Our real-estate agent showed us a 42-acre farm in Freeland, Maryland, an expanse of rolling hills, beautiful fields, a spring-fed stream and a two-story farmhouse. The farm was almost 200 years old, its original owner, a man named George Hampsher, buried in a Baptist churchyard half a mile away. Carol pulled me aside on the porch and said, “This is the place!”

Our first season was a true adventure. We had little equipment and even less experience. But then I learned my mentor in a work-related leadership program in Baltimore was none other than the executive director of the Maryland Food Bank. He introduced us to the Mid-Atlantic Gleaning Network, where we met people like Gloria Luster, an elderly woman of modest means who helped bring fresh produce gleaned from farmers’ fields to needy people. It turned out the church we joined, Hereford United Methodist, was full of people-even the pastor-who’d grown up on farms. And there were plenty of farmers in the surrounding area to tap for advice and used equipment. Soon we’d cobbled together equipment and a group of dedicated volunteers, including a couple named Matt and Sandy Leininger, a retired firefighter who’d grown up nearby named Dan Millender and a retired trucker and farmer named Roger Thompson.

When it came time to harvest, Gloria Luster corralled cars full of west Baltimore people, and the food banks sent guests and church volunteers. Youth groups arrived from towns we hadn’t heard of. The farm filled with scampering kids and sweating adults, everyone talking and laughing, digging potatoes, picking beans and loading trucks bound for food banks. Standing at the top of a rise, watching Dan, Roger, Matt and Sandy, Carol, the kids, I could hardly believe what had happened. God had taken my farming fantasy and turned it into something so unexpected.

That first year we planted just a couple acres. Two acres grew to four, then eight. This year, First Fruits Farm celebrates its fifth anniversary as a nonprofit. We’ve nearly doubled in size, cultivating more than 62 tillable acres. We’ve grown and given away over a million pounds of fresh produce in the last four seasons. I still commute to my investment firm for the income to support our farm. But the suit comes off the minute I get home. I pull on my jeans and, if it’s cold, my coveralls, and head out to the barn. Maybe it’s winter, and I repair equipment with Wes Krock, a commercial airline pilot who’s become a fixture at the farm, often arranging his schedule around the crop cycle. Or it’s spring, and I take over planting where Dan left off that afternoon. Or it’s harvest, and I get a few rows done before Carol calls everyone to dinner. We never know quite who’s going to be there till the food’s served. We bow our heads and give thanks to God for his grace and many gifts. For the farm. For dreams come true. And for the deep, solid truth that giving is the greatest gift of all.