Subtle Musings

the 2011 Kendall family Christmas tree

2011-12-03T14:20:00.002-06:00

2011-11-05T20:32:00.001-05:00

morning at the beach

2011-10-24T16:40:00.002-05:00

fall is on the ground

2011-09-29T08:29:00.002-05:00

We are busy these days...enjoying the cooler days, collecting chestnuts and picking pears. Cutting wood for winter, collecting an armful of eggs each day from the girls, and getting into the rhythm of a half day of school for Little One. And yet, life feels simple. I love it.
~A

clifty falls

2011-07-30T12:19:00.003-05:00

2011-07-30T12:13:00.002-05:00

mostly local: Berley's pink penne

2011-07-29T21:39:00.003-05:00

We are back in the swing of things after a two week vacation of sorts, during a portion of which we visited Capriole Farmstead in Southern Indiana. The cheese was amazing, and I came home and made the following dish, adapted largely from Peter Berley's version in The Flexitarian Table. Here 'tis:

Penne with Beets, Beet Greens, Goat Cheese and Hickory Nuts

local ingredients:
~2# beets with their greens (greens in good shape)
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 T chopped fresh tarragon
5 ounces crumbled fresh goat cheese
3/4 c hickory nuts (or sub walnuts if needed)

remaining ingredients:
sea salt and fresh pepper
2-3 T good quality extra-virgin olive oil
8 ounces whole wheat penne (I used brown rice)
large pinch of crushed red pepper flakes

Method:
Trim greens from beets, leaving about an inch attached and scrub well. Wrap in foil and roast in 400 degree oven about 45 minutes or until knife can pierce easily (this can be done in advance). Let cool a bit, run under cold water, and slip the skins from the beets. Slice into 1/2 inch sticks and set aside.

Wash and thinly slice greens. Add to beets.

Heat water for pasta - cook until al dente.

Heat oil in large skillet until it shimmers, then add sliced garlic, tarragon and pepper flakes and cook until garlic is lightly colored. Add beets and greens and cook while stirring until greens have wilted.

Add the cooked pasta and goat cheese, stirring until cheese is melted and incorporated (a splash of milk is sometimes helpful here). Season with salt and pepper, top with hickory nuts and serve.

Personally, I think the fresh tarragon and hickory nuts make this dish. Enjoy!

reading

2011-06-05T12:51:00.000-05:00

I, Crocodile

Chicken Scratches: Poultry Poetry and Rooster Rhymes

to market, to market...

2011-05-20T14:08:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow marks the first Farmer's Market of the season for those of us here in Greencastle. I'm thrilled to be back in the saddle, as they say. We've expanded a bit this year and are planning to bring heirloom varieties of spinach, lettuce, radishes, pea shoots, cilantro and salad kale this first Saturday. Of course, the white-deathless cookies will make an appearance, as will baked goods from MamaLisa...warm cinnamon rolls...yum. I'm thinking I'll need to nab one of the those for myself.

2011-05-20T13:54:00.001-05:00

a dress

2011-05-05T08:48:00.000-05:00

I have finally managed to put together (with help!) a dress for this summer. It was Vogue 8229, now out of print, apparently. I made the sleeveless version in a navy linen (I'm trying to introduce something other than black to my closet). I skipped the zipper, since I could get it on over my head without, and overall it went together very easily. I have several other summer dresses lined up, but seeing as how it took well over a month or two to finish this one with all the other things I have going on, I should probably just aim for one garment per season.

another case of the uglies

2011-04-30T10:48:00.001-05:00

So here we are, gearing up for another season of spraying in the cropland below our home. The same fields that are currently flooded...poor soil quality and erosion surely contributing to their lack of ability to hold the water we've been getting. Largely, I try not to think too much about what goes on just a mile away and to focus on my own little plot, thankfully uphill of the GMO monoculture.

Just about a week ago, though, my mom sent me a link to help out our local FFA chapter by registering our little farm and then selecting the FFA chapter of our choice to receive funding. Having once been a member of such chapter (though not because I was interested in farming - was it that jacket we got to wear? Oh, dear...I hope not!), I was happy to help out.

Until I went to the site and saw that the sponsor for the project was...Monsanto. Now, you can call me paranoid if you like, but there was no way I was going to register my little organic farm with Monsanto, which required me telling them what it was, exactly, I was growing. Maybe I've seen too many slow food documentaries, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. My apologies to the Future Farmers of America in Putnam County...

On a positive note, for those of you in Indiana, I added a blog to the list on the right dedicated to local food in the state. Also, I recently read this article about the potential for technology entrepreneurs in the slow food movement (found via facebook friend and local organic farmer, Mark Apple).

mostly local: thai beef salad

2011-04-28T18:14:00.001-05:00

Tonight's dinner was the first mostly local, "fresh" tasting meal we've had this year...hip, hip, hooray!
Thai Beef Salad
(adapted from a Cooking Light recipe)
local ingredients:
*grass-fed beef; sirloin steak, sliced across the grain into thin strips
*radishes; approx. 2 cups sliced
*cilantro; approx 1/4 c. chopped
*mint; approx 2 T chopped
*pea shoots; approx. 2 cups
*large spinach or lettuce leaves (our variety of spinach is pretty crunchy, so it works well; otherwise, use lettuce)
*honey; 2 teaspoons
*garlic; 1 clove, minced
additional ingredients:
1 T. chili garlic sauce
2 t. grated fresh ginger root
1.5 T fresh lime juice
1 T. soy sauce
Combine beef with chili garlic sauce, minced garlic clove and ginger. Marinate in fridge for 30 minutes.
Combine soy sauce, lime juice, and honey - set aside.
Saute beef in cast-iron skillet 2 minutes or so. Cut into 1-inch pieces. Combine in large bowl with radishes, cilantro, and mint. Pour soy sauce mix over and toss. Add pea shoots and toss to combine. Serve on large spinach or lettuce leaves.
Happy Spring!

update

2011-04-18T14:49:00.001-05:00

A much needed update from the Kendall farm...

We are in full-spring-swing here: eating spinach and pea shoots fresh from the garden, collecting lots of eggs, building raised garden beds, preparing for the next batch of layers (25!) and another batch of meat birds (60!!) four weeks after that. We have successfully taken down a nasty outbuilding that plagued the property and are nursing new trees and seedlings to adolescence. The master plan for the farm is always in the back of my mind...and I am trying to make steps toward that end each week. My hope is that by the end of the summer, we will be well on our way. I've read and read about permaculture design and am really longing to have that characterize that master plan I just mentioned...so I'm learning about all the perennial vegetables that I didn't know existed and interplanting like crazy. The "garden" has essentially quadrupled, which I could - quite possibly - regret...though I doubt it. The icing on the cake: tonight we will eat our first batch of morels...thanks to Wyatt and Elise and their discerning eyes. Life is good again!

fresh

2011-03-22T20:45:00.000-05:00

The weather reports have informed me that a cold wind will push back over our country. I imagined it would come earlier - half expecting winter to lay claim again to this territory - and that snap likely will come by Thursday. Today, though, it was warm again.

At around 6:30 pm, I found myself walking the slight incline up from the barn to our house. I knew the hour was soon approaching to trudge back inside, to begin the daily discipline of urging my son into his room. Anna and Elise had already gone in to begin the process for our daughter. As I walked, I thought, "the days are coming soon when we can once again drift into the night" - like May fireflies trailing up and away. And I pictured our children growing older and laughing on this lawn infested with crab grass and discarded ash. I imagined them playing games of hide-n-seek while we called to them from the front porch.

I am smitten by spring. The fever has caught me, carried into my mind and soul by these warm updrafts, by a community of children and families released for spring break, and by a flirtatious desire to do something playful and free after so many months of doing those things complicated and labor-intensive like the winter's long haul and burning of wood.

We spent part of the day with friends in town. They were kind enough to invite our family over for lunch, and their's is a relaxed home which made it all the more enjoyable - full of room for the kids to play, full of an easy attitude that fits well with our own parenting philosophy, and full of leisure talk that need not be directed to some agenda. So - for awhile at least - we did the simple things that make living so much more enjoyable: eating, resting, sharing, playing.

Wyatt was eager to visit this family, for he knew that the son had a stash of Nerf guns, an arsenal that Wyatt was eager to access.

In just the last few weeks, our son's inner soldier has emerged, and his attention has turned quickly from the pistons and buffers of Thomas and Friends to anything that can pose as a projectile-dispensing weapon. It began with him taking a small piece of plastic that was a type of clamp. Not in Wyatt's mind's eye, though. To him it was a pistol that could be sternly grasped and positioned up to his squinting eye, and aimed at me as I went walking by.

Much to Wyatt's delight, Saturday the gods of war smiled upon Wyatt in a most gracious way.

As Anna and I were cleaning out one of our many out-buildings, we stumbled upon one of the few remaining boxes from our last move that we had yet to open. On the outside, the movers had scrawled with permanent marker "Picture/Toys." Inside, lay a box full of my old toys - mostly a mass body of colorful plastic men - hordes of G.I. Joe's from the earliest Cobra Commander to a second edition Snake-eyes to the more exotic and less-desirable late editions - the ones that seemed to appear from Swam Things home with their limbs and torsos and heads mutated and gross.

Yet, it was not these toy soldiers that won Wyatt's attention. He was - of course - beyond thrilled to discover that in this pile of fallen soldiers there were guns .. lots of guns - little pistols in cold black, large bazookas in army green, M-16's, grenade launchers, semi-automatics, and two ominous looking enforcers that I immediately recognized as Roadblock's weapon of choice, so large that they had to be placed in a tripod.

While Anna continued to clean out the building and I tore wood boards from the outside, Wyatt positioned himself on the front porch and entertained himself for the next several hours - discovering, imagining, learning ... everything short of drooling. When I eventually stopped for a break and found Wyatt still on the front porch, he looked at me. I noticed that he had begun to sort out all of the guns. Then, he began to ask me first one and then another question, all of them derivatives of his new fascination: "What are guns for?" "Do you like this one?" "Where did you get these?" "Did you play with these?"

There is a strong chance that when those fireflies do appear it will not just be hide-n-seek that is played upon our land. There's a good chance that this place might become - at least in Wyatt's young mind - a place of battle where Cobra and his henchmen will have to be battled, withstood and pushed back.

Wes

Sent from Anna Kendall's iPhone

10 Acres

2011-03-15T16:38:00.002-05:00

"In the prime of his life, when he worked ten or twelve hours every weekday and socialized all weekend, he had pretty much ignored his land." - John Updike

I am away this evening, sitting in a nicely furnished room on the campus of Wabash University. It is lovely and everything is in order, which is not how my true home is at this time of evening. It is just after supper time for Anna and the kids, and I have called to connect in some loose fashion to the events of our their day - listening to the questions of Wyatt and the monosyllabic responses of Elise. We had to break up our conversation so Anna could restore order.

It is not so much that I am ignoring my land or my family. Anna is well in support of my participation of this particular experience and my call in general. She understands that my vocational identity is pastoral in the spiritual sense, not just the agrarian sense, and that there are times when I am led away from home.

At the same time, I - after having read that above quote from Updike in a short story about a retired man who came to walk and know his home parcel - am also aware that one of my ongoing desires is to get to know intimately the 10.99 acres of land that we have been gifted with ... and to begin to attach my own story to its history. That desire, unfortunately, too often gets filed under the "hope," rather than the "urgent" or "seemingly important." Meanwhile, it is those later two categories where I find myself expending my energy.

Anna just asked me if 49 tomato plants are going to be too much this year. I have no idea. It sounds overwhelming. It sounds ridiculous. But, I guess there is only one way to find out: plant and nurture 49 tomato plants and discover how much is too much and how much we can can and how much we can give away.

I am deeply thankful that - even despite my ongoing hiccups, hesitations, and excuses - my wife is tying us to the land of our home. I am thankful that she - before I - had the foresight to see that what is most needed is a place to call home and a home to know so that I might learn to be in community in a way that is authentic.

I hope it does not take me, like Updike's reflective retiree, all my life to finally walk my land and to live into my place.

Wes

little photographer and the garden

2011-03-04T09:16:00.001-06:00

Wyatt has been quite interested in snapping photos lately. This one he took yesterday using my phone, just as we were finishing up the first of several raised beds we're putting in the garden this year. Also pictured is Dd the chicken. Elise has been obsessed these warm days with holding the chickens, wrapping them up in blankets and the like. In fact, if she's outside and *not* holding a chicken, she's probably crying about it. Poor girls end up running away trying to smooth all the ruffled feathers after the encounter. Come the end of April we'll have about 25 more, which should help spread out Little Two's love a bit.

little photographer and the garden

The Great Mystery

2011-02-25T09:08:00.000-06:00

Religion has, rather, tended to create people who think they have God in their pockets, people with quick, easy, glib answers. That's why so much of the West is understandably abandoning religion. People know the great mystery cannot be that simple and facile. If the great mystery is indeed the Great Mystery, it will lead us into paradox, into darkness, into journeys that never cease ... That is what prayer is about. - From Everything Belongs by Richard Rohr

Sabbath Poem

2011-01-28T19:24:00.000-06:00

Do I need to know,
I wondered - watching the smoke trail
away.
The more I thought,
the more I knew:
I did not
need
to know the news of the day,
the uprising
and job reports
and the progress with the talks with China.

Yes, it is a global world,
but today I did not care.

One of the disciplines I have is to read
brief meditations.
Yesterday, #2 asked me,
Where are you?
What time is it?
Meditation #2 told me,
the answer to the first is "here."
the answer to the second is "now."

So I let the need to know about the world's struggles and hopes disappear - dissipating like the smoke before my eyes.

Later today, I did a chore:
cut some wood to keep our home warm.
The tracks of deer and rabbit and dogs were all around,
but there was no life to speak of,
only the calm cool slow motion of winter,
the gray sky.

Yesterday, I saw three deer
up on a ridge. I watched them
for awhile,
until the trees on the other side
moaned their age.
I turned away,
I looked back,
they were gone.

And then you - my family - came with me.
To collect the wood.
You picked up the sticks and limbs
I had strained over,
the sawdust still heavy on my jeans.

You lost your glove,
son,
but your good
mother
walked back with you
while I went up the hill to the next stack.

My daughter
you lifted a stick to me, and said, "here, Dad."
the worker,
with blushed cheeks.
Wind smacked,
aglow.

Finished,
we bounced
and jostled
our way back home.

Again I think:
in two years,
I've been given so much.

The grace.
The grace.

Jobi Wood

2011-01-28T18:47:00.000-06:00

ahh, remember summer?

2011-01-22T19:23:00.000-06:00

meet Ada

2011-01-21T12:44:00.000-06:00

Winter's Bone

2011-01-21T10:28:00.000-06:00

Yes, it is true. We are now the owner's of an eight-month-old English Mastiff. We, the family that wears petite and small and toddler, have taken on the responsibility of a dog once owned by men with names like Maximus and Brutus and Caesar.

Not that we adopted Ada from hulking Roman gladiators or imperial soldiers. We got her from a family down south of Greencastle, and they told us they got her from a tattoo artist over in Avon ... and that he got her in exchange for a tattoo. But, it is true that Ada's long-ago ancestors were quite fashionable back in the days of the birth of Jesus Christ. Rumor has it that in Caesar's attempt to spread his Pax Romana outside the European continent he sent his warring men across the small straight to the land of the Gauls. There the Roman soldiers discovered dogs as big as horses fighting against them, the same dogs they would then bring back to Rome to parade in front of Caesar as trophies of victory and the same dogs they would use for sport on the field of the great Coliseum.

Thankfully, Ada does not seem to have inherited all of her ancestor's girth or tenacity. She is currently sitting at my feet gnawing on a bone while Elise bounces on a ball in front of her.

Although, I must say that our morning walks have provided sufficient muscle-straining. I have been trying to teach her to walk beside me as we tour the property, but I am finding it difficult to keep her from bull-rushing ahead of me in search of deer or other neighbor dogs.

The kids have been sick. Anna had taken them down to French Lick, Indiana this past Sunday in hopes of breaking away from our country home that feels more and more like a cabin. Unfortunately, even though she left the cabin, the fever went with her, and by Monday morning Elise's body was doing its best to expunge the virus. Wyatt succumbed not long after.

I went out to dinner on Tuesday night with two friends and told them about Anna's trip and how it was meant to be a break for her. They looked at me incredulously. How was it that Anna was forced to take the kids and to take care of the sick kids while I was able to stay at home and enjoy some peace and quiet. Truly, not fair.

And this was after I had the opportunity last week to be up at Wabash University for three days in what amounted to a stay at a pretty nice hotel. I was up there for the start of a new program I am going to be involved in throughout 2011 and 2012: the Wabash Pastoral Leadership Program. This is but one of the many great programs supported by the Eli Lilly Foundation to support ministers and churches. The further emphasis of the Wabash program is to gather some of the more promising Christian ministers (from all denominations and non-denominations) across the state to think, talk, and plan about ways we can tackle some of the challenges facing the state of Indiana. That's rather ambitious, but what it boiled down to in our first three days together was talking about leading our churches into the truly important conversations ... the harder conversations.

The luxurious part of the program came from the fact that Wabash housed all eighteen of us "paid Christians" in Trippet Hall - the very building where they house the university's trustees and board members whenever they come to town. This building was built specifically for this purpose, so the northern half of the building includes twenty rooms, each amounting to something very close to a Sheraton hotel room. On top of that, there was a small lounge on the second floor where they kindly provided both a full fridge of quality beer, Kashi treats, and some pretty good wine. I was most pleased and surprised to discover that one of the beers on hand included a local brew from Indianapolis called Sun King. I thoroughly enjoyed chill-laxing in the lounge with a pint in hand on Monday evening.

I must say this is one of the true blessings of serving as a minister in Indiana. The work of the Lilly Endowment is probably doing more than any other body or organization to train and encourage ministers. It has certainly been that way for me. Programs resulting from the Lilly Endowment have allowed me to meet some other great young ministers; it has allowed me to see parts of the West Coast that are amazingly beautiful; it has allowed me to pay off all of my remaining seminary debt, and it has matched my own contributions to my 403(b) fund. All in all, I guess I did end up getting employed by Eli Lilly, even if I never did become a freshman sales associate for Prozac and Cialis.

It is a wonderfully beautiful and chilly wintry day out here. It's so nice to be home again and to have everyone back to health ... I hope for good.

Wes

Once Again

2010-12-09T04:14:00.000-06:00

I was turning to leave the small room of an elderly woman - waiting for her daughter and son-in-law to finish tying up some family business - when my eye began to wander. The woman had just pointed out to me a series of paintings she had done herself. She took me through them one by one, noting how she had matured and progressed in her understanding and practice of the art. I was particularly drawn to the painting that hung just over her window: a rather whimsical portrayal of daisies blowing in the wind. I could not get past the stark contrast between this endless summer scene in her painting and the stark reality of winter outside of her window.

As my eyes descended from that painting, I turned my face towards the door. And as I did so, my gaze came across a short poem that was housed in a frame right before my face. It was simple in its adornment, and without reading it I read it. I did not need to read it. I scanned the title of the poem, "Footprints," and immediately my mind called up the memory of its message.

It is a poem with which I am sure you are familiar. It recounts the tale of an individual who is caught up in a dream, and in this dream the person is able to see two sets of footprints walking a sandy shore - the footprints representing both God's and the individual's as together they walk the path of life. Yet, upon further reflection, the person realizes that during the hardest times there were not two sets of prints, but only one. This only seems to validate the experience of life: that there are seasons when it seems we must go it alone and that even our Maker stands apart and alone in silence. However, it to this sense of abandonment that the poem's final lines resound: "The Lord replied, 'The years you see only one set of footprints, my child, are those time when I carried you."

The first time I read "Footprints" was on another wall. I was a teenage boy at at a small Presbyterian summer camp called Campy Pyoca. There in the old cottage it hung, and since it was one of the few things of any visual interest in the rather spartan building I found myself drawn to it. It held a comforting and encouraging message for me as I thought myself - like most teenagers - beset by several problems.

Well, in the last twenty years, I have run across this poem a thousand times - many times as adornments hung in offices and in homes. And as happens with frequent exposure, my attention to the poem waned and the significance of the words and the meaning of its message began to be lost upon me. Indeed, so it was this last Sunday when I encountered it again in that woman's room. It held just a fraction of its former power and I paid it little mind.

But, now it comes back to me in a new way, a fresh and living way.

I know why, of course, this long-dormant poem has been at play in my mind tonight. I've been traveling down a path for a while that seems rather solitary, something I've been hesitant to admit to myself or to anyone else. I've been walking down a path that has been rather lonely and hard at times - not always and not overwhelmingly so, but difficult nonetheless. Lonely because anytime a person moves to a new place (even if that place is an old familiar place) there is strangeness and a learning how to be comfortable in ones own skin again; hard because that seems to be the times we live in - people out of work and uncertain about their future. I know - in fact - because of my interactions with others that my own experiences of loneliness and struggle are not solitary. I can see it written on the lives of the people I serve and love.

And for all those reasons "Footprints" - like a good leaven - has been working in my mind and heart tonight. It has begun to invite me to remember the type of Lord I have bound myself to; it has called me to take comfort in a God who has promised to be with me every step of the way and who will carry me when I can go no further.

This reemergence of "Footprints" in my heart and mind - by the way - is the other possibility with over exposure, the positive effect: that repetition will eventually wear something into our soul that we cannot lose or forget. It can be that way with most anything - a beloved verse, a painting we've come to admire, a picture of a loved one. We get so used to it that it runs the risk of becoming common and unnoticed. But, then one day - before we are prepared for it or aware of why or how - that verse comes back fresh into our mind and comes alive with meaning and significance, that painting has colors and shadows we never saw, that picture has details we missed.

So it is with "Footprints." That oft-seen, oft-neglected lesson has once again spoken to this man's heart. The poem I cherished as a teenager has been resurrected to give me fresh hope in mid life.

You are with me, Lord, and for that I am ever grateful.

Wes

first snow

2010-12-04T07:33:00.000-06:00

Toy Story

2010-11-29T19:44:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, Gramma Lis stopped by on her way home from work. She strode into the door with two plastic bags from Walmart. One bag held plenty of chocolate and the other bag contained a toy Woody from the celebrated movie series Toy Story. Both the chocolate and Woody were gifts given with one singular purpose in mind: to finally and fully potty-train Elise. Elise - you see - has been dangling on the edge of being potty-trained for some months now, and Anna was beginning to see signs that Elise knew full what she was doing.

The chocolate was meant to be a reward. Every time Elise successfully went to the bathroom on the potty, she would receive one piece of chocolate. Fortunately for Wyatt, he somehow became engrafted into this reward system, thereby increasing Wyatt's odds of receiving a piece of chocolate daily.

Woody was something of a reward, too. Actually, he was more like a carrot.

Gramma Lis pulled the Woody toy from the plastic bag and began to unbind him from his little plastic handcuffs. All the while she also began explaining to Elise that this Woody was for Wyatt, which cause Wyatt's eyebrows to raise and mouth to open in unhidden glee. Elise, of course, heard nothing of what Gramma Lis was saying, but instead started walking towards Wyatt and the new Woody doll like a cherub-zombie - arms outstretched, eyes glazed over. Still Gramma Lis went on - explaining to Elise that when she learned to use the potty that she could have her own Toy Story doll, maybe even her own Jessie.

That, in short, is why most evenings after the kids have been put to bed, I will find myself at some point tripping over Woody - himself laying prone and lifeless just as he appears in the movies when Andy comes rushing into his room. Tonight, he's on the kitchen floor, his face staring blankly at the floorboards, his legs buckled at odd angles.

By the end of most days, the floors of this old farm house have become minefields from the children's daily dramas and distractions. Sometimes it's Woody. Other times it is Thomas and Friends, which means that the many tank engines that usually run along the tracks of Sodor in Wyatt's room spill out onto the coffee table and onto the floor. Lately, the toy of choice has been a big bucket of Lincoln Logs that get spilled just after breakfast and then travel through the house like some winter virus - attaching themselves to the kids as they roam from this room to that one.

And, of course, with Christmas coming upon us, it won't be long before new toys join the circus. There may even be a Jessie joining the ranks. It's looking that way. Elise is making big steps on her way to being a big girl who knows how to use the potty.

advent

2010-11-29T12:04:00.000-06:00

a red plate affair

2010-11-17T13:07:00.003-06:00

I felt I should write a quick post post-Thatcher regarding his...ahem, consumption. He was salted a day in advance, stuffed with an organic lemon, slow-roasted and served on our family's celebratory red plate. Quite chicken-y. Quite tasty. And despite his breast looking inexplicably small compared to what we're used to seeing on our occasional Trader Joe's bird, Thatcher provided enough white meat for our young family of four. He did dress out (is that the right way to say it??) at just over 4 pounds, afterall. But quite strange, in all honesty, being so close to your food. I had trouble not seeing the poor guy in my mind's eye while eating...his distinctive personality was a curse for me in that regard. For that reason, eating a freshly gathered egg isn't the same as that once breathing animal crowing about your yard. Future edibles may need to be the dolts of the flock until I can habituate...

On a related note, I've been thinking about an occasional post called "mostly local" where I'll write a quick note about our family's meals and give a recipe...maybe this would answer that question I've heard asked about us before: "What do they eat, anyway?" Well, a week ago, we ate Thatcher. Just like the kids told everyone we would.

Dirty Deeds

2010-11-07T06:34:00.000-06:00

My father-in-law, Joe, often tells me that you need to do at least one thing a day that scares you ... just to keep yourself young and fresh. Well, the last few days, I've met my quota. Big time.

It started on Thursday evening, when Anna and I went to put up the chickens for the evening. Our first mistake was to wait until7:00 pm to gather up Thatcher and the girls: Edna, Betty, Dd, Palma June, Violet Mae, Lucille, and [unnamed bird]. Our second mistake was having moved the chicken coop earlier in the day to an entirely new location; chickens - apparently - are rather dull about finding anything other than their own food.

In any case, that would explain why at 7:30 pm, I was running around our property with little to no daylight remaining, a Petzl headlamp on my noggin, and two tennis racquets in my possession - one in the left hand, one in the right. This, so I believed, was all necessary gear to catch and deliver the birds back into the coop. I was joined by Anna - the good cop - who tried to corral the birds by patiently walking behind them while calling out, "Here, chick, chick, chick, chick." We were also joined by Wyatt - himself armed with a padded Pro Series Junior Bat and his own small headlamp. He managed to find one bird that was lost, but overall Wyatt was a significant hindrance to our whole mission. He - enjoying the opportunity to stay up past his bedtime AND swing a bat at chickens - continuously ran the girls ragged and thereby made them all the more suspicious of us other humans.

Nonetheless, just after 8:00 pm we somehow managed to get all of the chickens back in the coop - just in time for bedding down into the straw, which is becoming more and more needed in these frosty nights.

That was Thursday.

Friday's thrilling endeavor was the day we had been talking about for quite some time: Thatcher's demise. Sometimes we spoke of it casually, unsure if we truly meant it or could do it. Sometimes we spoke of "killing" Thatcher as we were being attacked- adrenaline pulsing through our body. Sometimes we spoke of it just to speak of it, just to acclimate ourselves to the idea of holding a knife or ax to his burnt orange throat - staring into the fire red of his face. Sometimes, though, we spoke of killing Thatcher as something that would have to be done, that needed to be done.

For the past several weeks now, Thatcher had begun to do his job quite well - all of them: inseminating the other birds, crowing at the crack of dawn (and at midmorning, at noontime, during the afternoon, when I pulled in from work, and at the close of the day), gathering the girls, threatening would-be predators. Unfortunately, this last job put Thatcher's masculinity into direct competition with Anna, Wyatt, Elise and myself. Elise - for the strangest of reasons - was the most bullied by Thatcher. Anna swore that it was Elise's size - that somehow being nearer to Thatcher's line of vision made her a bigger threat. Perhaps it was just simply that Elise was the easiest to pick on, or should I say claw on.

In the course of the last two weeks, Thatcher used his fierce talons to make a ruckus with both Wyatt and Elise - leaving a nasty scrape along Elise's right ear and a topical scrape near Wyatt's left shoulder blade. I also had a few more showdowns with him recently, which by the way is perhaps one of the more intense experiences one can have. Despite the number of times Thatcher came at me with his neck feathers flared, his head jutting forward, his feet then flying at my legs, I never once felt prepared for the horror this produces - tightening my stomach and my muscles, turning my body and mind into a visceral, primal reflex of fear and survival.

Wyatt and Elise, of course, had not nearly as much height or strength to withstand the bird. So, when he did attack, they were left to screaming and crying - invoking the help of mom and dad who would coming running (again with that evolutionary rush of survival) to their aid. In any case, this had happened so much that my own children were beginning to feel tense in their own yard. They would tip-toe onto the front porch, check to see if Thatcher was around, and then proceed on to their bike or the sandbox.

On Friday, the kids and I came home from a good morning out and away. As we rolled into the driveway, Thatcher and the girls were near the front doors. I knew immediately this might get tricky. I waited until Thatcher was somewhat removed from our space. I then released Wyatt and Elise from their car seats and started to usher them to the doors. However, as we drew close, Thatcher and the girls began to close in on us. I noticed Thatcher was focused particularly on me. Something had changed as a result of thatThursday evening corral. I had gone toe-to-toe that night with Thatcher, finally catching him in the crook of a tree. He seemed unnaturally subdued by that whole exchange. But, whatever fierceness he had lost the night before was apparently back. He strutted and cocked and turned at me every time I made a move. Finally, after circumnavigating him for a few minutes, I managed to get Elise in the door, but not without having to leave Wyatt for a few moments.

I thought I was doing well. But, for Wyatt, the prospect of being left outside while Thatcher was on the prowl was unnerving and terrifying. He began to cry. Then, he began to wail. He had no need. I was a mere ten yards away and Thatcher was far from both of us. Still, though, there was no calming Wyatt. I pulled him inside, but for the next hour or so he continued in his flummoxed state.

That's when I decided to do the deed. I decided that things had advanced beyond what was healthy or safe, not that I thought that rationally about the matter. I just realized that this was the day that I was going to kill Thatcher.

How was I going to do it?

That was the question. It was now early afternoon, and I knew Anna would not be back until 3 or 4. I still was responsible for the children. Somehow, I would need to find at least thirty to forty minutes to catch and kill him. So, I did what any modern, 21st century parent would do. I put on a DVD.

I found it impossible to catch him, though. Our run-ins over the last few days made him evasive. Whereas he used to meet my own advances with a bullheaded toughness - staring me down - now he just simply turned tail and ran as fast as he could away from me. After twenty or thirty minutes, I finally gave up, came back inside and tried to forget the matter.

Still, I was restless. So, I returned outside - deciding to expend some of my energy on the pile of wood that needed splitting. I went to work - knocking through five or six logs. I stopped; I turned around, and there in the chicken coop I could clearly see Thatcher and three or four of the girls. I had him. He was trapped - confined to an enclosed area that I could use to my advantage.

By this point, I had also solved the other riddle in the question of how to do it. I had already prepared a log back near the edge of our woods, and near it I had laid a machete that I hoped would do the deed quickly and mercilessly. I had also begun a pot of boiling water that I hoped would aid in stripping Thatcher of his regal and beautiful feather coat.

I quickly stepped into the coop, and almost as if they knew what was coming the other girls fled through the door. "Shoot, I can't let him get past me," I thought to myself. But, before he could make it to the door, Thatcher trapped himself into a corner. With him no longer acting the aggressor, I was no longer afraid of him. I placed my right hand onto his body - holding him to the ground and in doing so remembered all over again how small his body felt compared to the apparent girth and strength he had when he would charge me. Then, I proceeded to grasp both of his feet in my right hand. That's when I had him. For some reason, he went weak and submissive. Do all chickens do that when you take hold of their legs?

I strode the thirty or forty yards from the garden back towards the log - trying to determine swiftly and accurately how I was going to do this cleanly. I will not describe these next few moments in great detail. I will only say that there was a lot of attempting and preparing and thinking - trying to determine how best to lay his head, whether I needed anything to restrict him from wrestling and twisting (I did not, which made the matter all the more emotionally wrenching and today makes me think of that scene of Abraham with his boy Isaac on the altar ... by Rembrandt perhaps?), which hand I should use to deliver the death blow, and - truthfully - whether or not I was capable of doing this. I prayed for forgiveness for taking this birds life. I spoke my gratitude to Thatcher, and tried to both connect and disconnect with this bird. I counted to three - moving the blade of the machete into the air and back down each time and resting it on his neck. I did that several times, unable to strike down. Then, I decided to count down from 3 to 1, and that time I did swing the blade.

Even now as I write, there's a sadness and apology in my gut and in my mind. I felt so terrible for what I had done.

I walked back into the house. Wyatt, whom I had told earlier about what I planned to do, asked me right away, "Is Thatcher dead." I said, "yes." And he took that news with a type of indifference (perhaps even glee) that can only come from a mind that doesn't know completely the finality of death.

Then, I began to make preparations to pick and process the bird. But, as I did, I noticed that Elise had pooped in her diaper. I was still the parent in charge, although I had not been performing well in that regard.

Unfortunately, at the very moment that I had Elise on the floor to change her diaper, Anna and Gramma Lis rolled into the driveway, and before I could stand up and get to Anna, Wyatt managed to burst out the door and proclaim, "We killed Thatcher. We killed Thatcher." My heart immediately sunk.

For a long time, Anna and I had talked of killing Thatcher, but we had always done so under the premise and understanding that we would do it together, as a family. Moreover, in many ways, Thatcher was more Anna's bird than my own. Anna - as always - saw a beauty in Thatcher's coat and colors that I will never see. That's why I was not surprised to step out of the house and to see Anna sobbing in her mother's arms - her heart and mind overcome by shock and grief and the disturbing image of Thatcher's once proud body lying limply upon a lone log off in the yard. It was too much, and it was not something that Anna decided.

I gave Anna a hug, but I knew it wouldn't help - especially from me. So, instead, I went back into the house - grabbed the pot with the boiling water, and I proceeded to walk back towards Thatcher - now just a carcass and potential source of food.

Gramma Lis graciously and gratefully took Wyatt and Elise up to her house - leaving Anna and I a moment to talk and myself an opportunity to explain myself. Anna understood it needed to be done. It wasn't the act. It was the suddenness and unexpectedness of it, and the fact that it wasn't as she had imagined it: talking with our children about it, thanking God for Thatcher. But, as Anna drew near Thatcher's body, she began to soften and to ask more questions. Then, together, we began the work of processing the bird.

That process is in itself its own story, which I will leave for another time. But, I will say that it was amazing to me how natural it all seemed and how easily it became to strip Thatcher of his stomach, liver, lungs and heart. By 5 pm, we had a completely clean-picked and ready-to-eat bird in our kitchen. In fact, he still sits in a pot in our refrigerator with the plan that he will be roasted and eaten for dinner on Monday night.

Eventually, Gramma Lis did bring Wyatt and Elise back, and we eventually were able to thank God for Thatcher and talk about it as a family - even if it was done posthumously. We stood in the kitchen, and I asked everyone to think of one thing that they liked about Thatcher. Neither Anna and I can remember what Wyatt said now. However, when we prompted Elise, she said, "Where's his teef? Where's his mouf?" We started to laugh and cry - trying to explain why Thatcher no longer had a head. Then, we asked Elise again: "Is there something you liked about Thatcher?"

Elise - with glee - responded: "His blood!"

Then, Wyatt prayed: "Thank you God for this day, and for Thatcher, and for his mouth, for his blood, and for his strength. Amen."

Amen.

It is worth noting as well, that when Wyatt and Elise returned they both wanted to see Thatcher. So, we pulled the Calphalon stockpot from the refrigerator, took off the top and showed them the naked bird. Wyatt and Elise both reached in and started to feel him, and Wyatt said in a voice of awe and wonder, "He's chicken now?" And Anna could only say, "Well, he's always been chicken," thus ending our rather surreal day with the frank, brutal truth.

Wes

Heaping

2010-11-02T21:02:00.000-05:00

The change,
a sweeping tide -
again.

Yet, how much has changed -
from hope to fear,
from promise to frustration. By "change" today we mean "for me" and "mine" and "enough of the common good."

I came home to a house
full of heat.
On the stove, the lime green
dutch oven - the same
we received from the generous excess of family heritage -
held the meal
my beautiful wife had prepared -
a simmering stew
of wild rice,
and kale,
carrots,
and baby butternut.
The heaping abundance spilled its aroma through our airy home.

All day my mind was tossed -
toppled by the news and the agitation,
the talk of loss, the pessimism,
the angry smoldering of wanting,
the fuming of rights lost and selfishness encroached upon,
"Don't tread on me" -

the cramped calendars that have no room
for community,
for home,
for garden,
for neighbor.

We are poor. Poorer than we care
to face, poorer
than our ancestors
could dare fear,
even as they stood upon dirt
floors
and watched their crops
blow into dust.

For our poverty is our aloneness,
our isolation,
our privacy,
our islands of plasma screens and
rights and money.

I, though, am rich. Rich for the woman I have wed.
Rich for the food that has grown
on my land.
Rich for the boy who stayed
awake to give me a kiss.

Are we that poor off?

No. Only in what counts.
Only in goodwill,
in kindness,
in civility
and
hope
and faith
and love.

Sniff and Cough, Repeat if Necessary

2010-10-31T18:44:00.000-05:00

It's Halloween evening, and the only thing we Kendalls are afraid of are the litany of bugs that have raided our bodies - sending shivers down to our cold toes and a gooey, ugly flow trickling from our noses.

We're sick - thanks to Dad. Seems like I carried a tiny seasonal cold home with me this past week, and the troops held out as long as they could - fighting a valiant battle as my own sneezes and coughs set-up a formidable offensive. Elise was the first to crumble, unable to maintain a strong resistance. Poor thing. It's always the youngest who suffer first.

Wyatt has taken his own tumble, too - perhaps because the sister he insists on tackling and badgering began coughing on him as her lone defense. So, for two days now, Wyatt has been carrying around his little green, blue and white blanket as the world's largest Kleenex - incessantly wiping his nose so that he looks something like Rudolph ... a completely unintended costume.

Anna - so far - has managed to weather the storm, mostly by injecting herself with Zicam and keeping her distance. Actually, I don't know how she isn't yet sick, not when both of our children have repeatedly expelled their viral spray all over Anna's cereal bowl. At this rate, Anna is going to hold out longer than Leningrad during the Germ-an onslaught. Amazing.

Although, she just told me that the real test will come tomorrow when she rises early for her Monday swim. That alone will tell if she is truly well.

As a result of our combined colds, there was no ArtAttack at DePauw this year. That marks two years in a row we've missed this great community event for kids because of illness. Maybe next year.

Hope you're well,

Wes

clarence arthur cooper, jr

2010-10-25T13:49:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago, we lost a dear member of our already small family: Papaw. It was difficult for a number of reasons...it was sudden, we were in the habit of seeing him pretty regularly, and my paternal grandmother had already passed three years ago, so Papaw had carried many memories of them both for us. He had such a sweet spirit, and was a wonderful example to me of what it meant to accept people without judgement of them or their circumstances. After the funeral, I was able to spend some time by myself at his house, attending to the details of that place, soaking them up. That was the beginning of the healing for me...found on Papaw's desk was a scrap of paper with three words in his handwriting: "love you Anna" -- practicing, perhaps, for a birthday card. That piece of paper now hangs above my own desk...and the healing continues.

Wild Men

2010-10-17T20:01:00.000-05:00

It's Sunday evening. Wyatt and Elise have wound themselves down into rest. The week's laundry tumbles noisily in the dryer, and for the first time in my life, I'm preparing to watch Jeremiah Johnson in its entirety. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

This classic "mountain man" movie has long been one of my dad's favorites, so to have waited this long is surely a sin of omission on my part - forsaking that particular Sinai commandment about honoring your parents.

"The mountain man is a lonely man, and he leaves a life behind."

Of course, I have already seen this movie - just with another title and in a different era. I've seen it as "Into the Wild." I've seen it as "Dances With Wolves." It's the ancient American tale about finding yourself by encountering a less cultivated world.

My dad and I love these movies, and in our own ways we seek to follow the wisdom and counsel of such tales. My dad is a gamesman and a hunter, so his ventures into the wild have included everything from the seasonal fall trips into the Indiana woodlands to hunt deer to trips to the great American plains and into the vast expanse of Canada to hunt bear, moose, and antelope. I'm not a hunter - at least not yet - so most of my plunges into the wild have come through hiking and camping trips. And it comes now by living out in the country where I can spend my Sunday afternoons walking through the woods with the kids.

About five years ago, though, my dad arranged for a trip that would allow us to both step away from that maddening world and enter into the wildness of nature together. We went fishing up in Baldwin, Michigan - paddling down the Pere Marquette with a guide to fish for salmon running up stream to spawn one last time before the next generation began their cycle of life.

It was a great trip, and so I was excited and grateful that we were to make the trip again this year - a trip we just over a week ago. This time we had more company - some friends of my father as well as my brother-in-law, Kyle. Plus, my dad and his buddies had found a community up at a campsite where we stayed this time.

So, in reality, there really isn't all that much "wildness" in our fishing trips - unless you include the wildness that comes from old men drinking alcohol with nothing but time to tell old stories. Even our fishing was spent mostly in chatter with each other and with our guides. Still, there was enough of the wild to refresh me. It only takes a little.

LIke I said, that was over a week ago. I returned from the trip on Saturday evening, and on Sunday afternoon Anna's mom called with sad, sad news. Art Cooper died. Papaw: Anna's paternal grandfather.

I believe Anna is planning to say more about this kind, loving man and how much he meant to us, so I will not say much more. I will only say that we've been in the throes of grieving - the ups and downs of pain and fond memories. I am always amazed at how taxing is the work of grief, how hollow you can feel after losing someone you love.

This last week has been hard and long. But, it's made me thankful for the time I do have with loved ones - and particularly thankful for my old man.

Wes

travels

2010-09-27T12:31:00.001-05:00

winter wood collection begins!

2010-09-03T17:19:00.000-05:00

morning trip to the bridgeton mill

2010-09-02T09:51:00.000-05:00

2010-09-02T09:50:00.000-05:00

2010-09-02T09:49:00.000-05:00

8 years ago...

2010-08-19T19:37:00.003-05:00

...Wes and I got married in this little chapel on Lake Wawasee. This picture was taken last month as we walked Oakwood park for the first time since the ceremony. Yesterday (our actual anniversary), we spent the day in true 'Anna and Wes' style: great local food, a long afternoon in an indie bookstore, reading by the lake, ice cream, and a good film. A huge thank you to Granny Becks, who came down to stay with the kids for the day - if you see or talk to her, give her a pat on the back!

2010-08-13T13:16:00.003-05:00

Lately, we have been daydreaming about our own future version of these way-cool barn conversions...

Hospice medical care for dying patients: newyorker.com

2010-08-02T14:29:00.000-05:00

Our mail woman pulls up to our nearly decaying mailbox in her nearly decaying red Jeep and inserts The New Yorker. Then, Anna or I go to the box and take out this one little magazine. It doesn't seem like much, but for someone like myself who lives outside the realm of DSL and cable television (or antenna television!) and inside the realm of small town parochialism this one magazine becomes something like a link to the outside world. It helps me gain a broader picture of the larger movements and events of our nation as well, which I find particularly important as a minister living both locally but called to think globally.

Sometimes the articles are hilarious; sometimes they are enlightening. Often they are thorough and probing on issues that I've long thought about, but don't know how to explore further (like the article I recently read on the fishing industries and the sustainability of our seas).

Occasionally, some of the articles - in my opinion - are prophetic in that good biblical sense of taking away a veil and showing the reality that is truly present in our culture.

This article I am posting below is one of those articles. It addresses many things - including the issue of health care which many people are eager to discuss or debate these days. But, it also goes much deeper to our age old enemy as human beings: death.

It's a long article, but I think you'll find it profitable and enlightening. I hope so.

~Wes

Hospice medical care for dying patients: newyorker.com

Ripe

2010-07-29T20:49:00.000-05:00

Perfect for picking ... and picture-albuming.

Here is a little peek at some of the berries we've been picking over the last several weeks - usually in the fading hours of daylight following dinner, after the kids have gone down for the night and the dew is beginning to collect on the grass again.

We've got a whole row of thornless blackberry bushes that stretch from west to east for about thirty yards. They've been coming on heavy recently, which means that we should have some good baskets of berries to bring to market this Saturday.

Just as I am excited for the blackberry haul ... I am also excited about this post - created from start to finish by the iPhone:

Picture taken with the great 5.0 megapixel camera ...

Saved and easily accessed in the Camera album, which allows you to select any photo to share via email ...

And published to our blog by simply typing an email that Blogger converts into the post.

Voila!

If only berry picking was this quick and easy.

Wes

The Sweet Surrender

2010-07-27T16:25:00.001-05:00

We've returned now from vacation up near Syracuse, Indiana. For one whole week we immersed ourselves in the splash of water, the radiance of that high summer sun, the fresh breeze that goes the length of Lake Wawasee, good wine, sweet corn, and time to "be" as people and as a family.

High upon my list of favorites from the vacation was the discovery of a great local ice-cream shop: Joe's Ice-Cream. They served - much to my delight - a custard that came in both lemon and orange dreamsicle. I took the rare opportunity to get a scoop of each tucked nicely into the friendly confines of a waffle cone. It went to the realm of cream combinations not reached since the days of taro and green tea from our old favorite, Fosselman's.

Now that we're back, we're into the thick of it again. We were so literally when we returned on Saturday - our garden and yard overrun with crab grass and squash vines and sunflowers reaching eight feet in the air. Was it Parker Palmer or Wendell Berry that spoke of the obscenity of summer - with its ridiculous proliferation of life in amounts too abundant to handle or control.

Sometimes there's just too much goodness in life to enjoy.

Wes

first post from the phone...

2010-07-15T08:10:00.000-05:00

...now you all may be hearing a lot more from me. I finally got around to figuring out how to post here from my phone.

Now what happens on the farm won't necessarily stay on the farm.

~Anna

Summertime

2010-07-07T07:35:00.005-05:00

Up above the tree line the dirty haze of a summer swelter lingers into the late evening. Summertime it is out on the farm. Out on the eastern end of our property two round bales of hay are sitting in the late evening sun, and beyond those bales are acre upon acre of corn. Astoundingly, the corn is already far above our head, creating a natural labyrinth down in the valley. Everything is escaping its bounds.

It always amazes me: This season of uncontrollable abundance. Three months ago we were waiting for life to break forth from the ground. Now, we are overrun. The squash plants are up to two feet in the air; the sweet potato vines are spilling into the lawn. And soon our kitchen will be overrun with green beans and tomatoes. Anna generally looks upon the summer produce as obscene. She already carried away several squash and zucchini to a local food pantry knowing that there’s no way in Hendricks County that we’ll be eating all those “worthless” vegetables. That said: I’m sure we’ll be having our fair share of vegetable lasagna and grilled vegetables in the days to come.

Many evenings, Anna is in the garden weeding, mulching, picking, overturning, and preparing the land for its next production. I think she was getting desperate for help, since last night she let “the girls” and Thatcher out for an evening meal of parasites, Japanese beetles, and plump blackberries. We had not planned for the blackberries to be on the menu, but the chickens had other things in their pea-brained minds. And, apparently, their poorly endowed gray matter is not without some form of honing device that locks onto blackberries. As soon as they were out of the coop, they b-lined to the juiciest, darkest berries and appeared from underneath the canes with the shining gems in their beaks. Anna was none too pleased to see them stealing produce that would fetch a decent price at the farmer’s market (let alone go well in a cobbler, as I might point out), so she has decided to keep the birds in confinement through the berry season. Freedom is such an easily won and lost commodity.

We’ve been pining for some pool time all summer – especially with temperatures topping out in the mid-90’s several times already. We got our chance in the water on the 4^th of July. We went up to Denny and Granny Beck’s for the day. It was a blast to spend the day in the pool. Wyatt put to good use the swim lessons he received earlier this summer. Not to be outdone, Elise was mimicking every dive and jump. The girl is fearless, as you can tell from this picture:

I had such a blast catching her and Wyatt over and over again. Wyatt started the fun – walking up onto the diving board with the foam noodle pinned to his torso. This is when he introduced the “jump-dive,” which consisted of him going to the end of the board, jumping up one time; then jumping as far as he could into my out-stretched arms and crashing into the water. Then I’d do my best Hasselhoff, pulling Wyatt or Elise back to safety, wherein the other would be yelling from the diving board, “Catch me, Dad!”

We’ve also been blessed with several visits from good friends and family – including a surprise visit from the newly wedded Adam and Brittany Wishart. What an exceptionally fun and gifted couple they are, and Anna and I certainly wish them well in the fair city of Baltimore.

Before that, Andrew, Lisa and Ellison Smith stopped in for a picnic day. We heartily enjoyed a good meal from Chief’s, the shade under the chestnut tree, and watching our children frolic through the yard. Such frolicking is standard out here on the farm – including those fine family days when the sun isn’t nearly so hot. The kids bounce from place to place – riding their bikes, playing in the sandbox, looking for berries, or just “exploring.”

And, fortunately, we’re also a few days away from our first family vacation of the 2010 year. We’re headed up to northern Indiana for a week of boating, swimming and relaxation. I have a feeling I might be catching some more “jump-dives” off the dock.

~Wes

Patriotism and Idolatry

2010-06-30T09:04:00.002-05:00

As we move closer to the 4th of July, I remind myself and my brothers and sisters in Christ: God's greatest gifts to us are frequently the things we wrongly turn into idols - including our freedom, our rights, our privileges. Be careful that in your celebration of the freedoms you enjoy you do not neglect the Lord of All who has no ties to one nation.

~Wes

2010-06-29T14:11:00.002-05:00

a little ugly...and what we're doing with it

2010-06-12T13:32:00.003-05:00

"We're in the redemption business: healing the land, healing the food, healing the economy, and healing the culture."
-Joel Salatin, Polyface Farms, Inc

I loved this quote from the time I first read it almost a year ago. I love it because it very much falls in line with what we're trying to do here in our nook of Indiana. Case in point: the kids and I were out for a walk early this spring and stumbled upon this:
Mind you, this isn't the only 'dump site' we've discovered on our piece of land. Slowly, bit by bit, we're working to redeem the ugly. We've taken most all of the tires (two truck loads) to the city's tox-a-way day, and Grampa Joe has taken much of the metal (can you spot the old motorcycle in the photo above?) and sold it for scrap. While walking that spring day, though, I spotted these beauties:

Old chimney tiles it turns out. I immediately loaded up three of the best ones, cleaned and painted them, then reused them as a much needed, multi-functional table for our living room:

Apologies for the dark photo, but you get the idea. The top is also a reclaimed piece - a door from a stall in the old barn.

As I've told a good friend, I don't need anymore ugly in my life. I'm determined to help make this land - this life - beautiful.

reading

2010-06-02T10:07:00.003-05:00

For Anna, A People's History of the United States. It's been on my to-read list since I bought it at Vroman's in Pasadena; I'm loving it. Highly recommended if, like me, you haven't managed to get to it yet.
For Wes, The Chosen. I know nothing about this book, except that Wes is really into it. Potok also wrote My Name is Asher Lev, which we both read and thought was fabulous. Sorry for the dated cover photo.

For Wyatt, Casey at the Bat. This is a really neat version with an old-timey, historical feel due to illustrations that all look like newspaper clippings.

For Elise, Kitten's First Full Moon. I dunno, she's in a 'kitty-cat' phase, and will actully sit and listen to this one.

tidbits

2010-05-19T09:05:00.002-05:00

Just a brief post on the goings-on about the Kendall property...

- First off, it is actually our property now! Very exciting. Grampa Joe gave us a huge 'gift of equity,' which made the whole transaction a possibility and reality for us. Big thanks to Grampa Joe.

- Secondly, we've got lettuce coming out our ears...which is also exciting, though also exhausting to keep up with it all. Washing, rinsing, spinning and whatnot.

- We found out we have a rooster, who will - no doubt - be dinner this fall. I've got to try it out this year so I know if I can process meat birds next year, and Thatcher is going to give me the opportunity.

- And lastly, a snippet of conversation from yesterday in the car. We had just passed several pieces of large scale farm equipment used for spraying crops. Elise thought they were bulldozers, and I was explaining that no, they were used to spray chemicals.

Wyatt: "Why?"
Me: "To kill weeds and to kill bugs."
Wyatt, in sad voice: "But bugs are good for the world..."
Me: "I know; you're right."
Wyatt, emphatically: "They're not using their brains!"

Snow Patrol - Just Say Yes

2010-05-19T08:29:00.000-05:00

I'd Buy That for a Dollar

2010-05-01T11:09:00.001-05:00

This one's for you, Adam ...

"Subtle Musings" is now largely about the domestic/farming scene of the Kendall family. But, in ages past, there was some space given over to music/culture ... most notably, a once-a-year "Best of ..." list. Unfortunately, 2008's "Best of" faded into oblivion. It became my spruce goose - except mine never made that final voyage.

Still ... even though I ran out of steam, the music never stops. The beat just keeps on going - especially when that beat is created by Dangerous Mouse (aka Brian Burton) who helped create the Gnarls Barkley hit single "Crazy."

On my way home from work this week, I heard another of Brian's fusion projects: "The High Road" - an eclectic mix of lounge, 80's video game and the voice of James Mercer, who can sound eerie, like David Gray, but also goes falsetto. In fact, it's Mercer's falsetto that carries the song into a funk-train chorus that includes the power of a youth choir - right in step with Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" driving chorus only for the Garden State generation.

The song below reinvests much of the same from "High Road": falsetto, claps, beat.

So, if you're looking for some new tunes, check out Broken Bells - a great album for writing, riding or getting in touch with your urban, hipster self.

Wes

labor of love

2010-04-29T08:52:00.005-05:00

For those of you who are curious, here are a few pictures of the birds in the finished coop. It feels so good to have it completed.

The overall dimensions are 12x8, the door clearance is just a bit over 5 foot - 5'4", maybe. The dolly we're using is on the back enclosed end, and in order to move it, we take the wheels out of their 'storage' position on the front and slide them into braces on each of the bottom corners.

The inside has four nest boxes on the back wall, a hanging waterer, and two three-foot feeders (PVC with the top 1/3 cut out) secured to each bottom side. This means I don't have to take anything out of the pen to move it. The branch you see is their perch, and the top corner is open and wired for ventilation.

They love it - and I (Anna) really can move it by myself - at least forward and back, anyway. By my calculations, it can accommodate 24 birds...though that seems like quite a few. I'm content with eight...for this season.

The Ins and Outs of Chickens

2010-04-27T20:16:00.005-05:00

April 27 – We had a brush fire last Wednesday evening. I was riding my bike back from work when I rolled up our gravel drive at just after eight p.m., and as I headed towards the blue garage I noticed a trail of smoke billowing up behind the old barn. The thought crossed my mind that Joe might be back there – burning off some leaves or eliminating one of the many piles of trash on the property. But, then the adrenaline began to kick in, fueled by biology and the hidden memory that smoke of any form is not good for forests and humans … or old barns – for that matter. Old barns that seemed to be precariously close to where the smoke trail ascended.

I hurriedly dismounted from the road bike, switched over to the mountain bike and peddled through the yard. As I swerved to the east side of the barn and stared down into the creek bed and across the way I could see a ring of fire moving outward in all four directions. It looked like what happens when you put a lighter underneath a piece of paper and light it right in the middle: glowing orange at the very edges pushing ever-outwards leaving a black emptiness behind. Uh-oh.

Thankfully, my fears were larger than the present danger. And in the next hour, we managed to contain the fire – thanks mostly to Grandpa Joe deftly maneuvering the Bobcat in between trees and dumping piles of dirt on the source of the fire. I will not mention in this post just how many similar brush fires have been ignited on this land in the last three months.

Secondly only to the excitement of fire is the thrill of now having all eight of our chickens in our A-frame chicken coop. The movable coop is working fairly well, so far. Although, movable is really a relative term. The earth is movable, I suppose. And while the coop is a bit more manageable than that, it usually requires Anna and me together grunting and pushing and lifting. Although, just this morning, I found a new technique which makes the process potentially a solo person job: a combination of pushing the dolly down with the left hand while pushing against the boarded frame with my right. Farmers must exhibit the deftness, strength and flexibility of samurais.

I told our insurance agent about this chicken coop today, and she laughed when I said A-frame. “Why?” I wondered. But, I had forgotten that what is abnormal and bizarre to others is commonplace in our family. I swear that we have not purposefully set out to live the life that falls under the labels of “hippy,” “granola,” and “different.” It’s just what happens when you throw our two lives together: a mishmash of sustainable living, SoCal culture, Christianity, Putnam County, farmer’s markets and living off the land.

Anyhow, the “girls” are doing well – nestled away in the frame at night and pecking at dandelion weeds during the day. They seem to do a good job in mowing down the lawn, although it’s hard to tell given the extravagance of those weeds all over the place (again with the hippie-thing: we don’t spray the yard).

I was not too pleased, however, when I bent down to pick up a slug in the coop – thinking I had found a delicacy for the chickens. When my fingers went to pinch the slimy slug, they instead went through. It was then I realized that this nice, oozing mess was nothing less than – you guessed it – chicken s&%! I mumbled the very same thing as I stepped outside the door.

With still much to learn, this is Wes signing off for the Kendall family. Until next time … be well and live well.

celebrating 4 years

2010-04-20T10:09:00.004-05:00

Wyatt recently turned four. We had lots of family out to the "farmette" for the celebration. When I asked him what kind of cake he wanted, he promptly replied, "A big brown cake with brown icing and fruit in it." Made to order.

The boys spent a bit of time in the baseball diamond...

We all enjoyed the glorious weather...

The kids had a hard time parting with the golf cart...

And the birthday boy talked for days about how fantastic the day turned out to be.

***Since posting this, I've had a request for the cake recipe I used. It's my own adaptation of the Magnolia Bakery cupcake recipe. I think I've managed to find a recipe the adults like and that I don't feel *as badly* about giving to my kids. Here goes:

Chocolate Layer Cake

2 c. whole wheat white flour

1 t. baking soda

3/4 c. good quality organic butter (or 1 and 1/2 sticks)

1 c. maple syrup

1 c. brown sugar

4 eggs, room temperature

6 oz. unsweetened chocolate, melted

1 c. buttermilk or sour milk (I actually used almond milk with a teaspoon or two of vinegar because that was what I had)

1 t. vanilla

Combine flour and baking soda. Cream brown sugar and butter. Add maple syrup. Add eggs, one at a time. Add melted chocolate.

Add dry alternately with milk and vanilla.

Pour into two 9 in cake pans and bake at 350 for 30 - 40 minutes or until cake tester is clean.

Icing:

1/2 c. good quality organic butter

powdered sugar (start with 4 c. and add from there if needed)

1/2 c. milk (again, I used almond)

2 t. vanilla

melted unsweeted chocolate or cocoa to desired chocolaty-ness

I iced the first layer, put on a layer of raspberries (reserving three for garnish), then squashed the top layer on and iced the whole thing. Garnish with a dusting of cocoa powder and the three left-over raspberries.

Signs of Life

2010-04-17T07:42:00.002-05:00

April 17, 2010 - We are well into the growing season now, albeit the early pubescent stage. Outside in the garden, little shoots of spinach, snap peas, loose-leaf lettuce, and even a few broccoli plants are snuggled in the rectangular beds Anna has fashioned. Rather than till up a large portion of the front yard this year, Anna has laboriously carved out about ten smaller beds - working in old manure from the old barn as fertilizer, turning it into the soil through shovel, rake, and one of those handy weed extractors that is like a eagle claw at the end of a pole with two handles.

She has also been finishing up the chicken coop this past week - including tacking up chicken wire around the open frame. Much to her dismay, she's learning that the malleable nature of chicken wire makes for one great way to frustrate yourself, especially when your "self" likes clean, seamless, modern lines. I tried to help her a bit this past Thursday evening - pulling the wire down or over or up while Anna used the staple gun to fix the barrier in place.

At one point in this stapling process, Anna said incredulously, "The learning curve is so high with this whole process." And shortly after that, she began talking about how she would build the next one. She is destined to build the world's most efficient, modern, and attractive free-range chicken coop.

I, meanwhile, have gotten back to painting the house ... finally. By the end of last fall, I had managed to make my way around the perimeter of the house, coating the old boards in tan and the trim work in a deep ruby red. However, the ladders I had only extended up to about twenty feet or so - not enough to reach the four corners of the house that come to points at "never eat soggy waffles." So, as winter approached I gave up.

Wise move. Wise move because this week I called Jeremy Black, a friend and man of many talents, one of which is as a general contractor. I asked Jeremy if he had a ladder that could get me up to the twenty-five foot range. "Oh, yeah," Jeremy assured me. "Are you going to be around tonight," he asked while editing about twelve hundred wedding pictures he had taken (one of his other talents).

And so I ended up meeting Jeremy on this past Tuesday just after dinner, and within an hour we had two twenty-five foot ladders up against the east side of our house with a walk board running the length between the ladders - making a perfect platform to finish painting the apex. And after we had the ladders up, I ended up drinking a root beer on the front porch with Jeremy - soaking up the natural leisure of dusk. It's all about the value of friendship.

Yeah, it's been a beautiful week in so many ways. Begun with Wyatt's fourth birthday party - celebrated with family out in our yard - and ending today in an opportunity to ride in the DePauw Little 5 alumni race. In the middle: bright, endlessly sunny days; the discovery of Greencastle's best pizza (in fact, it rivals any pizza slice I've ever had); some great moments wrestling with Wyatt and Elise yesterday; and even the opportunity to say congratulations to Brad Stevens in person on Tuesday.

I am blessed.

Wes

The Cove

2010-04-08T12:20:00.003-05:00

Every two weeks or so, a movie shows up in our mailbox (the wonder of Netflix!) and the excitement of the red envelope quickly turns into bewilderment when I realize that this is yet another movie that I have never heard of. Sometimes, it's the other way around, and it is Anna who says, "Why did you put this in our queue? This happens because Anna and I like to add movies that we hear referenced on This American Life, from friends who are even deeper into the world of arts and culture, and from an insatiable desire to watch movies that are amazingly depressing, but also - so we believe - very important.

Last night, I watched one that falls in that last category, what may be called "Depressing Documentary" (the Oscar winner in this category may just be "Deliver Us From Evil" about sexual abuse within the Catholic Church). The one I watched last night is right up there with "Deliver Us ...": The Cove - the story about the slaughter of dolphins in Taiji, Japan.

I am not typically upset by much, but - boy - this was disturbing, especially the ending. I am planning to never visit a "family-friendly" dolphin park again, and - yes - that includes SeaWorld, kids. Shoot: I even found myself at 11:15 pm last night thinking, "I'm not sure I can eat another piece of sushi."

For me, that's huge.

But, even with that warning, I want you to watch it.

I want you to watch it, specifically, because I think this movie is an incredible lesson on what "social justice" honestly looks like. I believe it heart-wrenching-ly shows you the struggle that any conscientious, concerned individual has to go through in addressing a wrong in the world (and, yes, there are still plenty of those). It makes you realize how truly sadistic and fallen can be the ways of industry, and how inconspicuously communities, nations and even you and me can get caught in the death-dealing gears of productivity and progress.

Plus, you cannot watch this movie without realizing how this is indeed one of the enduring legacies of human civilization: the slaughter of innocents for the sake of human comfort and gain. I know: not something you want to watch with a bucket of popcorn!

But, this is how wrongs are righted. And maybe that would be reason enough to watch it: maybe it would spark some desire within you to make a change. As one of the heroes in the movie said, "Either your an activist or an inactivist."

Wes

Easter weekend

2010-04-07T14:13:00.002-05:00

Wes and the kids and I spent Saturday coloring salmonella eggs (aka eggs from the grocery store - the only white ones I could find around here) with some natural dyes...very fun. Sunday, the kids scoured mom and dad's yard for them...

...and found them. We also enjoyed good food...

Wyatt's usual intensity...

And some baseball in the yard with Grampa Joe.

Hope yours was fantastic, too!

little ladies

2010-04-05T16:09:00.002-05:00

The chicks are now two weeks old. Another week and we hope to have them out in the portable coop. That will be another post once the thing is finished. Almost there. In the meantime, meet Lucylle:
She was definitely one of our favorites from the get-go...named after my beloved great grandmother who we swear still walks around our property keeping snakes at bay and flowers growing in abundance.

And a few more of the girls...they're definitely losing their cute-factor - getting more of their pin feathers and losing their down. I'm now starting to figure out which is which, though - slowly identifying each of the six different breeds, which was somewhat difficult in the first week. For those of you who are curious, I have two Ameraucanas, two Rhode Island Reds, a Welsummer, Golden Buff, Golden Laced Wyandotte, and Black Australorp. That means we'll have blue/green, brown and speckled eggs...how exciting.

Home | This American Life

2010-03-29T12:04:00.000-05:00

Home | This American Life

Anna and I both got a kick out of this story.

the kitchen after: a detail

2010-03-22T10:20:00.003-05:00

When we moved in, I needed something with which to line the cabinet shelves. I decided to use all those old canvases of oil paintings from college. So where do the clean pyrex bowls go? In the cabinet by the stove, on top of the boobs.

before and after: kitchen part 1

2010-03-22T10:09:00.003-05:00

This is what our lovely farmhouse kitchen looked like one year ago. Gorgeous, no? I mean, the cave-like feel, the wagon wheel light fixture, the shake shingle ceiling...awesome.

We've done what we can...including painting the ceiling. That was a horrific experience for Wes, but the result is something we can live with until deciding whether or not to tear off the whole thing at a later date.

before and after: kitchen, part 2

2010-03-22T09:59:00.002-05:00

2010-03-22T09:45:00.000-05:00

The Gardener

2010-03-17T08:14:00.005-05:00

I love to watch
the plants grow,
she said -
her torso draped
in that black t-shirt
and shrouded
by the lingering night.

The sun had yet
to crest
in the valley
below our ridge.

Out of the saturated earth
in the small yogurt cups,
the tender shoots
stretched fragile arms:
broccoli, pepper,
basil, jalepeno.

Tiny miracles,
barely standing
in so much dark,
in the early morning,
in the quiet adoration
of the gardener's heart.

A New Season

2010-03-10T18:39:00.004-06:00

March 9^th: I slay thee poplar and return thy sage and pale yellow meat from whence it came: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Thus spoke … me. At a quarter to 6 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, the splitting axe found the last two hearts of timber, the last to be chopped for this winter.

Choppin’ wood has become a topic of conversation with a few members of our church, and a kind man brought it up in the narthex after the service of worship this past Sunday. He asked me if I was still burning. I told him I was, but the end was near. It was then I, the pastor, made my own confession: “You know, I thought this wood burning stuff was pretty manly in December. But … by the time February rolled around, I was done with being manly.” Once again, I managed to say something that I would never say if I actually possessed forethought. Thankfully, my friend laughed with me, not at me.

I am not the only one ready to disavow myself from winter and its chores. Spring is flirting with our long-buried hopes, and is wooing us with fairer days. This past Friday temperatures reached into the 50’s, and it was its own kind of intoxication. It just so happened that the sublime day was also the day we had committed to being outside and doing work.

Early in the morning, Gramma Lis came by to deliver a heaping bowl of steel-cut oats to our table. We sat mixing berries and syrup into our own bowls, talking and trying to determine what was to be done, who would watch the children, and what we would eat for lunch. Confusion was beginning to sprout, at which point Gramma Lis insisted on taking the kids into town and freeing us to do some work. We were freed by a sacrifice.

Without the responsibility of caring for our children, Anna and I hopped in the truck and in a few minutes we were on Manhattan Road. The chicks are soon to arrive, and we were in search of two necessities: chicken feed and sawdust. After a few calls to grain mill operators, Anna discovered that while Greencastle’s feed store does not carry any natural chicken feed, Cloverdale’s mill does. So it was Anna and I parked our petite 4x4 truck amidst a row of F-250’s and Silverado’s in the chalky gravel lot, and walked into the store looking exactly like what we are: ignorant, eager and overwhelmed. But, despite our foolish searching for chicken feed amidst cat, dog and bird food, we were soon wise enough to consult a man who clearly could help – he decked in Carhartt® overalls and a hat the color of a John Deere tractor and emblazoned with the sort of agri-business logo that stand guard over Indiana bean and corn fields. It wasn’t long after that I was throwing a 50lb bag of Homestead Poultry Developer into the bed of the truck. Do you think me a fool to say I was thrilled … or proud?

It was mid-morning when we returned back home. Still released from parenting, Anna and I stepped out into the yard. I carried a bow saw and pruning shears in opposite hands and headed towards the fruit trees that line a grassy drive between our garden and the eastern field. Anna carried a ladder and a lopper towards the street. For the next two hours we pruned and trimmed bushes and trees – breaking for lunch and then beginning again, this time with Wyatt and Elise playing in the yard and Gramma Lis joining the work.

To me there is such sweet satisfaction in honest labor; it was pure joy to feel an ache in my shoulders as I sawed the tops of the undisciplined and unruly fruit trees – a reminder again of connections so often severed, the vital connections: God, creation, being human.

By grace we now have many opportunities to rebuild and maintain those connections – a work decreed by God, our given discipline in the wide field of grace, mercy and perseverance. It won’t be long for the tiller to be put into action, the hoe to break the ground, the back to bend in the picking of weeds. And, likely, it won’t be long before the thrill of working the land lessens and the drudgery of the work wears me down – like the chopping of wood lost its manliness. Even still, for that first day, there was pleasure in it. Standing in the top of a pear tree, listening to the doves chortling in the near woods and watching Wyatt and Elise chase after each other, I believed that I too could be a farmer, that I could husband the land faithfully.

~Wes

Spring Chickens

2010-03-02T19:49:00.002-06:00

March 2nd: and all of a sudden there is the promise of spring lingering in the air. A week ago, there was still a significant portion of our land covered in snow. Two weeks ago, ice cycles hung in lengths of two and three feet from our gutters. But, today, the snow is only present in remnants, packed hard into ice by tires and feet. Winter’s hold – begrudgingly – is beginning to loosen. I’m sure somewhere a witch has been eliminated and gone too is her ghastly spell.

Accordingly, Anna and I are emerging from the winter doldrums. I was sitting on the couch this past Saturday, consumed with the coming Sunday, when Anna came to me with the calendar in her hand. “Look at this,” she said exuberantly, pointing at one and two word messages written in tangerine. “Monday is March 1st, and you know what that means.” I smiled; if I didn’t know I couldn’t help but see the words “plant peppers” scribbled in that first box of the month.

The entry to our house, which serves as mud room and art room and nursery, now has over two dozen old yogurt cups full of deep dark soil, and in each cup of dirt a seed is planted. They are collected upon a changing table that once used for changing the soiled diapers of Wyatt and Elise, and they sit underneath the warming glow of a heat lamp. Much to the dismay of our neighbors that lamp’s bulb is red, which makes the northeast corner of our home radiate like an Amsterdam brothel. Indeed, there is the promise of sex, but only the botanical kind. Soon – we hope – we will be overrun with the prosperity of life.

Meanwhile, I am afraid that Anna has forgotten her first love. She thumbs through the pages of a magazine that royally displays every different breed and species of laying hens and broilers. She has marked the pages with multi-colored stars, noting special birds like a scout exploring hidden talent. I finally divulged her growing passion the other evening, taking a seat next to her on the couch while she ogled over the poultry. “See, I’m thinking this one will be good for laying eggs, but what’s great about it is that they also can be butchered.” I felt, for the first time, the warm body of a chicken in my left hand, my right holding a knife firm against its ruby throat – trying to steady myself to spill its blood. And I thought digging into the wet muck of a spring garden was going to teach me about the carnality of life!

The chicks are set to arrive on March 28th, which means we have less than a month before we reach the point of no return. The same room that now houses the yogurt-cup planters will eventually house twenty some odd pulsing, squeaking, pillows of fluff. Anna – of course – could give you their names (all derived from our deceased relatives) and their descriptions.

From the day they arrive, we will have essentially two months before we will have to provide them both shelter and forage. The second necessity will not be much of a problem given the open acreage. We also have hopes of using them around our garden – feeding their growing appetites and scratching talons with the bugs and pests that could lay waste to the crops.

Shelter, hopefully, will also be fairly easy to provide. Anna – when she is not looking through the chicken magazine like I use to look at the JC Penny catalogue before Christmas – has been investigating the most efficient, most economical and most resilient forms of movable chicken coops. She has been greatly aided by the experience and tutelage of Joel Salatin, about whom many of you already know and the rest of you would be wise to discover. Anna’s modified design of his transportable coops measures around 10 ft. by 5 ft., and is complete with a back half for the birds to roost and lay in individual houses.

We talked a fair amount about what materials to use the other evening – keeping our mind attentive to both weight and durability. Any of you with experience are welcome to add your thoughts. Actually, that last sentence may as well be applied to the whole of our adventure as we move forward into spring. We are fresh with optimism as the days grow longer and warmer … and very much in need of ongoing guidance, encouragement and wisdom. It won’t be long before those pretty little birds, which have already flown off the pages into Anna’s heart and mind, will land in our laps.

~Wes

The Cost and Value of Wood Fuel

2010-02-19T10:26:00.001-06:00

“To me the winter would be well spent if I did nothing but gather wood to burn in an open fire, where I could watch its sublimation into smoke and ashes.”

-Harlan Hubbard, Payne Hollow

The winter has been harsh as has been broadcast upon the television news and in local papers. We have not been immune to the ongoing freezing temperatures, the snow-packed roads and the absent sunshine. Currently, there is a good five inches of snow upon the ground, the third such covering we have received this year. Besides making commutes into town difficult, the cold winter has also meant a greater need for a warm home.

Normally, to heat our home we would be dependent upon some form of gas – run through a pipeline to our home or housed in a tank. Indeed, we have such a tank on the western side of our house, but we have used its gas only sparingly this year.

Instead, we have been reliant upon a wood burning furnace on the eastern side of the house. Or, more directly: we have been reliant upon the dozen or so trees that were felled and cut into two foot long logs. Much of the wood is poplar, but there is also plenty of oak and hickory and even the remains of a persimmon tree that just last winter had left a host of seeds upon the driveway and in front of the porch. That was the first one we cut down. Another fell to a bolt of lightning this summer. Several more were felled to extend my father-in-law’s runway that is just south of our property.

I have found the use of wood as fuel to be a type of good work. It is a chore to be sure (although not nearly as much of a chore as burning wood inside a home or the chore it would have been for the early settlers to fell the trees and cut the trees with only hand tools). On these cold days, it requires either Anna or I to dress in heavy clothes both early in the day and later in the afternoon or evening, to push the wheelbarrow to the wood pile and to gather a dozen or so logs. Sometimes it also requires us to chop a thicker log into quarters. And, finally, it requires us to push the wheelbarrow back to the furnace, to open the metal door, and to deposit the wood – letting the fire do its work of consumption, turning the hard material into energy and heat.
Still, as much as the logs strain my back, there is satisfaction in this labor: satisfaction from having a hand in the whole process, satisfaction from the physical exercise that strengthens my body even in the lethargy of winter, satisfaction from the involvement of my senses.

What I mean by this last satisfaction, this arousal of the senses, is the connection and pleasure derived from all facets of wood fuel. There is the thrill of hearing the heavy axe sink into the log and the true feeling when the blade hits the heart and splits. There is the primal arousal of the smoke’s smell rising into my nose, the hot flames warming the hands and face as logs are placed into the inferno. Finally, there is the witnessing of the fruit of the labor: smoke pouring out in a snake-trail from the stack.

But, perhaps most importantly, heating our home through the use of wood has made me conscious as a consumer of the fuel. There is only one and a half cords of wood left as I write. That is supposed to last us the rest of the winter (if the cold persists, it won’t). We have probably been through another sixteen or twenty cords. I have not been keeping an accurate count. Still, for the first time in my life I have a general sense of the resources I am using and need to survive a winter in Indiana. I am gaining awareness, which is the first step in living responsibly.

Homecoming

2010-02-14T10:57:00.002-06:00

This blog came to fruition several years ago, when Wes and I were 'on the way to somewhere.' We were living in southern California, in transition, with no real knowledge of where we might end up. And what followed were several more years of transitory living, knowing in our heart of hearts that the lands we tread would not be our family's long term home. (Okay, that makes us sound like nomads in the truest sense of the word, but you get my meaning.) And here we are now, in middle America, literally a hop, skip and jump from family we previously imagined only being able to see on major holidays. And this is it. We've arrived. We've come not only to the home of our past, but also to the home of the Kendall family future.

Wes could articulate this all much better than I, but he's in a meeting, and I'm the one with a free moment, a fast internet connection, and no childcare responsibilities. Suffice it to say, we are happily planting ourselves on a little plot of earth in Greencastle, Indiana, for all of the foreseeable future. Our life's work here is becoming more and more clear all the time, and in that vein, we've decided to make this blog solely about our family's endeavors at a sustainable life on this wee farm outside of town. Wes will do his writing primarily over at the church blog, and we pledge to get some form of internet connection at the house so that posts won't be so few and far between.

And now for a few teasers: We are coming up on the one year anniversary of moving into the farmhouse. Expect to see some before/after photos coming up by the beginning of March. And, for those of you who don't already know, I've committed to attempting pastured poultry for our family's egg supply, and will be receiving an order of fuzzy chicks the third week in March. Much of that documentation here will be entertaining, I'm sure.

Until next time!

From the Writer's Almanac

2009-12-22T14:31:00.002-06:00

This was today's poem from The Writer's Almanac. Enjoy.

Susanna

by Anne Porter

Nobody in the hospital
Could tell the age
Of the old woman who
Was called Susanna

I knew she spoke some English
And that she was an immigrant
Out of a little country
Trampled by armies

Because she had no visitors
I would stop by to see her
But she was always sleeping

All I could do
Was to get out her comb
And carefully untangle
The tangles in her hair

One day I was beside her
When she woke up
Opening small dark eyes
Of a surprising clearness

She looked at me and said
You want to know the truth?
I answered Yes

She said it's something that
My mother told me

There's not a single inch
Of our whole body
That the Lord does not love

She then went back to sleep.

A Charlie Brown Christmas ... again

2009-12-21T09:39:00.000-06:00

Letter to Non-Believers by Shane Claiborne

2009-12-17T13:23:00.001-06:00

To all my nonbelieving, sort-of-believing, and used-to-be-believing friends: I feel like I should begin with a confession. I am sorry that so often the biggest obstacle to God has been Christians. Christians who have had so much to say with our mouths and so little to show with our lives. I am sorry that so often we have forgotten the Christ of our Christianity.

Quarry Walls

2009-12-15T14:35:00.002-06:00

You should have seen the granite face,
the sixty-foot walls ash and gray.
I stood in the emptied chamber,
the heart
of so much land taken away -
taken as stones in chunks, to be pummeled and pounded,
burned into a chalky powder.
They took the earth from its place to make of it something useful.
They stripped the diverse and dense hills - the land of pine and birch and oak, the home of white-tail and vulture and finch.
They made of it a scraggly ruin of fallen stone.
Extracted except for piles at the base of the transgressed walls.
And for what?
To take the rock and return it not into the land, but upon it,
as roads,
as pavement,
and harshness.
So, I was not surprised
to see the weeping walls,
the water running from the cliffs and through the crevices,
crying upon the granite face,
frozen in places.
Transgression and harm.

My heart may have fallen prey to despair, but for the life I saw
in the walls and in the air,
in the geese and in the doe.
For even the marred land is still living,
the very tears streaming down the face and emptying into that quarry floor -
that was rejuvenation
God reclaiming
rebuilding
the Kingdom come,
in steady persistence,
in a way - thanks be to God -
deeper and more sustained than the violence
we visit upon the earth
in our days as grass and struggle.
We shall be overcome
when the river pours not only from granite
but from heaven
to earth's empty floor.

Wes

Evangelical

2009-12-08T09:51:00.002-06:00

The following statement comes from The Evangelical Manifesto: A Declaration of Evangelical Identity and Public Commitment and was published in May of 2008. The whole manifesto is worth reading, but I was particularly struck by the following passage which details the need for Evangelicals to be radically refashioned in their own life and witness. It conforms to my own beliefs and views regarding the Church and culture:

Our second major concern [as Evangelicals] is the reformation of our behavior. We affirm that to be Evangelical or to carry the name Evangelicals is not only to shape our faith and our lives according to the teaching and standards of the Way of Jesus, but to need to do so again and again. But if the Evangelical impulse is a radical, reforming, and innovative force, we acknowledge with sorrow a momentous irony today. We who time and again have stood for the renewal of tired forms, for the revival of dead churches, for the warming of cold hearts, for the reformation of corrupt practices and heretical beliefs, and for the reform of gross injustices in society, are ourselves in dire need of reformation and renewal today.

Reformers, we ourselves need to be reformed. Protestants, we are the ones against whom protest must be made.

We confess that we Evangelicals have betrayed our beliefs by our behavior.

All too often we have trumpeted the gospel of Jesus, but we have replaced biblical truths with therapeutic techniques, worship with entertainment, discipleship with growth in human potential, church growth with business entrepreneurialism, concern for the church and for the local congregation with expressions of the faith that are churchless and little better than a vapid spirituality, meeting real needs with pandering to felt needs, and mission principles with marketing precepts. In the process we have become known for commercial, diluted, and feel-good gospels of health, wealth, human potential, and religious happy talk, each of which is indistinguishable from the passing fashions of the surrounding world.

All too often we have set out high, clear statements of the authority of the Bible, but flouted them with lives and lifestyles that are shaped more by our own sinful preferences and by modern fashions and convenience.

All too often we have prided ourselves on our orthodoxy, but grown our churches through methods and techniques as worldly as the worldliest of Christian adaptations to passing expressions of the spirit of the age.

All too often we have failed to demonstrate the unity and harmony of the body of Christ, and fallen into factions defined by the accidents of history and sharpened by truth without love, rather than express the truth and grace of the Gospel.

All too often we have traced our roots to powerful movements of spiritual revival and reformation, but we ourselves are often atheists unawares, secularists in practice who live in a world without windows to the supernatural, and often carry on our Christian lives in a manner that has little operational need for God.

All too often we have attacked the evils and injustices of others, such as the killing of the unborn, as well as the heresies and apostasies of theological liberals whose views have developed into “another gospel,” while we have condoned our own sins, turned a blind eye to our own vices, and lived captive to forces such as materialism and consumerism in ways that contradict our faith.

All too often we have concentrated on great truths of the Bible, such as the cross of Jesus, but have failed to apply them to other biblical truths, such as creation. In the process we have impoverished ourselves, and supported a culture broadly careless about the stewardship of the earth and negligent of the arts and the creative centers of society.

All too often we have been seduced by the shaping power of the modern world, exchanging a costly grace for convenience, switching from genuine community to an embrace of individualism, softening theological authority down to personal preference, and giving up a clear grasp of truth and an exclusive allegiance to Jesus for a mess of mix-and-match attitudes that are syncretism by another name.

All too often we have disobeyed the great command to love the Lord our God with our hearts, souls, strength, and minds, and have fallen into an unbecoming antiintellectualism that is a dire cultural handicap as well as a sin. In particular, some among us have betrayed the strong Christian tradition of a high view of science, epitomized in the very matrix of ideas that gave birth to modern science, and made themselves vulnerable to caricatures of the false hostility between science and faith. By doing so, we have unwittingly given comfort to the unbridled scientism and naturalism that are so rampant in our culture today.

All too often we have gloried in the racial and ethnic diversity of the church around the world, but remained content to be enclaves of separateness here at home.

All too often we have abandoned our Lord’s concern for those in the shadows, the twilight, and the deep darkness of the world, and become cheerleaders for those in power and the naïve sycophants of the powerful and the rich.

All too often we have tried to be relevant, but instead of creating “new wineskins for the new wine,” we have succumbed to the passing fashions of the moment and made noisy attacks on yesterday’s errors, such as modernism, while capitulating tamely to today’s, such as postmodernism.

We call humbly but clearly for a restoration of the Evangelical reforming principle, and therefore for deep reformation and renewal in all our Christian ways of life and thought.

We urge our fellow-Evangelicals to go beyond lip-service to Jesus and the Bible and restore these authorities to their supreme place in our thought and practice.
We call our communities to a discerning critique of the world and of our generation, so that we resist not only their obviously alien power but the subtle and seductive shaping of the more brilliant insights and techniques of modernity, remembering always that we are “against the world, for the world.”

We call all who follow Jesus to keep his commandment and love one another, to be true to our unity in him that underlies all lesser differences, and to practice first the reconciliation in the church that is so needed in the wider world. In a society divided by identity and gender politics, Christians must witness by their lives to the way their identity in Jesus transcends all such differences.

We call for an expansion of our concern beyond single-issue politics, such as abortion and marriage, and a fuller recognition of the comprehensive causes and concerns of the Gospel, and of all the human issues that must be engaged in public life. Although we cannot back away from our biblically rooted commitment to the sanctity of every human life, including those unborn, nor can we deny the holiness of marriage as instituted by God between one man and one woman, we must follow the model of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, engaging the global giants of conflict, racism, corruption, poverty, pandemic diseases, illiteracy, ignorance, and spiritual emptiness, by promoting reconciliation, encouraging ethical servant leadership, assisting the poor, caring for the sick, and educating the next generation. We believe it is our calling to be good stewards
of all God has entrusted to our care so that it may be passed on to generations yet to be born.

We call for a more complete understanding of discipleship that applies faith with integrity to every calling and sphere of life, the secular as well as the spiritual, and the physical as well as the religious; and that thinks wider than politics in contributing to the arts, the sciences, the media, and the creation of culture in all its variety.

Above all, we remind ourselves that if we would recommend the Good News of Jesus to others, we must first be shaped by that Good News ourselves, and thus ourselves be Evangelicals and Evangelical.

Lot to Learn

2009-12-07T15:05:00.001-06:00

I’m sitting in our living room, on the north wall, the one right below the trees Anna etched upon the wall, the one across from the wall where three boards from the old barn hang as art. The walls around me are sand yellow, or – rather – “graceful willow” according to the label on the gallon can. The floor is covered in shag carpet with the colors of a different type of sand, the sand of rocky beaches. It is as if this home rose out of the ground, which was our goal. We wanted the interior of this place to speak about the world outside.

What we did not plan for, though, is that there really is no barrier between the outside and inside of our home. Surprisingly, construction terms like “shell” and “insulation” apparently weren’t in use when homes were built in the late 1800’s. I mention that as a way to explain why we have recently killed six mice in three days through the old trick of peanut butter and snap-traps. Those are the most recent invaders. Earlier, it was the lady bugs. Before that, the wasp and flies had their run of the house.

We are doing our best to persist and stake a claim on this land.

A few feet away from me, Anna pulls a needle and thread through the red binding of a modern Christmas quilt. She plunges the metal into the cloth, than pulls it out like a hook from the sea, up towards the ceiling. On the back of the slipper sofa a roll of thread and a pair of Ginger scissors lay awaiting their next job. Slowly, I believe Anna and I are drifting backwards into a time of home economics.

We have no television in this home. There is no internet. Our lone portals into an outside world are as follows : a handheld radio we turn on in the morning occasionally to listen to NPR, Anna’s iPhone, Netflix, and two local newspapers that appear two days out of seven and present a macabre world of local news, celebrity gossip and farmer’s almanacs.

Actually, I lied about the internet. We use the iPhone for that purpose. But, it is internet in need of a technological enema. The cellular reception streams just enough information to keep us on the fringe of society. Anna consults some design blogs. I check sporting news on ESPN. Often I forget to check the weather, uncertain if my light fleece vest will be enough to get me through the day.

We have a few other indulgences. We eagerly await the arrival of a Netflix movie to our mailbox, connecting us to art and cinema in ways we could not otherwise unless we drove all the way to the north side of Indy.

Sometimes, though, that is precisely what we have to do – like the days we travel the fifty miles or so to the nearest Trader Joe’s, stocking up on necessities and luxury items, returning home like old farm families from the market.

The last time Anna went, she spent just over $230. We both were aghast. We admonished ourselves for the expense, but then we looked again at the five bags sitting in our kitchen, stuffed full of whole wheat flour, extra virgin olive oil, marinara, havarti and parmesan cheeses, full pound bars of milk chocolate with almonds, and several bottles of Honey Moon Viogner to stash for dinner guests (or, more likely, for those days when our children’s screams reverberate off the walls for far too long).

Forgive us our indulgences as we forgive yours.

But, really, the luxuries are not much. Consciously or by necessity, we have chosen to live a fairly meager existence these days. This farm home is just over a thousand square feet, which is neither large nor small. There is one bathroom, nicely redone, but nothing lavish. The wind howls through the old windows on cold nights like this one, just as it does through the wooden boards layered up the body of this old farmhouse.

I have about finished the painting of the exterior. Unfortunately, I likely will not finish the remainder before spring. The burgundy trim only extends to a height of fifteen feet where it abruptly ends. The ladder extended no further, and even then I was becoming uncomfortable with the flimsy aluminum and the great height.

Besides, in recent months, my attention has turned to another chore: collecting wood for the winter. Two months ago, I had an old Paulson saw repaired at Humphrey’s Outdoor Equipment store on the north end of 231. They flushed out all the fluids, replaced the fuel line, put on a new bar and chain and got it churning again. I was well on my way to local heat, gathered from the fallen timber to extend my father-in-law’s runway. Then the engine shuddered and froze upon itself.

I put the lifeless saw back up in the blue shed. Two days later I was back at Humphrey’s. I picked out a Stihl Farmboss, a carrying case, and a new chain. Total cost: just over $380, which seemed just as damaging as the groceries. But, the investment in the saw has quickly proven worth it. The boss starts easily, and churns through logs. Plus, it is an investment, or so I rationalized as I took out my debit card to pay for it. $380, would – in fact – quickly be returned in the decrease in gas costs. Sure enough, the gas bill arrived this week. The cost was a pleasing $0, and at the bottom the service man noted that he saw the smoke coming from our outdoor wood-burning furnace. Said he would check back in come spring.

Now the leaves have all fallen from the tree. Life itself won’t be back until the spring. For the world has gone quiet and hushed, into the winter season. I have learned a lot, with a lot more to learn.

~Wes

Laughing with

2009-11-19T08:31:00.002-06:00

I just heard Regina Spektor's song "Laughing With", which came out several months ago. I thought I'd post it here to get some thoughts. I first heard it on the radio, and - personally - it held more meaning in that form than watching the video. Anyhow, here are the lyrics as well:

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God when they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God when the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God when it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from that party yet

No one laughs at God when their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God when they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else and they hope that they're mistaken
No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door and they say "We've got some bad new, sir,"
No one's laughing at God when there's a famine, fire or flood

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say he hates us and they get so red in the head you think that they're about to choke

God can be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious
Ha ha
Ha ha

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God when they've lost all they got and they don't know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God when they're saying their goodbyes

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say he hates us and they get so red in the head you think that they're about to choke

God can be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one's laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war

No one's laughing at God when they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God

Loving the World

2009-11-17T12:23:00.001-06:00

"To believe in God is to believe in the salvation of the world. The paradox of our time is that those who believe in God do not believe in the salvation of the world, and those who believe in the future of the world do not believe in God.

Christians believe in the “end of the world,” they expect the final catastrophe, the punishment of others.

Atheists in their turn invent doctrines of salvation, try to give a meaning to life, work, the future of humankind, and refuse to believe in God because Christians believe in him and take no interest in the world …

All ignore the true God: he who so loved the world! But which is the more culpable ignorance?

To love God is to love the world. To love God passionately is to love the world passionately. To hope in God is to hope for the salvation of the world.

I often say to myself that, in our religion, God must feel very much alone: for is there anyone besides God who believes in the salvation of the world? God seeks among us sons and daughters who resemble him enough, who love the world enough so that he could send them into the world to save it."

-Louis Evely, In the Christian Spirit

The People of God

2009-11-16T15:53:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while I find myself talking with a stranger or catching up with an old friend. Such an occasion came this last weekend as I reunited with several old college buddies. And, as often happens at reunions, the conversation quickly turned to twenty questions: Am I married? Do I have kids? Where do I live?

Eventually, I had to tell my friends what I now do to feed myself and my family. And with some hesitancy, I told them that I now serve as a pastor.

Why the hesitancy? What could keep me from freely proclaiming myself as a servant of the Lord? Simply: I know what the follow up question is going to be. It is almost inevitable:

"So, how big is your church?"

It is amazing how often people ask me this.

And let me just say this: I hate this question. I think it is a horrible, God-awful question.

The people who ask the question aren't bad people. It's like my old college buddies. I have nothing against them; in fact, I appreciate and love them. But, as much as I love them, I really cannot stand that question.

And the reason that I hate this question is that it is oozing with misperceptions and false cultural values. For one, there is the assumption that it is my church, that somehow my talent or work or energy have created and sustained and built this community. That, of course, is complete bogus and most of the pastors I know who fall into actually believing this sentiment end up running on treadmill of do-it-all that is neither sustainable nor helpful.

But, there is more. There is also implicit assumption that a church can be designated or defined by a number, and while it is true that facts and figures do help us understand or comprehend things, it is also true that ours is a culture where human beings and communities are continuously devalued and are wrongly described by life-less numbers. We live in the world where McDonald's has now served billions and billions. Ours is the age where the local hardware store can't stand up to Walmart. Well, I want to stand in opposition to such forces. I believe in the value of specific individuals over the profit of major corporations. I believe in the worth of communities over individual gains.

So, when someone asks me how big my church is, I feel a deep urge to help them rethink their question with me. I want to help people see that the reason I love my work is that there is no way to quantify it. I want people to realize that good communal work done in the service of God is done in ways that require more than a fact or figure. It - thankfully - can never be summed up with one number. No, thankfully, pastoral work ... like being a part of a church ... is something that is intrinsically alive because of God's loving activity. It goes beyond stats and into the realm of flesh and blood. The Church is defined by Christ and by the individual members of the body.

And, this gets to my real feeling. When people ask me the "How big is your ..." question, what I really want to do is tell them about the people, the individual members of the community that I am a part of. I long to relate what a gift it is to live within that community. I want to tell them how much of a blessing it is to know and feel that my life is somehow very much bound up with the ups and downs of a wide community.

Because you cannot put a number on community. You cannot put a number on God's work and Kingdom. All you can do is work within it and experience the grace, the humility, the struggle, the loss, the gain, and the hope that exists within.

Which is why when people ask me how big my church is, I need to say, "I don't know. Why don't you come and join us and find out?"

Wes

Halloween

2009-11-09T16:20:00.000-06:00

Vacation

2009-10-21T12:56:00.000-05:00

A Little Favor From Our Friends @ Wall Envy

2009-10-07T14:09:00.002-05:00

Several weeks ago, Jeremy Black came out to the farm and did us the huge favor of taking a ton of pictures of our family. Jeremy and his wife have been developing a great photography business called Wall Envy. Check out their site. And check out some of the pictures from the photoshoot out near Kendall farm.

Goodreads

2009-10-06T13:33:00.001-05:00

Nicholas and Alexandra by Robert K. Massie

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This is one of those historical books that reads with such fascinating personas that you cannot help but think, "This really happened." And the single brightest star in this Russian period...none other than the mysterious monk, Rasputin.

View all my reviews >>

Life and Constrictions

2009-10-06T08:29:00.002-05:00

Once again, days have moved into the past and our correspondence through this blog has been missing. There are several reasons for the absence. Anna and I often blame the lack of internet in our home as one of the major reasons. That, in part, is true. With the inability to sit down and write an update conveniently or quickly, we have moved on to other forms of communicating with our friends and family. Anna - much to her own surprise - has begun using Facebook much more regularly. She also now uses her iPhone to check those select blogs and people that give her own life substance and invigoration.

I have tried to use Facebook, developing an on-again, off-again affair. But, it just hasn't taken yet for me.

And, I cannot blame the lack of internet for my absence. I am fortunate enough to have a laptop and internet access throughout Greencastle.

The major reason for my silence goes deeper than availability. It results from my life being radically different and from the result of what I would call a "birthing" process. For these past several months have largely been a process of pressure and exertion for me personally and for us as a family.

I know that I have been working harder at life and for life than I ever have. I'm not sure that is entirely a good thing, but - for better and for worse - I have been expending energy to get an old house into a decent place to live. For better and for worse, I have been extending myself to a congregation, seeking to aid them in their life as disciples and in their life as a community of believers. For better and for worse, I have been trying to find my place in Greencastle. And I am consequently left with little energy or time to write.

This concerns me, but I take solace knowing this may just be a season, which leads me back to the "birthing" image.

Recently, I read that God's movement in our lives is always like His activity with the Israelites in Exodus. First of all, God continuously brings us through places of "constriction." Like God's desire to pull his people out of Egypt, God's desire is to pull us out of the unbearable pressure of slavery. However, this delivery does not come easily. God's way of delivering us comes with great travail and hardship ... like passing between the mighty walls of water, being chased by hordes of opposition.

It is not easy, but God does deliver. And that leads to the second movement: God delivers us into a new, open space. God puts us out into a broad, open field.

The analogy to labor is undeniable: from confinement to constriction to deliverance and new life.

And within that analogy, I would say that I am still very much in the area of constriction. I am finding myself in the intense pressure that comes from being born anew, from having my world radically altered ... from going from an father to one child as an associate pastor living in the city to being the father of two kids as a solo pastor living out in the country.

In other words, the reasons are many why I don't blog as often nowadays. But, in due time, I hope that the way will open to write more frequently. But, I do not know. I am being born again, and I cannot yet see where God is delivering me ... to what place I am being born into.

Wes

Go Irish

2009-10-05T14:15:00.000-05:00

I made it to my first ever ND football game this past weekend. Finally ... and what a game!

Wes

Further Reflections on Being a Craftsman

2009-08-27T13:09:00.002-05:00

I am considering submitting this piece to a few online sites or even publications for pastors ... and, before I do, I would greatly appreciate any feedback, criticism or other thoughts.

----------------

In the course of the last month, two rhythms have been dominating my life. First of all, I have been searching out, studying the Scriptures and communicating the Christian hope - primarily by studying the letters of Paul. And, secondly, I have been putting my body and hands to work to remodel the bathroom of the old farm house. These two labors do appear at first as separate, unconnected efforts: one is - we assume - of the mind and reserved for the pastor's office or library while the other is - we believe - reserved for the hands and for the noisy domains of the shop.

But, while doing the first work of study, I came across the following statement about Paul:

"We begin to realize that, far from being at the periphery of his life, tent-making was actually central to it. More than any of us has supposed, Paul was Paul the tentmaker. His trade occupied much of his time - from the years of his apprenticeship through the years of his life as a missionary for Christ, from before daylight through most of the day. Consequently, his trade in large measure determined his daily experiences and his social status. His life was very much that of the workshop, of artisan-friends like Aquila, Barnabas, and perhaps Jason; of leather, knives, and awls; of wearying toil; of being bent over a workbench like a slave and of working side by side with slaves; of thereby being perceived by others and by himself as slavish and humiliated; of suffering the artisan's lack of status and so being reviled and abused." - Hock, Social Context, pg. 67 as quoted in Ben Witherington III's Conflict & Community in Corinth.

In other words, for Paul there was no separation between who he was as a man of letters and who he was as a craftsman, as a day laborer. In fact, as the quote above suggests, Paul the tentmaker apparently helped keep Paul the apostle grounded.

Honest work of the hands can keep the head sharp and bent low: This is one of the gifts I am receiving right now, and it is part of my maturation both as a pastor and as a person. I am beginning to discover that the strain and sweat I put into properly laying a floor helps form how I approach teaching the faith - which is its own type of building process. And - similarly - I am beginning to discover that the concentration and effort demanded from my body for physical labor should be mirrored in how I approach writing a sermon or building up a community of elders.

But, again, this is more than just a cross-pollinating of hands, heart and head. It is a humbling of the heart that keeps me grateful for ministry and mindful of the gift I have been given to pastor and minister.

Still, I speak of this gift fully realizing how easy it can be to neglect it as gift, and I say it realizing that ministry has often been a flight from humility - both for myself and many pastors.

To be a pastor for several decades - centuries even - has been considered a true white-collar job. In fact, before the starchy brightness of doctors' smocks, the clergy collar was about as high as one could get in society. Sadly, over time, the pastoral office has become associated with high degrees and big offices rather than tradesmen' quarters and tools.

But, the simple reality is that ministry is not better than other forms of labor. It is not a white-collar job, set above and apart from blue-collar work. For ministry in its truest sense is the work of service, and as such, there is no better training ground than a service-sector job. In fact, some of my best training for ministry has come not from seminary, but from being a server at a restaurant and now as a (rather poor) home repair man. And in my current call, some of my best teachers and instructors in the art of ministry are the men and women who daily practice their trade and skill in humility and service to others - including the man who works ten hour days providing tree service, the teacher who works hours after school to help create a better environment for her students, and the shift foreman who daily maintains and protects both his workers and his plant. It is these persons who faithfully show forth what it can look like to be a servant and steward.

Now there is another point to be made here as well. Not only was Paul's humility maintained through his trade, Paul's tent-making also aided him by keeping him in community. This is a significant statement, one that cannot be ignored by modern ministers.

Being connected (that is being dependent upon and contributing to) to the community one serves is critical to a successful ministry. But, for many ministers, this connection is hard to maintain for reasons larger than any one minister.

There is no doubt that the pastoral profession has been more and more pushed to the fringes of American culture so that the pastoral office that was once one of the key voices in the community has become easily ignored or disregarded. And while this displacement may open new paths for our prophetic voice, the simple reality is that being ignored and dismissed leaves a lot of pastors feeling insignificant.

It is worth noting that there has been a fundamental shift in being respected in a community to being a respected voice within the church. Pastors and preachers are now known largely for what they are doing with their churches, not within their communities. But what this points to - again - is the disconnect between ministry and community. And this is precisely where Paul's life and model might be helpful for us in ministry.

When Paul came to a community, he came not just as a distributor of the gospel. He came as a tentmaker, someone who had an actual skill that would allow him to set up shop in a community and contribute to its needs. More than that, as a tentmaker, Paul was able to place himself in the very crossroads of a city's culture, which provided him incredible opportunities to befriend people and to see and hear what was really going on in a community.

No, of course, many ministers will feel untrained or uncomfortable moving into a community and offering a labor or skill for profit, but the point here is not to make carpenters of pastors. Looking at my home repair jobs disqualifies that argument rather quickly. The point is to make sure that ministers see their work as work that is done in service to others and in community.

And, in that sense, the true predecessor in pastoral ministry - of course - is not Paul, but Paul's own Lord and Teacher, Jesus Christ, the same carpenter's son from Nazareth. For in Jesus we see the One who was willing to always be a servant to others for the welfare of the community.

Wes

Wedding up in Michigan

2009-08-27T11:27:00.003-05:00

Here are a few pictures from that wedding I referred to up in Michigan. The wedding itself took place just north of Traverse City near Elk Rapids. There was a harbor with a small outcropping. The service was on a small strip of grass on that outcropping.

Meanwhile, the two families had rented houses on a nearby lake, which afforded me the opportunity to get behind a boat for the first time in seven years ... thus, putting me in "loathed" status with Anna ... (a) for skiing and (b) for leaving her two small children in the wake of my absence.

Wes

Bathroom

2009-08-26T13:04:00.005-05:00

Where have we been in August? Why the long absence? Simply: we have been remodeling the only bathroom in the farmhouse, and by "we," I mean Grandpa Joe, Uncle Drew, Bob the Builder, myself, Anna, and Grandma Lis.

Ever since we moved in, we knew the bathroom was going to need to be replaced one day ... but the longer we were in the home, the more we knew the job needed to happen sooner than later. The plastic tiles on the floor were beginning to peel away from the floor revealing rotten wood and other un-pleasantries. Plus, we had done a quick fix on the original bathroom, putting up water-proof siding above blue tile ... then we tried to spraypaint the tile ... then, well, we knew we were beyond mere cosmetics.

So, about three weeks ago, the day after I returned from a wedding up in Michigan for two church families, we got into the bathroom and started demo work - taking the room down to the studs and tearing up about three layers of flooring that had been laid down through the years (when I was tearing up the final layer of wood-flooring I came across a newspaper from the late 1800's). Eventually, all that remained where four or five cross beams and a lot of space to fall into the basement.

I learned several things through this process: about subflooring, about denshield, about how absolutely nothing in an old home is to code and how nothing lines up as it should ... and eventually I learned how to cut, lay and grout a tile floor, which Drew pretty much did (you rock, Drew!). Meanwhile, Builder Bob and Grandpa Job did the majority of the plumbing. Thankfully, once the floor was completely removed, they had a tabula rosa to reroute all the pluming.

Then, late last week, Grandpa Joe put up the majority of the drywall, and I began to mud as I could. We also took a night to put in the new sink, the toilet, a vanity mirror, a lightbar and some additional storage for linens and things. While not completely finished, the job took just about two weeks ... and ...

Last night, we were able to give the kids their first bath in the new bathtub - making the whole process all the more worth it.

On Another Channel

2009-07-29T08:30:00.003-05:00

As life has expanded and changed in recent months, I've begun another blog in another space - this one dedicated to my ministry with the people of Greencastle Presbyterian Church. You can find it at:

www.greencastlepresbyterian.blogspot.com

Wes

Bygones and Birthdays

2009-07-27T11:49:00.001-05:00

Last week Anna took the kids up to Aunt Cindy's and Uncle Kirk's in Fort Wayne, IN. Kirk and Cindy are fortunate enough to live on a nice piece of land complete with their own horse barn and riding grounds. This meant Wyatt was able to take a ride on Bailey, one of Cindy's horses. Anna was super pleased to inform me that Wyatt did great on the horse - even pinching his knees in as Bailey took him up a fairly steep hill. And she assures me that Wyatt has a great sense of balance ... which I shamelessly take credit for. Here are a few pics from the ride.

And, yesterday, was my birthday, which happened to fall on perhaps the most beautiful day of the year so far. Wow, it was a great day - spent first at church in worship, followed by a day at Victory Field with Wyatt and some friends and concluded with a family dinner under the Bur Oak tree of our home.

After enjoying a wonderful meal, I received two incredible gifts. The first came from my wife, who did it again. This time a messenger back made of recycled plastic and including another of Anna's very cool mixed-media collages. This particular collage includes a stamp from Russia, a train ticket from one of my train rides from Bucharest to Timasoria back in college and a piece of a basketball. She knows me.

And, finally, my brother-in-law, Drew, surprised me big time with a sweet gift ... a 1971 Terranaut road bike. He picked it up at an antique store. Found it in pretty good shape, in fact. Then, he did some good work in updating a few things and restoring a few others. So, in all, I have a sweet way to get around Greencastle now. I am blessed.

Get it Straight

2009-07-22T17:56:00.002-05:00

In the process of updating my iTunes library on the ol' work laptop I came across a Ten Shekel Shirt album: Risk. The opening track from this album is spot on ... just a great way to frame all of life. Here are the lyrics ... unfortunately I can't find a video to post:

It all begins with a risk...
Cause your desire is for this
To be loved and to love
its what everything is all about

I'm allowed to live to make the Maker smile
I vow to give the best years of my life

Live's meant to be like a kiss
Cause intimacy is bliss
To be loved and to love
is what everything is all about

I'm allowed to live to make the Maker smile
I vow to give the best years of my life

To be loved. Oh, to be loved.
And to love like You love is what everything is all about.

I'm allowed to live to make the Maker smile
I vow to give the best years of my life
Right now I live to make the Maker smile
I'm free to give the best years of my life

Now if I can just locate their first album, Much. That too was solid.

Wes

Painting

2009-07-21T12:36:00.000-05:00

External Things

2009-07-06T20:15:00.001-05:00

We started work on the outside of the house today: mostly scraping away at the old paint in preparation for a new coat. Anna and her mom and the kids managed to pick up some huge buckets of paint as well: a deep red, beige and tan.

Hopefully, we'll have some work-in-progress pictures up in the next couple of days.

Wes

Elise

2009-07-03T11:12:00.003-05:00

Elise is walking everywhere these days...when she's not swimming, that is. She eats constantly, remains tiny, and I'm continuously blown away by how well she can communicate. There is never any doubt what this girl wants or is thinking... Below are pictures from the train ride mentioned in the next post.

Thomas and friends

2009-07-03T10:50:00.003-05:00

Every once in a while, I make it in town to update this space with a few things from the homefront...

We have been busy, as is always the case when you live out in the country, we're finding. It is amazing just how much good work there is to be done. Constantly. For a break, my mom and I managed to get over to Connersville, Indiana with the kids to see Thomas the Tank Engine -- life size. We took a half hour train ride in a passenger car pulled by Thomas, and spent another hour or so taking in various Thomas-themed activities. I've got my eyes out for the original British edition stories...I think Wyatt would dig those.

Wyatt riding on the train (an original from 1932).

Me trying to explain all the abandoned forms of industry left along the train track by modern advances.

Wyatt after the ride, posing with "the big, big, big Thomas."

Coldplay Concert

2009-06-15T16:09:00.001-05:00

I recently saw Coldplay in concert here in Indianapolis. They were traveling through Nap-town as part of their summer 2009 US tour, and I decided to gift myself with an early birthday present. Not long after Snow Patrol was added to the show, which only doubled my excitement.

So late on a Friday afternoon, the Mrs., The Drew Cooper and I gave Grandpa Joe and Grandma Lis a little bit of instruction for the kids, a lot of “thanks”, and pulled out of the gravel drive way of Farm Kendall. While Anna slept in the backseat – enjoying a brief respite from work and kids – Drew and I caught up while we inched the final five miles on I-69.

The concert was set to begin at 7:00 pm that evening, so when we parked the Scion at 6:55 we figured we had just made it in time. We walked up a hill and then back into the bowl of the Verizon Center laying down a blanket on a patch of grass – facing the sun’s last drive of glory and waiting for the coolness of dusk to take over.

While listening to the first group – the one before Snow Patrol – Anna, Drew and I noticed something. There were lots of young people around us. Lots. And we didn’t feel like we belonged with them. Despite the seventy-year old couple in front of us – he with his nice khakis, cloth belt and button-down shirt – and the occasional thirty-somethings, we were awash in a sea of adolescence and fraternity guys.

Since I didn’t care much for the opening act and because I don’t get the chance to “people watch” out in the country, I scanned the crowd in pure amazement. And within the first fifteen minutes I was particularly struck by a group of young “kids”, although they no doubt thought themselves very old. They congregated to the right of us. The guys greeting one another with hands clutched between them as they drew one another into a type of Centurion hug. The girls stood near each other, talking with one another and peering like their male companions out of the corner of their eyes, always looking for someone else’s interest.

These high-schoolers sported their various athletic and AE gear. That I expected. But, upon a second look I realized that one of the young men had not just an AE Eagle on, but one from the school of Zionsville, the very same where I spent my years of self-indulgent wandering and discovery.

I’ve said to many people that my own father cannot go back home because the place where he grew up has largely faded into history – families and classmates have disappeared to bigger cities for bigger homes and smaller yards. For me, the opposite is true. I can no longer go home because the community I once knew has turned into a suburban sprawl, a vast empire of subdivisions that are named – as Barbara Kingsolver says – after the very animals that were killed to make space for its inhabitants: e.g. – Deer Run.

So, I watched these young men and women with a faint memory of something past and a strong realization that a chasm had formed between myself and my childhood.

But, this I noticed as well: the young women were dressed in clothing that barely covered their forming frames. And, I – for the first time – grew frightened for my daughter. I kid you not … one of the girls mingling her way through the crowd of boys wore what I can only describe as her pajamas, and the irony and shocking reality of our culture – where children go so quickly from slumber parties to sexual discovery – stood right before me.

Oh, Wyatt and Elise. What sort of world have you been born into?

Snow Patrol finally arrived on stage, and for a brief time, I was drawn again to the stage. But, by now the sun still seemed dreadfully awake and my body felt weary for the fourteen plus hours it had been working this day.

By 8:30 Snow Patrol was done. I was revived by the prospect of Coldplay finally arriving on the stage and the cool calm of the sun’s exit. But, the tech’s just kept coming and going upon the stage. The night wore on. I languished and thought of napping, and the joy of a beer and a bag of peanuts began to seem a rather foolish investment for dinner.

Finally, though, with the grand blaring of a classical masterpiece, Coldplay arrived on the stage.
They began with the soft sounds of “Life in Technicolor,” the opening track off their latest album: Viva La Vida. And sure to form, the stage was decorated in what can only be described as Oriental French Revolution, the very same themes hammered into the album.

For the next hour and a half I would see first-hand a group that both my brother-in-law, Kyle, and my best friend, Andrew, told me was the concert to see. They told me it was an experience. Well, maybe my hopes had been raised too high because it was and it wasn’t.

What I did appreciate – what floored me and awed me – was the unbelievable energy of Chris Martin, the lead singer for the group. From the beginning of the show, he worked himself into his music – drawing up references in my own mind to Mick Jagger.

Drew was also mesmerized by Chris’ energy. And as the concert wore on we began to speculate: do you think he … you know … uses? I suppose it’s the obvious question given the history of Rock and their artists. I felt a bit ashamed asking the question though. Who am I to call Chris Martin’s life into question?

Well, unfair as it may be, I ask it again. How did he discover a fountain of youth? Where does he get his energy? And, indirectly but just as importantly, where is mine?

I would say that entering my thirties has largely been a lesson on limits. Or maybe that came with children. Either way, both children and my body tell me young people have it, and I do not have it like I once did. And, I grow more and more curious to find a source of life that can sustain me for the long haul.

Who knows what that is for Chris Martin and Coldplay? Maybe it is just finding a way to do something you really, really love with people you really enjoy being around. Maybe it is learning how to rest well in order to perform well. Maybe it is unnatural.

I don't know. But, I do know that I don’t want to follow death and all of his friends either, Chris.

Wes

Best of 2008 - #2

2009-06-01T15:10:00.003-05:00

You never know how the Spirit is going to blow … or where … or when. But, like Al Green I was hoping for a long time that the Spirit might come and revive my weary soul.

2008: a geyser burst forth from deep in my soul and the joy of my salvation came back. And a reality so significant, so important, demanded a song. My soul needed to sing. No, not just sing. I needed to dance.

Well thank you Mr. Drew Cooper for giving me the song that embodied the renewal – a song capable of matching the movement of the Spirit within me: Believe Again by Delta Goodrem, the Tommy Trash Remix.

Tommy Trash is a DJ from Australia, and he took this relatively well known pop hit and gave it texture and depth.

I can already hear your comments. “Is he serious?” Yes, I am. And, yes I know it begins like something from A Night at the Roxbury. But stick with it. I promise the deeper bass beat will get you rockin’ in your chair, and what Tommy is doing is building …

And building …

He’s letting the belief rise in you and if you let yourself fall into the hypno-syntho-pulse … you’ll see.

Then ... listen to Delta Goodrem sing you into a journey:

“Have you ever stared into the rain, thought the clouds would never disappear? Have ever screamed out in the dark – thinking no one else will hear?

Bump.

“I’ve lost my faith in love. Tonight I believe again. My heart was a broken place, and now I feel whole again. And you bring me honesty, and that’s worth believing in. And I believe …

I believe … again.”

Now sit with it. Let it go deep.

“I believe again.”

And here, this is the part I love … about two minutes forty seconds in (and then again from four minutes on).

Pulsing. Alive. Strong. Belief.

Do you feel it?

But maybe you won’t. Because you can’t control the Spirit. It blows where it wills.

And when it blows you best just let it have its way.

Wes

p.s. - Drew ... we will be hosting a rave sometime in the next year, right?

Soy Vey!

2009-06-01T13:45:00.003-05:00

It's happened. The first dramatic loss of the growing season. Sometime during the night watch a critter from the country gorged itself upon a lush row of edamame. Presumably, the culprit was a bunny.

I now retract all sympathy offered for all Sylvilagus Transitionalis during this tragic situation.

Wes

Speed Bump

2009-05-28T10:33:00.004-05:00

I'm sorry if you've stopped by our blog recently only to see tumbleweed blowing across the screen or a "foreclosure" note appear. These past two months have seen too few posts. Not that there hasn't been a lot going on. In fact that's just the problem.

As you can tell from Anna's posts, we've got our hands and hearts and minds into all sorts of projects and problems - including the ongoing saga of fighting back nature and carving out a sustainable, enjoyable place to live. This struggle included the realization that the basement does in fact take on water - a realization made the evening I came back from a week long retreat in Malibu while Anna held the home (plus Wyatt's, Elise's and her own wellbeing) together by a thread that was bare across the whole length. But, we got that taken care of, and I have sensed realized that when you turn off the light for the basement you also turn off the sump pump. Anna: "Shouldn't we know all of this stuff by now?"

I've also recently taken the entire washing machine apart to see if I could correct a slight problem: the washing machine was just filling up with water and not doing anything. Hmm.

Well, I learned a lot about wachine machines ... and I also learned that it is far easier to take something apart than it is to be something back together. So it is that the washing machine now begins a spin cycle in harmony and peace but then quickly approaches seismic activity of a 4.0 earthquake.

Thank God God loves the foolish and mechanically challenged (well, I'm not sure about that last part).

Anyhow, Anna has also been coaching swim lessons in the afternoons for the last several weeks, which means we've been tag-teaming the parenting more. I spend a lot of my afternoons at Robe-Ann park here in Greencastle, holding Elise and watching Wyatt run wild over the castle of timber.

You would think it funny to see us make the exchange of kids at the school - like we're participating in some illegal exchange of nuclear warheads. Well, except it is not that secretive. But, trust me, it is dangerous. "Meltdowns" are very frequent, and I spend vast amounts of energy and many, many words trying to explain to Wyatt that mommy isn't actually going to be gone forever. This is how grey hairs are born.

Well, what else. Oh, yes: some potential good news ... well, maybe ... sorta. We have received an offer on our house in Owensboro. So, there is the chance - and I stress chance - that our house might actually sell.

I've told several people that I now understand the expression "getting out from under a house." I thought getting squashed by houses was just something that happened in Oz. Nope. It can even happen right here in America, even to me.

For the last five months, we've been paying a hefty amount to live in a home we don't even use in a part of the country we don't vacation in. And, as the weeks and months passed Anna and I had to move through all the stages of grief without actually having lost anything. If only that could have been as funny as it sounds!

Since there's no way we can keep paying to live in two exotic locations like Owensboro and Greencastle we began exploring every option. You should have seen the look on the banker's face when I asked him in complete seriousness what would be wrong with "foreclosure." I realized then that there are certain things you can say that immediately abolish any respect or dignity you might have.

So, anyhow, there's still the chance we'll have to go down the "foreclosure" road if this offer doesn't go through or if something falls through between now and closing (which there still is that chance). But, I will say this: I have learned a TON from this experience. I've learned how valuable it is to have people pray for you. I know that sounds trite, but - I'm telling you - as soon as I invited people to pray that our house would sell we got an offer. And , I've learned how good it is to pray when life seems heavy or crushing.

I've also learned what it is like to live with low-levels of ongoing stress that are somewhat beyond your control. I learned what you can do to eliminate some stress - to do what you can do. I've learned how I need to let go of the things I can't control. And, like so many Americans, I've been learning what its like to see a pleasent experience turn into a life-draining obligation: home-ownership. Or, to be even more exact: longing to get out of home-ownership.

If our house does sell, Anna and I will end up taking a significant hit, but at this point it is worth it. It is worth having the millstone cut away from our necks even if it takes a fair amount of our pride and money with it. Because more than anything it will mean that we can be fully planted where we want to be, which is right here.

Which brings me to the best news of all. There is growth! Our kids are growing and loving living out in th country. And I'm loving watching them grow out in the country. Wyatt just got a new bulldozzer and he's been using it to move small piles of dirt.

And Elise is now one year old. Wow: a year in her pocket with many, many more still before her ... and she is a delight. I'll try to post some new pictures - including some from her first birthday party. She got a new phone at that party, and I swear she is already texting.

Oh, and the other growth: we've got plants. I mean they've actually come up from the ground! I know that's what they are supposed to do, but you can never be sure with Anna and I - especially "I".

We've got some good rows of snap peas, spinach, edamame, and beans. And Anna said the corn just came up ... the self-pollinating corn.

We're also trying some hanging tomato plants this year, and despite one moment where I nearly destroyed a day's work in ten seconds (I tried to move a sturdy beam on the other beams positioned securely in the dirt. But, rather than moving the beam an inch, I moved it several inches, leaving all of the weight - including four 5-gallon buckets filled with dirt and the precious cargo of 5 infant tomato vines - in my outstretched hands - making me look like a wilting version of a Rodin scuplture. It was not long before I began yelling, "ANNA! ANNA!" And she came to my aid. My help-mate. The same help-mate who spoke peace to me after I became bound and determined to fix the washing machine even though it was beyond hope. As Paul Simon sings, "I was in a crazy motion 'til you calmed me down." She is so right for me.

[By the way, Anna really needs to comment on this as she was the one nursing Elise inside the house while watching me struggle to keep this beam aloft. She told me after we finally managed to set things right that she was wondering when I was going to call for help!]

So, yeah ... we've hit a few speed bumps. And there's still a chance that we will end up destitute and humbled on this land. But, we're living. And God is helping us along.

When I stop and look at the land and watch my kids taking delight in this place ... well, it is perfect in its own way. It is perfectly chaos because it is living and life, and that's somethng so right.

Wes

Massive Head Wound Harry

2009-05-26T12:13:00.001-05:00

Thanks to Drew and Josh for stopping by last night and pulling up some great memories (and great laughs) about the ineptitude of high school social studies teachers and Dana Carvey:

Lost - Season Finale

2009-05-14T13:51:00.004-05:00

Now that's what I'm talking about!

First of all, Anna was totally "on" last night - nailing the fact that it was John's body in the big cargo box right away.

Secondly, I just now saw the first scene. Wow!

Here's what struck me upon watching the opening scene again. Real simple: Jacob's shirt is white and the dude that eventually finds the "loophole" and kills Jacob is wearing a dark shirt.

Good and evil. The age-old drama.

And, in fact, the topic of their conversation is rather archaic and ongoing: whether to permit life, whether the "human experiment" is worth it.

As a ship appears on the sea, the two get into a debate about whether Jacob should let them come to the island ...

The man in the dark shirt: "You brought them here ... You're still trying to prove me wrong, aren't you?"
Jacob: "You are wrong."
The man in the dark shirt: "Am I? ... They come, fight. They destroy; they corrupt. It always ends the same."
Jacob: "It only ends once. Anything that happens before that ... is just progress.
[long pause]
Dark Shirt: "Do you have any idea how badly I want to kill you?"
Jacob: "Yes."
Dark Shirt: "One of these days, sooner or later, I am going to find a loophole my friend."
Jacob: "Well, when you do, I'll be right here."
Dark Shirt: "Always nice talking to you, Jacob."
Jacob: "Nice talking to you, too."

God and the devil deep in the battle ... is it worth creating human beings? Is it worth sustaining their life when they - over and over again - fight one another and destroy and fail to live in harmony.

So, how are they going to pull God out of the fire in the final season. Or, is God truly dead now - leaving the island solely in the hands of humanity ... or the devil? And what happens to the devil?

Wes