We wake up to a dusting of snow:
Blades of grass, bent;
Curled brown leaves, filled like pie crusts;
The smell of newness;
The sound of nothingness.
Flurries dance in the road,
Swirl in invisible currents,
Glow in the diffuse streams of light
That have breached the clouds
Like fingers of ghosts.
The ridges of the mountains
Are draped in lace;
Naked branches intertwine
Over white ground.
It is beautiful here.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Out of the Huts of History's Shame... We rise.
I have never been more proud to be an American.
The election of Barack Obama to the presidency of the United States of America is more than just a referendum on failed policies. It is more than an affirmation of the Democratic platform.
To me, and to so many others, this election embodies redemption. In 1776, our founding fathers proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…” Still, for a century after Thomas Jefferson penned those words, slavery stained our nation’s history, and racism has continued to be a poisonous undercurrent in our culture. I woke up this morning believing that our country is a little closer to the ideal of equality upon which it was established.
I have always taken my right to vote seriously, knowing that so many people in the world never get a say in who will run their country and construct the policies that will determine their lives. But voting yesterday was a completely unique experience for me. First of all, I waited in line, something I’ve never had to do at a polling station. I’ve never been so happy to stand in the cold. It was a joy to watch democracy at work. Secondly, I noticed that I was the oldest person in that line—no more can the current generation of young people be labeled politically apathetic. I started weeping in the voting booth yesterday, as I looked at the ballot and saw a black man as a presidential candidate and a woman as a vice presidential candidate. This truly is the land of opportunity, not just for white, land-owning men, but for a working mother and a man of mixed race, raised by a single mother and grandparents, married to a woman who descended from slaves. I feel so blessed to live in this country.
I’ve worried that the only historical event my grandchildren will ask me about is September 11, one of the darkest days our nation has ever endured. I am so glad that I’ll be able to tell them that I had a hand in one of the brightest moments in American history—electing the first black president.
I know that the road ahead isn’t going to be easy for Barack Obama. The fact that he is the first black president won’t help him salvage the economy, manage two wars, or restore a failed healthcare system. It won’t help him heal the divisions in congress—or in our nation. Only time will tell whether or not he’ll be a good president. But right now, I am choosing to set my fears for the future aside. Today, I am celebrating redemption, hope, and waking up in a country that is better today than it was yesterday.
I heard Maya Angelou (my old neighbor!) read this excerpt from her poem “Still I Rise” on the news this morning. I would like to conclude this post with her beautiful words, which capture the sentiment of this day so well..
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
The election of Barack Obama to the presidency of the United States of America is more than just a referendum on failed policies. It is more than an affirmation of the Democratic platform.
To me, and to so many others, this election embodies redemption. In 1776, our founding fathers proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…” Still, for a century after Thomas Jefferson penned those words, slavery stained our nation’s history, and racism has continued to be a poisonous undercurrent in our culture. I woke up this morning believing that our country is a little closer to the ideal of equality upon which it was established.
I have always taken my right to vote seriously, knowing that so many people in the world never get a say in who will run their country and construct the policies that will determine their lives. But voting yesterday was a completely unique experience for me. First of all, I waited in line, something I’ve never had to do at a polling station. I’ve never been so happy to stand in the cold. It was a joy to watch democracy at work. Secondly, I noticed that I was the oldest person in that line—no more can the current generation of young people be labeled politically apathetic. I started weeping in the voting booth yesterday, as I looked at the ballot and saw a black man as a presidential candidate and a woman as a vice presidential candidate. This truly is the land of opportunity, not just for white, land-owning men, but for a working mother and a man of mixed race, raised by a single mother and grandparents, married to a woman who descended from slaves. I feel so blessed to live in this country.
I’ve worried that the only historical event my grandchildren will ask me about is September 11, one of the darkest days our nation has ever endured. I am so glad that I’ll be able to tell them that I had a hand in one of the brightest moments in American history—electing the first black president.
I know that the road ahead isn’t going to be easy for Barack Obama. The fact that he is the first black president won’t help him salvage the economy, manage two wars, or restore a failed healthcare system. It won’t help him heal the divisions in congress—or in our nation. Only time will tell whether or not he’ll be a good president. But right now, I am choosing to set my fears for the future aside. Today, I am celebrating redemption, hope, and waking up in a country that is better today than it was yesterday.
I heard Maya Angelou (my old neighbor!) read this excerpt from her poem “Still I Rise” on the news this morning. I would like to conclude this post with her beautiful words, which capture the sentiment of this day so well..
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Friday, October 17, 2008
An Election Reflection
I hate Sarah Palin. Barack Obama is a terrorist. Conservatives are idiots. Liberals are out to destroy the moral fabric of our nation. If McCain wins, I’m moving to Canada. Kill [Barack]! Off with his head!
Those are just a few of the statements I’ve culled from the conversations I’ve had, the newspaper articles I’ve read, and the rally clips I've watched over the past few weeks. I’m ashamed to admit, one or two of those phrases have flashed in my brain—maybe even escaped my lips. I spent the last couple of days working on a blog about what being “pro-life” means to me, a democrat; but I’ve put that piece on the backburner because I have something much more important to say to my friends and family (on both sides of the fence) who identify as Christians and Americans.
Have we lost our heads, or perhaps worse, our hearts? Have we forgotten that 1 John 3:14-15 says, “Whoever does not love abides in death. All who hate a brother or sister are murderers.”? What about Galatians 5:14, which tells us the entire law is summed up in this command: “Love your neighbor as yourself”? In Luke 6, Jesus says “Love your enemies,” and shortly thereafter, “Do not judge… do not condemn.” Aren’t people supposed to know we are Christians by our love?
By the manner in which Christians, including myself, have acted during this election season, you’d think we were living according to an all-together different gospel—one that promotes hatred, division, judgment, condemnation, bigotry, intolerance, and self-promotion. This election has brought out the worst in us.
I urge you, my brothers and sisters, to take a step back, to pray, and to seek a little bit of perspective. I’m not saying that this election isn’t one of the most important elections in our nation’s history. It is. I firmly believe that the man elected president will impact my personal finances, my ability to get health insurance as a self-employed writer, my country’s standing in the world, the education my little brother will receive, the government grants available to my PhD-seeking husband, the state of the environment with which my children and grandchildren will have to cope, and the lives of the homeless people, battered women, and illegal immigrants I’ve been blessed to know. While it may not feel this way three weeks before the election, there is more to life than politics—so we shouldn’t let it destroy our relationships, our witness, and our commitment to loving everyone we meet.
In three weeks, we’ll know who our next president will be. Whether it’s John McCain or Barack Obama, the sky isn’t going to fall. The hype, the mudslinging, the incessant news coverage will be over. Our country will proceed in one direction or another, and life will go on. The question is, how will you go on? Will you be left with a heart of bitterness and hatred if your candidate loses? Or a heart of haughtiness and pride if your candidate wins? Or, no matter what the results, will you be filled and overflowing with the abundant love of Jesus?
Those are just a few of the statements I’ve culled from the conversations I’ve had, the newspaper articles I’ve read, and the rally clips I've watched over the past few weeks. I’m ashamed to admit, one or two of those phrases have flashed in my brain—maybe even escaped my lips. I spent the last couple of days working on a blog about what being “pro-life” means to me, a democrat; but I’ve put that piece on the backburner because I have something much more important to say to my friends and family (on both sides of the fence) who identify as Christians and Americans.
Have we lost our heads, or perhaps worse, our hearts? Have we forgotten that 1 John 3:14-15 says, “Whoever does not love abides in death. All who hate a brother or sister are murderers.”? What about Galatians 5:14, which tells us the entire law is summed up in this command: “Love your neighbor as yourself”? In Luke 6, Jesus says “Love your enemies,” and shortly thereafter, “Do not judge… do not condemn.” Aren’t people supposed to know we are Christians by our love?
By the manner in which Christians, including myself, have acted during this election season, you’d think we were living according to an all-together different gospel—one that promotes hatred, division, judgment, condemnation, bigotry, intolerance, and self-promotion. This election has brought out the worst in us.
I urge you, my brothers and sisters, to take a step back, to pray, and to seek a little bit of perspective. I’m not saying that this election isn’t one of the most important elections in our nation’s history. It is. I firmly believe that the man elected president will impact my personal finances, my ability to get health insurance as a self-employed writer, my country’s standing in the world, the education my little brother will receive, the government grants available to my PhD-seeking husband, the state of the environment with which my children and grandchildren will have to cope, and the lives of the homeless people, battered women, and illegal immigrants I’ve been blessed to know. While it may not feel this way three weeks before the election, there is more to life than politics—so we shouldn’t let it destroy our relationships, our witness, and our commitment to loving everyone we meet.
In three weeks, we’ll know who our next president will be. Whether it’s John McCain or Barack Obama, the sky isn’t going to fall. The hype, the mudslinging, the incessant news coverage will be over. Our country will proceed in one direction or another, and life will go on. The question is, how will you go on? Will you be left with a heart of bitterness and hatred if your candidate loses? Or a heart of haughtiness and pride if your candidate wins? Or, no matter what the results, will you be filled and overflowing with the abundant love of Jesus?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Mennoniteness
There’s not a whole lot to do in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, so my parents didn’t have much trouble convincing us that visiting a “Mennonite Village” would be nearly as fun as going to Disney and at least twice as exotic. I was about ten years old at the time, on a family vacation to the town where my mother grew up and my grandmother still lived, and I can remember driving through the farm-blanketed foothills of Appalachia on the way to the village.
I’m sure my brother, sister, and I were starting to get bored as we drove past the simple houses, standard barns, and unremarkable fields of the Mennonite community. Then we saw it—a massive and glistening mound of knotted purple tubes and indistinguishable red masses—beneath a gallows-like structure.
“What is that?” we all cried, as my dad slowed the car.
“Lord have mercy.” My grandmother threw out her signature phrase. “They’s innards.”
That’s when my dad pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and we all ran up the hill. Horrified and fascinated, we poke the organs of that recently-deceased cow with sticks.
Other highlights of the trip included browsing the general store, while barefoot women in long skirts and bonnets stared disapprovingly at my blue jeans; getting bitten by a horse; and eating a hamburger—probably made from the same poor cow whose vitals we had desecrated—at the local restaurant.
Until May, that was my only exposure to Mennonites, so you can imagine what I imagined when Brandn’s professor invited us to attend University Mennonite Church upon our arrival in State College. I didn’t know what to expect, and I definitely didn’t know what to wear. That first Sunday, I noted the absence of buggies outside of the church (a good sign) and was relieved to find that the Mennonites within looked relatively normal (fortunately, I’d left my bonnet at home).
That said, our reception was anything but typical. Rather than acknowledging us with the customary polite nod, the people in the surrounding pews turned and asked about our lives, jobs, and interests. The service included an exquisite poem, read by its author during the offertory; a time of sharing joys and concerns in which the congregation enthusiastically participated; and beautiful hymns, all of which Brandn sang (he refuses to sing hymns that contravene his theology). At the conclusion of the service, we were swarmed by at least half of the congregation, several of whom invited us home for lunch. We then followed everyone to the basement, where everyone was drinking coffee out of mugs (not styrofoam cups!) and one woman had set up a mini market with vegetables from her farm.
I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to attend a church service like this. In the past, Brandn and I have shared the same struggle that many of our friends have faced. We desire to be in a church community that includes people our age, but we’ve found our generation increasingly divided between those who profess no faith at all and those who have embraced a black-and-white, fundamentalist theology that we just don’t buy into. And there’s the problem of “meat markets”—Sunday schools for twenty-somethings where you’re more likely to be sized up as a potential mate than challenged to live out your faith or work through your doubts or examine the scriptures. It’s often S.O.L. for those of us looking for a community where we can reconcile our faith with our intellects, where taking a “historical-critical” view of the scriptures isn’t a heresy, and where theology and beer are compliments, not mutually exclusive.
Brandn and I feel very blessed to have found University Mennonite Church, which has a thriving college and grad student group. We feel genuinely welcome there and that the same hospitality is extended to everyone who comes in its doors. We agree with its commitment to service and social justice. We believe it is a place where we’ll have freedom to develop our theology and discuss our doubts. And most importantly, we think its pastor and members are truly devoted following Jesus and living out the implications of that commitment.
My understanding of Mennonites has obviously expanded in the past few months, and I’d like to share a bit of what I’ve learned for those of you who are curious about the denomination…
- The Mennonite Church sprang out of the Anabaptist movement, which rejected infant baptism and called for the separation of church and state during the protestant reformation. It was named after Meno Simon, a catholic priest who, after his brother was martyred, adopted the beliefs non-violent Anabaptists and helped to consolidate the movement.
- It is one of the historic peace churches, and it continues to embrace nonviolence, reconciliation, and pacifism.
- There are many different stripes of Mennonites, ranging from conservative congregations who live much like the Amish to more progressive congregations, like ours.
- Personal piety (living out one’s faith) is extremely important to Mennonites. This often means responding to Jesus’ call to serve the poor, widows, and orphans very literally. Most of the people in my church have spent a year to seventeen years serving the world’s poor through practical efforts such as disaster relief or agricultural development, often in Asia or Africa. Nearly everyone is involved in some kind of community service in State College.
- There are ethnic Mennonites, whose ancestors fled to America because of persecution, and there are people like us, who are from a different religious background. Mennonites have a very distinct culture—which includes amazing food. I have enjoyed delicious lentils (yes, they can be delicious!), honey-baked in the Mennonite style. One of the Mennonite cookbooks I flipped through had instructions for feeding everyone at a barn raising, which included a recipe for 200 lemon pies. I’ve also noticed that, at our church at least, Mennonites have a passion for four-part singing. On our church retreat this past weekend, we brought hymnals on the nighttime horse-drawn wagon ride. Bouncing to and fro with flashlights in hand, we sent glorious four-part harmonies into the forest, surely terrifying the owls above us.
Our church retreat concluded this Sunday with a beautiful service. Pastor Dave preached on overcoming our desires to isolate, to exclude, and to see our enemies fail. He encouraged us to reach out and include others, even our enemies. He transformed the image in Psalm 23—“He prepareth a table before me in the presence of my enemies”—into a poignant image, a table where Jesus enables us to sit with our enemies. During the sharing of joys and sorrows, a man with a cleft palate pointed to the severely autistic child on his lap (the son of another church member) and praised God for his enthusiasm during worship. When the time came for communion, a bowl of grapes was set out for the children and for those unready to partake in the sacrament. No one returned from the communion table empty handed.
Feel free to post your church-seeking experiences as a response. I’d love to hear them.
I’m sure my brother, sister, and I were starting to get bored as we drove past the simple houses, standard barns, and unremarkable fields of the Mennonite community. Then we saw it—a massive and glistening mound of knotted purple tubes and indistinguishable red masses—beneath a gallows-like structure.
“What is that?” we all cried, as my dad slowed the car.
“Lord have mercy.” My grandmother threw out her signature phrase. “They’s innards.”
That’s when my dad pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and we all ran up the hill. Horrified and fascinated, we poke the organs of that recently-deceased cow with sticks.
Other highlights of the trip included browsing the general store, while barefoot women in long skirts and bonnets stared disapprovingly at my blue jeans; getting bitten by a horse; and eating a hamburger—probably made from the same poor cow whose vitals we had desecrated—at the local restaurant.
Until May, that was my only exposure to Mennonites, so you can imagine what I imagined when Brandn’s professor invited us to attend University Mennonite Church upon our arrival in State College. I didn’t know what to expect, and I definitely didn’t know what to wear. That first Sunday, I noted the absence of buggies outside of the church (a good sign) and was relieved to find that the Mennonites within looked relatively normal (fortunately, I’d left my bonnet at home).
That said, our reception was anything but typical. Rather than acknowledging us with the customary polite nod, the people in the surrounding pews turned and asked about our lives, jobs, and interests. The service included an exquisite poem, read by its author during the offertory; a time of sharing joys and concerns in which the congregation enthusiastically participated; and beautiful hymns, all of which Brandn sang (he refuses to sing hymns that contravene his theology). At the conclusion of the service, we were swarmed by at least half of the congregation, several of whom invited us home for lunch. We then followed everyone to the basement, where everyone was drinking coffee out of mugs (not styrofoam cups!) and one woman had set up a mini market with vegetables from her farm.
I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to attend a church service like this. In the past, Brandn and I have shared the same struggle that many of our friends have faced. We desire to be in a church community that includes people our age, but we’ve found our generation increasingly divided between those who profess no faith at all and those who have embraced a black-and-white, fundamentalist theology that we just don’t buy into. And there’s the problem of “meat markets”—Sunday schools for twenty-somethings where you’re more likely to be sized up as a potential mate than challenged to live out your faith or work through your doubts or examine the scriptures. It’s often S.O.L. for those of us looking for a community where we can reconcile our faith with our intellects, where taking a “historical-critical” view of the scriptures isn’t a heresy, and where theology and beer are compliments, not mutually exclusive.
Brandn and I feel very blessed to have found University Mennonite Church, which has a thriving college and grad student group. We feel genuinely welcome there and that the same hospitality is extended to everyone who comes in its doors. We agree with its commitment to service and social justice. We believe it is a place where we’ll have freedom to develop our theology and discuss our doubts. And most importantly, we think its pastor and members are truly devoted following Jesus and living out the implications of that commitment.
My understanding of Mennonites has obviously expanded in the past few months, and I’d like to share a bit of what I’ve learned for those of you who are curious about the denomination…
- The Mennonite Church sprang out of the Anabaptist movement, which rejected infant baptism and called for the separation of church and state during the protestant reformation. It was named after Meno Simon, a catholic priest who, after his brother was martyred, adopted the beliefs non-violent Anabaptists and helped to consolidate the movement.
- It is one of the historic peace churches, and it continues to embrace nonviolence, reconciliation, and pacifism.
- There are many different stripes of Mennonites, ranging from conservative congregations who live much like the Amish to more progressive congregations, like ours.
- Personal piety (living out one’s faith) is extremely important to Mennonites. This often means responding to Jesus’ call to serve the poor, widows, and orphans very literally. Most of the people in my church have spent a year to seventeen years serving the world’s poor through practical efforts such as disaster relief or agricultural development, often in Asia or Africa. Nearly everyone is involved in some kind of community service in State College.
- There are ethnic Mennonites, whose ancestors fled to America because of persecution, and there are people like us, who are from a different religious background. Mennonites have a very distinct culture—which includes amazing food. I have enjoyed delicious lentils (yes, they can be delicious!), honey-baked in the Mennonite style. One of the Mennonite cookbooks I flipped through had instructions for feeding everyone at a barn raising, which included a recipe for 200 lemon pies. I’ve also noticed that, at our church at least, Mennonites have a passion for four-part singing. On our church retreat this past weekend, we brought hymnals on the nighttime horse-drawn wagon ride. Bouncing to and fro with flashlights in hand, we sent glorious four-part harmonies into the forest, surely terrifying the owls above us.
Our church retreat concluded this Sunday with a beautiful service. Pastor Dave preached on overcoming our desires to isolate, to exclude, and to see our enemies fail. He encouraged us to reach out and include others, even our enemies. He transformed the image in Psalm 23—“He prepareth a table before me in the presence of my enemies”—into a poignant image, a table where Jesus enables us to sit with our enemies. During the sharing of joys and sorrows, a man with a cleft palate pointed to the severely autistic child on his lap (the son of another church member) and praised God for his enthusiasm during worship. When the time came for communion, a bowl of grapes was set out for the children and for those unready to partake in the sacrament. No one returned from the communion table empty handed.
Feel free to post your church-seeking experiences as a response. I’d love to hear them.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Amish Tomatoes
Cattywampus. For those of you who weren’t raised on fried green tomatoes and syrupy sweet tea, that word means off-center, askew, lopsided. It’s how I thought I’d feel after moving with my darling Yankee husband to his home town, State College, Pennsylvania.
On previous visits, I’d gotten over the stereotypes that we southerners tend to hold about our northern neighbors. No, they don’t scowl and flash a middle finger when you ask for directions. Believe it or not, they can cook a heck of a dinner (their love for steak and potatoes might just rival the southern passion fried chicken and biscuits—both in ardor and in calories). As shocking as it may be, there are churches here, and people actually go to them. Still, on the brink of our move, I couldn’t help but envision myself getting trapped in a blizzard, mowing down the horse-drawn buggy of an Amishman as I crested a hill in our ’92 Ford Escort station wagon, and choking down unsweetened (God forbid) ice tea. Would I ever be able to feel at home north of the Mason-Dixon?
Yes. A resounding yes. I love it here, despite the glaring absence of “y’all” in the local dialect (they say “yins folk” instead). One of the neat things about moving to a new place is getting to give your identity a makeover. You get to start with a blank slate—choosing how to live, what to get involved in, and how to interact with the people around you. Old habits (the bad kind) die easily. New resolutions (the kind that usually don’t last past late January) fall into place effortlessly.
I thought a lot about this during the 28 days I spent hiking the John Muir Trail this summer, and what I decided was that I needed to live life more conscientiously, deliberately, and consistently. The things I say I value—like loving people and caring for creation—need to actually be reflected in the way I spend my money and time and talents. State College has been a wonderful place to make my ideals my existence.
One area of my life that I’ve given a major overhaul is my relationship to food. After reading Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” this summer, I realized I’d become dependent upon a seriously dysfunctional food culture—one that values variety over seasonality, transportability over taste, accessibility over the environment, and economy over decent treatment of both farmers and animals. Sure, that system has benefits, such as being able to buy tomatoes in January—no matter that they are mealy and flavorless and have left a trail of CO2 from south of the equator to my grocery store. The same system provides me exotic items (which, let’s be honest, have never seemed exotic), such as coffee and bananas—no matter that the plantation workers who picked those items can’t afford to feed their families or that my local farmer can hardly afford to feed his.
All of this is to say, for the past month, I’ve survived by raiding compost piles and gnawing on my Birkenstock straps. Just kidding (though I know that’s what a few of you were thinking). In reality, I’ve simply tried to be more conscious and intentional about the food choices I’m making. Since Brandn and I got married, we’ve planned all of our meals for the week and taken just one trip to the store to avoid monetary and food waste. Now, I go to the local dairy and then the farmer’s market and cross as much as possible off my list before heading to the grocery store. And though it’s tempting to drive to Wegmans, a gourmet behemoth with aisle and aisles of ethnic and organic products, we’ve opted to shop at Weis Market, which is just around the corner from our house. Not only does this Pennsylvania-based chain offer a variety of produce grown by local farmers, it manufactures its Weis brand foods just 80 miles away. For these benefits I’m willing to overlook the strange marketing choices it has made for its brand name products. Who cares that our pretzels say “unique tasting” (it’s true!) or that I eat “Nutty Nuggets” (the generic version of Grapenuts) every morning? And I think it’s positively glorious that our friend Martha, on a visit to State College, said with consternation, “We is Market? That’s not correct.” Now I can stroll around the store, putting “We is fresh from the field” products into my basket.
Our new food ethic has also led to a couple of major projects. The end of August marked the peak of tomato season, when all of the farmers were practically begging you to take the sweet, red orbs off their hands. We bought 30 pounds of Romas for just $10 at the Amish farmers market down the street. With these juicy delights, Martha and I made a terrifying quantity of tomato sauce, which we canned in 17 half-pint jars and sealed in a pressure cooker. The same week, Brandn and I picked 85 ears of corn, which we blanched, stripped, and froze. This is our very small contribution to eating locally during the winter. I’m hoping to add apple sauce (made from local apples, of course) to our stockpile in a few weeks.
All there is to say about my time in State College is, so far, so good. Of course I haven’t experienced one of Happy Valley’s infamous winters yet. I’ll keep y’all posted.
On previous visits, I’d gotten over the stereotypes that we southerners tend to hold about our northern neighbors. No, they don’t scowl and flash a middle finger when you ask for directions. Believe it or not, they can cook a heck of a dinner (their love for steak and potatoes might just rival the southern passion fried chicken and biscuits—both in ardor and in calories). As shocking as it may be, there are churches here, and people actually go to them. Still, on the brink of our move, I couldn’t help but envision myself getting trapped in a blizzard, mowing down the horse-drawn buggy of an Amishman as I crested a hill in our ’92 Ford Escort station wagon, and choking down unsweetened (God forbid) ice tea. Would I ever be able to feel at home north of the Mason-Dixon?
Yes. A resounding yes. I love it here, despite the glaring absence of “y’all” in the local dialect (they say “yins folk” instead). One of the neat things about moving to a new place is getting to give your identity a makeover. You get to start with a blank slate—choosing how to live, what to get involved in, and how to interact with the people around you. Old habits (the bad kind) die easily. New resolutions (the kind that usually don’t last past late January) fall into place effortlessly.
I thought a lot about this during the 28 days I spent hiking the John Muir Trail this summer, and what I decided was that I needed to live life more conscientiously, deliberately, and consistently. The things I say I value—like loving people and caring for creation—need to actually be reflected in the way I spend my money and time and talents. State College has been a wonderful place to make my ideals my existence.
One area of my life that I’ve given a major overhaul is my relationship to food. After reading Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” this summer, I realized I’d become dependent upon a seriously dysfunctional food culture—one that values variety over seasonality, transportability over taste, accessibility over the environment, and economy over decent treatment of both farmers and animals. Sure, that system has benefits, such as being able to buy tomatoes in January—no matter that they are mealy and flavorless and have left a trail of CO2 from south of the equator to my grocery store. The same system provides me exotic items (which, let’s be honest, have never seemed exotic), such as coffee and bananas—no matter that the plantation workers who picked those items can’t afford to feed their families or that my local farmer can hardly afford to feed his.
All of this is to say, for the past month, I’ve survived by raiding compost piles and gnawing on my Birkenstock straps. Just kidding (though I know that’s what a few of you were thinking). In reality, I’ve simply tried to be more conscious and intentional about the food choices I’m making. Since Brandn and I got married, we’ve planned all of our meals for the week and taken just one trip to the store to avoid monetary and food waste. Now, I go to the local dairy and then the farmer’s market and cross as much as possible off my list before heading to the grocery store. And though it’s tempting to drive to Wegmans, a gourmet behemoth with aisle and aisles of ethnic and organic products, we’ve opted to shop at Weis Market, which is just around the corner from our house. Not only does this Pennsylvania-based chain offer a variety of produce grown by local farmers, it manufactures its Weis brand foods just 80 miles away. For these benefits I’m willing to overlook the strange marketing choices it has made for its brand name products. Who cares that our pretzels say “unique tasting” (it’s true!) or that I eat “Nutty Nuggets” (the generic version of Grapenuts) every morning? And I think it’s positively glorious that our friend Martha, on a visit to State College, said with consternation, “We is Market? That’s not correct.” Now I can stroll around the store, putting “We is fresh from the field” products into my basket.
Our new food ethic has also led to a couple of major projects. The end of August marked the peak of tomato season, when all of the farmers were practically begging you to take the sweet, red orbs off their hands. We bought 30 pounds of Romas for just $10 at the Amish farmers market down the street. With these juicy delights, Martha and I made a terrifying quantity of tomato sauce, which we canned in 17 half-pint jars and sealed in a pressure cooker. The same week, Brandn and I picked 85 ears of corn, which we blanched, stripped, and froze. This is our very small contribution to eating locally during the winter. I’m hoping to add apple sauce (made from local apples, of course) to our stockpile in a few weeks.
All there is to say about my time in State College is, so far, so good. Of course I haven’t experienced one of Happy Valley’s infamous winters yet. I’ll keep y’all posted.
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