BOLT TREEHOUSE

Driving mile after mile through Charleston marshland, I lose count of how many tiny Baptist churches pass by. The two-lane highway winds through the countryside until I arrive at a nondescript turnoff. Snaking my way down a dirt road, I weave between towering wooden structures sitting amidst the tree branches.

Seth and Tori Bolt, both disarmingly kind, walk me through the property to one of the unfinished treehouses. They teach me about peace, rest, and Sabbath—all the things these tree houses award to those who surrender their busy schedule for a renewed rhythm of life.