Author: Rachel Fenton

lent & motherhood

/ Rachel Fenton / 5 Comments

For us Orthodox Christians, it’s been the first week of Lent (also known as Clean Week). For my Catholic and Protestant friends, Lent began the 22nd of February with Ash Wednesday.

It’s easy to misunderstand Lent as medieval legalism, or punishment, or self-flagellation. In reality, it’s none of these things. It’s medicine for our sick souls and bodies. During Lent, we focus on prayer, fasting, and almsgiving to become more like Christ as we prepare for His Passion and Resurrection.

But, the Church spares no effort in revealing to us that fasting is but a means, one among many, towards a higher goal: the spiritual renewal of man, his return to God, true repentance and, therefore, true reconciliation.

Protopresbyter Alexander Schmemann

The upcoming weeks will be full of beautiful church services. However, I have a complicated relationship with these Lenten duties now that I’m a mother.

Watching Michael grow comfortable in church has been a delight. He loves pointing at the icons, or running in circles around the icon on the stand at the front, or looking to his right and brightly exclaiming “Dada!” as he sees Jake chanting the Psalms. During more sparsely-attended services the sanctuary looks like a spacious and exciting place for an active one-year old. He doesn’t stay still for a moment: I get my steps in as I follow him to the front of the church, pick him up before he can get too close to the iconostasis, walk to the back of the church again, set him down, and the cycle repeats.

But it’s also easy to fall into resentment, or self-pity, or dread. The drive is 45 minutes both ways, and usually cuts into dinner time. Michael often is exhausted and low on resources — Divine Liturgy is in the middle of his naptime, and Vespers and the midweek Lent services are during his bedtime. We made it to one service this week, and had to leave halfway through because he was melting down. My husband will be fulfilling his duties as choir director and reader, my dad singing in the choir, and my mother helping with her goddaughter, so I will be wrangling Michael by myself — either in church or at home.

One of the things I love about Lent is the sense of community. We are all undertaking this great fast together, praying together; growing in holiness together. But lately I’ve been struggling because Lent looks different for me than for the rest of the church. It’s easy to get discouraged and think I’m not good enough because I can’t make all the services, or fast completely, or even focus on the services I do attend. And it’s easy to feel isolated and alone as I stay home, or stand on the patio with a wild toddler.

But when I stop to think about it, I am indeed praying, fasting, and almsgiving: just in ways that look a little different.

My prayer looks different in this season of life. Instead of singing with the choir, I pace the church with my tired toddler, letting my mind cling to the fragments of the Psalms I hear. I nurse or rock him to sleep in the cry room, listening to the bells on the censor as the priest passes by. I offer up my frustration, my exhaustion, my distraction, as imperfect prayer.

My fasting looks different in this season of life. As a breastfeeding mother and the cook for our family, we aren’t adhering to the strict Lenten diet most of the church does, though we are abstaining from meat. Instead of carefully curated Lenten fare, I eat either standing at a counter or with a curious toddler on my lap, trying to stick his hands in my bowl. Or I forget to eat, distracted by the multiple bids for my attention that surround me every day. I fast by denying myself and my desires as I stay home from church to tend to Michael instead of going to the services.

My almsgiving looks different in this season of life. While we also look for ways to give to those around us who are in need, I also recognize that my gift of self to my family — through presence, through menial household labor, through listening and soothing and playing with a one-year old — is in itself a form of giving.

I don’t have to enjoy every moment of Lenten motherhood: in fact, I often long for the days of quiet prayer when I could focus on the words of Liturgy. But when I’m tempted towards resentment or anger or despair, I take hold of this truth: my Lenten motherhood is just as pleasing a sacrifice to God as the singing of the faithful. As He accepts the distracted, childlike love of my son toddling from icon to icon, He accepts my exhausted, scattered love as I follow my child to the patio outside with Cheerios.

Piety, piety, but where is the love that moves mountains?

Mother Maria of Paris

So if you also are entering Lent carrying the weight of distraction and frustration and imperfection — whether because of motherhood or grief or mental illness or just exhaustion from the events of life — know that you are not alone. Many of us are carrying our Lenten struggles alongside you. And your prayer, your fasting, and your almsgiving — whatever they may look like, in whatever season of life you may be in — can be just as effective tools for your sanctification as the prostrations of the most devout monk.

aslan is on the move

/ Rachel Fenton / 3 Comments

We’re currently weathering another winter storm, though this one isn’t as severe as the ones in January. It’s snowing in the foothills, and we had some sleet make its way to us here in the valley. Stuck indoors, cozy while the wind and rain howl, I realized that it’s been a while since I’ve given a generalized homestead update. Be warned: this one will be brimming with photos.

Despite our current wind, rain, and ice, we’ve had a delightfully warm past few days. I always fall for fool’s spring: that brief warmth and sunshine that makes the trees stir to life and the gardeners get excited. All up and down the block, the almond trees are in full bloom. Every February, when they unfold their lacy white petals, I’m reminded of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe: “Aslan is on the move.” As I go on my walks, dark asphalt carpeted with fallen blossoms and leaves peaking out from dark buds, I feel as though Aslan is indeed on the move, driving out winter before him.

I’m itching to finish assembling my raised beds. I have never had a garden of my own: just potted herbs and plants that either thrived or died rather dramatically. So this is a novice’s experiment and I’m taking all of you along with me!

Work on our homestead has stalled some due to weather, work, and generalized exhaustion, but we’ve still managed to complete a few projects. Jake finished paving our front garden path, despite all the rain. It looks lovely, and I’m so glad it’s decreasing the amount of mud tracked into our house. My father also leveled out part of our front yard with the tractor.

We planted some of our trees in our backyard: peach, plum, and almond. Our current plan is to have the majority of our kitchen garden in raised beds in our front yard, where our house shelters it from the wind. The backyard will have more of our fruit trees and some in-ground rows for vegetables we want to grow for preserving.

I planted beet seeds in January and thought they didn’t make it after I saw my parents’ yellow Lab Max scarfing down the top layer of compost on my raised bed. However, against the odds, I’ve had some beet seedlings pop through the soil. I have no idea how many survived Max, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

My mother and I started some seeds for our gardens in the beginning of February — a variety of herbs and vegetables that now quietly grow under grow lights in the garage. Sunflowers, oregano, kale, calendula, and so many more.

Our next homestead project is to build the fence for our front garden: my parents’ dogs have a habit of munching on homegrown produce, so I don’t want to plant anything else until it’s safe from them. The fence will also help me keep a closer eye on Michael while I garden: now that he’s steadier on his feet, he’s exploring further and further and faster and faster.

My dad is finishing up the larger chicken coop in time for spring chicks: we will be increasing our flock soon, in hopes we will have a surplus of eggs this summer and enough to waterglass/preserve for winter. Michael loved stopping by to say hi and learn about the (powered down) staple gun Grandpa was using.

We have a few more joint homestead projects coming up: our beehives didn’t make it last winter, unfortunately, so we’re replacing them with hopes of a honey harvest in the late summer. My mom is very excited to get Michael his very own beekeeping suit — I’ll be sure to post pictures when she does.

Also, my dad and I — the Lord and free time willing — are planning on brewing some beer that should be ready in time for Pascha/Easter. He has brewed his own beer before, but this will be my first time helping in a major way and I’m excited to learn the process (and taste the results).

I’ve had a few knitting projects on the needles, but I’ve had to slow down due to hand and wrist pain. I have a few gift knits that are only a few hours away from completion: I just need to sit down and find the focused time to finish them. However, they’re all simple garter stitch or stockinette stitch pieces, and the repetitive motion irritates my hands and wrists dreadfully. It’s quite frustrating.

During a particularly rough day this week I decided I needed a comfort cast-on so I picked up the yarn I got for my Nightshift shawl as a Christmas gift from my parents. It’s bright and colorful and squishy and exactly what I needed to lift my spirits.

As my hands and wrists allow, I’m slowly moving between knitting projects, sewing projects, and my newest adventure: spinning my own yarn.

My dear friend Sarah Gene taught me while she visited over Christmas, and I’m absolutely hooked. It’s like magic: a stick, twist energy, and wool combine to make yarn. I feel like a wizard every time I spin.

I’ve acquired a few drop spindles and dyed top/wool and I’ve made two skeins of wonky yarn. It’s uneven and often overspun or underspun in areas, but it’s handmade and it’s mine. I’m quite proud of it.

So that’s our fool’s spring update: slow and simple progress as we wait for spring to actually arrive. But as I said before, even if spring isn’t truly here yet — it is coming. Aslan is on the move.

always we begin again

/ Rachel Fenton / 2 Comments

I feel like I say every room in our house is my favorite — but of all my favorites, I definitely spend the most time in the kitchen. It’s the first place I go to when I stumble out of bed in the morning, and the last place I tidy before I head to sleep.

I love the sage green of the walls — a color both calming and alive. I love the hanging pots and pans. I love our counters, lovingly sealed and installed by my dad and my husband. I love the large sliding door that opens to our porch and invites the breeze to blow through our home. I love the deep sink and the window that looks west over our backyard, and how the sunset trails its fingers down our walls every evening before dinner.

As I said, I spend the greater part of my hours in the kitchen. Putting away groceries, preparing food, eating food, cleaning up after meals, preparing snacks for my little one, cleaning out the fridge, emptying the dishwasher, filling the dishwasher — the list goes on.

However, some days I don’t see the green walls or the hanging pots and pans or the sink or the sunset. I see a never-ending cycle of chores that makes Sisyphus look like a man taking his pet rock for a stroll. No matter how many dishes I wash, more will be dirty in an hour or two. No matter how many meals I make, we will all be hungry and ready to eat again shortly. Every day when I wake up, the same tasks await me.

Much of motherhood and homemaking is cyclical and repetitive: somehow both always changing and always the same. My days all look very similar to each other, but just as I feel like I have a grasp on our routine, Michael hits a new growth milestone, and it causes a domino effect on my previous schedule or routine, and I begin again.

St. Benedict, the father of Western monasticism, has a famous motto I memorized back when I studied Latin in school: Ora Et Labora, which means “pray and work”. All of our work is an opportunity for prayer and beauty and sanctification: not just the parts I enjoy like writing or knitting or gardening, but also the dishes and the laundry and the vacuuming.

I can look at my labor as drudgery (and on my worst days, Lord have mercy, I admit I do), or I can embrace the work, offering it up as prayer and sacrifice and turning it into love. Even the constant and unending chores. Especially the constant and unending chores.

I’ve created small places in my kitchen to remind me to offer up my labor as I cook or clean. Our prayer corner is the eastern(ish) corner by the table. I have icons of Christ and St. Euphrosynus (the patron saint of cooks/kitchens) on the window sill above my sink. I also have a small card with the Hours printed on it: whenever I’m doing dishes, I try to find the closest hour and pray the corresponding Psalm.

Becoming holy is a labor that takes as much persistence as doing the dishes or laundry (if not more). No matter how many times you repent, you will have to repent again. Becoming more and more like Christ takes constant toil in the gardens of our hearts. Our faithfulness in these small, seemingly insignificant chores will translate over to our faithfulness in larger things. Luke 16:10 comes to mind: One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much.

Many of the venerated saints of the Church speak about this constant struggle towards holiness. St. Benedict also says, “Even when we fail, always we begin again”. And St. Anthony of the Desert says, “Everyday I say to myself, today I will begin.” It is here, in the daily struggle and daily choices, that saints are formed.

So tomorrow, when I enter my favorite room in our house and have a dishwasher to empty, meals to cook, and laundry to wash, dry, and fold, may I look at as an opportunity to begin again; taking steps toward my sanctification through work and through motherhood.

little hobbit update

/ Rachel Fenton / 2 Comments

Now that Michael is one, I would rather not chronicle his life by month: I’d like to record the moments and milestones as they come. I’ll be posting updates on our little hobbit as the pictures and life skills accumulate (most likely more than once per month, knowing me).

Michael’s favorite book currently is Moo Baa La La La by Sandra Boynton. He anticipates each animal sound before we turn the page and joins in BOW WOW WOW with gusto. We all have it memorized by now.

His baby babble has become much more sophisticated: Mama, Dada, yes and no, eyes, nose, ball, and “num” (food) are all regular parts of his vocabulary. He mirrors back to us words we’re saying, and he talks to himself constantly while playing — I know he’s getting into something he’s not supposed to when the babble ceases.

We transitioned from a crib to a floor bed, hoping it would help him sleep longer. So far it hasn’t improved much, but it’s easier for Jake and me to put him down and soothe him back to sleep, so I’m calling it a win. I need all the wins I can get, especially now that he’s down to one nap.

His favorite game is Bonk, which is exactly what it sounds like. He gently (and sometimes not so gently) bonks his forehead against ours and giggles uproariously when we proclaim bonk! (Or sometimes ouch). He also adores opening and closing cabinets. It keeps him quite busy at church during the homily.

He’s officially walking everywhere, and prefers walking to crawling. We hear little padding footsteps followed by a loud splat as he loses his balance, often a frustrated screech, then footsteps once more as he gets up and tries again.

Grandpa and our cat Chai are tied for his best friend. Grandpa likes Michael a lot more than Chai does, but she’s tolerant of him and allows him to pet her. He’s remarkably gentle with pets for his age. He also enjoys chasing her with his toy mop (a behavior we’re trying to discourage).

He continues to love music, just as he did in the womb and as an infant. We often listen to music in the afternoons together while playing in his room. Whenever our washer or dryer plays the ditty that announces the cycle is finished, he often pauses and bounces in place along with the beat. He’s especially enjoying Nickel Creek and Chris Thile. Maybe he’ll play fiddle or mandolin when he grows up.

His frustration tolerance is low — if he gets stuck or something is in his way, he displays an impressive lung capacity. My favorite quote from Moby Dick often comes to mind: a bellow “like that of a heart-stricken moose” (Ch 36, for those interested). We’re slowly and surely helping him learn patience. He might be impatient, but he’s resolute and has all the virtues that come with stubbornness.

Being outside in the garden is one of his favorite pastimes. I have to keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t eat the compost or behead one of my seedlings with his trowel, but he loves playing in the dirt with his garden tools. He helped Jake plant a tree, and helped me plant some blackberries.

Currently, he’s a ridiculously adventurous eater. Anything I’m eating, he wants to eat it too. To name a few, he’s eaten kimchi, kombucha, wasabi pea chips, and sauerkraut (and come back for second, third, and fourth bites)

He is a very loved little boy: GG and PaPaw dote on him, as do his grandparents. Living in community has its difficulties, but seeing Michael grow up surrounded by so many who love him is one of the brightest parts.

I watch him grow with a bittersweetness: this walking, talking toddler was my tiny baby not that long ago. I feel like I blinked and he became a little boy.

Even in the midst of the sleeplessness and other challenges motherhood brings, I cherish these beautiful moments and collect them in my photos and in my heart.

my anti-minimalist home

/ Rachel Fenton / 2 Comments

The storms have rolled out and the sun has come back to us. It feels as though there is a whisper of spring on the air. Just a whisper: we still have a frost layered ground in the mornings and chilly evenings with a fast-sinking sun. But the whisper has sparked something in me, and I’ve been planning and preparing my garden, eyes fixed on spring.

Frost on the pieces of my garden box

Does anyone else get a burst of pre-spring cleaning energy in January? I’ve been on a great purge and cleanse, going through each room of the house ruthlessly and bagging things for the thrift store. It feels like a breath of fresh air. There are still a few places I haven’t been able to go through (don’t look at the guest room closet!) but all of our major spaces feel airy and uncluttered. We still have some boxes in storage to sort through, but I’m taking my wins where I can get them.

It’s inspired me to take photos of our little cottage: I spent so many hours planning out each detail, but I haven’t documented it very well! From the paint colors to the arrangement of our furniture, I had nearly every room planned out (when you have to wait five months to move into your home, you find ways of passing the time). I’m planning on writing a piece on every major room, starting with this one: an overview of the cottage.

I really, truly love our home. It’s not finished and it’s not perfect: the bathrooms are waiting to be tiled, the dishes and laundry are rarely clean at the same time, paint touch ups are needed, and so much more. But it’s ours. It’s full of light and laughter and love, despite the darkness and tears that sometimes creep in from our broken world.

My main hope for my home is that it is a place of rest and a place of beauty. I don’t care about trends or aesthetics or the newest appliances. I think about the homes I loved in books — The Last Homely House, or Mr and Mrs. Beaver’s dam, or Redwall Abbey, or the Burrow, or Green Gables — and that is what I want for my home. Beauty and rest and warmth and welcoming hospitality.

Yet somehow, the comparison game sneaks in and needles me. I confess I spend too much time on Instagram. It’s the last social media platform that still has a grip on me. It’s a wonderful tool: I’ve connected with some amazing friends and learned many different skills from it.

However, I’ve also fallen down rabbit holes looking at perfectly curated houses: neutral nurseries with wooden toys and not a hint of gaudy plastic to be found, or large kitchens with perfectly organized pantries, or living rooms with books sorted on their shelves by color.

My house — with its overfull bookshelves, baskets of yarn and fabric and thread, half-completed quilts and knitting projects, canned goods, and empty mason jars — does not compare. No one could ever accuse me of being a minimalist.

Especially being a fiber artist/hobbiest (knitting, sewing, and embroidery, just to name some of them), I will never have a minimalist home. I have baskets full of wool that waits to be formed into sweaters and shawls, and boxes of bright cotton floss ready to mend holes in jeans and add flowers to t-shirts, and so many more supplies. I have my tools too: spindles, a swift and ball winder, a sewing machine, cutting mats, scissors, needles, and books on all sorts of crafts from knitting to quilting.

(And don’t even get me started on my book collection. That’s a whole different can of worms.)

Minimalism has been popular for quite some time, and at first glance, it seems like a great thing. After all, we live in a society that likes to glut itself with stuff. Isn’t having less stuff a good thing?

But the minimalism that trends on social media and appears in celebrity mansions doesn’t promote less stuff. This “Instagram minimalism” is just another form of consuming.

Instagram minimalism gets rid of things for the aesthetic of it, and there is an underlying attitude that you can go out and purchase what you need when you need it — there’s no need to have extra of anything on hand. As long as the shelves are clean and clear, it doesn’t matter if you get rid of things that still serve a purpose or could be useful later.

As a side note, I want to be clear that I’m not arguing against simplicity. The attitude of simplicity is one of making do: mending and making and learning to live on less. Simplicity is a virtue; minimalism is an aesthetic.

And while I’ll constantly strive to cultivate simplicity, I’ve given up on achieving minimalism. In fact, I’ve begun to call my aesthetic “anti-minimalist” and see my home’s unique beauty because of its joyful collection of things — not in spite of them.

Our kitchen will always have preservatives, canners, drying herbs, and bread proofing on the island. There will be bags of scraps in the freezer for broth or for botanical dyes. I might have too many mugs and too many dishes, but instead of seeing it as clutter, I see it as a reserved place for any guest who might happen to stop by at dinner time.

Our guest room will always have extra linens and blankets, and store my yarn and other tools for making and mending. Instead of seeing the shelves overflowing with skeins and fabric as clutter, I see the raw materials for making things to wrap my loved ones in warmth.

Our living room will always have bookshelves stacked double, and art and icons on its walls, and muddy garden boots by the door. Instead of seeing the overflowing bookshelves as clutter, I look at them as worlds contained in pages, stories to love and to share. The art supports artists that I love and enjoy, and sometimes displays the works of my own hands. The icons remind me of the communion of saints and bring Paradise into our home.

To anyone else who has given up on minimalism, who has stores of skeins or books or preservatives or whatever other items bring you joy — you’re not alone. My home not minimalist either. It never will be. But it’s still beautiful.

a long-expected party

/ Rachel Fenton / 1 Comment

It’s been quiet here as we all scramble to catch up on work/household chores that fell neglected during our two-ish weeks of storms and power failure. The siblings went back to college and Michael misses them already. I’m glad they were able to be here for his first birthday.

Even though it’s been a week since his party, I still wanted to document it here. Michael’s birthday party was a quiet affair for similar reasons: power outage cleanup and head colds made throwing a large party out of my ability. Plus, Michael chose the week prior to drop his afternoon nap and the transition was difficult for all of us. But I still wanted to make his first birthday something special that he could look at in our photo albums as he gets older.

Using felt and some macrame rope, I stitched together some bunting that matched the colors of his room and went with our Hobbit-themed party. My blanket stitch wasn’t perfect (those pesky corners) but I love the handmade look and Michael doesn’t seem to mind. It now hangs over his window in his bedroom.

I also made him a birthday crown. I’m hoping to keep up the tradition as the years continue, embroidering or felting something on each that reflects an aspect of my child’s interests and loves. For this one, I felted a leaf, a sun, a ladybug, and an acorn — to capture Michael’s love of the outdoors and his curiosity about the world around him.

It was my first attempt at needle felting so it’s a tad rough, but I’m happy with the end product.

Hobby Lobby had some fun woodland themed decorations and I enjoyed putting them around our living room and kitchen. Mushrooms, acorns, hedgehogs, and foxes all helped transform the small space into something magical.

Food was a simple affair, based on some of Michael’s favorites and those that might be found in The Shire. We had cheeses and veggies and fruits and honey cake with blueberries.

Our family crowded into our tiny cottage, and Michael was delighted by all the love and attention. He spent the afternoon ripping tissue paper and toddling from one person to the next, showing off his new books and toys.

He loved every present, as did I — they give me a few minutes of independent play here or there so I can get a few chores done around the house.

Watching him with his birthday cake was probably the best part of the entire day. He loved the candle, and the singing, and the frosting. He also loved demolishing the cake.

I had been struggling with “mom guilt” over having a simple and small birthday party, especially since my original plan had been much more ornate and exciting and involved inviting many friends. But seeing the happiness on his face as he opened gifts and wandered from person to person and smashed cake into every crevice of his high chair, that guilt eased a little. Although his party wasn’t elaborate, the cake was wonky, the house small, and the decorations imperfect…I know he still loved every moment of it.

And that’s what really matters.

one year (& birth story)

/ Rachel Fenton / 11 Comments

It’s Michael’s first birthday today, and my heart is full to bursting. I look at him and see the tiny baby I held with love and shock and exhaustion a year ago today, after twenty-seven hours in labor.

I also see a strong and inquisitive and fiery soul with insatiable curiosity and energy, and the gentlest and sweetest spirit. Getting to know him and help shape him as he grows is the greatest privilege and honor I’ve ever had. It is also one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

He walks when he wants to, usually for quite a few feet, but is still unsteady so he chooses to crawl more often. His favorite activity currently is emptying things out of containers: toys from his bin, books from the shelves, clothes from the drawers.

His language skills are blooming: he babbles to himself constantly, and his favorite sound right now is “geegogeegogeego”. As well as “bye-bye”, he says “please”, and “up”, and “num” (which means he wants a bite of whatever we’re eating) and can very emphatically say yes and no, with accompanying nods or head shakes.

If he could be outside 24/7, he would be. He is happiest being in the fresh air, whether on a walk around the block or hiking in the mountains.

He’s come to accept church as a second home, and is comfortable enough to crawl wherever he desires, keeping both me and his godmother on our toes.

Grandpa still remains his favorite person in the whole wide world. I love watching his relationship with my parents and my grandparents: it’s such a joy and a delight.

He loves music and now plays the piano almost daily, insisting on sitting on my lap and watching my hands move and joining in.

It seems like only yesterday I was in the hospital giving birth — and it also seems like an entire lifetime ago. I haven’t told Michael’s birth story on a public forum yet, and I figured his first birthday was a good time to recount the events leading to his entrance into the world.

If birth stories freak you out, feel free to stop reading past this point. I’m recording it for myself as much as for those who are curious, so I intend to hold nothing back!

On Thursday, January 13th, Jake and I headed to my early morning 39 week appointment. We expected to hear the heartbeat and go home (to continue eating dates, curb walking, drinking raspberry leaf tea, and all the other natural labor augmenting tricks.) But when my OBGYN placed the Doppler against my stomach, we didn’t hear the regular heartbeat rhythm we’d come to expect: it sounded like an extra beat kept getting thrown in, reminiscent of a bad dubstep from the early 2000s. After calling and consulting with another doctor, she sent us over to the hospital to be induced, hoping that the sudden arrhythmia would resolve after birth.

Without any of our prepped bags, we headed over to the hospital around 11 am. I quickly ate a granola bar since I hadn’t had breakfast due to the early appointment time. We were both in a bit of a daze as we filled out the paperwork and made our way to the labor and delivery ward. I wanted both Jake and my mother with me during labor, but due to COVID regulations, my mom couldn’t join us til I tested negative. I was grateful Jake had come along to this appointment — otherwise I would’ve been by myself for quite a while. So we sat and waited as I was poked and prodded (they blew two veins trying to get an IV in me), started on Pitocin, and had a cooks catheter inserted to help with cervical dilation. I was 4 cm dilated and 50% effaced, and the baby was at a -2: a bit too high in my pelvis.

When my COVID test finally came back negative, my mom headed over with all our bags. For the next several hours, I breathed through contractions, rocked on the peanut ball, chatted with the nurses, and watched John Mulaney comedy sketches. Finally, around 11 pm, the Pitocin contractions were at the point where I had very little to no breaks between them, and I had barely progressed since that morning. I also hadn’t been able to pee since the cooks catheter was inserted, no matter how hard I tried, and my full bladder was adding more pain and pressure to each contraction. I realized later the catheter had probably been pressing on my urethra. Due to the discomfort of my bladder and the unceasing Pitocin contractions, I finally agreed to an epidural.

When the epidural was inserted, the anesthesiologist brushed a nerve, and that was probably the most painful part of this entire experience. But once the epidural took effect and the catheter helped me finally empty my bladder, I was finally comfortable enough to doze through the night while they cranked up my Pitocin. I had the kindest night nurse who braided my hair for me so it wouldn’t tangle, and held my hands and prayed with me as the epidural was inserted.

By morning, I hadn’t progressed as much as we had hoped, and I was getting tired and discouraged. This entire time we had also been struggling with monitoring Michael’s heartbeat. They tried Bluetooth monitors, external monitors, and internal monitors — none of them could give us a consistent and steady reading of his heart rate, which concerned everyone. On top of that stress, there was a miscommunication between the nurses and my OBGYN, and I was incorrectly told I should prepare myself for a c-section. Thankfully, that was not the case, but the stress didn’t help our situation.

With the morning also came a new nurse: Lindsay. She was the biggest blessing, and looking back, I’m not sure how I would have done it without her. She was the doula I couldn’t have (due to COVID restrictions). She encouraged me, laughed with me, helped me shift positions and do different movements even with an epidural to engage the baby lower in my pelvis.

Early afternoon I began to feel pain on my right hip, even through the epidural. No amount of position changing or epidural dosage increasing would get rid of it. As it increased, I felt the urge to push. I pushed for two hours, in a primal haze of pain and determination. At one point Jake was speaking to me, and my brain couldn’t understand the words he was saying. I just needed to push, and meet my baby. I had the icon of the Theotokos, our Helper in Childbirth, on my pillow (given to me by my wonderful friend Catie) and I rested my forehead on it between pushes, the Jesus Prayer the only words I could formulate in my head.

Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Finally, he was crowning, and the OBGYN came in to help deliver him. I had been pushing this entire time on my hands and knees, and I had to switch to my back for the delivery (Still not the happiest about that.) At this point, I believe my epidural was wearing off. I could feel intense pressure. Lindsay locked eyes with me and helped coach my breathing through the last pushes, and then the pressure gave way to sharp pain as he was finally born at 4:45 pm. He came out with his hand up by his head, which might explain both the hip pain and the second degree tearing I experienced. To this day, he still loves to sleep with his fist by his face.

No visitors were allowed due to COVID, and we spent our first night as a family of three in the hospital. My mom came back the next morning, and finally we were cleared to go on Saturday evening. The first meal I had when I got home was sushi (oh how I had missed it!) and a glass of my favorite Chardonnay.

His arrhythmia did not resolve after birth, and we had a few appointments with a pediatric cardiologist in the first months of his life that determined he was experiencing premature ventricular contractions. He also had a small septal defect in his heart. Thankfully, both of these things resolved themselves within the first six months of his life, and today he has a clean bill of health.

I’ll never forget watching my parents meet their grandson for the first time, and my siblings their nephew, and my grandparents their great-grandson. I didn’t know love could grow as incredibly and exponentially in such a short period of time, but in just a few short days, I was full of more love than I thought was humanly possible.

Happy first birthday, my sweet boy. May God grant you many years.

storms and gardens

/ Rachel Fenton / Leave a comment

Storms continue to rage through Northern California for the second week straight. They are pretty intense, including a tornado warning for our county and some of its neighbors. Pray for safety for us and for our neighbors!

A rainbow during a break in the storm

We’ve had power outages on and off all week due to the gale and flood warnings. It’s been an exercise in flexibility for our family. We never know if we will wake up warm with the preprogrammed coffee pot brewing, or to a dark and chilly house with no running water. It’s been pretty stressful, especially with a rambunctious almost one-year-old. Both Jake and I work remotely too (him full-time, me part-time) and the lack of power and internet has added to the stress. Thankfully, both our employers are understanding.

My best friend joked that we’re living like pioneers. We have our bathtub full of nonpotable water for toilet flushing and miscellaneous cleaning, and a few five gallon jugs full for drinking, cooking, and teeth brushing. I have new respect for the labor it takes to cook, clean, and do basic household functions without the luxury of electricity.

If I’m being completely honest, we’d given up trying to cook three meals a day in a house without electricity. Michael enjoyed the new experience of eating breakfast in a restaurant and charmed the waitresses and cashiers while we got some much needed hot coffee.

During one of Michael’s naps with grandpa, I took advantage of my limited independent time to get started in my garden. There was a lull in the storm and the rain has made the ground wonderfully soft and perfect for leveling as we make baby steps towards the garden I have envisioned.

I assembled two small galvanized steel beds (2×4), laid down some hardware cloth to keep the ground squirrels from interfering with my plans, and filled the beds with soil and compost. The fresh air did wonders for my mind and body (though I was quite sore from all the shoveling and ground leveling).

Thankfully, the power returned as I assembled the last bed. I’m grateful, otherwise I would’ve spent the next few days smelling of sweat and compost.

Muddy knees

I’ve helped in my parents’ garden ever since I was young, but this is my first time really having my own garden. I’m starting out small, but I have grand ideas for this homestead. I have plans for cultivating produce for our kitchen and to preserve, and herbs for food and medicine, and even plants for natural dyes. But one small step at a time.

For a while now I’ve been focusing on making: what can I create with my hands that both gives to me and gives to my community? What small steps can I take to cultivate life and joy? Today, that small step was gardening outside in the rain with my son. Even though it was drizzling and windy, I wanted to transplant my lavender and rosemary to the wind-sheltered beds before their pots got blown over in the storm. We both bundled up and prepared to get muddy. Michael was very excited to help me, and to play in the garden.

I loved watching him explore with his hands and help me pack the dirt around the roots. Even after we had transplanted both the lavender and rosemary, he wanted to stay and toddle around the beds, one hand holding my spade.

We spent a lot of time outside, and I got to see the garden from his eyes. Where I saw ordinary things, he saw magic. He was quite upset when I made him go inside, as the drizzle had become a steady downpour and the wind had picked back up.

Now, as I sit inside and hold him while he has his afternoon rest time, I can hear thunder thrumming low across the horizon outside. The storms are continuing, and in my journal, the plans for my garden wait.

To all of you more experienced gardeners out there: do you have any tips for me? Things to keep in mind as I start to cultivate what I hope will be a lifelong practice?

repair

/ Rachel Fenton / 2 Comments

We have power! It returned to us late Monday night (hallelujah) and is still running (praise God). The high wind and rains continue into next week, so we’re preparing for the worst and have our bathtubs filled, candles ready, and generators gassed just in case we lose power again.

Now that we have power, I’ve been able to focus on other things: specifically, putting up the Christmas decorations and preparing for Michael’s first birthday party. I initially wanted to have it be a large party with friends from all over, but another nasty bout of illness has been jumping between my family members and I don’t think it would be wise to host a party. So we’re keeping it small — just family — but there will be plenty of pictures, and time to celebrate with friends at a later, less infectious date.

I’ve also been taking time to intentionally think about the upcoming year. Many people like to choose a word at the beginning of the new year: a word to guide their intentions and help them navigate the coming months. I haven’t chosen a word for 2023, but I do have a topic that at the forefront of my mind, and that I will be holding close as I navigate whatever the year brings:

Repair.

Last year, for me, the brokenness of the world felt stark and unavoidable. Wherever we looked, it seemed like we — and everyone we loved — were encountering this brokenness on deeply personal levels, with death or illness or grief or pain or all of the above. As a coping mechanism, I turned to making and found a joy I cannot describe, but still long to share with everyone around me.

Somewhere along the line, we as a society lost our appreciation for the magic of fiber arts. Clothing in particular has become something consumable instead of something precious. Over the past few decades, we’ve seen the quality of clothing decline, the norm now cheap polyester with a short lifespan instead of garments that last years.

When you put your own labor into a garment, you realize that the end product is something precious instead of something disposable. This has brought me to a new appreciation of a lost art: mending.

Our society has forgotten the beauty of repair. When a button falls off or a seam rips, we tend to treat the item as ruined instead of fixing it. Instead of seeing things as valuable, we see them as consumable and replaceable. It’s easier to dispose of something instead of invest in it.

I owe the seeds of these realizations to the sisters who wrote Mending Life, my new favorite book on mending. Not only does it teach practical steps for mending garments, it also offers beautiful thoughts and meditations on the practice of mending and how it can change both us and the world around us. They also have an excellent Etsy shop with gorgeous prints, stickers, and zines.

In their book, they talk about mending as an act of healing. I used to hesitate to mend my garments. Patches are obvious, and I’m not a skilled seamstress so they never look quite perfect. Plus, it’s easy to go out and buy new jeans instead of taking the time to patch an old pair. But their discussion of mending as healing transformed patches in my mind. Instead of being unkempt, they’re now a physical manifestation of brokenness made whole. They’re an opportunity for art.

The practice of repair is applicable to all facets of life, not just clothing. People and relationships have also fallen victim to the disposable mindset, with “cancel culture” being one example. People are precious — when mistakes are made, feelings hurt, or relationships are broken, often it’s worth the time and energy and dignity of repair.

I’ve found the practice of repair especially important as a parent. As I stepped into motherhood, my own flaws and brokenness became even more glaringly apparent. My favorite book on parenting, The Power of Showing Up, talks about the importance of repair in a different sense. The authors Daniel Siegel and Tina Payne Bryson are under no delusions: they know parents will fail their children. We will yell, or snap, or make the wrong decision, or fail to meet our child’s needs. It will happen, no matter how hard we try to be perfect. The important thing is how we respond after we have failed our children: we apologize. We reconnect. We communicate. We repair.

Embracing mending fosters a lifestyle that embraces our brokenness and also embraces making things whole again, whether through fabric and thread or repentance and forgiveness.

Mending helps us answer the question: what can we do when faced with the brokenness of the world? We transform our suffering into something beautiful. We trim the fraying edges, thread our needles with our most beautiful thread, and take the hole or rip or tear and make it into something beautiful.

the adventures of 2023 (so far)

/ Rachel Fenton / 4 Comments

New Year’s Eve was a fun-filled evening of games and cocktails and dancing with my siblings and some friends. We laughed and played games while the storm outside pounded against the windows. Our power flickered a few times, and then finally by 9:30 pm, it went out completely. We continued our party by candlelight and Bluetooth speaker. Even when it was still out after our midnight countdown and most of our guests had left or crashed on the couch, we were unperturbed. We assumed it would be back on by the morning.

We assumed wrongly.

On New Year’s Day we woke to find a huge branch from our neighbor’s eucalyptus tree blocking the driveway. Thankfully we could get around it through my parents’ driveway, so we got in the car to try to make it to church, but after our third time being rerouted due to flooding, we turned back and went home.

Michael enjoying himself in the Starbucks parking lot

We got warm food and coffee from the Starbucks a few miles away from home and decided to wait it out until our power had been restored. My dad and Jake cut the fallen eucalyptus branch so we could move it, and we could hear chainsaws and generators being used up and down the street as others did the same with the debris from the storm.

In the mid-afternoon, we went for a walk around the block to assess the damage. The new year definitely began with a bang: that bang was the sound of a tree taking out the power for our entire block.

The freeway was cleared later that afternoon (so thankfully our guests could return home), but the damage from the storm was more serious than we’d realized. The flooding we had seen from our car on our attempted trip to church was just the beginning.

My sister snapped these from the car window later in the day when the freeway had been cleared

We layered up against the chill and ate soup all together for dinner.

The candlelight was cozy and warm, even though our cottage temperature had dropped into the 50s. Jake and I played card games after Michael fell asleep, and I knit a little by candlelight with a glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, despite the unexpected inconvenience.

By the morning of January 2nd, there still was no update on when our power would be restored. Thankfully we have gas stoves, so cooking hasn’t been an issue, and we have been sporadically sharing generators to keep our fridges cold enough to preserve our food. The real complicating factor is water. All three houses on the property have wells with electric pumps, so without power, we have no running water.

We spent most of Monday running errands since our home temperature had continued to drop into the low 50s and we have a wriggly little boy who doesn’t enjoy wearing layers.

Enjoying breakfast at Black Bear Diner

We decided to stop by my favorite used bookstore. I picked up some board books, a set of Beatrix Potter books, and a set of A.A. Milne Winnie the Pooh books for Michael. For myself I got some incredible vintage knitting books by Barbara Walker and some Agatha Christie mysteries. It looks like tonight we will be reading by candlelight as the storm continues.

Because of the fallen trees and the severity of the flooding, our county declared a state of emergency and the power company’s work crews are spread thin as they repair all the damage done by the storm. As of writing this, we still have no estimated restoration for our power.

If anything, this adventure has strengthened my resolve to turn our small cottage into a more self-sufficient homestead. But for now, we press on, make a list of all the things we’d like to have ready for next time, and do the best with what we have.

Prayers appreciated as we navigate this adventure!