Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

-Wendell Berry (1973)

Paper Cranes and Poets

I am staring at the pressed wings of a paper crane that I found in an old notebook. I trace my finger over the folds and creases of this origami bird that someone gave to me at a coffee shop once and remember. I was sitting there, reading a book, and suddenly this paper crane dropped onto my table. I looked up to see someone quickly leave and recognized that it was a guy who had been sitting a few tables away from me. I didn’t even have time to say thank you before he was gone.

There was no phone number, no ulterior motive. It was just a bird; what one of my favorite professors in college would have called a “senseless act of beauty.” I wonder now, perhaps a bit foolishly, if somehow this person knew that birds are my favorite? Probably not. But every time I run my fingers over the wings of this simple, folded piece of paper, I feel beautiful and loved. I look at it and remember that every tiny fold was done with a desire to make some small, blonde girl he didn’t know smile; some girl he couldn’t have known would find that bird three years later and would still smile.

I will always keep this bird pressed between pages scrawled with notes from Pablo Neruda and N.T. Wright, sermon notes, taped postcards and pictures that feel like so long ago. It belongs amongst the intimacy of all these lovely thoughts and truths; I will always need to look at this crane and glimpse beauty.

“The poet is in a sad state of wanting and not being able. He hears the flow of great rivers, passing by in silence, with no one else to hear their music. On his brow he feels the coolness of the reeds, swaying in their No Man’s Land. He wants to feel the dialogue of the winds that tremble in the moss…he wants to penetrate the music of the sap running in the dark silence of huge tree trunks…he wants to press his ear to the sleeping girl and understand the Morse code of her heart…he wants…but he cannot.” – Federico Garcia Lorca (1928)

Merry Christmas (One Day Late)

I hope you all had a beautiful, warm and homey Christmas — the chief of mine was nothing exciting but everything that is cozy and relaxing. I spent lots of time with my family, including the cutest baby on planet Earth (and any other planet):

If this picture doesn’t make you smile, I choose to believe you are not human nor do you have functioning eyeballs.

Needless to say, snuggling up with my niece was a highlight. I also enjoyed the small pile of books I  received, as well as “Julie and Julia,” which I watched and immediately was seized by the desire to cook. Instead, I took a nap and ate more cookies. Ah, holidays.

All my love to you and yours. I hope you are still enjoying the afterglow of a beautiful season.

Thinking of Joseph

Happy Christmas Eve!

I slept with my Christmas lights on last night and it was beautiful to wake up early to an deep indigo sky and a softly lit apartment. I just finished my morning yoga and am now drinking hot tea as I spend my morning writing and reading before heading off for two days of family festivities.

I have been thinking a lot about Joseph this Christmas season. Last year, I wrote about my respect for Mary and what it must have been like for her but this year, my heart has been pondering Joseph. Throughout my life, when I would picture the Nativity in my head, it was always moonlit, like a Christmas card, and was punctuated by the gentle bleats of sheep. Everyone was smiling and happy; no one was frightened or confused. I used to stare at the clay Nativity set that my parents had when I was a child and be amazed at the bulk and strength of Joseph, smiling down at baby Jesus. He was a papa, like my papa, and he was never afraid or struggling. He was a superhero in a robe.

Image from nytimes.com

Now I don’t know much about men but what I have learned in my short 25 years is that the traditional male sense of worth is very different than the traditional female sense. From what I understand (and please gentlemen, correct me if I am wrong), the traditional (or stereotypical, even) male sense of worth comes from what you do and provide. The identity of a man and a father manifests itself in work and what you can produce and teach.

I cannot imagine how difficult it would have been for Joseph, a respected Jewish man in a small community, to find out that his betrothed wife, Mary, was pregnant and he was not the father. In Jewish culture, if he decided to accuse her, she would be stoned to death by her own friends and family. If he decided not to accuse her, they both would be basically ejected from respectable Jewish society. By choosing to believe that she was with child from the Holy Spirit, he shattered his own reputation and invited scorn and cruel whispers behind his back. By choosing to stay with Mary and this child that was not even his own, he gave up everything.

I remember my father teaching me so much while I grew up and I am humbled by all he continues to teach me today. I learned how to throw a football, make cookies, find Bible verses, climb a tree, thread a fishing hook and so much more from him. What must it have been like for Joseph to look at Jesus as a boy, wondering if he even had anything to teach him? This child was Emmanuel, God incarnate. I wonder if Joseph felt foolish when he tried to teach Jesus how to use a hammer or showed him how to tie on his sandals. I wonder if Joseph held this baby in his arms and felt small and weak.

One of my favorite pictures of me and my dad (and my sister)...we are complete goofballs.

Andrew Peterson wrote the most beautiful song about the birth of Christ called “Labor of Love.” The words to this song quite literally take my breath away at times and there is a particular verse I want to share with you all:

Noble Joseph at her side
Callused hands and weary eyes
There were no midwives to be found
In the streets of David’s town
In the middle of the night
So he held her and he prayed
Shafts of moonlight on his face
But the baby in her womb
He was the maker of the moon
He was the Author of the faith
That could make the mountains move

I hear a deep sense of fear in these words. I don’t think I am wrong in saying that Joseph, while overcome by wonder and awe, looked at this child wrapped in rags and felt an overwhelming surge of fear. Would he be a good father to his own Father? When he first felt the weight of an infant in his arms, did he look in his eyes and realize that he would one day look in those eyes as they hung on a cross?

This Christmas, I think of Joseph and what it took to be the kind of man who allowed God to show him his worth and who stood by Mary even when it cost him everything. God didn’t choose a man whose masculinity dominated or controlled others; He chose a man whose humble strength protected and stood up for his wife and his family. Thank you to all you fathers, husbands and men out there for all that you do to be a man worth looking up to, a man like Joseph.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

LATER ADDITION: This episode of “This American Life” does a wonderful re-thinking on what Joseph went through. Give it (and the whole show) a listen.

“Let the Stable Still Astonish”

Every year around Christmas, this poem flows into my mind, swirling ’round and round as Advent invites me, past all my busy-ness and penciled-in schedules, to a place where the coming of God speaks unending wonder into my life. In the midst of all of that, these words never fail to move me.

It comes from a book called Light from Heaven, which is part of a series by Jan Karon about an Episcopal priest who lives in a small North Carolina mountain town called Mitford. My mother introduced me to these books and for months I staunchly refused to read them because I considered them to be “old lady books.” (Sorry Mom, you aren’t an old lady.) Finally, a few years ago, I picked up the first one during the boredom of an unemployed autumn and unwillingly found myself the newest devoted citizen of Mitford. Despite their middle-aged appearance, they are warm and beautiful, settling in my chest like hot tea and good company.

Anyway, the poem comes from that book and I must say, I did not copy down the author in my notebook, so I cannot cite it properly. But in any case, here it is:

Let the stable still astonish
Straw — dirt floor, dull eyes
Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;
Crumbling, crooked walls;
No bed to carry that pain
And then, the child,
Rag-wrapped, laid to cry
In a trough
Who would have chosen this?

Who would have said “Yes,”
“Let the God of all the heavens
And earth
Be born here, in this place”?
Who but the same God
Who stands in the darker, fouler rooms
of our hearts
and says “Yes,”
“Let the God of Heaven and Earth
be born here –
in this place.”

I pray you will let these words move you and push you forward, sprawling, into the dusty starlight that penetrates the stable walls, revealing to us our Mighty God, Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace. His love for us was so immense yet so personal that it crescendoed in the cry of an infant, cradled in a cold feeding trough, whose name was Emmanuel, God with Us. In this place of dirt and dust, devoid of all of the earthly trappings of a king, God humbly presented Himself in a way that proclaims He is close, He is here and He is love.

“Yes, let the God of Heaven and earth be born here, in this place.”

Thoughts of the Drunken Duck

It was the biggest hill I’d ever seen and as I swung my leg over my bike, I turned to Aislyn and we both smiled.

“This had better be worth it.”

What seemed like an hour later, the hill wasn’t getting any smaller or shorter; there was no end in sight. In our efforts not to lose our minds, we lost ourselves to sheer silliness and deep belly laughs. “I think the Drunken Duck is a myth!” I pronounced loudly, letting my voice carry through the foggy air like smoke from a fire. For some reason, we both found this incredibly funny and had to stop our bikes, we were laughing so hard.

After everything else that had happened that weekend, it wouldn’t come as much of a surprise if we were biking up a hill that lead to nowhere. Chased and bitten by swans, getting lost on a dark road trying to walk the seven miles from Windermere to Ambleside and biking miles in the complete opposite direction from the ruined castle we were trying to find; everything had happened mistakenly on that trip and, frankly, it rather delighted me. Even if the Drunken Duck turned out to be a field full of drowsy sheep, I didn’t care. I was there with my friend, breathing in crisp lungfuls of mountain air and everything was beautiful.

“Wait, is that…is that A PUB I SEE?” one of us cried, shielding our eyes through the soupy mountain fog.

It was indeed. The Drunken Duck rose out of the air majestically, like Lewis and Clark seeing the Rocky Mountains for the first time. We both cheered and had renewed energy as we dragged our bikes and ourselves up the last stretch of hill. My butt was bruised, our lungs were burning, we were both sweating profusely under our coats, but it didn’t matter anymore. The Drunken Duck was here, it was real and it meant one thing: TEA TIME.

Taking tea, in my humble opinion, is one of the greatest inventions of the English, right behind pubs and Harry Potter. We locked our bikes outside and turned around, excitedly chattering about the prospect of a proper tea. I stopped talking suddenly and my face blanked out. “What?” Aislyn asked. “C’mon, let’s go inside.” Looking across the road, this is what I saw:

Mountains wreathed in mist, hills bowing gently to one another — it took my breath away. We stood there in silence a moment and, after a deep breath, proceeded to walk into the coziest pub on earth. We briefly contemplated ordering pints till we remembered the enormous hill that we now had to ride down, so we went back to our original decision of tea. We collapsed into a booth next to a couple who were out for a brisk walk with their giant, sprawling Saint Bernard who took up most of the floor. I privately wanted to sit on him and see if he could carry me around but I resisted and instead lost myself in the most wonderful tea I think I’ve ever had.

We lingered for an hour or more, Aislyn nibbling on extra sugar cubes, and finally, we schelped our tired bodies back onto our bikes and took off down the hill. We whooshed through the air with what was at first a rather alarming speed. But after a few seconds, it soared into a feeling of delirious freedom and I began belting out praise songs at the top of my lungs. In this empty valley in the Lakes District of England, I could do nothing else but praise my God for the glory of the landscape that blurred through the air around me.

Now, almost four years later, I look out my window to a busy street and piles of snow, and I see the worn timbers of a pub with a funny name. I see the black and white striped street signs for Skelwith, for Hawkshead, for Grasmere and I feel the weight of bike pedals beneath my feet. I’m skipping over rocks in a park that I named Middle Earth and wading in cold rivers that make me feel alive.

I’m here and I’m there — and I believe I shall always be.

Walter and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

I look around my cozy little kitchen and am surrounded by more crafting supplies than the whole of Hobby Lobby contains. I bought them out of wreath forms. My kitchen table is covered in tins to hold homemade hot chocolate mix. I rotate knitting projects while I work through piles of DVDs (I wish I had the concentration to read and knit at the same time). All I need is a partridge in a pear tree and I’m set!

Needless to say, this handmade venture of mine explains my patchy blog silence the past week or so. Forgive me?

For today, as I wait for iTunes to finish updating so I can blast Christmas tunes and recommence my Christmas elf duties, I will leave you with this wonderful proclamation from our old friend, Walter Brueggemann:

“It will finally be about God and His faithfulness that vetoes our faithlessness.”
- Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination

Pomegranates and Peace

Pomegranates are one of my favorite fruits, simply because they are so beautiful. Their bright little seeds are like tiny jewels; I told my friend Frank once that I felt like a hummingbird when I ate them. He laughed and Tweeted about it. Anyway, the point is I adore pomegranates and I truly believe that they never cease to fancy up any moment of the day.

Indeed, I often stop while cooking and take photos of my food.

As a prelude to another night of knitting, I concocted a little dessert for myself that was not only healthy but incredibly delicious. So, of course, I want to share it with you all:

Apple Compote with Yogurt and Pomegranate Seeds

1 apple (I used McIntosh, because it’s what I had)
1/2 tsp. butter
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. raw honey
1/2 c. organic vanilla yogurt (plain would also be fine, I just happened to have vanilla)
1 small handful pomegranate seeds

Core and chop the apple into small chunks. Heat a skillet on medium-low heat and melt the butter. Add the apples, cinnamon and honey, stirring together. Cook until the apples are soft and falling apart, but not mushy. Divide the apple mixture onto two small plates (or bowls) and top with 1/4 c. yogurt each and sprinkle with pomegranate seeds. Eat immediately and make lots of “Mmmmm!”-ing noises. (It’s that good.)

The finished product.

…….

In a segue only assisted by alliteration, peace is also on my mind tonight. As Advent flows into its second week, the Bethlehem candle of peace is lit, reminding us that the coming Christ bears many names, among them the Prince of Peace.

For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

-Isaiah 9:6, NIV

I have been dealing with more than the usual amount of anxiety in this season of my life. Amongst all the joy that fills my days, I also have moments where I have had trouble breathing and moments where I need to be curled up into a tight ball on my bed, collapsed in prayer. I wouldn’t say it’s depression or sadness, only an anxiety that seems to cast an equally weighty cloud. In this time of peace, I find myself being much more grateful this year than I ever have been before that the Prince of Peace is coming.

The Advent service at Mars Hill last night placed this particular piece of truth in my hands and I have been thinking of it deeply ever since: “You won’t know what healing looks like until it happens.” I so badly want to know what will happen next. I want to plan and control my healing so that it’s neat and fits nicely into my checklist. I want to swoop my pen across the box next to “healed” so that my life may move forward. What I forget so often is that life moves forward regardless of me giving it permission. Even in my anxiety, it is and has been moving all this time.

I am continually learning that healing is a process and a journey, not a product or an end result. I do not achieve healing but rather it grows within me, spreading and filling in the gaps and broken places until one day, I look down and realize that I’m whole again. In this space of grace and peace, God is asking me to rest and wait, two things I am learning to do over and over. In His infinite patience, He has revealed to me that even this “anxious anticipation” in itself is a gift. This season that I find myself in, when I can so easily crash into despair, He is pulling me closer. I need these moments with Him because He understands the me that I don’t even realize I am. While I am still getting to know myself, He knows me intimately and beautifully, the way only an artist could know a painting or a mother her child. This season is teaching me I am not creator but creation.

Peace to you this week, friends. (And try the recipe.)

A Very Happy Handmade Christmas to You

……………………

One recent cozy afternoon, lulled into submission by gingerbread pancakes and the lure of Hobby Lobby’s excellent sales, I temporarily lost my mind and proclaimed, “I”m going to hand-make all my Christmas gifts this year!”

I heard myself say it, felt juiced about it momentarily and then realized, about 3 seconds later, that my skills are limited to knitting scarves and cooking.

Pretty much everyone in my family has received a scarf from me at some point.
How am I supposed to wrap up a batch of my beloved enchiladas for someone?

Crap.

Well, as they say, I knitted this bed and now I have to sleep in it. So I am going one leap over the Handmade Pledge above and am hand-making every darn Christmas present. This means that I have been frequenting Hobby Lobby and getting very inspired by really cute artsy blogs like this one and this one. It gives me confidence that I too can be saucy and creative.

STATUS: Two scarfs down, umpteen more various items to go.

So tonight, I made my staple favorite dinner (black beans and rice) and have spent the past hour watching knitting tutorials on YouTube (I will master a Stockinette stitch before I go to sleep!…maybe). The first one I tried was a blur, the woman knitted so flippin’ fast I couldn’t follow anything. The second was better and offered much slower examples. I tried not to laugh at the “Hey, knitting is hip and hoppin’ for teens, look, even some confused-looking teenage boys are doin’ it!” tone of the video. Now, popping around to different tutorials, I realize that, in my six years of knitting very mediocre scarves, I have been casting on stitches the wrong way the whole time. That explains why the one end of my scarves is always sort of scraggly and pathetic-looking. Amazing what I learn at the temple of YouTube.

So here are some examples of my handmade items so far:

A yarn wreath that was super-simple, took maybe an hour or two and cost less than $10 to make!

Scarves!

Super-cute tins that will soon hold homemade hot chocolate mix.

The Beatles just popped up in iTunes, reminding me of a simple piece of advice: “Let it be.” I take this to mean if any of these projects fall apart and I find myself on the verge of weeping or drinking too much wine, just let it be. Let my scarves be imperfect or my hot chocolate mix clump up. Christmas will still happen and be wonderful; Advent will still bring the light of Christ and remind me I am loved.

So let it be…let it be a handmade Christmas for us all! (Or at least those as bonkers as me.)
Fa-la-la-la-la.

Welcome, Advent.

As the season of Advent folds open before me, I take a deep breath and begin the intentional process of giving myself permission to long for God in a way that is transforming, vulnerable and celebratory.

The first candle of Advent, the purple candle of prophecy and hope, promises me two things: that He is indeed coming and that He is indeed already here.

For me this year, Advent means many things. It is causing me to feel in intentional verbs that point me towards the birth of One who loves me and came for me.

Initiate.

Anticipate.

Participate.

Wait.

Welcome.

Allow.

Inaugurate.

Open.

Breathe.

Be.

Long.

The story that Christ told with His arrival into our broken human world is being told again and again in my life. He is telling me that I matter. He is telling me that I am enough. He is telling me that I am not alone. He is telling me that He’s forgiven me. He is telling me that He loves me.

What is Christ speaking into your Advent season this year?