Because everyone loves a good story
God Uses Boneheads
I can tell you from observation and from personal experience that God uses boneheads to do his work. In fact, His options are pretty limited—we’re all boneheads.
This is true not just in modern America but across the globe and throughout time. Just look at the sort of riffraff He used in the Bible! (With one significant Exception, of course.) As an example, let’s look at the life of one important patriarch: Abraham.
The O.G. Patriarch
Currently I’m re-reading the Bible from the beginning. The book of Genesis has loads of familiar stories and characters, one of the most recognizable being Abraham. Yes, Father Abraham. He’s a pretty big deal in the Bible, not just in Genesis but throughout the New Testament too. Slightly less famous but no less important is Abraham’s wife, Sarah. I’ve just been through their story again, and it got me thinking about the sort of people God chooses and uses. Spoiler: they’re all pretty messed up.
The Highlights
Of all the people in the world, God chose Abraham to be the father of the nation of Israel. God repeatedly promised to give him a son and, through that son, to make Abraham the predecessor of countless people who would come to know God. God chose barren Sarah to be the mother of this special child. This miracle would happen when Abraham and Sarah were well past their prime, even by Old Testament standards.
Abraham is used as an example of faith in Hebrews, and Sarah is cited as a holy woman who showed submission to her husband. The whole of Scripture refers to God as “the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” It all started with Abraham and Sarah because, throughout their lives, they believed and obeyed God…kind of.
The First Lie
Well, technically, it all started with God choosing Abram and Sarai—their names before their lives got flipped, turned upside down by God. In Genesis 12, God calls Abram to move to another country away from his family, and then God heaps all kinds of blessings and promises on him. Abram would be great, blessed, protected, and honored. Why? Because God said so.
Abram obeys, and things go swimmingly for the first 9 verses.
Then Abram makes his first bonehead choice: he lies about his wife. Afraid that the Egyptians will kill him so they can take Sarai for themselves, he makes her pretend to be his sister. God had promised to make Abram into a great nation, but in his fear Abram must have forgotten. God plagues Pharaoh and returns Sarai to her rightful husband. Things are back on track.
My Way or the Highway
Abram gets rich, heroically rescues his nephew Lot, gets an unexpected blessing from a priest who was also a foreshadowing of Christ, and gets another very clear promise of God’s favor and blessing. But then comes another bonehead move: Sarai tries to bring God’s promises to pass in her own way and time.
She tells her husband to father an heir through her servant Hagar. The scheme works, the handmaid gets pregnant by Abram, and then things fall apart. Poor Hagar resents Sarai, unfair Sarai blames Abram for the way things have turned out, and cowardly Abram tells her to do whatever she wants with her slave. So Sarai mistreats Hagar, who runs away. Poor choice after poor choice for Abram and Sarai.
Promises, Laughter, and More Lies
Thankfully, God protects Hagar and her baby, promising the little one an abundant future, and then things get quiet for 13 years. God breaks the silence by re-christening Abram and his wife. They are now Abraham and Sarah, and God is going to blow their minds—they’re about to become parents at long last. When God gives the promise this time, Abraham and Sarah both laugh. It was enough of a miracle that Abraham had fathered a child at the age of 90, but now he’s 100 and Sarah is 90. Surely their diaper-changing days are far behind them, right?
To underscore their doubt, Abraham and Sarah pull the exact same stunt as in Egypt. They pretend to be siblings, and the unwitting king of the land falls for it. (By the by, how is Sarah still this enviable at the age of 90?? I want whatever she’s having.) Anyway, God spares the king and returns Sarah to Abraham again.
Promises Fulfilled
Next thing you know, God fulfills his promise. The aged couple has a bouncing baby boy named Isaac. At a party for Isaac, Sarah still manages to feel spite toward Hagar’s son and sends them both away to die in the wilderness. God intervenes yet again, promising to bless and preserve the boy. Everyone lives happily ever after.
…Except that Abraham’s grandsons, Jacob and Esau, act far more foolishly than Abraham ever did, and it was downhill for most of his descendants as well.
Better Them Than Me
When I read a story like that, it really makes me think. First, I’m thankful that no one is writing down the stupid things I do and the self-preserving choices I make. If I were a character in the Bible, I’m sure my chapter would be pretty depressing, to say nothing of embarrassing.
Second, Abraham and Sarah lived to be over 100 years old, so the handful of bonehead choices catalogued in Genesis is fairly small if you spread them out over that many years. I manage to make that many bad choices weekly.
Third, I’m thankful that, overarching and underpinning their choices (and ours) is God’s grace. One perk of His omniscience is that he’s never unpleasantly surprised by the foolish things we do. He didn’t choose Abraham in hopes that he would do everything right; instead, He redeemed what Abraham did wrong. That was the plan all along.
God Sees the Heart
And finally, I’m thankful that God cares most about our hearts. He goes to great lengths to show us our deepest desires, and it isn’t always pretty. But in Abraham’s case, even though he was a bonehead in many respects, he finally learned to trust and value God supremely. God already knew this, of course, but Abraham discovered it when God asked him to sacrifice Isaac.
After all the promises, waiting, and joy, God asked Abraham to kill Isaac on an alter as a sacrifice to God. I can’t even imagine what was going through Abraham’s mind. But of all the times I would have sympathized with a decision to disobey, Abraham chose to go through with it. Of course, God stopped him at the last moment, providing a ram and a beautiful picture of salvation all at the same time. But as for Abraham, he’d finally learned to trust God. He was a faithless bonehead no more.
The Gracious God of Boneheads
One final takeaway: if you’re tempted (like me) to roll your eyes at the poor choices of people in the Bible or real life, remember that you’re not much better off. We’re not all thoroughgoing nincompoops, but we’re all on the spectrum. And if you (also like me) are sometimes tempted to feel that God can’t use you because of the choices you’ve made, take heart. God knows, and He is more than able to bring beauty from ashes. That’s the kind of God he is: the gracious God of boneheads.
Cooking Up Some Memories
I’ve never been much of a chef. In my single years, I lived off of cereal, yogurt, and freshly-juiced fruits and veggies. Ah, yes. The days when I was thin.
Now that I’m a wife and mama, I cook by necessity. I try to make it good; I switch it up, add variety, keep it interesting. Sometimes it’s a little too interesting. For example, ground turkey with curry and pineapple was a unanimous no-go. Cooking’s a gamble.
Baking Therapy
But baking? Baking is totally different because, while cooking makes meals, baking makes treats. And I ever-so-dearly love treats. I don’t need much of an excuse to pull out the mixing bowl and set the oven to 350. A rainy day? Company coming? Snack cupboard looking a little empty? Time to bake.
Baking could be cathartic if I didn’t have little kids. Measuring, mixing, baking, savoring…it would be like kitchen therapy. But I do have little kids. Often the me who starts baking isn’t the same me who finishes it. When I start, I’m chipper, optimistic, and usually have the baby in bed for a nap. Toward the end of the process, I’m often frazzled, snippy, and I almost certainly have the baby clinging to my calves, beseeching me to balance her on one arm while I knead dough one-handed. It’s an art I’m improving on a weekly basis.
Messy and Worth It
The only way to make baking practical as well as fun in this season of life is to include the toddler while the baby sleeps. I didn’t get much practice in the kitchen growing up, and that probably played a factor in my limited culinary repertoire when I moved out. I’d like my kids to feel at home in the kitchen when they’re young so that, in later years, they can equate time cooking and baking with joy instead of drudgery.
Ergo, my three-year-old is my baking buddy. As soon as he sees the flour, a measuring cup, or (joy of joys!) a bag of chocolate chips on the counter, he instantly climbs up to see how he can help. Dirty feet on the counter, dirty hands in the ingredients, but oh-so-eager to participate. Of course I shoo him toward the sink to wash up, but afterward he’s welcome to help. Will it take longer? Dear me, yes. It will be much longer and messier, but it will also be much more worthwhile. I want to make more than cookies; I want to make memories.
But also, I really want to make cookies.
Fall Goodness
If you’ve been reading this blog for very long, you know I don’t usually talk about cooking except to bemoan how long it takes. But I recently had some friends over for dinner, which prompted me to make a scrumptious dessert. It was so scrumptious that I wanted to share it with you. It’s sweet, decadent, and seasonal—the perfect fall treat.
It’s pumpkin cheesecake bars.
Is your mouth watering? Mine is.
Enjoy the Process
Honestly, I should give a few disclaimers right off the bat, but instead I’m going to start by telling you how good it is. It’s good. Really good. I’m not a huge pumpkin person, but the hint of pumpkin in this dessert is just right. Really, it’s worth a try.
Now, the disclaimer: the recipe does have four separate steps. If I had remembered that before getting halfway into the preparation, I may have stuck with the apple crisp and bailed on the bars. Fortunately, I forgot about the hassle and forged ahead. The steps do leave you with a bit of down time while you wait for one layer to cool or another to bake, so have a good audiobook handy and enjoy the process! (And make sure the baby is napping for at least half of it.)
The Secret Ingredient
Now, I know that you’re not supposed to mess with baking recipes. There’s no real wiggle room with the ingredients or ratios. Cooking may be an art, but baking is a science. You don’t mess with science.
But I did mess with this nearly-perfect recipe a wee bit. Just a very wee bit! I’ll tell you my secret: I added crushed gingersnaps to the graham cracker crust. The extra spice—the snap, if you will—was the perfect complement to the heavy richness of the cream cheese layers. It’s totally up to you, of course, but I was happy with it.
You’ll Want to Try This
Now, without further ado, please behold this recipe. I’m going to send you to the original post since I didn’t write the recipe, and I don’t think I’m allowed to just paste it in here. Just click the picture and it will take you to their site. (And no, I’m not getting anything out of this recommendation. It was just super good, and I thought you’d enjoy it.)
You’re welcome, and happy fall, ya’ll!
A Checklist for Perfectionists
Are you a to-do list person? I am 1,000% a to-do list person. It’s a blessing and a curse.
As an undeniable perfectionist, I struggle to stop working. My brain is always chugging away a million miles a minute, thinking about what I need to finish today, tomorrow, next year… A to-do list gives me a sense of peace and purpose. I like knowing that I have an external, objective list of tasks to slash off as I pursue the finish line on the distant horizon.
Unfortunately, like the horizon, the end of my to-do list recedes as I approach it. I take a step toward it, and it edges backward. I charge after it like a juggernaut only to find that it has taken a jet plane to the next hemisphere. In terms of progress, my days are a case study in futility.
A TREADMILL OF TASKS
To make matters worse, the tasks I do often don’t meet with my own approval. I mull it over, thinking how I could have done better, should have done more. The slashed-out tasks haunt me even as the next tasks loom over me. As you can imagine, I struggle to live in the moment. That may sound trendy or cliché, but it’s a real problem for me.
There are countless tasks I have to do to keep my family going, but I know the tasks are far less important than spending time with my family. That’s a simple statement, a black-and-white fact, and yet it’s often hard for me to make that distinction in the trenches of everyday life. I want to read books to my toddler, but the dishes… I want to play with my kids outside, but the laundry… You get the picture. There’s always more to do on my list.
STICKY NOTE INSPIRATION
So here’s a new list. A different one—a list for the perfectionist who needs an occasional reminder about what’s really important. Surprisingly, the list is in no particular order. Trust me, I wanted to go back through and reorganize these according to some inscrutable flow of thought, but that seemed to defeat the purpose. Ergo, here are a handful of reminders that I should write on sticky notes and put on every surface of my home. I hope you find them relatable and helpful, whatever your personality.
A CHECKLIST FOR PERFECTIONISTS
- Walk away. Sometimes “good enough” really is.
- Don’t worry about it. The dishes will still be there when you’re done spending time with the kids. (Unfortunately.)
- Enjoy it. Every stage of life has its own challenges and blessings; choose to focus on the latter.
- Drop it. If you’ve said your piece tactfully, leave it at that and let the other person do with it as they will.
- Stop thinking about it. Whatever irrevocable decision you made earlier today, it’s the right one now.
- Modify expectations. You can’t always do your absolute best on absolutely everything.
- Ditch the guilt. Even your best effort won’t always be awesome, and that’s all right.
- Ditch the guilt trip. If someone else is doing their best, that’s all you can expect of them. If they’re not doing their best, nagging certainly won’t improve morale.
- Opt for simplicity. An elaborate master plan may be tempting, but consider the sanity of your spouse.
- Tolerate clutter. Despite your feelings to the contrary, it won’t kill you to pick it up later.
- Savor today. Reminiscing and dreaming aren’t bad, but regret and worry are thieves. Don’t let them steal your moments.
- Choose thankfulness. Even when you’re frustrated and overwhelmed, there is still so much to be grateful for.
FEEL THE FREEDOM
My natural tendencies and lifelong practices all lean toward control and away from rest. Reminders like these won’t fix me overnight, but they’re a start. If you’re a to-do list person too, why not work on something off of this new list?
Give yourself permission to stop working, worrying, and chasing the horizon for a little while. After all, the only certainties in life are death, taxes, and an interminable to-do list. Your obligations aren’t going anywhere, so let’s set the old list down and see what freedom feels like, shall we? Personally, I’m going to go read some books with my kids.
…Right after I organize this pile of toys.
Robin Hood and a New (to Me) Author
Eureka! I’ve discovered an author!
He’s not a new author at all; he’s just new to me, like all my clothes, appliances, vehicles…well, you get the picture. I’m always a little bit behind the times, but it doesn’t bother me one bit, especially when it comes to literature. If a book is still in print decades (or centuries) after having been written, that’s more reassuring to me than 10,000 bandwagon reactions to a brand new book.
Don’t get me wrong—new books can be awesome! I’m hoping to add my own drop to the bucket one of these days. I’m merely pointing out that if a book warrants multiple editions over multiple decades, it’s probably worthwhile. And in this case, that’s definitely true.
THE AUTHOR, REVEALED!
So the author’s name is ::drumroll:: Stephen R. Lawhead.
All right, I see some of you rolling your eyes. Maybe I’ve just stumbled across someone you’ve been reading since then ‘80’s. If that’s true, then you’re 40 years superior to me, and I applaud you. Really, I do! I wish I’d discovered him sooner. He seems to write about stuff I really enjoy—Christianity, King Arthur, and Robin Hood, to name a few.
Lawhead has churned out over 30 novels, many of them set in ancient Britain. His books feel so accurate that I was surprised he’s from Nebraska. He and his wife live at Oxford now, so I’m sure that makes his research easier and more enjoyable. I was less surprised, however, to find that he’s a Christian. In the books I read, the religious representation was accurate and non-ironic, which I really appreciated.
THE SERIES, REVEALED!
So how did I stumble across this gem? I was perusing some posts by people who follow the Rabbit Room and saw Lawhead’s King Raven Trilogy recommended several times. The titles were simple enough: Hood, Scarlet, and Tuck. I’ve always been partial to ol’ Robin, so I borrowed the first book from my library’s audiobook app and got started. Thereafter, the trilogy was my companion while I folded laundry, vacuumed floors, and did endless hours of meal prep. (Housework can be a goldmine for audiobooks.) King Raven and I have kept the house in order for the past couple of months, but sadly our journey has ended. Now I’d like to introduce him to you.
WHAT I MOST ENJOYED
Authentic Setting
I narrowed down the things I enjoy about this trilogy into two categories: authentic and entertaining. First, the books felt authentic to me. While I’m not British, the majority of my books are from over the pond as opposed to our all-American variety. In general, I find their humor more humorous, their wit wittier, and their intellect more intelligent. (Please forgive the blatant and unfair generalization. I’m just relaying my opinion.) Also I got to teach British literature for nearly a decade, and I never tired of their authors or their history. I’m proud to be an American, but part of my soul belongs to Albion.
Authentic Story
I’ve always enjoyed the legend of Robin Hood, and Lawhead did a great job retelling the story. He kept it fresh and interesting without reinventing the wheel. The storyline is definitely grittier than, say, the Disney version with Robin as a green-capped fox. But despite the depictions of invasion, deprivation, and war, Lawhead never wallows in lurid descriptions. He keeps it classy. He also depicts the religious aspects realistically. A book set in ancient Britain cannot honestly ignore the influence of the church. I mean, their entire history is one of religious war, persecution, and revival. Lawhead’s story weaves the presence of the church with the characters and plot in a believable yet unobtrusive way.
Entertaining Style
Lawhead’s style is natural and descriptive. The story glides past, and you don’t even notice you’re reading (or listening). It doesn’t feel stilted or forced even though the characters often speak French or Latin. As vexing as it was to listen to sections of untranslated French on an audiobook, I took heart in the fact that it was authentic.
The story is set shortly after the Norman invasion of 1066, so the native Welsh and the conquering French were as different in language as in everything else. At least some of them had Latin in common, as it was the universal language of learning and religion. But to write a realistic book, an author would have to include the language barrier as well. To me, it somehow lent character to the storyline.
Now, you may remember that I’m not usually an audiobook lover. As convenient as they are, they can never beat the feel of paper in my hands. But as I’m a little pressed for time these days, I was happy with the audio option. The story moves along, the plot progresses, and the perspective changes frequently. Even so, it isn’t too confusing to keep up with, even via earbuds.
Entertaining Characters
The focal character seems like it would be Robin Hood throughout the series, and in a way that’s true. But each book shifts a different character into the foreground, as you can tell by the book titles. The second book, Scarlet, is initially a little jarring since it’s written from the first-person perspective of death-row-prisoner Will Scarlett. It takes some time to get used to the conversational tone, so different from the classic narrator style of book one, but I found my bearings quickly enough and enjoyed the change. You wouldn’t think there would be enough source material about Friar Tuck to base the third book on, but you’d be wrong. Tuck plays a major role in the unfolding and conclusion of the tale, and it’s enjoyable to see this God-fearing, mead-drinking, staff-wielding churchman in action.
NEXT UP, MORE LAWHEAD
I’ve recently started one of his most well-known books, Byzantium, and I’m enjoying it already. I will most likely delve into his Pendragon Cycle afterward, since I’m a sucker for all things Arthur. If you’re between books or just looking to add a few new titles to your library, consider the authentic, enjoyable works of Stephen R. Lawhead.
Just make sure you’ve got Google Translate handy.
My Fair Lady, Metamorphosis, and McDonalds
I don’t get out much, but when I do, it’s to see a Broadway play in Detroit.
For my birthday this year (as with most years) I couldn’t think of anything I needed or even wanted, so I asked for what I truly desired: a night out with my hubby seeing a play or a symphony or something. That’s my jam.
So we got two tickets to see My Fair Lady at the Fisher Theatre in downtown Detroit. My wonderful sister-in-law watched the kids at bedtime, I got (over)dressed in a black dress, and we enjoyed one of my favorite musicals from the vantage point of the fourth row. And afterward we hit up the McDonalds drive-thru so I could eat, like, a million chicken nuggets. I’m nothing if not classy.
The evening was a delight, and the play itself was as good as I’d hoped. Afterward I found myself contemplating one of the major themes of the play: transformation.
Pygmalion and My Fair Lady
Hopefully you’ve watched the old 1964 film of My Fair Lady starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison. Regardless, you’re probably familiar with the gist of the story because it shows up in various forms throughout literature and culture.
The first iteration of the story is a Greek myth. Pygmalion, a king and sculptor, carves a woman out of ivory and then falls in love with her. He prays to Aphrodite, and the goddess brings the statue to life. Pygmalion marries her and they live happily ever after. Centuries later in 1913, George Bernard Shaw wrote a play called Pygmalion. This play inspired a Broadway musical called My Fair Lady, which prompted a movie by the same name. I haven’t spent much time studying the myth, but I’ve fallen in love with every other version of the story.
The Particulars of the Plot
The play Pygmalion is not actually a retelling of the myth but a tale about transformation of another sort. Henry Higgins, a brilliant but heartless professor of phonetics, undertakes the challenge of recreating Eliza Doolittle, a coarse and uncouth London flower girl. She wants to rise above her low birth to become the kind of lady who sells flowers in a shop, not out of a basket in the street. To achieve this, she would need to overcome a lifetime of ghastly pronunciation and boorish mannerisms.
Professor Higgins boasts that he could do that and more—even pass her off as a princess within six months. His arrogance and obsession take over. He commits to her transformation, heedless of the cautions of Mrs. Pierce, his housekeeper, and Colonel Pickering, his friend and fellow linguist. The professor will do whatever it takes to recreate her.
The Characters
While the wit and humor of the script are well worth the read, it’s the characters that really make Pygmalion a classic. The play is well-named in light of the transformation that takes place not in Eliza Doolittle but in Professor Higgins. But the plot is also influenced by another one of my favorite plays—Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Professor Higgins is ruthless in his training of poor Eliza, but when the metamorphosis is complete, she emerges as an entirely new creature—one he eventually finds hard to resist. Eliza, however, is not so easily won.
As I said, the characters are the best part of the story. Specifically, I enjoy the contrast between the main men. George Bernard Shaw captures four of the most diverse and yet relatable character types and showcases their effects on poor Eliza.
Alfred P. Doolittle
First, Eliza’s father, the ingratiating drunk. He’s never done a thing for her in his life, and yet he mooches off her continually. He guilts her into sharing her hard-earned money and then immediately spends it in the bar. He has no morals, no conscience, and no true guilt. Eliza tolerates him as family but can’t love him as a father.
Freddy Eynsfor-Hill
Next comes Freddy Eynsford-Hill, the rich, silly romantic. He falls in love with Eliza at the middle of her transformation—the point where her speech is flawless but her topics are far from acceptable in high society. He finds her enchanting and hilarious. Initially, Eliza is unmoved by his devotion, but she comes around in the end.
Colonel Pickering
The third man is Colonel Pickering, a true gentleman in every sense. While he agrees to help Higgins train Eliza, he never forgets that she’s a person with feelings and a future. He is her advocate and ally, treating her like a lady even before she looks or sounds like one. Eliza flourishes under his attention. She aspires to live up to his view of her.
Henry Higgins
The last and most important man is Professor Henry Higgins, the chauvinistic narcissist. From the first moment of the story, Higgins shows himself to care nothing for other people and everything for his research. To him, Eliza is merely an embodied challenge, a chance to prove his magnificent talent as a phonetic genius. He never stops to think of her as a human soul until it’s too late. In response to his overly-demanding treatment, Eliza stiffens and digs in her heels. She refuses to be bludgeoned into change. She flourishes in her own time and her own way.
What Causes Change?
The theme of transformation gives us a chance to ask the question, what causes people to change? Eliza didn’t change as a result of Higgins’ browbeating, blustering, or bullying. Instead, she responded to respect—the respectful way Colonel Pickering treated her, the acceptance as an equal from Freddy Eynsfor-Hill and even Higgins’ own mother, and the respect with which she comes to view herself. And that’s true of us all. We may modify our behavior to avoid mistreatment, but we change for the better under loving instruction.
That’s why the ending of The Taming of the Shrew doesn’t ring true to me. When I wrote a play as a retelling of that story, I was forced to change the ending. Threats don’t produce affection; compassion does. George Bernard Shaw recognized this, and it motivated his conclusion of the play.
The Metamorphosis Is Complete
In the end, Higgins proves that he can pass Eliza off as a princess. He couldn’t have been prouder…of himself. But Eliza’s true transformation isn’t a matter of mere phonetics but of perception. The moment she’s able to scorn his dismissive opinion of her is the moment she finally “comes alive,” as did Pygmalion’s statue. Her metamorphosis gives her the confidence to change more than her dialect; she changes her expectations which changes her future.
The play really is a work of art, right down to hilarious, insightful the stage directions. Please read it. And if you aren’t in the mood to put on your fancy clothes and sit through a Broadway production, at least promise me you’ll rent the movie My Fair Lady. I know you’ll love it. You could even do one better than I did and eat your chicken nuggets during the performance. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
Canning: Reviving the Art of Survival
This week I bought twelve pounds of strawberries from Kroger and turned them into strawberry jam. So I’m pretty much a homesteader now.
Recently I wrote some posts about the Little House on the Prairie series, and I’m still surprised how much I learned from those books. For example, this week I was thinking about how often we take food for granted today. When we’re craving something specific, we don’t think twice about how impossible it would have been to get it back in the day. In fact, we can usually find a way to enjoy it within the hour. Want crisp, juicy apples in winter? Seasons are no hindrance to grocery stores. Want authentic Lebanese food in Michigan? Just Google a highly-rated restaurant nearby and hop in your car. Want fried chicken with all the fixin’s but don’t feel like leaving your couch? No problem. Have takeout delivered.
Something Gained; Something Lost
But for all our conveniences, we’ve lost some pretty important skills. I bet you know what I mean. When grocery aisles were picked over or empty in 2020, what went through your head? Did you feel a little tremor of fear when you realized you’ve rarely grown, harvested, or killed your own food before? That you have little to no knowledge of how to keep your family alive without your local grocery store? That, unless you were able to buy some packages and cans, you’d have to go foraging for acorns?
No? Just me? Well, fine. Maybe you didn’t get all worked up, and that’s great. Personally, I didn’t freak out too badly, but there were times I was definitely concerned about the lack of supplies and my own lack of skills. Ma Ingalls knew how to provide for her family day after day, all year long, even with nary a soul on the horizon. She used every part of an animal, preserved everything that came out of the ground, and utilized anything edible they could find. Granted, they were at the (sometimes severe) mercy of weather, pestilence, and blight, but they always made do.
Educated and Incompetent
And today? Today most of us have traded basic survival skills for impractical academic specialties. Now, before you get your petticoats in a wad, hear me out. I don’t mean that as an insult, and I wholeheartedly count myself among the affected. I majored in English Education with a minor in Creative Writing. If, God forbid, we ever face an actual food crisis, I’m equipped to write a touching memoir as I eat pages from my home library and slowly waste away. Not to mention that Pa Ingalls built several log cabins by hand, and I nearly lost my cool trying to assemble a toddler tent the other day. Four years of college, and I’m worse off than your average schmuck from a century ago.
That’s what I mean by “impractical” specialties—selectively helpful, yet unlikely to sustain one’s physical body without the aid of modern society. True, every job is practical in its own way, and I’m thankful for all the career options we have today. But how many of us also know how to sew, cook, build, and fix? Those skills seem “impractical” today, but they were common sense in nearly every culture until quite recently.
Dusty Old Skills
Thankfully, we live in a society that has structured itself around people like me. We can’t all stay home to tend flocks of sheep and grow lima beans. Each of us has an important role to play in keeping civilization chugging along the greasy path of progress. I’m thankful for stocked grocery stores and full pantries, and I’m thankful for my degree which provides the totally-essential skill of inwardly critiquing everyone’s grammar, both written and spoken. It’s a real bread winner, that.
But as helpful and charming as my education is, I still have vast tracts of mental and experiential land lying fallow. It seems wise to begin recovering basic skills that have been gathering dust for the past hundred years. I can’t do everything, but I can do something. I won’t be a full-time homesteader, but maybe I can plant a few more crops each year. Maybe I can practice canning store-bought produce until I’m ready to grow my own. Maybe I can slaughter a chicken.
…Nah.
But there are other non-slaughtery skills I should begin to practice now.
Yoda Meets Rambo
The good news is, I have a built-in tutor: my mother. She’s straight outta the prairie, y’all. She’s got a big ol’ garden and has been canning stuff for decades. She’s the Yoda of all things “from scratch.” Her lesson on jam making this week demystified the process and instilled canning confidence in me. Also, she’s tougher than an angry she-bear. If there’s ever an apocalypse of any kind, you can bet I’ll be hiding out in my parents’ basement as she stands guard at the front door, dressed like Rambo and armed with a pitch fork. (No joke. I’ve seen what her pitch fork can do. RIP, groundhog.)
I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen much growing up because, well, cooking with kids takes about 35 times longer than doing it yourself. Ergo, I missed out on many essential years of tutelage. But now I’m of an age to invite myself into her workspace and only make things go 23 times slower, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’m there to practice skills, take notes, make messes, and absorb wisdom. I intend to pass this wisdom on to my children and my children’s children. Because that’s how humans have thrived for millennia, and it’s how we’ll continue to thrive, regardless of grocery stores or impractical academic specialties.
Plan a Jam Session
So there it is. I’m taking tentative steps toward practicality. Interested but daunted? Not sure where to start? Try canning some strawberry jam! Trust me, it’s not as complicated as it seems. Did you know that every box of Sure Jell has a pamphlet with simple jam and jelly instructions inside? It’s so easy, even a pioneer could do it!
One more thing: when you begin to gain or hone skills like this, make sure you pass them on to your kids or friends. Have a jam session together. Find ways to involve them as you learn. Even if the grocery store shelves are always stocked, you’ll still be the richer for practicing these talents together. The memories alone are worth it.
So long for now! I’m off to enjoy some toast with a generous smattering of fresh strawberry jam. Next up: learning how to skin a rabbit!
…Just kidding. We’re going to make dill pickles.
Lessons from the Trees
Well, it’s pretty much official. We’re moving.
We aren’t going far; only about half an hour from where we currently live, but still—a move is a move. You have to leave behind everything you love…and everything you don’t love but have come to tolerate. (I’m looking at you, really weird back door entrance.) We plan, Lord willing, to build a house. And function as our own contractors for the job. While raising two little ones.
Please say a prayer for us.
What I’ll Miss
While there are tons of things I’ll miss about living here (most notably our neighbors, the memories we’ve made here, and the convenience of getting just about anywhere), one thing I’m sad to leave is our trees.
We live in an old neighborhood situated in even older woods. I’m no dendrologist, but some of the trees around here are well over a hundred years old. In fact, my favorite tree in the neighborhood is easily twice that. It’s just a few streets away, so I make sure to pass it whenever I’m out for a walk or bike ride.
I’m sure the owners of that property know my face by now. They’ve probably considered charging me with loitering and general creepiness when I slow my pace to a mere shuffle and crane my neck to a degree that would make an owl jealous. Or when I straight-up stop and take a picture of the tree. I really can’t help it. I love that tree. (It’s a white oak, for those who are curious.)
My yard may not have a centuries-old oak, but we do have several beauts. They fill our days with shade, beauty, and—in the fall—yardwork. I’m talking bags and bags and bags of oak, maple, and walnut leaves. But to me, it’s worth the effort because the trees are beautiful.
Where We’re Headed
We decided to build on a piece of land that’s been in our family for fifty years. It’s adjacent to where my sister and her family live, which makes it delightful for many reasons, one of which is cousin play time and another is my brother-in-law’s grilling skills. (I love trees, but I also love steaks.) The land used to be a clear, 3-acre tract with a few small trees and plenty of black raspberry bushes, but those days are long gone. Now the property has gone to seed, quite literally.
I beat my way through it early this spring before the leaves had begun to bud. It was slow going, the ground completely overrun with brambles, bushes, vines, and scrub trees. To my undiscerning eye, it looked like there were very few trees worth keeping. They all seemed thin, wimpy, or choked out. While I love the family legacy of our new land, I was sad to leave my beautiful, old trees behind only to level our new property and start from scratch.
The Difference Some Leaves Can Make
However.
This week we fought our way down an overgrown path through the property, and everything was different. You know that terrible dream where all your molars are loose and they keep falling out when you try to talk, but then you wake up and find your teeth are firmly intact after all? …No? Well, then insert your own phobia here. The point is, that’s the kind of relief and joy I felt when I looked up at the big, beautiful, towering trees on our new land. We won’t have to level it after all! My molars are safe!
It’s a jungle, to be sure—a jungle of maple, oak, walnut, linden, poplar, and choke cherry, with a disproportionate amount of bittersweet vines and poison ivy strangling many a stately trunk. When it comes to taming that beast, we have our work cut out for us. But I’m so willing to tackle it. You know why? Because old trees are worth the work.
After all, I’m sure you know the saying: the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago; the second-best time is today. But if a tree sprouted fifty years ago, that’s even better.
Learning from Trees
Trees are great teachers. They’re wizened, soft-spoken, experienced. Their lessons are timeless and yet they change with the seasons. They’ve inspired countless books, poems, songs, adages, and even ancient mythology. There’s something universal in the study and love of trees.
Lately I’ve mulled over one particular truth from these leafy tutors: trees are utterly untouched by the American obsession with haste. Trees never hurry. (Just ask Treebeard the Ent.) They grow gradually, painstakingly, inch by inch, year by year. Sometimes it’s enough to drive me mad, but it’s also a rebuke to my constant busyness. I don’t do anything slowly except eat; I’d be far better off taking a leaf out of a tree’s book.
The Watched Pot Versus American Culture
We planted a few ornamental trees in our front yard three years ago. Between storm damage, deer snacking on the bark, and a certain toddler driving his tractor over two bushes, they haven’t grown very much. Even so, I check the miniscule sprouts of new growth on my lilacs several times each spring.
But no matter how many times I breathe down their tiny trunks, looking for progress, they don’t grow any faster. If anything, they probably grow more slowly just to spite me and my obsession with progress. I want results NOW. That’s what America promises us, after all. Want to be skinny NOW? Take these pills. Want to eat NOW? Throw this in the microwave. Want to get there NOW? Take a jet. Want to know NOW? Google it. We are not a patient culture.
But trees.
Slow Growth
Trees gently, patiently, quietly remind us to slow down. Set up a hammock. Look up at the kaleidoscope of leaves and sunshine. Think about how long it took that tree to grow into the magnificent monolith it is today. And then realize that, for a tree and for us, good things take time.
I’m bracing for this next season of life. Building a home will be busy, stressful, and probably unenjoyable at times. More than once I will grit my teeth (my safely-intact teeth) and wish it was already done. At times like that, I hope I will look around at the trees growing peacefully and take a deep breath. God determines our times and seasons. He causes things to grow inch by inch—trees, houses, and patience. Slow growth is strong growth, and I will choose to be thankful for that.
Now please remind me of this when I’m up to my eyeballs in construction next year. Thanks.
Add a comment, and join the conversation!