The why behind Flour and Fern.
I remember sitting in class at John Brown University many years ago, learning about teambuilding. We talked about something called “The Big Kahuna,” which simply meant the why behind the what. Every activity had a purpose. You weren’t just playing games—you were creating opportunities for people to build trust, connect, and think differently.
At the time, I thought I would use that information very little. Almost 13 years of facilitating teambuilding later, I can tell you I was wrong. 😂 But that phrase has stuck with me outside of work, too. There is a WHY behind the WHAT. Behind the decisions people make, the things they say, and the dreams they keep coming back to.
So today, I thought I would give you a glimpse of my Big Kahuna for Flour and Fern. Buckle up, because this is quite the story.
2019 and 2020 were some of the hardest years our family has experienced. My husband and I lost two babies through miscarriage. We also welcomed our 16-year-old daughter into our family through adoption and were learning how to be parents to a teenager. She was navigating her own life and struggles, and we often felt unprepared.
After our second miscarriage, all I felt was hopelessness.
At the time, my husband and I were both pastors at our local church. I didn’t know how to get out of bed in the morning, let alone engage with people and encourage them in their relationships with the Lord. I had pulled away from everyone and become a shell of myself.
In the middle of all of that, some friends gifted us a weekend away. The timing didn’t feel great, but honestly, I would have done just about anything to step away from the life we were currently living. The resort was a place people went to celebrate anniversaries and big milestones. We were showing up carrying grief.
When we walked into our room, there was a handwritten note welcoming us, two coffee cups, and some snacks waiting on the bed.
Immediately, I felt seen. We spent the next 30ish hours crying, reading, talking, relaxing, watching movies, and connecting.
I often tell people that weekend helped save my marriage. Grief had wrecked me, and I had shut everyone out, including my husband. Having that space helped me see the love he still had for me, the sadness he was carrying, and his determination to keep showing up for us.
Our friends couldn’t take away what had happened. But they gave us room to breathe and find each other again.
As the grief became more manageable, I kept telling people I wanted to give others what had been given to us. Space to mourn. Space to connect. Space to laugh. Space to simply be. Unfortunately, we were still pastors, and our bank account did not have a “send everyone on a weekend getaway” category. So I sat with the dream and let it grow.
Eventually, I began dreaming of opening a place called The Garden, named after the Garden of Eden. A place where people could come to celebrate or mourn, connect with God, and take a deep breath. I pictured gardens full of wildflowers, people who were glad you had arrived, and a handwritten note waiting in your room. A place where your shoulders could relax because you felt expected and cared for. You didn’t have anything to prove.
I still dream about that place.
Over the years, I have sought out opportunities to prepare for it. But while the dream kept growing, our bank account had yet to catch up. So I found myself asking:
“Lord, what can I do right now with what I have?”
The answer has looked different in different seasons. We have opened the spare room in our home. We have provided meals. We have found ways to welcome people with what was already in our hands. And then I was reminded of my love of baking. I went to a cake decorating class with my dad and quickly fell in love with the art. Thus, Flour and Fern was born.
We learned to pipe flowers because we wanted to make cupcakes that felt special. We scoured the internet for desserts that were FUN. We tried things, learned things, and washed approximately a million dishes.
As we got started, I noticed how often people bought sweets for big milestones. Birthdays. Weddings. Graduations. I loved being part of those moments. But I kept thinking about all the days in between.
That feeling was connected to something I had carried since our first miscarriage. With that pregnancy, we hadn’t had the chance to tell many people before we lost our baby. So many of the people we loved never got the chance to celebrate that little life with us.I promised myself I would never let another life enter our family without being celebrated.
About three months later, we found out we were pregnant again. This time, we told people. We let them share our excitement and love our baby with us. We lost that baby at 14 weeks. Celebrating didn’t protect us from the heartbreak. But we had shared the joy while we had it, and I am grateful for that. That experience has shaped how I think about celebration. I don’t want to keep waiting for everything to feel certain or settled before noticing the good that is here.
And goodness, life is lifeing.
People are raising kids, missing someone, starting over, taking chances, and trying to make it through a hard week. There are so many moments when a little reminder that someone sees you can mean a lot. I think back to those coffee cups (which I still have) and snacks in our room. Such simple things, but I still remember how they made me feel. I can’t give everyone a weekend away. I can bake something, write a note, and help someone say, “I thought of you.”
As I found ways to celebrate other people, I began noticing joy in my own life again, too. There was still grief, but there were also people to love, things to be thankful for, and beauty I could help create.
That is the Big Kahuna of Flour and Fern.
We bake treats and put together gifts because we want to help you celebrate your people. On their birthdays, absolutely. But also when they’ve done something brave, when they need encouragement, or when you’re simply glad they’re in your life.
The Garden is still a dream I hold close. In the meantime, I’m grateful I get to do this with what I have, right here.
My hope is that somewhere along the way, something we make helps someone feel the way I felt walking into that room.
Expected. Remembered. Seen. Loved.
