THE HEART OF STEWARDSHIP
AN INVITATION TO LOVE THE LAND
By Dondi Voigt Persyn
Photo by Denise Thompson
Texas is my home. It always has been. I spent my childhood playing on the land, swimming in the rivers, and laying under big oak trees, looking up at the night sky. It’s been an honor and a privilege to be raised in Texas, surrounded by its beauty and bounty.
But today, I look around and wonder—are we honoring the land that has given us so much? Across the Texas Hill Country and rural America, we face a quiet challenge: the rapid development of the spaces that have sustained us for generations.
The pandemic brought a wave of migration to rural areas. People sought refuge in the countryside—space to breathe, room to grow, and a connection to nature. Our small towns and open landscapes welcomed them, but the swift pace of change has left little room for reflection. Land that once bore crops and sheltered wildlife is being replaced with subdivisions and shopping centers. Lakes, already strained, now face the added burden of ever-growing demand.
But this is not a lament; it’s a love letter. A love letter to the rolling hills, the creeks carving through stone, the fields swaying in the breeze, and the skies stretching endlessly above us. It’s a reminder that this land is more than dirt and grass—it’s our heritage, our sustenance, and our responsibility.
We are stewards of this place, not by force but by choice. Stewardship isn’t about rules or regulations; it’s about love. It’s about the care we take when planting a tree, the thought we put into how we build, and the respect we show for what came before us. The land doesn’t belong to us—it’s a gift we hold for a time, one we must pass on in better shape than we found it.
As a community, Texans have always found strength in each other. We don’t need mandates to guide us; we need heart. We need neighbors who care deeply enough to protect the streams where their children skip rocks, the pastures that feed their cattle, and the meadows that fill with wildflowers every spring.
I often ask myself, “What will my grandchildren see when they stand where we stand now?” Will they see hills covered in wild grasses or rooftops and parking lots? Will they drink water from springs or watch it flow away, polluted and overdrawn? These aren’t abstract questions—they are the choices we make today.
Stewardship doesn’t mean saying “no” to growth. It means saying “yes” to thoughtful growth. It means looking beyond the immediate and considering the legacy we leave behind. Can we build homes and communities that complement the land, rather than overpower it? Can we work together to create spaces where both people and nature thrive? Does not the land deserve… love?
When my husband and I first got married, we lived in an old German limestone house on a farm that had become engulfed by the city, its walls two feet thick, built to last. There were narrow, carved-out windows—designed not just for light but for defense, a remnant of a time when those inside had to protect what was theirs. It was a piece of history. And when a developer came in, they didn’t see its significance—they saw an obstacle. They bulldozed it, dug a hole, and buried it. Centuries of craftsmanship, stories, and strength—discarded without a second thought.
I often wonder, instead of removing old barns at the edge of a field, could they be restored? Instead of paving over a field, could we imagine a neighborhood where trees and native plants are part of the design? Could we build with respect, not just for the people who will live there, but for the history that came before them? The past does not have to be sacrificed for progress—if we choose to honor it.
The beauty of stewardship is that it’s deeply personal. It’s planting wildflowers because you love the way they look in the spring. It’s leaving a piece of your property wild because it feels right in your heart. It’s teaching your children to value what grows and flows freely, reminding them that convenience is no match for connection.
Concrete won’t feed our children. Strip malls won’t nourish their souls.
But the land can— if we let it.
History has shown that when land is left vulnerable, it is not preserved—it is claimed, repurposed, and reshaped by those who see only its economic or political value. And in today’s landscape, vulnerability doesn’t always come from outside forces; sometimes, it’s disguised as protection. Deals that promise preservation often come with fine print—clauses that quietly strip landowners of their rights, not just in their lifetime, but for generations to come. Policies shift, leadership changes, and what seemed like a safeguard today may become a stranglehold tomorrow. Who truly benefits when private landowners sign away control? It’s worth asking the question before the answer is decided for us. Can we be more intentional about how we pass it down? Can we craft our deeds in ways that safeguard what matters—ensuring our land is not left vulnerable to reckless expansion, corporate control, or government interference?
Beyond protecting what we have, can we extend an invitation—to those who have never had the chance to truly experience the land? Can we help them understand its value, not through words alone, but by connecting them to it in a way that makes them want to protect it? There are people who have never felt the cold shock of a natural spring, never witnessed the birth of a calf, never tasted food grown from the soil beneath their feet, nor known the absolute victory of discovering the first laid egg. If they knew—if they truly felt what the land offers—would they fight for it, too?
And what about developers? Can we challenge them to create something greater? To build with vision, not just for profit? The world doesn’t need more of the same. It needs pioneers—true stewards of both business and land—who can see beyond the bottom line and into the future. Investors chase untouched beauty, yet so often, the developments they fund diminish the very thing they seek to escape to. So, I wonder—where do you escape to? And if you value those natural, raw places, shouldn’t you be among those working to preserve them?
This isn’t just about the Texas Hill Country—it’s about every piece of rural land that holds the history and hope of those who’ve called it home. Stewardship is an invitation and opportunity to love.
