in the storm: a meditation

August 14, 2022August 14, 2022 / 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

August 11, 2022August 11, 2022 / 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.

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.

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.

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

August 7, 2022August 20, 2022 / 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.

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

August 4, 2022August 6, 2022 / 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

August 1, 2022August 1, 2022 / 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.

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.

in which stubbornness is a virtue

July 29, 2022July 28, 2022 / Rachel Fenton / 3 Comments

We are nothing if not a stubborn bunch. Throughout this whole process of preparing the prefab house for us to move in, my father and husband (and to some extent, my mother and I) looked at the list of tasks that needed to be done and thought: we can totally do this ourselves.

Pros: we’re saving a lot of money, and we’re learning incredible skills along the way.
Cons: we are finite human beings with a limited amount of time and energy.

I continue to be in awe of my father, Jim. He’s a retired clinical psychologist, with no formal training in any sort of contractor or construction work. And yet, so far he has managed to (with my husband Jake’s assistance):

Plan out and dig the trenches for both the gas and electrical that we’ll need for the house (the electrical trench just passed inspection and the gas trench is being inspected today! Praise God!)
Lay the wire (cable) for electric and pipe for gas
Wrestle the wire into the meter box and the panel (Oh, and he hung a 200 amp panel because our house came with a 100 amp one!)
Connect the gas line to the house and prepare it for inspection / connecting to gas by pressure testing it
And probably more that I’m not able to remember right now

All the hard work is paying off. We have only a handful of things left to do on our end: build the steps, finish the painting, lay the floors, install the counters, and pass all inspections. Now we are backfilling the trench, and getting ready to build the front and back porch steps.

There is much outside of our control — so I focus on what I can control. We purchased the tile for the bathrooms this weekend, and I got paint for the starry mural I have planned for Michael’s ceiling. I have been chipping away at the painting — the master bedroom wall is finished, and the kitchen needs a last touch up coat before I declare it finished. It’s encouraging to see physical glimpses of the final product: the stack of tiles in the bathroom, the color on the walls; the boxes of flooring.

Slow, steady, stubborn progress.

Speaking of…

Michael is six months old, and has inherited the family stubbornness. He has unofficially begun crawling. He alternates between an effective army crawl and a stubborn, seal-like belly flop. Both are often punctuated by a screech. We’re not sure if it’s elation or frustration, and frankly, he isn’t sure either. We were hoping he wouldn’t become mobile until our house is finished — Pennet Melangell is the opposite of baby-proof. It’s full of nooks and crannies where kids and dust bunnies can hide for ages without being found. I will definitely be kept on my toes for the near future — nothing is safe from his curious grasp.

*Michael has perfected his Spider-Man stance.*

We still don’t have a move-in date, and PG&E gave us the disheartening news they probably won’t be able to get to our job until late September — a whole year since we placed our work request with them.

So we’re digging in our heels against discouragement and rolling up our sleeves. There is much we can focus on, though we won’t be able to live in our house. We’ll focus on the summer and fall’s gardening and preserving, and getting the new coop ready for our chickens. As difficult as the last year of waiting has been, it has been very fruitful. It has taught all of us that stubbornness can indeed be a virtue.

Pax Christi,

Rachel

about time

July 26, 2022July 27, 2022 / Rachel Fenton / 1 Comment

Thy ‘today’ is eternity.
Saint Augustine

Since having a child, my experience of the passage of time has shifted. Hours have sped up; days have slowed down. Don’t ask me to accurately remember how long ago I ate breakfast: I’ll probably say an hour or so, when it’s really been four.

But what’s really struck me over the last year is the amount of time it takes to make something that’s worth making. I picked up knitting while pregnant, and continue to find solace making things with my hands in the small, in-between moments of life. I’ve made socks and sweaters and hats and shawls: and all of them took many hours to complete. I’ve also sewed a few garments, and each of those took many hours as well (It’s called “slow fashion” for a reason). Now, knowing a bit more of the process behind garment making, I pause when I see the clothes hanging at Target or H&M.

We buy items for a fraction of what it would cost to make them at a living wage. We have convenience at our fingertips: fast food, fast fashion, fast phones. We don’t think about the time that goes into the food on our table or the clothes on our bodies. And because of that, I believe we don’t think about where we’re investing our own limited, valuable time.

(I’m not going to argue that all of it’s bad and we should go back to the good ol’ Stone Age. But I do think we should pause.)

As a society, we’ve fallen out of touch with time and its value. I think social media is something that typifies this. I flinch when I see my screen time weekly usage notification. I don’t remember pouring hours into this device, and yet, those hours are gone. I can’t recall how many posts or ten-second videos I’ve scrolled through, and often I can’t remember anything I’ve read or seen when asked about it later. I’ve felt convicted to set social media aside — if not entirely, at least in part.

The newest Instagram update was the nail in the coffin for me. I’ve been a steadfast lover of Instagram since 2012. But now, gone is the slow scroll and quiet images posted by friends, almost reminiscent of a personal art gallery. Now it’s frenetic, text and image and music and movement jammed in ten to twenty seconds.

As knitting and sewing (and pregnancy) have taught me, it takes time to make things that are worth making. It takes me two seconds to post on Instagram. It takes more deliberate time to craft a blog post and curate the photos I’ll put in it. So for the month of August, I’m giving up social media. At the end of the month, I’ll determine whether I’ll go back. I won’t delete my account, and I’ll pop on every now and again to check out what’s happening in the lives of my dear ones. But for now, I look forward to the slow updates and meditations I plan to post here.

If making my own clothes is “slow fashion”, and growing my own garden is “sustainable living”, then I’m calling this blogging endeavor of mine slow and sustainable social media. I won’t fall for the instant gratification dopamine trap of likes and endless scrolling that my brain is so prone to. Instead, I’ll hone my writing abilities while sharing the ways I encounter goodness, truth, and beauty in my quiet life.

I’m not 100% sure what that will look like on a consistent basis, but expect to see recaps of quiet weeks on the homestead, and photos of baby milestones. I also plan to post many photos of things I find beautiful, and updates on my house, projects, garden, and life in general.

If you want to join me, please send me your info: I would love to read your words and delight in what delights you.