My Wild Church

My grandma always tells this story of the time I went out and picked strawberries. I brought them in, mud and all, washed them, removed stems, and put them in the fridge. All by myself. I was 6 years old. It is still my favorite fruit.

Dressed from head to toe for the wild blackberry patch, I will never forget holding my breath, on the edge of the field, as my grandma sprayed me down with bug repellent for the hunt. After a long cool shower with Dial soap, I would run up to my grandma's kitchen where she would have those berries all rinsed and ready to go swimming in a bowl of fresh whipping cream. It was magic.

My grandma taught me most of what I know about the land and it's ways.
I love to garden because of her.


I meet God in the garden; my wild church full of good fruit and a few unruly weeds - all jumping out of their pews, praise hands, guts and glory - alleluia.

Every day is Sunday here, and the congregation is full of all types; old, young, diseased, healthy, weak, strong, stubborn, lazy, and just ripe. All shapes and sizes fall in, represent. Tending, weeding, guiding, harvesting - a gentle communion - God coming to earth to do His work for us and in us.




I am drawn to the land. I think it's because it feels like He's been here, is still here; extending His hand to me and my family in the gift of fruit. Every visit a surprise. Color so alive you can taste it. I think it's because I feel close to grandma here; extending her motherly wisdom, taking care of me, so I can take care of my family.

We bought a home this spring with a yard big enough for a garden, but I chose to plant on my grandparents' land in the country instead. I didn't want to miss the chance for me, for my kids, to spend time with grandma and grandpa doing something so rich and life-giving. Tabby dog runs around the yard, happy to see us. Grandpa revs up a tractor or lawn mower to the delight of two little boys. Grandma drives around in her John Deere gator passing on her secrets, handing me a hoe, stopping to dig up some carrots for me or take baby Bella for a spin.



And I think it's important. I think it's vital that we step away from the rush of the American lifestyle and slow down, breathe a little, grow something outside of ourselves. I feel like I am suffocating sometimes as the to-do list creeps up to my neck. Someone always needs something, there is always something to be done. But in the garden we are on God's time, and I like that.

This year we are growing green beans, peas, brussels sprouts, broccoli, cabbage, kohlrabi, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, carrots, sweet corn, zucchini, spaghetti squash, and lettuces! We've also been able to harvest apples, peaches, blueberries, black raspberries and strawberries! Thank you, Lord, for the land, for grandma and grandpa, for the life you've given to the generations that gather around the garden for communion with You. Amen.



For more #tlfgarden15 adventures -- catch us on INSTAGRAM!!!

Pioneer Hippy and the American Diet

It's so easy, and down-right practical to open up a box of mac & cheese, pop a frozen pizza in the oven,
or program the microwave to deliver a Lean Cuisine in 3- 2- 1. Fast food, take-out, convenient,
processed, frozen - all with a generous sprinkling of GMOs, pesticides, added hormones,
antibiotics, preservatives, artificial dyes...

but hey, it gets dinner on the table faster than Samantha from Bewitched can wiggle her nose.
And you better believe it tastes good - down right addictive in some cases. All the while our
great-great grandparents are turning over in their graves. Not because they envy the diet of their
modern ancestors or anything.

We all know why canaries were sent into coal mines. When the bird, bright - beautiful - easy to see,
a small sacrifice to be made, was exposed to harmful toxins, the signs of distress or sudden death
were the warning: miners evacuate now.

Perhaps the average American is more yellow than he would like to believe.

I know this sounds a tad conspiracy theory-ish, but I think it is pretty darn near the truth.
With all the "change" in the air of the American food system, I'd rather not be a guinea pig.

Or a canary.

Recently I was sitting in a doctor's office. Not some hippy homeopath's office either. A main-stream,
functional medicine doctor that seriously butts heads with my nutritionist in real life.
My point: this doctor isn't some crunchy radical with an agenda.
He's the kind of doctor who says, "There's a pill for that!"

But he looked at me and said:
"Listen. Take your family as far away from the American diet as possible. I don't understand it entirely,
but it is breaking down the body, resulting in great disease and death for so many. Run, you fools!"

Ok, he really didn't say "run, you fools" - I imagined that part. But you better believe the Frodo Baggins
in me paused for a moment to reflect on such words coming from a doctor of functional medicine -
and then started running like hell... because Gandalf is always right, people!

I am in no way, shape, or form claiming that me and my family have the "perfect" diet - or saying
that we don't pour a bowl of processed, gluten-free cheerios every once in awhile. We've come SO far.
Like, "make our own potato chips" far. I never set out to be a "granola" or a "hippy", but I've been
called all sorts of "crunchy" things in the past couple of years and I'm beginning to identify with it all.

Pioneers are my heroes. I think it's rough making applesauce from scratch and distilling my own water,
but at least I have a washing machine and dryer! Oh goodness, and a T.V. to watch while I'm folding
my laundry! And central air. I always say I was born in the wrong time period, until it turns
95 degrees. I then fall to my knees, "Thank you, Lord, you know best!"

Gardening, harvesting, grocery shopping every 5-6 days to keep my fridge stocked with LIVING foods,
distilling and re-mineralizing our water, chopping, cutting, preparing,
preserving food from scratch day-in and day-out...

is time consuming. Or does it PRODUCE time for me to stop, breathe, work, eat
with those I love most? Giving me time to do what matters most in my heart?

I have a day planner too. It's usually full to the brim. I go to bed way too late - complaining that there
are not enough hours in the day. I can run with the best of Americans - do, do, doing all the things -
living the dream.

Why do we do it? To keep up with bloody Joneses?! (I've been watching a little too much BBC. Ha.)

There is something terribly sacred, healing, empowering - to slow down and "prepare" the food
that brings life to you and your family. I'd argue that a certain demon from the underworld is the
master planner behind the fast-paced American lifestyle that keeps us so busy, so stressed, so anxious
about the next thing that we can't BE, LIVE, THRIVE in the beauty of the moment given.
I can't prove that. Obviously. So forget I said that!? Or don't.

I have felt my own heart open, expand - even embrace that distiller, canner, crock-pot, juicer...
because they are some of the tools that allow me to bring LIFE to my own body - and the bodies that
have been entrusted to me. The work becomes a prayer, a meditation - rhythmically moving the blade of
my knife - up and down, up and down - as piles of fresh food spill forth onto our counter,
and into our bellies.

Nourishing. Knowing that so many of the foods we are eating now (as we run from the American diet)
have passed through the devoted hands of farmers - meat, eggs, produce that have soaked up the sweat
and tears of people who truly care about the land, the animals (I'm talking sustainable farming, folks) -
and now pass through our hands as we prepare feast after feast in this counter-cultural way of LIFE...

that brings death to the go-go-go mentality - the one that rarely produces MORE time, but snuffs out
all the seconds, minutes, hours of the day - making time to stop, to pray, to reflect, to confess, to prepare,
to rest, to recharge, to engage... a thing of generations past.

I don't want to be a canary. Don't go rolling over in your grave, grandma; I've got this.
I'll just be a pioneer hippy.