Category Archives: homesteading

right here: how we seek first the Kingdom

Posted on by May 8, 2024

I was sitting on the bed, journaling, and out of the corner of my eye I saw something move across the floor. Turned my head to look, and it was a huge spider.

My preferred method for dealing with spiders is to grab a book, hold it a few feet above the intruder, and drop it with a solid thump. Then I leave the book on the floor for Vin to take care of because I don’t want to see what’s underneath, and he’s a good sport about this…even when I use his books, not mine, to do the thumping.

(The only book of mine currently next to the bed is a clothbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and we do not, not, not use clothbound books to smash spiders, let the redeemed of the Lord say so.)

right here: how we seek first the Kingdom

So I dispatched the spider with Vin’s military history book, left it on the floor by the bed, and went back to writing:

My last post is still doing its work in me, teaching me to behold joy and win through peace and gratitude. Also, I am strategically ignoring the wind and waves – those things that feel simultaneously too much and not enough – and am continuing to focus on writing His words and stewarding our home.

This verse came up last weekend in church, and it’s long been one of my favorites:

I paused to look up Matthew 8:33 – but no, that’s about herdsman fleeing a demon-possessed man, definitely not it…tried again…ah yes, Matthew chapter six, not eight:

It’s this: But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you.

I’ve always focused on the kingdom part and not really noticed the “and His righteousness” part, until our pastor said that “His righteousness” could also be seen as “His standards” – and the verse came alive to me in a whole new way. It seems obvious from a moral standpoint, but for the first time I also related it to His order, and beauty, and functionality, in a more domestic, home-keeping, family-nurturing, homesteaderly light.

I haven’t stopped thinking on it, how all the things are added unto us when we take care of the core issues. And I was still thinking on it when another spider crossed the floor, closer to the door this time, presumably to check on the first one.

But there weren’t any other books nearby.

I looked across the room at the bookshelves, and back near the door where the spider was. There was nothing else to be done, it was too close to getting away, so I peeled the already-used book off the floor and held it by the edges, careful to not look at the smashiness stuck to its underside. Took two steps, and WOMP, dropped it on spider #2.

Then I got a tissue and bravely (I hear you laughing, stop it) looked for the smudge of grossness on the floor from spider #1, and wiped it up. Threw the tissue in the toilet. Then grabbed three books off the shelf to keep handy, because the next offender was going to get hit with How The Irish Saved Civilization.

And I thought, Huh, that’s ironic, because that’s basically what I was journaling about, and what so many conversations have centered on lately. Not the Irish, but saving civilization.

Friends and acquaintances have been talking about redirecting their focus homeward, turning from what has somehow become normal because as Dave Ramsey says, normal is broke – not just in the sense he means, but also in the sense that forty-plus hours outside the home to meet the car payment and mortgage payment and the skyrocketing price of groceries often equates to parents and kids and spouses barely knowing each other because they spend so little real time together. Hence disconnection, and disillusion, and burnout.

Normal is broken; we do need saving.

Our culture has had all kinds of misfires in its attempts to do the right thing, depending on the current consensus of what the “right thing” actually was at the moment – provide for the family, reach the lost, raise the children, attend the church functions, train and educate for the next endeavor. All good things. But in light of “seek first the Kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you,” it also makes me think of Jesus saying, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary.”

And then He defended Mary, sitting at His feet. Mary, defying cultural norms and expectations, learning with the men. Mary, coming close: her eyes on Jesus, preparing to teach others about Him, seeking first the Kingdom and His righteousness.

We fight this constant sense of obligation and “ought to” that is more often just pressure than real conviction. The accusers and distractions (sometimes external, but often in our own heads) come in like so many spiders, trying to divert us from the work at hand, but only one thing is necessary.

Sometimes we feel like we ought to be doing something else because we’re subscribing to our culture’s standards and not His standards. We are a culture that likes formulas and programs, and we will often jump through all sorts of hoops rather than do the most simple, necessary task at hand that we’ve been avoiding because it isn’t the popular answer.

Prepare your work outside;
get everything ready for yourself in the field, and after that build your house.

— Proverbs 24:27

We look for breakthrough and direction, but sometimes we do so while ignoring the unglamorous answers right in front of us. It has taken me a lifetime to learn that our breakthroughs don’t require us to say just the right words in just the right order, crack the code or solve the riddle, stand on your left foot for a certain number of seconds while singing the pre-determined worship song that will unlock everything once and for all.

Being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, he answered them, “The kingdom of God is not coming in ways that can be observed,nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you.”

— Luke 17:20-21

We look all over, but the Kingdom is right here.

The mom who can’t raise her hands in worship because her arms are full of baby, of child, of other things, is no less engaged in worship than the person who stands up and sits down and claps at all the right times.

Having your arms full with your calling is also worship.

At the risk of stating the obvious (because sometimes we need to hear it): If you’re burnt out or sick, it might be because you’ve been so busy leading or serving others that you need to take a break to get yourself well. We can’t lead or serve others well if we’re not leading ourselves well.

That doesn’t mean you have to feel like you’ve arrived before you can lead or serve. It just means that it’s important to routinely draw back and strengthen our foundations, make sure our personal structures are sound before we miss the forest for the trees and try to serve our community. This is the heart of why we Sabbath, but it isn’t limited to just observing the Sabbath. (It’s also important to give grace to those who are different, or in different seasons than we are. What looks like rest to one of us looks like drudgery or torture to another.)

It also doesn’t mean you’ve got to have your act fully together before you can obey the Lord in whatever He’s called you to serve in externally. It just means there’s a necessary balance, because the first thing He’s calling us to is Himself. And if we’re not able to abide because our lives are so busy serving, serving, serving, and we’re out in our community so much that our home life is falling apart, our kids are falling apart, our marriage is falling apart, everything’s out of control, then it’s definitely time to draw back and strengthen those core areas.

A shadow runs across the path in front of us, and we look away from the work at hand. It needs to be squashed quickly so we can return to the one thing that is necessary.

Just to clarify, this isn’t a message about women needing to be solely domestic. We can blame radical feminism all we want but it does no good if we don’t recognize that radical feminism was an overcorrection in response to routine misogyny. Both sides have missed the mark in seeking first the Kingdom and His righteousness.

I shared this recently on social media:

If you feel stuck and aren’t sure what to do because the thing you want to do seems to have no openings or opportunities right now, put the weight of your focus on the things right in front of you or just ahead of you that you can do.

Strengthen those foundations and core areas. Build a strong spiritual structure, make the presence of God your permanent atmosphere.

Much will change in the coming months and you’ll be the better for not rushing into certain moves and changes right now.

But other things — the ones you feel Holy Spirit leading you in right now — need to be addressed immediately, and those are the things that will prepare you for the bigger moves in the long run that you can’t see the way forward in quite yet.

A voice cries:

“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord;
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.
And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

— Isaiah 40:3-5

We spent part of a recent Sabbath checking our chicken paddock fencing, closing gaps, stretching the fence back to its height where it had sagged from the weight of snow. If we don’t, the chickens will get loose and predators can get in (been there, hated that).

When we were done, walking back, we talked about how this would be a good time to look for chaga before the leaves come out. (What is chaga, you ask? It grows on birch trees, great for all kinds of health issues – here you go.)

We’ve never really hunted for it before, but lots of our friends have. We walked through the woods, looking up while also trying not to trip over the roots and fallen logs at our feet, wondering how we would get to the chaga if we found any in these tall, tall trees. Even if you do spot some, it’s not the most accessible thing in the world.

“You know what would be amazing?” I said. “If that giant birch tree the neighbors cut down last year had some on it.” We’d shared our chainsaw with them, and they had shared the wood with us, but we’d already chopped and stacked our share. We kept walking, looking up, going around the trees, looking at all sides.

We finally reached the edge of the woods and a huge birch log lay next to the path – part of the neighbor’s tree that for some reason we hadn’t cut for firewood.

Right on the top of it, a choppy dark crust with some exposed orange under it. If you know, you know.

“Um, wouldn’t it be nice…” I repeated, “if there just happened to be chaga on the tree that was already cut down…like, right in front of us…”

Wouldn’t it be nice if the thing we’re seeking really is what’s closest at hand?

It wasn’t a large piece, but it was right there. No climbing, no striving required. Just right in front of us, waiting to be found.

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P.S. It’s been a while since I updated y’all on some things, so here you go:

  • Looking for more homesteaderly content? Here’s our fun new gig: short posts on sustainability in small bites, everything from chaga to chickens.
  • If you feel stuck and need someone to help you move forward in this season, I currently have one slot available for coaching and will have another open up in a couple weeks. Info here.
  • If you are local (here in the MatSu Valley, or within driving distance) and want to address some core issues – because this is how we pave the way for breakthrough and revival – we’re in the middle of a series of multi-church prayer and worship gatherings that have been focused on unity, repentance, and restoration. Info and schedule here.

how the colors come together: grieving & celebrating the emptying nest

Posted on by March 8, 2024

The fog left its mark in hoarfrost on the trees along the Parks Highway, and we drove home from church with all eight of us in the vehicle. It was the last time I would sit crammed between two 6-foot-something men in the front seat of the Stagecoach; one of them has moved out and is on his own now.

how the colors come together: grieving & celebrating the emptying nest

I gave him the quilt I’d been working on for months, often right in front of him while he was oblivious because almost-18-year-old boys don’t pay attention to their mother’s crafty shenanigans. Two nights before, Iree and I spent several hours finishing it and the seams had “significant wonk,” meaning they veered and shifted in ways I didn’t intend them to because I’m still new at this and don’t know what I’m doing and it is hard to wrestle these giant things through a small short-armed machine.

As soon as Afton’s room was empty, Cham moved into it. We’ve started to fill her vacated area – which was his space not long ago, before last year’s rearrangement – with a table for spring seedlings and about 200 books that he didn’t want to take with him. There’s still room for the sewing machine, and once the space is filled and echo-less, I’ll be recording audio in there, too. So we have plans, just like he does, and plans are good.

I spent one evening shelving all the books in the new space and sorting through what to keep and what to get rid of: Nineteen books by Patrick F. McManus. Also, the ones on blacksmithing and leatherworking from those phases, and the manuals on knifemaking from that phase. And the first copy of the bread book he learned artisan bakery from – the one we have two copies of, because he used the original until the spine broke and pages fell out from his blissfully long but sadly abandoned passion for breadmaking, when we all learned terms like poolish, pan de mie, and bâtard.

On the day he moved I was fine until that night, making dinner in the kitchen, and suddenly felt the gentle wrench of his absence. Some of his things were missing because he’d taken them, and others of his were still there, discarded because he didn’t want them anymore. I searched the cabinet for a jar and found his collection of cheesecloth from the cheesemaking phase.

He won’t be back for dinner tonight, I realized. Not that he’s been eating with us; he’s been raiding the kitchen late at night when he gets home from work. He’d ask, “What’d you guys have for dinner?” and, depending on whether or not he liked the answer, he’d respond with “Is there any left?” or bored dismissal, and make his own thing.

And that song was playing again – the same one Iree played all last year before she moved, the anthem of the hatch. But this time it wasn’t her, it was the station playing Einaudi like it knows the soundtrack of our home.

I thought to myself that day, Oh, this is easy, I must’ve done all my grieving last summer when he left for fish camp, because I didn’t even feel like crying, all day I was fine. But then it was dinnertime in the kitchen that was so often his wheelhouse, and I still wasn’t crying, but now I knew for sure it would come later.

The song was finishing and I sat on the couch and filled three scraps of paper with grief, tearing sheets from the pad as I went, surprised at how many words and feelings were still pouring out.

I started this quilt not knowing what I was doing, just following the process, just trying to make something beautiful out of the materials on hand. Some of the fabric was good and new, some was old and recycled – pieces of one of Vin’s shirts, some old sheets, other scraps salvaged from an abandoned project. I was just running the machine, just doing the next thing I knew to do to patch things together, snipping ends and threads that stuck out in the wrong places, making pieces line up, and when they went wonky, I’d go back and seam rip and make them square again.

I got so frustrated with all the ironing because it felt like it was such an interruption to forward momentum – stop what you’re doing, iron these panels. Stop again and iron these other pieces. It wasn’t just to smooth things over, though; I realized at the end when I flipped the whole thing over that when you iron seams open, it covers a multitude of wonkiness and uneven lines. The areas I thought might go astray and slant off to an angle looked fine.

I was afraid it would be ruined, or ugly, or a disaster, but it was fine. Beautiful, even.

He smiled when I gave it to him and seemed to know what kind of gift it was.

Here, I made this for you. I hope you like it. I hope you don’t notice or mind all the flaws; I know it’s not perfect. I worked hard on it, but could have done better. I wonder if you’ll look at it more closely later and recognize some of these pieces, and realize where they came from.

We leave our marks on each other just by proximity and relation, and sometimes they are uneven lines and empty spaces we don’t know what to do with. Sometimes when we move away we do whatever we can to rub those marks out for a while, as though they’ve taken up space without our permission and we want to see what’s underneath without their influence.

Here, this is part of me, take it – and we pluck the feathers from ourselves, and thrust them onto our young men and women as they take their own flights, hoping they won’t cast our affection to the wind.

I paused, tore another sheet from the notepad, looked at all the words. Folded the papers in half, stared at the highway traffic out the dark window, the headlights going north and south.

Unfolded the paper, flipped it over, and kept going.

We miss their presence when they leave. But also, as they’ve been longing to leave – which we remember and relate to and rejoice in with them – we realize that we’ve already been missing them because part of them has been gone for a long time. They’ve changed and emotionally moved on already in many ways. The grief has been sneaking up on us, slipping in and surprising us at random intervals for over a year now.

This is not summer camp, or youth overnight, or fish camp. This is launching. And he’ll be back, I know he will; there will be dinners and barbecues and birthdays and it will be better. We’ve done this twice before and we know there’s a stretching distance for a while before the elastic springs back and things reach a new equilibrium. And it will be good. Really, really good.

But it won’t be the same. And that’s the thing we grieve most: It will never be the same. We cannot get that time back. The binding is on, the quilt is finished, there’s no time left for seam ripping and rearranging colors and redoing those panels.

Jesus redeems and leads and saves, and Holy Spirit continues doing the work we can’t, couldn’t, or didn’t. But still, we want to do better and wish we had done better — and I think this is the sign of a good parent, rather than one who’s perfectly satisfied with every aspect of their parenting and confident they’ve made no mistakes — and I’m grateful to still have little and younger ones to keep doing better with.

But it’s not over with the older ones, because we have new time that’s different from before. This time looks like broad, new conversations, and tentative efforts to bring buried things into the open, and a willingness to let spaces stay empty that aren’t ready to be filled. It looks like hilarious confessions and new levels of respect in both directions, and inside jokes filled with a vocabulary that only our family knows. It looks like mutual appreciation and recognition and repentance, and a whole different level of starting again.

Here, this is yours. I love the way some of these colors come together, and I regret not trying harder to make even lines in some of these places. But I hope you love it. I hope it keeps you warm, I hope you remember your mother and your family and your childhood and where you came from…with warmth, and fondness, and gratitude. I hope you know you are so loved.

It might be a while before they realize they didn’t notice all the things we did right in front of them, trying to make something beautiful out of the materials we had on hand.

It was so imperfect. There was significant wonk and things veered and shifted in ways we didn’t intend them to because we were learning and didn’t always know what we were doing. It is hard to wrestle these giant, complex souls to adulthood and keep our lines even.

But it was good, and warm, and filled with pieces of ourselves as the colors came together, and that is even better.

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bits and pieces: how we build the Kingdom with small offerings

Posted on by December 23, 2023

“You don’t need the light to go down the stairs,” I mumble as I flip the switch off. I do this at least once a day and the stairwell isn’t even dark; there’s a window at the bottom, and light from the kitchen filters in at the top.

And even if it were utterly dark (which it almost never is at our house), humans – even small humans – know how to walk on stairs. We’ve done it a million times, even carrying bags of groceries or dozens of eggs. It’s muscle memory. But the kids flip the light on just for the fun of it, I guess.

bits and pieces: how we build the Kingdom with small offerings

We like to see where we’re going, and we like the way to be clear. I was reminded of this last week when I drove to church through heavy snow and hated it with every mile, knowing I could do it but not liking it. In those times we kind of wish we had the cop-out of not being able to do something so we can beg off from the responsibility. But no, we can do hard things like driving on sloppy roads, and learning how to use cantankerous sewing machines, and going through the bureaucratic hoops of guardianship.

We were officially granted guardianship of Reagan on Tuesday, which is an odd thing because we’ve been her parents for over eleven years and she’s been 18 for a month already. So yay, that’s done – until next month, at least, when we repeat the process with Andrey. Now we just need to get used to all the new paperwork routines and deadlines (have I told you lately how much I hate paperwork? SO MUCH) and new adult-y things for her, like establishing her own bank account, which is also an odd thing because we’re supposed to get all this in place as soon as possible but we won’t even have the decree in hand to do so for 4-6 weeks, because this is the government we’re talking about.

Right, the sewing machine isn’t the only cantankerous one around here. Maybe we should switch subjects and talk about cheerful things, like how we didn’t die when we drove home in the ice fog last week.

It was the same day I mentioned a minute ago, when we were driving in the heavy snow to church. But on the way home, the snow had stopped and the roads were clearer, and I even told Cham she could turn on the radio to look for Christmas music.

And then four minutes later we hit the ice fog on the highway.

At first I thought it was fine, but then I quickly realized we were driving through a cloud that was adhering to us. Ice started building up at the top of the windshield, and then it crept lower. I flipped the wipers on and they helped a little, but within another mile they went right over the glaze that continued to spread downward.

“Turn off the radio,” I said, and flipped the heat to its highest setting. We were still four miles from home and all those little tiny particles kept building up on each other.

And I think this is when I repented of angrily flipping off the light switch to the stairwell, because seeing where we’re going is more than just a luxury sometimes. It’s one thing when you have muscle memory to walk down the stairs, but it’s a totally different thing when you’re on the highway in the dark, and ice is covering more and more of the windshield as it shrinks your view of the highway in front of you.

There was nowhere to pull over. The road was barely plowed, two lanes had shrunk to one and half, and there was no shoulder. Pulling over and putting on hazard lights meant blocking what was left of the slow lane, and surely we would’ve been hit in the fog.

So we did what we had to do, and kept going. The ice continued to crawl further down, and I continued to crouch further down so I could see the road out of the clear space left in the windshield. We were in this catch-22 – we had to drive slow because we couldn’t see far in the fog, but we also had to drive as fast as possible to get home before we couldn’t see anything at all.

Sometimes stopping and quitting isn’t an option. Sometimes we must keep going; we have to see it through, even when we can’t see ten feet in front of us. We know we’re in danger, we know God has to protect us, and we know that stopping doesn’t just mean rest or quitting, but something far worse.

And we made it, obviously, because I’m here writing to you about it. We barreled through the last intersection and pulled off the highway, drove up the hill, and then up our driveway, and the relief would’ve been complete if we hadn’t driven separately, because Vince and Afton were still out there behind us somewhere.

Eight minutes later they pulled in the driveway and pounded up the stairs and into the kitchen. Our conversations were all “Oh my gosh,” and “I’ve never seen it like that,” and gratitude that we pray over this highway every single day.

I wonder if those tiny daily prayers matched that ice fog granule for granule, keeping it at bay so we could get home in time. Because good and great things build up on themselves, too.

Over the last several months I’ve seen encouraging progress in prayer, and sometimes it surprises me in its suddenness: Oh yeah, I prayed for that, as I notice a kid making better media choices, and another kid having better sleeping patterns. I keep noticing small but visible victories, these little pieces that start adding up and instilling courage, reminding me that prayer is a powerful work that builds on itself, too. We don’t have to know what the answers or details are, we just need to agree with God’s will for goodness and healing and restoration.

And that brings me back to my efforts with the sewing machine, because I don’t really know what I’m doing with this fabric, either. I just know that I want to make something beautiful out of these bits and pieces.

I don’t have a pattern, and I don’t really want a pattern. Some people follow intricate geometric designs, and I admire their precision and planning. But I don’t want to do that; my brain space for precision and planning goes to writing, and this is play.

Why is it that it’s so much easier to not have a plan when it comes to this? With bigger life situations when I don’t see light on the next five steps, it’s not play; it’s frustration and fear and self-doubt. But here with these bits and pieces, I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m also not doubting myself. I know that if I mess up, I can seam rip; if I cut too many pieces, I can use them in something else.

That’s what I can do in your situations, too, the Holy Spirit keeps reminding me. That’s what grace is. Nothing is wasted.

We take things so seriously. A lot of our situations are serious, of course, but we fret over them as though we’re more attentive and concerned than God is, which is stupidly presumptuous. We spend a lot of our lives flying by the seat of our pants, and it seems like that’s by design because God does amazing things with our loaves and fishes, scraps and thread. He knows we don’t know what we’re doing half the time, and there’s huge comfort in that.

It’s not my job to create the material or know exactly what the finished product will look like. I’m just taking the material available and pulling certain pieces together, doing what I know to do – and when we know better, we do better – so these bits and pieces in front of me can become something beautiful, useful, and redeemed.

There’s a dark, moody scrap here, telling a kid no, they can’t go to a certain event. And there are lighter, brighter scraps over there, laughing together during movies and telling old family stories. Threads of abiding prayer weave through every day, holding pieces together. And I think, so far at least, this is all I need to really know.

We want to do something grand, but often all we have energy for is bits and pieces. Are the bits and pieces enough, though? They have to be, because it’s the only way things are made and accomplished. A book is read – or written – a word, a sentence, a page at a time. Relationships are built one interaction at a time. Breakthrough is achieved one steadfast, grace-filled, desperate day at a time.

Our obedient, faithful bits and pieces counter the ice fog of life, and it’s enough. We have vision for the next couple of small steps, we have strength for the one busy day ahead of us, we have patience for one more go-round with the kid who’s been cooking our grits. It’s all we can do. Like manna that cannot be hoarded for more than the day ahead, we cannot store the effort and strength and energy we need for all these things. We can only build the character that perseveres and comes out victorious with one small, obedient decision at a time.

It’s not about doing everything just right. We don’t always know if it’s working. We know if we’re obeying, though. And we also know when we’re procrastinating by praying for more guidance when the way is already clear, but just not as clear as we want it to be. We want undimmed light for all 17 steps, not just the first couple.

But if risky obedience is approached a little more like play, joy suddenly takes the place of anxiety. It all hinges on trust, though – Does He care? Does He have our best in mind? Is He big enough to cover my imperfections?

Yes, to all three.

Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. And thereby put me to the test, says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you a blessing until there is no more need. I will rebuke the devourer for you, so that it will not destroy the fruits of your soil, and your vine in the field shall not fail to bear, says the Lord of hosts. Then all nations will call you blessed, for you will be a land of delight, says the Lord of hosts.

– Malachi 3:10-12

The angel of the Lord encamps
    around those who fear him, and delivers them.
Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!
    Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!
Oh, fear the Lord, you his saints,
    for those who fear him have no lack!

– Psalm 34:7-9

Joy and freedom and expansion are markers of the Kingdom. Fear and dread and anxiety are the enemy’s methods to waylay those.

Obedience, courage, and surrender are contagious. Sometimes people wait for the obedience of someone else to move. So your obedience creates a current that moves the less willing, and momentum sweeps through like a rising tide that lifts all boats and aligns many in the right direction. Our obedience isn’t just for ourselves; it changes the atmosphere and culture around us.

Is the dim light enough? Just enough for this step, and the next one, and then next one? Because these days, just those little steps might be all we have in us. And maybe that’s for a good reason.

Will you find your identity in your grand achievements and accomplishments, God asks us, or will you find it in Me?

I believe in the bits and pieces: Joy, freedom, expansion, obedience, courage, and surrender. He’s using these small steps of ours to make grand, beautiful things out of the scraps we have left.

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