Tag: authenticity

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“Wokeness” on Kitten Creek

The weather in Kansas can be fickle. Countless times this year, we have watched the threatening clouds bear down on Kitten Creek and then watch in amazement as the storm circles left or to the right and totally misses us. Sooner or later, though, we get the storms. So we prepare.

Presently, we are watching the threatening thunderstorms forming in our larger, cultural surroundings. We are not naive. Inevitable cultural pressure is coming (and presently seeping) into the area that surrounds our community. We are preparing.

One of the storms forming around us is a “woke” culture, filled with judgment for anyone who is not “woke.”

What does a “woke culture”  look like on the farm on Kitten Creek? In spite of the influences of a very invasive culture, somehow, at least for now, we continue to be grounded, secure, and strong.

Time for Reflection Grounds Us  

In December, Dan T. built a 6-foot-long rustic bench for Sara”s Christmas present. That bench is now a welcome invitation for everyone who walks in the pasture. It beckons walkers to take time to rest and reflect as they view Wildcat Valley.

Reflection on what God has done in our past, what He is doing in the present, and what He is going to do grounds us.  We must not simply be “woke,” but we must be awake to the Truth that is found in pondering the mighty God who created and is sovereign over this fallen yet Spirit-filled world. He, the God of the universe, is alive and working through the storm clouds that swirl about us.

That truth grounds us.

Reinforcing Foundations Secures Us

New rock wall for the manger scene The old stable that encloses Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph during Bethlehem Revisited was threatening to crumble and fall. During the summer of COVID, Dan T., along with the other boys and men on the farm, pulled down the unstable rocks and rebuilt a beautiful solid wall, replacing the same rocks, rock-by-rock. The stable will be safe and secure for years to come as visitors come and gather around that little manger to remember and worship the birth two thousand years ago.

As we build our foundation on the Holy Scriptures, stone by stone and line upon within our families, we are building a secure and safe foundation for generations to come. We do not re-invent, nor do we reinterpret Scripture to be more relevant.

“A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.”

Working Together in Community Equals Strength

This past summer, the Kitten Creek Gang (i.e., KCG or Troyer/Swihart cousins, ages 10-15) decided to upgrade their building skills from a treehouse to a real cabin. All five of them were involved in choosing the “secret spot,” drawing up plans, gathering supplies, and building together. Even the wheel-chair bound cousin was an integral part of the planning and building. Gifts emerged. Strengths developed.

Parents and grandparents revel in watching harmony and ingenuity develop in the young lads. The cabin is now equipped with a wood stove, hand-built beds, windows, and doors that lock.

Our children have learned the secret of community and hard work. They have discovered that we thrive as we share our gifts, time, and knowledge.

We are strong.

Together as a community (grandparents, parents, children, neighbors, and friends), we face the storm clouds that are stirring in our culture.

 

 

 

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A Divided House

I have two chickens and two cats. The chickens hang together; not surprisingly, the cats do not. Whenever I hear hisses and growling from the garage, I know Bob has probably invaded Missy’s space. Or, sometimes, it is after he has intentionally stalked her and jumped out from the bushes as she walked by. Bob is having fun; Missy is never amused.

But, in general, my little farm is quite the “racially” mixed environment. The duck, the goat, the chickens, and the donkey move about the barnyard in a happy little community.

When I go to the barnyard, I will be greeted by the whole community:  one duck,  two chickens, a donkey, and a goat. We usually walk together as I open the gate and join the menagerie. We may go down to the pasture gate, where I check the fences,  or they follow me to the hen house to gather eggs. It pleasures me to  spend this time with them.  I love harmony.

Yesterday, when I opened the door to the nesting box in the chicken coop, I was greeted by another creature who had attempted to join our little community. When I opened the door to the nesting area and peeked in to see if there were eggs in the nest.

What I found was a large black snake snugly coiled in the closest nest. Its tummy was full of eggs, hewas content and had no intention of leaving. For those of you who know my propensity to take in all strays, no, I did not name it and invite it to stay. Finding an aluminum pole on the roof of the little shed, and after a wrestling match with the stick and the visitor, I  dismissed Mr. Snake from the pen. Hanging from the pole before being flung to the wind, his long black length dotted by oval shapes.

Yet, with all of the activity going on, my little menagerie simply watched, not in the least dismayed.

Did they understand the situation? Aren’t animals in general skittish when they see a snake? Did the chickens not realize that snake was consuming their eggs?

Ah, yes, of course. I was there. They trusted me. I was in charge and had handled the situation. They did not blame each other for the snake’s existence in their midst, although it could have been avoided, I suppose, if they had been more astute about protecting their own environment. But that is just my own reading of the situation.

I love peace, community, trust, encouragement. Thriving  on it, I become distraught when the community begins to fall apart because of disharmony.

Sadly, in our Christian community, we have become so divided that we are unable to trust or encourage each other. Although we have a common Caretaker, we act as though we are in control. We appear to think that one side will get rid of the Snake, while the other side is feeding it, depending upon which side is RIGHT.

And, yet, the truth is that we all desire to be right, we all want the snake to be gone. But we can’t agree on where the snake is or how to get rid of it.

Is this not where the Caretaker comes in? He knows where the evil is and how to get rid of it.

So, what do we barnyard occupants do? What is our weapon? Do we continue to act like my cats? Or do we join hands in PRAYER to our Creator to give us the wisdom (James 1:5) to understand, to give us the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22) to work together, and faith (Hebrews 11:1) to believe that our Caretaker can take care of this world that he has  created.

 

 

 

 

 

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Why Would I Leave the CHURCH?

A better question might be: Could I leave the Church? This imperfect, sometimes questioning, sometimes unloving, always searching, yet redeemed soul. Could I be free to leave the Church

No. I have been sealed by the Spirit, bought by the blood of Christ, adopted into the Body of Christ which IS the Church.

And, God help me, why would I want to leave?

I have just finished reading Searching For Sunday; loving, leaving, and finding the church. The author has recently left this world in a very sudden and tragic illness leaving behind two little ones and a devoted husband.

As I read, I learned to love the searching and cynical, but honest and compelling young woman.  Her struggles led her down paths in those early years of questioning that I wish I could have walked with her. I, too, had questions. I was not as intelligent as she was, but I desperately wanted to know things that baffled my mind.

So how is it that we ended up taking diverse paths?

I recently asked dear friends who have been walking and talking through a myriad of books with me if they would like to tackle Rachel’s book. We were completing God Space and it was time to be thinking of our next focus. The choices were Os Guinness’ book, Impossible People, or Searching for Sunday. The gals chose the former and, instead, gave me the assignment of reading the latter and giving them a synopsis.

So, here I am, trying to understand the heart of a progressive and influential young woman, distinguish my own thoughts from hers, understand her influence, and, at the same time, blend that into our purpose as a group: How do we interface with our culture in a redeeming lifestyle?

Rachel is not the only one I have learned to love who has taken divergent paths from mine. I long to find the common ground. I must stay with the biblical interpretation that has formed the core of my beliefs. I will explain this in later blogs.

Meanwhile, what does it look like to stay connected with those I love? I have a current barnyard illustration:

Recently I bought a goat from my grandson, Joshua, to be a companion to Donk, my lonely donkey. Buck-the-goat is a handsome, but small little guy.  Prior to his arrival, I had been gifted with a white duck who had instantly been rejected by my two red hens.

Within a matter of a couple days, I noticed a strange bonding had occurred. The white duck, Jemima, had attached herself to Buck. Her white little body now walks in tandem with a somewhat larger brown body. No matter where Buck goes, she goes with him . . . except when the brown body jumps up on the three-and-a-half foot stack of tile that is his “goat perch.”

Jemima settles at the base of the stack and patiently waits for Buck to return to terra firma where they can once again walk in tandem. I can hear her saying, “I can’t go there with you, but I will wait for a time when we can find common ground again.”

I guess that is what I am saying to my friends who have gone to a place in their thinking that I cannot go: “I can’t go there with you, but I will look for the times when we can walk together. And I will be proud to meet you there.”

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Who Am I? #2

“You need to write a song!” These words coming in Messenger from a nephew startled me. “Who? I don’t write songs!” I wrote back.

“Yes,” he replied. “You.” He proceeded to give me some of his reasons and suggestions.

Both he and his young son have been involved in bands and gigs. They were looking for words that my grand-nephew could put to music for his next gig at The Hard Rock Cafe in their city.

Gazing at Steve’s Facebook picture I tried to see the little boy I once knew. Yes, behind the long gray hair and the white beard I still could see a semblance of that little boy. That sweet three-years-old  boy self-consciously walking down the aisle toward Judd and me carrying a white lace pillow. That gentle little boy sitting on the porch step at Grandma’s house cradling a fluffy gray kitten. That sensitive fun-loving little boy now grown into a man.

Yes, I can write down memories and dreams laced with hope and promises. These words are for you, Steve!

Who Am I?

Just a child full of wonder

In a multi-colored world

Dancing, skipping, laughing

Life is safe, secure, and warm.

Chorus

Set me dancing, skipping, laughing

 In this multi-colored world

Lift my heart to hear the music

To the Mystery of Life.

 

Just a young man reaching out

To a crafty, luring world.

Testing, tasting, and still laughing

Life’s beguiling work’s begun.

 

Just an old man losing foothold

In a crazy, mixed-up world.

Mystified, his search is muddled

For the wonder he once knew.

 

Renovation, renovation

In this old decrepit soul.

Can the potter change this vessel?

Can the child be restored?

Chorus

Set me dancing, skipping, laughing

 In this multi-colored world

Lift my heart to hear the music

To the Mystery of Life.

 

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Authenticity: The “Real I” and the “Real Thou”

 

At fourteen, a few days before I turned fifteen, I had a crash-bang encounter with the Real Thou…and He spoke directly to the Real I.  Having been chosen at the last moment to replace someone on our Youth For Christ Bible quiz team, I had crammed for a week, trying to memorize scripture that we would cover in quizzes against other teams from our North Atlantic District.   We were going to represent our group at a large convention in Ocean City, New Jersey. This was a big deal…and I was scared.  By the time we got to Ocean City, I was not feeling well.  I got worse as the week went on.  Except for the evening services, the quizzes were about the only part of the conference that I could attend during the day.  Other than that I was in my hotel room, sick.  .  My only real memory of that week was sitting with the other 2,000 young people listening to Torrey Johnson bring to conclusion his sermon.  No words from that sermon remain in my memory.  What I remember is that the crowd faded away and I saw Jesus hanging on the cross…and it was for me.  The depth of His love touched my very soul.  And it was His love for me, that little girl who had some knowledge of who He was and a very little knowledge of who she was.  He intimately knew and loved that young woman who was ready to give up pursuing hope; the one who had lost her sense of the adventure of life.

He knew me and He loved me, the real me, with unfailing and undying love.  Never again would I have to flounder on my own, never again would I need to search for an identity.  He knew who I was and He would reveal that to me in a loving, unfolding way the rest of my life.    That knowledge changed my life.  I was forever devoted to Him.

I am continuing to learn how that authenticity works.  In much of C. S. Lewis’ work, he emphasizes the importance of the “real me” in relationship with “the real Thou.”  I am learning about my Creator/Savior as I read His word, as I talk to Him, as I listen for Him, as I watch his creation, especially his creatures.  I am getting to know more and more the “real” Thou.  And slowly I am becoming the “real” me.

Yes, I am ME.  I am the one God created to live out this life in all of its surprises, conundrums, joys, sorrows.  Inside this skin.  Within the boundaries of my family of origin, with all of the handicaps and giftedness that may entail.  In Kansas!  On a farm!  With my husband (that gift from a God who never changes).  With the children and grandchildren God has given.  I must take every day as a gift from Him.  And then I must live it as the person God created me to be and continues to form me to be.  That life will not look like anyone else’s life.  It will be uniquely mine.  And in that uniqueness, I will be bringing glory to God that only I can bring.  I will be uncovering something about the mystery of God that only I can uncover.  I am becoming authentic.

The gift of authenticity. The farm gave us as a family a platform where we could practice being authentic, and where we could offer an authentic experience to others.

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No Pretension

 

Authenticity.  Reality.  I think that was what drew us to our farm.  Yes, it was badly run down. The farm had seen a lot of living.  It had been used to raise chickens and pigs, to grow crops, to supply milk, to allow a tiny family of three with little outside income to live comfortably for years.  The eighty-five year old farmer had told us when we noticed the huge stacks of firewood around the house, “In the winter I stay snug as a bug in a rug.” The tiny house had been a shelter, a place of love, heartache, joy, loss.  No pretense, no desire to impress, just living out life in a simple, authentic way.  We stepped into that history and attempted to continue the story.

On an instructor’s income, we had no money to spare.  Most of what was done was by family (the boys were in Jr. High; Sara was six), and wonderful, incredible young college students.  Sara and I fed the crew sandwiches, chili, and hot chocolate in those cold months; and in the summer lots of lemonade, ice cream, pie, and more sandwiches. We worked evenings and weekends. We cleaned out the top of the barn that had been filled to the very ceiling with hay bales..  Slowly, those who had bought the hay at auction had come to claim their hay. What was left after the bales had been claimed was mounds of loose hay full of mementos: old horse harnesses, buckets, mice, snakes, etc.. Meanwhile, Kansas State University’s InterVarsity had used what bales were there as seating for their “barn party.” Hundreds of students were to pass through that old and unadorned barn in the future.

The crew tore down sheds that were too decrepit to restore, cut brush, created paths and gates, built steps with large rocks from the pasture.  The process of reclaiming and refocusing the use of the farm was a team-building experience because we did it together, in a simple and unpretentious way.

The open and natural expanse of land also beckoned my soul.  As I walked in the pastures and through the forests, I sensed the presence of the God who knew my innermost being, the One with whom I had no need of pretension.  He knew me better than I knew myself.  Up on the top pasture or down in the woods I was free to be myself … to sing, walk, pray, worship,  knowing I was loved and at home in His presence.  I had been on a journey for years learning to be open and  not self-conscious around others;  but alone with God as my companion, I had always been totally at home.                                      (to be continued)