Month: August 2022

rest, beauty, and gratitude

/ Rachel Fenton / 6 Comments

It’s been an interesting week. We had a health scare with my aunt and she spent a few nights in the hospital, but she is now home and feeling better. A part of the well broke at the Grand House and flooded their backyard, so my grandparents were without running water for a day while my dad and the plumber fixed it. And then I tested positive for COVID this weekend after starting to feel ill Friday night (so long, 2.5 year streak). But aside from those setbacks, all seems to be well. Illness is forcing me to move slowly and rest, whether I want to or not. Routine and normalcy are settling back into our lives.

I’ve been gathering photos of little things I find beautiful in the day-to-day, like a child collecting shells at the seaside. I consider it an exercise in gratitude. So this post will be quite photo-full as I share with you the ways I’ve been resting and the ways I’ve found beauty and gratitude in the midst of it all.

Despite blistering temperatures, our garden is persevering. The carpenter bees love our blue potato bush and I watch them nosedive into the blossoms every time Michael and I water.

Michael is sprouting his second tooth and is exploring the world around him more and more (and turning my hair grey in the process). But he’s so dang cute, I don’t even mind. He’s excited to have his best friend grandpa back in his daily life.

Earlier this week before I got sick, we were able to attend the last local farmers market of the season and stock up on some of our favorites. Highlights included a delicious and vibrant beet hummus with homemade pita chips and a bottle of pomegranate mead.

We also had a lovely date night for the first time in a long time. My parents watched Michael while Jake and I went to our favorite restaurant. I love the depiction of the Annunciation in their outdoor seating area.

Given the way our summer has gone, I’ve had to surrender my former hopes for our house timeline and reset my expectations. We are all exhausted, fighting illness and grief, and moving slowly with very little time and few resources. I thought we would be moving furniture and finished with essential projects by the end of August. Now, we’re aiming for the end of autumn.

But there’s a blessing in this: autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the coziness it brings, and the spices and soups, and the hand-knits worn against the morning chill. We’ll be able to start our life in Caedmon’s Cottage doing some of our favorite things: baking, preserving, knitting, and preparing for winter.

In the meantime, we have a tentative date for electricity (more on that in a later post!) and we’ve been working on completing the front steps. Jake has every Friday off work through September, giving him a full day to work on the essential house projects.

We’ve still got a long list of all the things standing between us and moving in, but we have learned so much patience and flexibility throughout this entire process. And there’s a great sense of satisfaction when we complete a job.

And finally, I’ve found immense comfort in this icon of Saint Patrick’s Breastplate.

It’s from Mull Monastery in Scotland, and it hangs by my nightstand. I see it before I go to bed, and when I rise from sleep. It reminds me of the Lord’s encircling presence as I go throughout my day.

So this week, I encourage you to take a photo of something that helps you remember to rest, or something you find beautiful, or that reminds you to be grateful. Share it with someone you love. It might be an unexpected blessing — for you and for them.

christmas knits (in august)

/ Rachel Fenton / 6 Comments

There are three types of people who start preparing for Christmas in August: department store managers, musicians, and knitters. I’m two of the three, and so I’ve been working on some of my handmade gifts while humming Christmas carols.

I love giving gifts, and I love making gifts even more. There’s something sacred about crafting an item with your hands — pouring tangible time and energy and thought into it — and gifting it to another person.

For Michael’s first Christmas, I’m knitting him the Hobbit Vest (with pocketses) designed by Frogginette Knitting. I chose a wool that reminds me of Hobbiton: forest green heather with hints of yellow and blue. It’s hard to capture on camera, so I added photos of it in different light so you can get a general idea. I’m knitting the 18 month size (since he’s already wearing 12 month clothing).

Hobbit vest (with pocketses) in progress

I just have the button band and arm ribbing left. Unfortunately they take a lot of time and focus, and I’m in short supply of both. I’m hoping to finish it on an afternoon where I have childcare and silence.

My sister has entered her self-proclaimed “cottagecore” era, and I fully support her newfound love of tea and florals. I’m making her a pair of lacy lilac fingerless gloves to keep her hands warm while she writes all her philosophy and theology papers.

This is the Rowan Lace fingerless gloves pattern by Fox & Folk. I’m still a novice knitter in a lot of ways, and found this lace chart easy to read and enjoyable to make. I’m excited to see how the lace blooms after blocking.

Finally, I was inspired by Lindsay of A Wooden Nest to make some more generic handmade gifts for other loved ones in my life. I’m knitting up her dish scrubbies pattern — they’re simple and ever so practical, and I like using them in place of sponges. I’ve been making sets of three: garter stitch, basket weave stitch, and seed stitch. I can knock out two or three in half an hour. I love these because they give my brain a break, but keep my fingers busy.

I have grand ideas for other knitted gifts, but I’m unsure if I’ll be able to complete them by Christmas since my knitting time is limited to a couple hours in the evening once Michael goes to bed. For now, these are my current works-in-progress: we shall see how many more I can make before December. So many projects, so little time!

in this fateful hour

/ Rachel Fenton / 5 Comments

Growing up, one of my favorite books was A Swiftly Tilting Planet, by Madeline L’Engle. I read it over and over, and I still return to it in times of turmoil. It is a powerful fictional example of spiritual warfare and the triumph of good over evil.

One of the things that it taught me was the power of prayer against demonic forces. In the book, the main character Charles Wallace is given a rune to battle the evil forces that try to stop him from saving the world.

In this fateful hour
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness:
All these I place,
By God’s almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.

St Patrick’s Rune

L’Engle borrowed this rune from Saint Patrick. I memorized it because I was a nerdy middle school student, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. This rune and Saint Patrick’s Breastplate continue to be prayers I cling to when overwhelmed by darkness or chaos or grief.

This past Thursday we buried my uncle. It was one of the hardest days of my life, with the funeral, burial, reception, and the different difficulties that came with all of them. Grief and suffering do ugly things to us, if we let them. They are so easily twisted into despair, tools for the demons, and barbs against those around us instead of steps towards our sanctification.

On Friday, Jake and I carved out a beautiful day in the middle of all the pain and heaviness of grief. We went to our tiny local zoo — Michael’s first time at a zoo. Watching his delight at the animals and wandering around the quiet exhibits brought such a sense of peace to us.

When Michael fell asleep in his stroller, Jake and I were able to walk under the old oak trees and breathe in the beauty of the park. The trees reached their leaves to heaven, and the squirrels argued in their branches, and ladybugs danced at their roots. There I was struck by the rune from my childhood: the rocks with their steepness and the earth with its starkness.

So in the face of the ugliness of grief and this brokenness of the world, I held to this rune and Saint Patrick’s Breastplate. I continue to hold both of them, and the beauty all around us, as a shield against despair and against the snares of the Enemy.

Our world is quick to scoff at the idea of immaterial forces beyond our ability to see or fully understand, but as Christians we know that there is more to our world than mere materialism. Spiritual warfare is real, and manifests in many ways. And there is nothing the demons want more than to drag us down with them.

So if you have experienced spiritual warfare in the form of grief, or suffering, or heaviness of heart, know that you are not alone. I hope you too can use beauty as a shield, and that an old rune from a simple children’s book can give you as much courage as it has given me.

seven months

/ Rachel Fenton / 3 Comments

Michael turned seven months old this past week, days after cutting his first tooth. He’s growing like a weed, and wearing 12 month clothing already. He’s also quite the little adventurer: he’s crawling everywhere (especially after the cats and dogs) and loves pulling himself up on whatever furniture he can grab. We recently got him these silicon Lego blocks and they’ve become his fast favorites.

His favorite foods right now are bananas and sweet potatoes, and his least favorite thing is sleeping because he might miss out on something. He’s been on sleep strike the last few weeks, thanks to all these developmental leaps.

He has one of the sweetest and most joyful personalities I’ve ever encountered. Even when he’s in pain or discomfort, he still has a gentleness about him.

He’s rarely still — he loves movement and always wants to be outdoors, especially in his wading pool. He also loves snuggles with dad and his Aunt Boo.

Being Michael’s mother is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever received. I love this sweet, sweet boy, and cherish these moments while looking forward to the years to come.

in the storm: a meditation

/ Rachel Fenton / 4 Comments

As most of you are probably aware, I’m an Orthodox Christian, and icons play a large role in our faith tradition. At some point, I will probably write a post on the rich tradition of icons and how they can be valuable assets to our prayer lives and a manifestation of the spiritual realities that surround us.

But this is not that post. Instead, today, I just want to share with you an icon that is near and dear to my heart, especially this week as we prepare for my uncle’s funeral.

Over and over again, in the midst of heartache and anxiety and exhaustion, I find my eyes drawn to this icon. These are some of the meditations I’ve had during this past year as I stood before this icon with greater sorrow — and greater joy — than I had ever felt before.

This particular icon is from a Greek monastery in the early 16th century. If you’re interested, I purchased it here. It depicts two well-known stories from the Gospels: Christ rebuking the sea and casting out demons into the herd of pigs.

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great storm of wind arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” And they were filled with awe, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey him?”

Mark 4:35- 41

When I look at this icon, I am reminded that Christ is present even in the midst of my most turbulent passions and anxieties. I do not have to fear the waves: they obey Him, as do the demons. At the center is Christ. He is the eye of the storm; my stillness and my joy.

Christ is in this icon twice. He sleeps in the stern, eyes closed and hand tucked against His face. Mark tells us in his Gospel that after he rebuked the wind and waves there was a great calm: the same calm that is here reflected in Christ’s face. It reminds me that Christ is doubly present with me in the storms I face. He is my peaceful anchor, sleeping so that I too can sleep, despite the chaos. He is my refuge, safety, and protection.

Christ also stands in the center of the boat, hand raised in rebuke of the wind (personified by the figure at the top left). I am reminded of His absolute power against these things which threaten to destroy us. The demons flee before Him; the winds and waves obey Him.

The disciples also draw my attention. They are looking in different directions, pulling at ropes and adjusting sails. Some aren’t even facing Christ. They are trying to control the boat, to weather the storm themselves. At times, I see myself in that disciple with his back to Christ, frantically trying to control the boat. This icon reminds me to not cling to my own plans or ideas of the future, and to trust in Christ’s power over all that threatens us. His rebuke of the wind and the waves could also be a rebuke towards me: peace, be still.

If you are in the midst of storms and demons, I hope this icon brings you peace as it did to me. May you feel His presence with you twofold. May He be the calm in the center of the chaos, and may you turn your eyes towards Him.

holding the homestead

/ Rachel Fenton / 4 Comments

Jake and I are holding the homestead ourselves this week. The rest of the family is on a vacation they’d had booked for two years. They almost cancelled it after my uncle’s death, but we encouraged them to go —all of the funeral prep had already been taken care of and we could handle anything else that came up. Plus, it gives all of them time to rest and connect and grieve with each other, and spend quality time with my siblings before they head back to college.

Early morning views

I always forget just how many living things we take care of until we hold the homestead by ourselves. Between the dogs, cats, chickens, garden, and baby we’re kept pretty busy. I’m always impressed by homesteaders who also keep goats or cows or horses — the labor is not for the faint of heart. Maybe someday we will graduate to owning goats, but for now, we’re quite happy with our little menagerie.

Our little menagerie

My cousin Kelsey joined us for a few days this week. She stayed with us in January and February while she completed her rotations for PA school and spent a lot of time with Michael as a newborn. Now he’s twice the size and ten times as active, and he still adores his “Aunt Kelsey”. We’ve had a lot of fun knitting together and watching crime shows with a glass of wine (or two) once Michael is asleep.

The garden is continuing to thrive in its unkempt, beautiful way. We have some empty pots and space in the raised beds and are pondering how best to fill them. Our first frost date is estimated at December 15th, so we’ve still got a little time to plant seeds or starters. In the meantime, we’re enjoying the ripening tomatoes, basil, zucchini, flowers, and fruit trees.

In exciting news regarding our little cottage, the floors are in! It’s incredible how different the place looks now that it has actual floors instead of temporary sub flooring. Now Michael can crawl around on the floor safely while we finish different tasks around the house.

As the floors go in and the walls are painted, it looks more and more like the home we’ve had in our dreams for the past year. The water is connected and running smoothly, and our gas and electric hookups are ready and waiting for PG&E. We’re hoping to lay the tile in the bathrooms and finish the last little bit of painting this weekend.

It’s almost harder to be patient the closer we get to moving in. For the first time, our to-do list is shorter than the already-done list. We’re tired, but excited.

View from our porch at golden hour

In a way, since we left our previous house, it’s been like we’re wandering in the desert awaiting the Promised Land. It’s been an extended time of transition. I won’t deny it’s been challenging in many ways, but I’m grateful for the growth that’s accompanied the challenge. God draws near to us in times of pain and death and transition, and it has been helpful to look for His goodness, truth, and beauty in the midst of it all. The temporary nature of our current living situation is a reminder that even our “permanent” home will pass away, helping us keep our eyes fixed on the eternal. While mourning the death of family members, we remember Christ conquered death and cling to the hope that gives us.

In the midst of all of it, He is there, if I look for Him.

ora et labora

/ Rachel Fenton / 3 Comments

One of the things we’ve experienced over and over again throughout this entire homesteading process is the blessing of community. Whether it’s consulting with friends about trenching or asking our farmer friends for advice on irrigation, each accomplishment has been a product of community.

One of our dear friends drove up from the LA area to help with some of the manual labor. Since both the gas and electrical trench passed inspection (praise God!) we are now working on filling them back in, and on leveling the driveway.

Usually we would use our tractor for both of these tasks…but a bird built her nest in one of the tractor roof pipes and now it’s home to three baby birds. So we’re sowing some more sweat into the ground instead of using the machinery. My sister even joined in for some of the shoveling, to “save the baby birds”. The mama bird watches us work from her perch on top of the tractor. As my mother says, this is part of their vision for the property: a sanctuary for man and animal.

A shot of the nest: the babies are good at hiding

When it gets too hot in the direct sunlight, we move indoors. We’re hoping to have our flooring installed by the end of next week, if all goes according to plan, and we still have a few things to do before then. The college kids have been leveling and scraping the floor by hand, since we don’t have electricity to use a sander.

Our awesome friend Zinny helping level the floor

We also continue to work on connecting our plumbing. We’re so close — just patching a few leaks. Jake and my dad have been working tirelessly under the house connecting pipes, though sometimes it’s a little disconcerting to hear voices echoing up from under the floorboards.

As we work, the animals are never far off. The dogs sit in the shade of the house, or next to my dad. Our adopted feral cat, Orual, considers herself a dog as well, and has taken it upon herself to supervise.

I personally haven’t been able to help much with the manual labor due to Michael (aka Adorable Barnacle). But my mom took him for a while to give me time to finish painting one of the rooms. One of the best balms for heartache is physical labor, and I was surprised by how much the painting process soothed me.

Laundry room paint

As we still process the sudden loss of my uncle, community has rallied around us and held us in their embrace. We’ve received countless condolences and hugs. My grandmother’s prayer group sent dinner for us. Friends have been present with us in our grief. We’re overwhelmed with love and gratitude for every person who has reached out, and we’re so grateful for the prayers surrounding us.

Life and labor continue on, grounding us through grief. I am reminded me of the Benedictine motto: Ora et Labora. Pray and work.

Community, work, and prayer. That is what holds us together.

trenches and trisagions

/ Rachel Fenton / 12 Comments

We were in the middle of our usual homesteading projects when our plans for this week changed suddenly Tuesday evening. My mom’s younger brother, my uncle, passed away unexpectedly at the age of 49. We are still waiting to find out the cause, though we suspect a heart attack or a stroke.

When tragedy strikes, time becomes something strange. Some moments are stretched out, each second like a synthesized chord that won’t fade away. Other moments seem to pass like a gunshot, leaving you blinking with an aching exit wound and wondering what happened.

The phone call, the car ride, the quiet paramedics, the body bag: all gunshot moments I am still bandaging.

Everything else has felt stretched out. Funeral home appointments. Phone calls to family members. Service preparations. And in the midst of it, life goes on. Babies still need to be fed and rocked to sleep. Meals still need to be made and eaten; laundry still needs to be done.

In one of the stretched out moments we continued with some of the manual labor for our house. As I watched the clouds of dust roll through the trenches we were filling in, I had two phrases echoing in my head.

The first was from the Ash Wednesday service we would attend as Anglicans: Remember, O Man, that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return. This is the reality of our fallen Creation. Eventually, for all of us, our soul will be separated from our body and our body will decompose. Death would like nothing more than for us to despair here, eyes fixed on the dust instead of letting it direct us towards repentance and preparation for a good death.

The other phrase was from the Paschal homily of St John Chrysostom that we read every Easter: O Death, where is your sting? O Hell, where is your victory? This is our reality as Christians. Death and Hell have no power over us that we do not choose ourselves. Fallen Creation will be made new. Dust is not the end.

That same evening my uncle died, our priest came to pray a trisagion for his soul — select hymns and prayers from the Rite of Burial, usually sung before a funeral. He also anointed us with Holy Unction. We sang Memory Eternal, echoing the words of the thief on the cross beside Christ: remember him when You come into Your Kingdom.

Over this last year, my family has lost three key people in our lives. We are weary. It feels like death is mocking us; trying to beat us down as we persevere towards building our homestead. But if anything, our prayers and resolve have doubled. Through our everyday faithfulness in taking care of our families and providing for those around us who are in need, we are furthering the Kingdom of God. We fight back chaos and death every day in our gardens, restoring order and life by the sweat of our brow. Now more than ever, we see the importance of our small work.

I will miss my uncle. I prayed over his body, and I kissed his forehead as I said goodbye. Our relationship had been strained in the past, but we had repaired and grown closer over the last few years. He was not a perfect man, but I loved him. And he loved me, very much.

Please pray for us as we grieve, and continue on doing the works God has given us to do.

May his memory be eternal.

O Death, where is your sting? O Hell, where is your victory? Christ is risen, and you are overthrown. Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen. Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice. Christ is risen, and life reigns. Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in the grave. For Christ, being risen from the dead, is become the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep. To Him be glory and dominion unto ages of ages. Amen.

St John Chrysostom

garden magic

/ Rachel Fenton / 1 Comment

This year, we haven’t been able to give as much attention to our garden as we would have liked. Between all of the construction projects for our house, different full-time and part-time jobs, death in the family, and the demand of our adorable baby, the garden was one of the first things to fall off the priority list.

Freshly harvested cherry tomatoes

However, we did manage to get some things in the ground, and despite infrequent watering, blistering heat, and haphazard pruning, we have a small harvest. The earth’s resilience always astonishes me.

My father Jim set up an irrigation system for our small orchard and blackberry patch. It’s working well, though our elderberry bushes are still struggling and we aren’t sure why. But the trees that haven’t succumbed to pests are producing fruit.

pictured above: our pluat harvest (hybrid of plum and apricot) and two of our fruit trees

Some things we’ve left alone, like this artichoke. It will return again in the spring, and instead of enjoying it on our table, we’ll enjoy its purple bloom until it hibernates for the winter.

Watering the garden is one of the surest ways to calm Michael when he’s having a hard time (and if I’m honest, it calms me too). It’s become a morning ritual before his nap time. I wrap him close in one of my slings and wander among raised beds, hose in hand.

He gazes calmly at each plant as we pass by. I show him the different vegetables and pluck the buds from our basil to keep the leaves from turning bitter. He grabs for the water and grins when it slips through his fingers. We look for lizards sunning themselves on the side of the house, or for moths pressed against the fence.

I try to see the garden through his eyes. Too often we forget about the simple magic of a seed sprouting from soil, a little icon of resurrection.

As I walk through our wild garden, I’m reminded of the Garden of Eden and what we were made for as humans. In a way, gardening is an echo of Paradise. Yes, Creation is fallen and we struggle with weeds and pests and drought and death. But still, we work with our hands and by the grace of God, the earth provides an imperfect bounty for us.

We can focus on the shriveled vines or the overgrown tomatoes or the pest-ravaged cherry tree. If we want to look for glimpses of death, it is never far off in our broken world. But death is not the end of the story. And here, in between the sun-kissed leaves and ripening fruit, I see glimpses of Paradise.