Little Things, Great Love: How We Host You on Purpose

There’s a line in Brother Lawrence's book, Practicing the Presence of God, that has shaped how I think about Deer Creek Retreat:

“We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work but the love with which it is performed.”

He spent his days doing work most people never notice—kitchen chores, repairs, cleaning. No spotlight. No applause. But for him, those ordinary tasks were how he loved God and served people. The work itself didn’t look spiritual from the outside. The love behind it did.

I think about that every time I walk the property at Deer Creek Retreat with a rake in my hand or a list of repairs in my pocket.

I never have lived in La Sal. I started developing the land when I was stationed in Texas. Now, my post-army life, I live in Washington state. I have never greeted guests at the door with fresh cookies. From the start, I hired a manager in Moab to run the day‑to‑day and he uses a cleaner who lives in New La Sal to handle the main house and tiny home. In many ways, guests experience this place more like a quiet hotel than a bed‑and‑breakfast with an on‑site host.

But behind those systems, I’m still here—working in the background to make sure this land stays what it was always meant to be: a place where solitude heals, not loneliness, and where the mountains stand watch, like mythical figure bigger than life.

The little things I do are not fancy.

They’re not even visible most of the time.

But they’re done on purpose.

Stewardship from a distance: Little things, great love

When I visit, I show up a lot like a guest. I drive in from out of state. I unlock the door. I exhale when the valley opens up and the mountains punch straight out of the landscape like they’ve always done.

The difference is, I visit to work.

On my last trip, I spent time with the guys repairing the roof. I walked through the house and noticed the things guests usually don’t report—the stove acting funny, the hot water heater not quite hot enough, small wear‑and‑tear details that don’t show up in reviews but matter for comfort.

I built a wall for parking to keep guests from accidentally parking on the wrong side of the porch, to nudge cars into the right spot without anyone having to say a word. Ran the filter for the well. I picked up around the property, dealt with tumbleweeds and tall grass, and checked the small things that make a difference over time.

None of that shows up in the listing.

No one books because the parking block is thoughtfully placed.

But these are the little things that keep the place safe, usable, and quietly welcoming.

That’s part of my hospitality: protecting the conditions that lets the real work—the work of rest, quiet, and reconnection—happen.

The practical welcome: instructions, coffee, and clarity

On the guest side, most people’s first experience of our hospitality is not my face; it’s an email or text message.

The system my manager has set up is heavy on instructions but welcoming. Emails and text messages walk guests through how to find the property, how to get in, what to expect, and how to reach out if something goes sideways. On the front doors, there are letter‑sized posters in plastic sleeves that say things like:

• “Please, no shoes in the house.”

• “We’re glad you’re here.”

• “Wi‑Fi password: .”

The refrigerator holds flyers with more guidance. It’s clear, practical, and designed to help people feel oriented quickly in a place that’s far out enough to feel like its own world.

Inside the kitchen, there’s what you’d expect in a real working house:

• utensils for cooking,

• pots and pans,

• plates and silverware,

• drip coffee and Keurig options,

• basic pantry staples (mostly things previous guests have left behind—salt, oil, tea, spices).

It’s not a curated welcome basket. It’s not a staged Instagram scene. It’s a meager, honest kitchen that has what it needs where it counts.

That’s another little thing: choosing function over flash.

I want you to be able to make a simple meal, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and feel like the house is cooperating with your retreat, not working against it.

The house is meager—but the experience isn’t

By big‑city or luxury‑retreat standards, the house itself is not top‑tier. It’s clean, solid, and simple. Carpet and blinds instead of reclaimed barnwood and designer light fixtures. Coffee table books and magazines that previous guests have left, in good enough condition to stay. A space that feels lived‑in rather than staged.

I’m not trying to pretend it’s something it isn’t.

In a strange way, that’s intentional too.

Everything the Airbnb world teaches says, “It isn’t the place, it’s the experience.” I’ve come to agree—with a twist. The physical place matters to me, but not because of the countertops or perfectly styled decor. It matters because of what it makes possible:

• connection to the land and wildlife,

• an emotional and spiritual reset,

• a felt difference between solitude and loneliness,

• the sense that the mountains themselves are keeping you company.

The little things I care about most are not the ones you can photograph easily:

• the way the mountains shoot up out of the landscape and make you feel safe and overwhelmed and awe‑struck, all at the same time,

• the way the horizon opens up in every direction so your problems can finally shrink back to size,

• the way solitude here feels like an invitation, not a punishment.

My job, as I see it, is to protect that experience—to keep the property functioning, the systems clear, and the noise low enough that what the land wants to say can actually be heard.

Hospitality as quiet chaplaincy

I spent years as a chaplain and an educator—sitting at bedsides, in offices, in classrooms—trying to make space for people who were tired, scared, grieving, or just searching. The work was often quiet. The most important moments rarely made it into reports.

I’m not in a hospital right now. I’m not talking to you from a classroom, as a teacher.

But I still think of this property as a kind of chaplaincy, an education in learning to slow down.

Only now, the property does the work for me.

I may not meet most guests face‑to‑face, but I think about them when I’m walking the property. When I’m checking that the house systems work, I’m also praying—sometimes without words—that whoever stays here will feel something of the healing I’ve felt on this land.

I want them to:

• breathe a little deeper,

• feel a little less crazy for being tired,

• remember that it’s okay to stop,

• sense that someone prepared this place for them on purpose.

That’s my version of Brother Lawrence’s kitchen prayers: ordinary tasks, done with love, so that when someone else walks in later, they feel held without quite knowing why.

Little things you might not notice, but might feel

If you stay here, you may not consciously register the “little things,” but I hope you feel them.

• The clear instructions in your inbox and on the fridge, so you’re not wasting your first hour hunting for answers.

• The no‑shoes sign on the door, nudging the house toward feeling like a lived‑in home, not a high‑traffic lobby.

• The fact that the stove works, the water gets hot enough, and the roof doesn’t leak—not glamorous, but the difference between rest and frustration.

• The coffee options on the counter, so you can start your day with something warm before stepping onto the porch.

• The small boundaries like the parking wall, quietly guiding cars away from the porch and into their proper place, keeping the house and land protected without anyone having to scold you.

• The Wi‑Fi and Starlink that work when you need them—and can be turned off when you’re ready to actually rest.

In the background, there’s also my growing desire to leave a copy of The Practice of the Presence of God by the bed—a small signal that this is not just a vacation rental, but logistically, there is no way to give the actual book.

None of these are big gestures. But together, they create a kind of held space. A space where you can exhale.

What would it feel like to be intentionally cared for for 48 hours?

Most of us are used to being the ones who hold everything together.

We’re the ones planning meals, answering emails, driving carpools, managing projects, keeping households afloat. Even when we go on vacation, we often carry that role with us—making sure everyone else is okay.

So let me ask you:

What would it feel like to be intentionally cared for for 48 hours straight?

Not in an overbearing, someone‑hovering‑over‑you way.

Just:

• a house that works,

• instructions that make sense,

• a landscape that quiets your nervous system,

• and a host you may never meet, who has been thinking about how this place can serve you long before you arrive.

That’s the heart behind how we host this airbnb.

Not perfection.

Presence.

Not impressing you.

Holding space for you.

A presence‑first invitation

If the idea of being quietly, intentionally cared for sounds foreign—but oddly inviting—consider this your nudge.

Come stay here not just for a change of scenery, but for a change of pace.

• Let the meager, honest house be enough.

• Let the mountains that shoot out of the land be your stained glass.

• Let the systems you never see carry just enough of the load that you can finally rest.

Come experience hospitality, book the main house or tiny home, that’s less about perfection and more about finding the presence of peace.

Read our latest reviews or pick your dates.

I’ll be here in the background—checking roofs, walking the property, praying that the little things done with love clear just enough space for God to meet you here.

Cheers!

Justin