somehow grew into remarkable women. I remember conversations that shaped our family. I remember prayers that were whispered when no one else was listening. Looking back now, I realize that while I thought I was raising daughters on a coffee farm, God was quietly using a mountain to shape all of us.
One of the greatest joys has been watching the land come alive again.
When we first arrived, much of the property had been neglected for decades. Together with an incredible team that has faithfully served alongside us through every season imaginable, we planted trees, restored soils, protected streams, and learned how to become caretakers rather than owners. We hoped wildlife might return someday, but we had no idea what we would witness.
Little by little, the birds came back.
Every year, we hear new songs echo through the valley. Species that had become increasingly rare, like the Hispaniola Trogon, began making their homes here once again. The forest responded to care with life. There is something deeply moving about watching creation heal itself when we simply give it the opportunity.
I’ve often wondered if people aren’t much the same.
Healthy places invite life.
Healthy communities invite hope.
Healthy hearts invite peace.
None of this happened because of one person. This story belongs to so many. It belongs to the remarkable men and women who have poured decades of hard work into this land, often with little recognition. It belongs to family and friends who believed in a dream that sometimes looked impossible. It belongs to campers, volunteers, neighbors, coffee professionals, students, and visitors from around the world who somehow found their way up this mountain and left a small piece of themselves behind.
As I grow older, I’ve found myself becoming less interested in building impressive things and much more interested in building meaningful ones. Places where children discover streams instead of screens. Places where conversations are more important than cell service. Places where families reconnect, where strangers become friends over a cup of coffee, and where silence is no longer something to avoid. I have come to believe that perhaps the greatest luxury we can offer isn’t exceptional hospitality or beautiful architecture. It is peace. Genuine, unhurried peace that reminds us who we are—and whose we are.
Over the past twenty-plus years, thousands of people have become part of the Spirit Mountain story. Some came for a weekend. Others stayed for years. Many of you haven’t been back in a long time. Life has happened. Children have grown up. Careers have accelerated. Parents have grown older. Some of you have experienced incredible joy. Others have quietly carried burdens that few people know anything about.
If that’s you, may I offer a simple invitation?
Come back.
Not because we’re building beautiful cabins, although we are. Not because our coffee has become something we’re genuinely proud of, although it has. Not because exciting things continue to happen at Estancia Natura, although they certainly do.
Come back because I think every one of us needs places that remind us who we were before the world became so loud.
Come walk the trails again. Sit beneath the trees. Drink a cup of coffee overlooking the valley. Listen to the birds that found their way home. Stay long enough that your watch becomes irrelevant and your phone remains in your pocket. Spend time with the people you love. Laugh a little more. Pray a little more. Breathe a little deeper.
If our family’s experience is any indication, something remarkable will happen.
Your shoulders will relax.
Your heart rate will slow.
Your perspective will return.
And perhaps, in the stillness of these mountains, you’ll hear the same quiet invitation that has been calling us back for more than twenty years.
The mountain has been patiently waiting.
More importantly, I believe Jesus has been waiting too.
We would be honored to welcome you home.
Yours truly,
Chad
