Plain Values Magazine | July 2023

How We Got Here

P U BL ISHE R

In 2012, the Miller family began a monthly print magazine stemming from a simple discussion about how to share stories of mission and ministry work with their Amish community. Marlin and Lisa have adopted all four of their children. Their oldest is on the Autism spectrum, the two in the middle both have Down syndrome, and their youngest has Mosaic Down syndrome. Plain Values magazine was crafted out of the desire to create a faith centered simple living magazine for the whole family.

Over the years, the magazine has grown as readers across the nation outside of the Amish community have become subscribers. Plain Values has a curated group of monthly writers including Joel Salatin, Rory Feek, Melissa K. Norris, Ferree Hardy, Shawn and Beth Dougherty, Dr. Theron Hutton, and Wendy Cunningham—among others—to bring forth a magazine hearkening back to the days of neighbors having deep connections to their roots and deep conversations on the front porch. A portion of each subscription goes directly to Room to Bloom, our non-profit that supports children with special needs around the world.

SA L E S A DV ISO R

Marlin Miller Matt Yoder SA L E S A DV ISO R

Aaron Stutzman SA L E S A DV ISO R

Chris Conant Q UA L IT Y A SSU RA N C E / BO O K K EEP I NG

Sabrina Schlabach P RO DU C T IO N M A N AG E R

Isaac Hershberger M U LT I- M E DIA P RO DU C T IO N

Seth Yoder AU G U ST A D C LO SE

July 7, 2023

WR IT E R – CO N F E SSIO N S O F A ST EWAR D

Joel Salatin WR IT E R – RO OTS + WIN GS

Rory Feek

Join us for Porch Time!

Stop by on the third Friday of each month. Enjoy a cup of coffee or tea, sit on the porch, and visit for a while. We'd love to get to know you! We're located in the heart of Winesburg, Ohio—just down the street from the church.

WR IT E R – T HE G RA N DFAT HE R EFFEC T

Brian Dahlen

Friday, July 21 1:00pm – 4:00pm

WR IT E RS – T HE RO U N DTA BL E

Ivan Keim & Jerry D. Miller WR IT E R – HO M E ST E A D L IV IN G

Melissa K. Norris WR IT E R – C U LT IVAT IN G HE A LT H

Dr. Theron Hutton WR IT E RS – T HE HE A L IN G L A N D

Shawn & Beth Dougherty WR IT E R – T HE WIDOWS PAT H

Ferree Hardy WR IT E R – HO N E ST CO N V E RSAT I O NS

Wendy Cunningham WR IT E R – SE RV IN G O U R N E IG H B O R

Elaine Tomski CO N T R IBU T IN G P HOTO G RA PH ERS Millpond Photography Aaron David Thomas Elliott Lopes

Plain Values is published monthly by Plain Target Marketing, LLC. Please contact us with any questions.

A DDR E SS

P.O. Box 201, 2106 Main Street Winesburg, OH 44690 P HO N E

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E M A IL This publication and its contents are © 2023, Plain Target Marketing, LLC. Individual copyrighted items, trademarks, etc. contained within are the property of their respective copyright holders. No part of this publication may be reproduced or redistributed by any means without authorization from the publisher. Publisher is not responsible for advertisers’ offers, products, or services, and publication neither expresses nor implies an endorsement.

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contents

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July 2023 // Issue 121 THE COMMUNITY ISSUE

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CONFESSIONS OF A STEWARD I'm Depending on You

ROOTS + WINGS Yours, Mine, and Ours

COLUMN BY: JOEL SALATIN

COLUMN BY: RORY FEEK

Of all vocations, farming is one of the loneliest. Alone with our thoughts and our work, farmers often have better relationships with their tractors and animals than people. Let's change that.

"Life is meant to be shared ... choose to play an active part in your own community. You’ll ultimately find friends and meaningful relationships that you would’ve otherwise missed out on."

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CULTIVATING HEALTH Functional Medicine

THE HEALING LAND Community Inter-Dependence Day

COLUMN BY: DR. THERON HUTTON

COLUMN BY: SHAWN & BETH DOUGHERTY

Dr. Theron Hutton is our newest columnist. Otherwise known as Dr. Homestead, Theron writes this inaugural article to give some background to his unique approach to health.

July Fourth is an important day in Shawn & Beth's village. The park is full of strangers as well as neighbors, and the lines in front of the two village ice cream stands are backed up for miles.

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ON THE COVER Dr. Theron Hutton, founder and medical director of Mulberry Clinic, along with four of his children—well, five... if you count the furry one who couldn't bear to be left out of the photo. photo © Aaron David Thomas

Room to Bloom Report One Minute with Marlin The Grandfather Effect: Part Five The Pieces of Stephanie Fast: Part One

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THE ROUNDTABLE Amish Insights on: Family Life

HOMESTEAD LIVING Cows and Community

COLUMN BY: IVAN KEIM & JERRY D. MILLER

COLUMN BY: MELISSA K. NORRIS

Now more than ever, the world is full of notions that distract us from what matters most. With so many things in life demanding our attention, how do you keep family a priority?

Want to get to know people in your community and neighborhood? Melissa suggests an out-of-the-box idea: get a cow—at least two. They are herd animals after all.

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THE WIDOWS PATH Do You Wish You Knew the Future?

HONEST CONVERSATIONS WITH WENDY Set Apart

COLUMN BY: FERREE HARDY

COLUMN BY: WENDY CUNNINGHAM

The future we plan for ourselves is tenuous at best. We have no guarantees except the never-changing ones from Jesus: God is love; God is good; He cares for you.

"These endeavors can be godly, but the devil aims high. He has his eye on people who are uprooting their lives and becoming more independent. We have to be intentional about staying connected."

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One Minute with Marlin THE BOOTH SPACE WAS DONE, set up, and ready for the coming weekend. It was the Homestead Festival on Rory Feek’s farm in Tennessee, and five thousand people would be there the following morning.

“Our house burned down a couple days ago.” Shawn’s words didn’t register.

I think I said something like, “Wait, what?”

He repeated the same and then added that no one was hurt, and the clothes they were wearing came from a fifteen-minute scurry through a local thrift store. Shawn and Beth Dougherty lost pretty much everything in a fire two days before they traveled to Tennessee. Their house is

a total loss and will have to be torn down and rebuilt. I felt shocked to see them states away from their home setting up their booth and preparing their speaking sessions in order to honor the commitment they had made. What a testament!

Rory Feek kicked off a fundraiser to rebuild their home by giving them a generous amount and then passing bushel baskets and buckets through the crowd. People tossed in money and a fundraising platform online was created as a place for anyone anywhere to contribute. It was powerful and they met the estimated funding goal in about two weeks’ time. As we all know, projects often require more than initially expected.

Shawn and Beth have been writing for Plain Values for a long time. They are family and we’d like to continue to support them as they rebuild their home. While most of their earthly possessions have been lost, they have their family and the memories of all the times in and around their home to hold onto. If you want to send money, send it here. If you can give your time and skills, let us know as we will be taking a load of guys to help as soon as they are ready. It goes without saying, but please pray for the entire Dougherty family as they walk a very bumpy section of life’s road.

As always, may you find joy in the simple things. //

MARLIN MILLER publisher, always looking for more friends

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Confessions of a Steward JOEL SALATIN

WORDS BY:

i'm Depending on you OF ALL VOCATIONS, farming is one of the loneliest. Alone with our thoughts and our work, farmers often have better relationships with their tractors and animals than people. At least animals are always glad to see you. And tractors don’t talk back.

Because most of us farmers own our land independently, spend most of our time by ourselves, and usually don’t answer to a boss, we often become insular and too individualistic. Unable or unwilling to pay for advice or labor, we wrestle inefficiently with things others are more gifted to handle.

I understand. Farmers are frugal. We have to be. But like any other project or business, all the gifts and talents necessary for success don’t grow on the same pair of legs. Teams usually accomplish far more than individuals because we need counterparts; sidekicks; partners.

One of God’s first provisions for man was woman. Adam needed a partner, and marriage is as foundational to functional society as any institution in the human sphere. Even Jesus didn’t go it alone; He had disciples.

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photo by Millpond Photography

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Unfortunately, the common historical agrarian work parties seldom exist today. Threshing rings, fall hog killings, making hay either loose or in small square bales: these activities have been replaced by machines or centralized processing plants.

Routinely, new farmers and homesteaders ask me about growing their own grain for their chickens or developing their own seed stock in cattle. Or buying all their own equipment. Like Ecclesiastes, a time and place exists for all these things, but chances are you’ll be stronger cultivating mutual interdependence than trying to be completely independent. Leveraging other people’s infrastructure and skills can free you up to focus more of your energy on things in which you excel.

That said, I like as much self-reliance as possible—within reason. For example, I like a home garden, but I happen to be really skilled at growing and marketing pastured chickens. In the time it would take me to grow two bushels of green beans and can them for the winter, I could undoubtedly grow and sell $200 worth of chicken. Why not

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forget the garden, grow the chicken, and buy green beans from someone who doesn’t grow chickens?

Sometimes what makes pure economic sense doesn’t fit well with my psyche. I admit to not being a pure capitalist. I like seeing my own green beans in the garden. I grow green beans even though a financial advisor or business consultant would dissuade me from it. We need to give ourselves room to do things that don’t make pure economic sense.

But let’s take a different example: hauling cattle. For many years, I resisted the temptation to buy a cattle trailer and a truck nice enough to pull it. I only needed it a half-dozen times each year, and neighbors with nice rigs were more than willing to earn a few extra bucks to help defray expenses on their own underutilized outfits. As our farm grew and we began hauling animals more routinely, coordinating with others became a hassle and we now have our own rig. But with a thousand head of cattle and hundreds of hogs, we do a lot of hauling.

For years we didn’t have a front-end loader, but we had a neighbor who worked cheap. Most

"...you’ll be stronger cultivating mutual interdependence than trying to be completely independent." farmers aren’t used to earning money anyway, so I could hire him a couple of days a year to clean out the barn and it only cost $200. I got both his equipment and his expertise in the bargain. Eventually, our farm began handling hundreds—if not thousands—of tons of compost and material, and we purchased our own tractor and front-end loader.

Today we still use a couple of local cattle haulers to keep us from having to do all the running. Although it costs us to pay their mileage fees, these fellows do a some important things for us in the community. First, they haul for many other farmers and have their pulse on who has what. A couple of times we’ve helped elderly aging-out farmers cash out by purchasing their small cow herd. We keep the cows out of the sale barn, give the farmer a better price, and bring the cows to our place for several months to fatten them. Then we burger or hot dog them to add to our direct market portfolio.

These quiet deals happen because we have an excellent relationship with our haulers. They are eyes and ears to opportunities we’d never know about otherwise. The other thing these haulers do is protect our reputation in the community. Since we don’t vaccinate and medicate or hang out down at conventional farming haunts like the chemical fertilizer supplier or the USDA offices, many local farmers have a dim view of our practices.

As these haulers shoot the breeze with other farmers, our name often comes up in a disparaging way. Fiercely loyal to us as good customers, our haulers defend us and tell these naysayers who have heard what they’ve heard and know what they know that they’ve hauled our cattle and they look pretty good. You can’t buy that kind of public relations equity.

Perhaps the best personal example of mutual interdependence for me occurred a couple of decades ago when Teresa (my wife) and I finally had enough PLAIN VALUES

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wiggle room financially to pay Jiffy Lube to change the oil in our car. I had always done my own auto lubrication but didn’t enjoy it. I dreaded that 5,000mile mark that meant jacking up the car, changing the oil, greasing the drive train, and checking all the fluids. Few things warm my heart like remembering the first time I felt financially capable of driving into Jiffy Lube for an oil change.

While those technicians do their work, I can call customers, write articles like this, or catch up on some reading. After that first time, I’ve never changed the oil since. To be sure, I know folks whose favorite Saturday pastime is piddling around on their car. Tinkering with this, adjusting that. I can’t imagine anything more torturous. Chances are, those kinds of folks would do well to let neighbors know they’ll gladly tinker. That’s how friendships develop.

One of the most common questions people ask me is, “Does your farm grow its own feed for the chickens and pigs?” Our farm lost three feet of topsoil growing grains; it’s a hill farm undergirded with shale. Besides, we don’t have the equipment or knowhow. But we have neighbors on lower land with deep soils who enjoy growing grain, and they’re good at it. They have equipment. We patronize them by paying extra for non-GMO (Genetically Modified Organism) grain; they make more money; we keep hundreds of acres out of GMO adulteration; we don’t send money to Russia but keep it all in the neighborhood; we have a secure and steady supply of grain less susceptible to geo-political vicissitudes. What’s not to love?

I remember well back in the 1980s when we were first starting out and poor as church mice. We decided to home-slaughter our beef and take the carcasses to the custom butcher for fabrication—all to save money. Dad and I worked hard for three days, doing two steers a day. We used a block and tackle off a big limb in a maple tree in the backyard to pull the carcasses up for skinning and gutting. A chainsaw lubed with mineral oil enabled us to cut them in half. Each day we’d load four halves into a big metal stock tank in the back of a pickup truck and run them over to the butcher’s, about a two-hour round trip.

Did I say it took us three days to slaughter the six steers? At the time, I was selling firewood for $100 a load that took me roughly 5 hours to cut, load, and 14

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deliver. If your math is the same as mine, that’s a return of $20 per hour, minus gas. Dad and I were spending 10 hours (2 men X 5 hours apiece) slaughtering two steers and hauling them to the butcher. If our time was worth $20 an hour (gas is the same for the firewood), we figured we needed to save at least $200 to make it worthwhile, or $600 on the 6 steers.

The next year we were still short on money but even shorter on time due to firewood sales. We decided to take the steers to the butcher and let them do the kill too. We hauled all six in one trip and watched in utter amazement as this fatherson butcher team dispatched all of them in two hours and charged us a total of $180. Based on our math, it cost us $600 to do the same thing. Dad looked at me and winked, “I guess we found out we can’t compete.”

Those kinds of revelations come from sleuthing and trial and error. Over time, if we’re open to collaborations and partnerships, we find what business calls our “unfair advantage.” At the time, I could cut and load firewood faster than probably anyone in the county. That was my unfair advantage. Staying in my niche and paying others

to do the butchering prospered both of us; that’s the beauty of mutual interdependence.

Today, we don’t farrow pigs. Instead, we’ve cultivated half a dozen folks in the area who sell us piggies. They don't direct market or want visitors— who might be hurt by a protective sow. We direct market and want visitors. These farrowers are happy to have a steady market for their piggies and we’re happy to have a steady supply. They don’t have to deal with customers, and we don’t have to deal with sows.

If we’re intentional about our activities, all of us develop a team. Some members are paid and others aren’t, but cultivating a team is the best crop you can grow. As we each fill our area of passion and expertise, we bring to the table our best, and that makes our service beneficial for all. Ultimately, we’re not alone; we’re part of a team. //

Joel's Upcoming Speaking Events June 30–July 1

Kootenai County, ID (Modern Homesteading Conference)

July 17–18

Swoope, VA (Polyface Intensive Discovery Seminar)

July 21–22

Swoope, VA (Polyface Intensive Discovery Seminar)

What Would You Like Joel to Write About?

July 28–29

Lancaster, PA (Family Farm Day)

August 4–5

Swoope, VA (Polyface Intensive Discovery Seminar)

August 17–19

Swoope, VA (Bio-Fert Seminar with Jairo)

August 25–26

Marshfield, MO (Ozarks Homesteading Expo)

Joel is always looking for reader suggestions on which topics to cover. Please email all suggestions to: reachout@plainvalues.com

September 7

Columbia, South America (Expo Agrofuturo Medellin)

September 12

Victoria, TX (Victoria College Lyceum)

Sept. 30–Oct. 1

Wheeling, WV (The Vineyard Church)

October 7

Greenville, SC (Farm Where You Live Fair)

October 13–14

Front Royal, VA (Homesteaders of America)

October 15–16

Camden, TN (The Self Reliance Festival)

October 21–22

Indianapolis, IN (Indiana Homestead Conference)

Joel co-owns, with his family, Polyface Farm in Swoope, Virginia. When he’s not on the road speaking, he’s at home on the farm, keeping the callouses on his hands and dirt under his fingernails, mentoring young people, inspiring visitors, and promoting local, regenerative food and farming systems.

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words by:

Yours, Mine, and Ours July 2023

“As much as there is a desire to be more self-sufficient in homesteading, there is just as much of a need to rely on our neighbors and be an integral part of the community we’re in…”

– rory feek

rory feek

MY NEPHEW MIKEL, who works with me every day here at the farm, has an eighteen-month-old boy named Theo. Since Mikel’s last name is Hunt, and the baby’s full name is Theodore Bear … you can imagine how much we all love seeing little “Teddy Bear” Hunt stop by. He’s as cute as can be and is a welcome addition to a family tree that already has a few wild limbs growing here and there.

Like a lot of families in this day and age, Mikel’s is a blended family.

When he and his wife Hannah married a few years ago, he brought with him his now-six-year-old daughter Olivia, and Hannah brought her nowsixteen-year-old daughter Annabelle. So now with little Theo, theirs is a world of yours, mine, and ours in every way possible.

One recent Saturday morning, Mikel came and processed the meat birds he’d been raising and brought his wife Hannah along. I offered to help, especially since it was Hannah’s first time. As we all stood at the table working, talking, and laughing, it reminded me of the “yours, mine, and ours” philosophy that I’ve been trying hard to put into practice here at our farm and in our community for the last couple of years. Doing my best to make available things that we have here that could be a blessing to someone else—being aware of things that others have that could be a blessing to us—and at times going in together on things that can be a blessing for the whole community.

Having lived here on our farm for nearly 24 years now, I am aware of how easy it is these days to do life separately from those around me, and I’ve been thinking a lot the last few years about

Rory Feek is a world-class storyteller, songwriter, filmmaker, and New York Times best-selling author. As a musical artist, Rory is one-half of the Grammy-award-winning duo, Joey+Rory. He and his wife Joey toured the world and sold nearly a million records before her untimely passing in March 2016.

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community. About the disintegration of community in our lives. How in times past, we used to need each other more. Rely on each other. We not only lived next to each other, we did life together. Life is meant to be shared, and when you set yourself up to play a part in a community, you ultimately find friends and meaningful relationships that you would’ve missed out on.

In today’s big-box retail world of Home Depot, Lowe’s, and stores similar to them, the goal is to encourage every family and every home to purchase all the things they need and not be dependent on others. To fill each and every house, barn, and garage in America full of the same things. And most of us have bought into that philosophy, whether we realize it or not. That might be the best thing for their bottom lines, but it’s not the best thing for us as people.

Like most other folks who spend a good bit of their time and lives homesteading, I have a desire to be more self-sufficient. But at the same time, I also have a strong desire to be deeply connected to the community I’m part of. To do that, I think it’s important for us to need them and, hopefully, they need us too. Sometimes it’s challenging for our egos to ask, “Would you give me a hand with this?” or “Could I borrow that?” And in exchange, want them to ask us the same things.

I believe we are blessed to be a blessing to others.

And so, for me, if there’s something I have that can be helpful for someone else, that’s what it’s here for.

I’ve found that when it comes to making big, or even smaller purchases, the first thought I think is, “Can this be a blessing for more than just me and my family?”

A year or two ago, when we bought the plucker, scalder, cones, and other supplies from the company Featherman and built a chicken processing room here at the farm, our goal was to not only create a place where we can process the meat birds that we grow here but also provide a place where neighbors and friends can come and process their birds too. And since then, many have either come to do just that at our place or borrowed the plucker or other items and taken them to where they’re doing their processing.

Honestly, we knew that what we built was more than we needed, but we also knew it was an opportunity to invest in the needs of our community.

Last year when our friend Jim, whose farm is a few miles from ours, bought a skid-steer (something we desperately need from time to time at our place), he

"Remember, life is meant to be shared, and when you set yourself up and choose to play an active part in your own community, you’ll ultimately find friends and meaningful relationships that you would’ve otherwise missed out on."

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Rory and Hannah processing chickens

said, "What if you guys buy the big trailer needed to haul it, and you can use my skid-steer when you need it, and I’ll use the trailer when I need it?” And so that’s just what we did—and it’s worked out perfectly for both of us.

As we continue to pay attention, we keep seeing and finding new opportunities that come up where we can put this idea in place. For example: if our neighbors have some equipment or a wood shop that we can come use when we need it, in return, they come and use what we have. We’ve recently started working on creating a full auto shop in the bus barn where we can do a lot of the maintenance on our vehicles. We’ll have a place with a car lift, and it will be a blessing not just for us, but for the neighbors around us too.

So, look around your garage, barn, or house and consider letting your neighbors know what you have that could be a blessing to them. And since you already have it, ask them to consider borrowing yours instead of buying one. You’ll be surprised at how, when you open your doors to others, they will, in turn, begin to think the same way and open the same doors to you.

Remember, life is meant to be shared, and when you set yourself up and choose to play an active part in your own community, you’ll ultimately find friends and meaningful relationships that you would’ve otherwise missed out on. //

rory PLAIN VALUES JULY 2023

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PART FIVE

CONCLUSION

Special thanks to Brian Dahlen and Moody Radio for allowing us to share this series with our readers.

WORDS BY: BRIAN DAHLEN

Last month, Brian Dahlen met with his uncle and cousins whom he hadn’t been in contact with for over a decade. Much to his surprise, they didn’t even know about the disownment. He left their conversation with three new issues to resolve: 1) Was his grandfather truly a narcissist who didn’t care to ask about his family? 2) Could his grandfather’s Alzheimer's have played a role in the disownment? 3) Was it too late to heal the broken relationship between his dad and uncle?

THERE'S ONLY ONE MORE PERSON that could give me any sort of concrete, firsthand information about my grandpa, and he is the oldest living relative in my family— my dad’s only living cousin, Marshall Junior. My great-grandfather Oscar Henry Dahlen had two sons: Marshall and Thomas. Marshall is my great-uncle, and Thomas is my grandfather, the one who disowned us over a birthday card. Grandpa Tom had two sons—Tom Jr. and Bill, my dad. Great-Uncle Marshall had two sons as well—Robert and Marshall Jr. Sadly, Robert passed away a number of years ago. But Marshall Jr. is still living, so that makes him the only other person who would have any intimate knowledge of my grandfather.

Marshall Jr. agreed to meet with my brother and me while I was in Minnesota.

Even though none of us had ever met, it didn’t take long to get comfortable. He’s a very young and sharp 80.

Brian: “How much do you know about Oscar?”

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Marshall Jr.: “He was 50 years old when he passed away. He was very young … And Helen [his wife] lived much longer. She lived in Seattle and in ‘78, Helen moved back here … died at the age of 93. We had her over to the house; lovely lady. A stoic German woman.

Brian: “So not much emotion?”

Marshall Jr.: “She may have had it, but she didn’t show a lot of emotion.”

Could that be a clue into my grandfather’s personality? Was he a product of his stoic, non-emotive mother? Maybe. But at the same time, Marshall shared something about my great-grandfather and my family legacy that makes me immensely proud.

Marshall Jr.: “His label business became what I have been told to be the seventh largest label company in the world. I went to work there when I was younger, and I had been taught by people who had worked for my grandfather. The thing we did there was [we] treated them like family. My grandfather, during the depression, kept them working … It was a family business run for all the employees as a family.”

Brian's dad, Bill, with Marshall Jr. and his brother, Tom

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Brian: “So was he taking a loss of sorts during that season, just to keep people working, to care for them?”

Marshall Jr.: “Yeah, that’s what he did. He did all of that to keep people working.”

Brian: “That shows a compassionate heart there.”

My great-grandfather treated his employees like family. And in an act of overwhelming generosity and love, took a financial loss during the depression and started another business just to be sure his employees were cared for.

[My grandfather’s dad] was a man of generosity and character. And based upon what I just learned, those qualities were passed along to his son Marshall Sr., and his grandson Marshall Jr. Doesn’t that make you wonder: Why didn’t my grandfather get those qualities?

I decided it was time to start finding out what Marshall Jr. remembers about my Grandpa Tom. Marshall Jr: “I would describe my dad as flamboyant and your grandfather as being more quiet and methodical … I always shot from the hip, and he shot from the calculator.”

Quiet. Methodical. Introverted. Focused on detail.

Never shot from the hip.

However, my dad’s cousin added a brand-new layer to the disownment mystery.

Marshall Jr.: “The two families didn’t meet a lot together. When your grandmother Betty died, it became a different kind of situation for some reason or other. I think Betty’s passing was the end of the family get-togethers. Betty was just the nicest lady I can remember … Your grandfather changed a lot when Betty passed away … he just became very quiet.”

I had to ask about the disownment. I did my best to explain what transpired and as I wrapped up, I gently asked for his take.

Marshall Jr.: “Apparently, Tom was [beginning with] Alzheimer’s disease … and I think that may have been part of what Tom was going through.”

But how could this be? Is it even medically possible for someone to show signs of dementia in the late 1970s, and then live all the way until 1992?

My friend Dr. David Fisher is a family physician and geriatrician in Durham, North Carolina. He works regularly with Alzheimer’s patients in his practice, so I figured he’d have some answers.

Brian to Dr. David Fisher: “What, medically, is Alzheimer’s?”

Dr. Fisher: “Alzheimer’s disease is one type of dementia, a cognitive impairment that impairs one’s ability to function daily. It starts with memory and cognitive processing … people become more forgetful and have more difficulty with daily tasks like driving and cooking … but then it also starts to impact other functions, even the ability to walk, eat, and use the bathroom.”

Brian: “Does it affect personality in any way?”

Dr. Fisher: “The trend that I tend to see is one of two things: One reaction is to act out and be belligerent.

Another reaction is to just withdraw from the world. By definition, they become less and less self-aware … the short-term memory is really affected.”

Brian: “Is it possible [Grandpa Tom] could've, because of Alzheimer’s, missed two birthdays?”

Dr. Fisher: “I would say that is very possible …

"I wanted this to be some sort of easy answer. I laughed thinking ‘Hey, it would be great if he was just a jerk,’ because then I could dismiss it … but it seems much more complicated than that..." [it’s] very possible that played a leading role in what happened … someone who once was good at a particular activity or particular routine now suddenly ‘misfiring’ … that is the earliest sign of Alzheimer’s disease … it can be small subtle things like missing a birthday.”

Brian: “Is it even possible though, if he passed away in ‘92 of the disease, that possibly 10 years earlier, you would see signs of this?”

Dr. Fisher: “Sure … there’s a wide variation in terms of the progression.”

Brian: “Is it possible that he even forgot that my dad sent him a letter?”

Dr. Fisher: “Yeah, I can’t rule out the possibility … that he couldn’t process everything that was being said in the letter. Sometimes the response to not being able to fully process something is to lash out or withdraw. Maybe this was just such a difficult thing for him to comprehend, he just didn’t know what to do.”

In order to sort all this out, it was time for outside expertise. My dear friend and mentor, Nancy Kane, is a professor, author, and licensed clinical counselor. She graciously agreed [to a] pro-bono counseling session, of sorts.

Brian: “So what’s your overall reaction?”

Nancy: “I kept wondering why everyone didn’t address the elephant in the room. Why was there a cutoff and why was there this obvious unknown incident? I got the impression that your dad hadn’t been in a whole lot of contact with his brother and that somehow was ok. As well, the reverse, your uncle

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having this resentment towards his brother and him saying ‘My bad,’ but clearly it wasn’t bad enough for him to do something about it.”

Brian: “Can you psychoanalyze my grandpa yet?”

Nancy: “Well, I think he was probably emotionally shut down. Apart from the Alzheimer's, the way they were describing him—very detailed and organized, whereas his brother was more flamboyant … it’s not uncommon in family systems to play a certain role. It sounds like he picked up on the role of being responsible, detailed, [and] organized but within all of that not having a whole lot of [affection] … How do you get close to someone who doesn’t have a whole lot of emotional wherewithal? You can’t. It’s like bonding with a computer.”

Brian: “How does one become that way?”

Nancy: “It was probably related to his attachment— or lack of attachment—to his mother. Because we learn our emotional well-being and sense of vibrancy, emotionally, from that first bonding with our parents, specifically our mother. But if there is some breakdown in attachment, then the child will go to a shutdown place … Withdrawal in a relationship is just as violent as open hostility.”

Brian: “I wanted this to be some sort of easy answer. I laughed thinking ‘Hey, it would be great if he was just a jerk,’ because then I could dismiss it … but it seems much more complicated than that, and I’ve walked away with maybe more questions than answers. So how do I process through this as a follower of Christ who is looking to find forgiveness and peace and love?”

Nancy: “The question still begs, ‘What will you need to be able to let the pain go and to really forgive?’ … God will never override our choices to not love, to not care, to numb ourselves and turn away from Him in our own selfishness. So, with your grandpa, it really is a complex situation … Was he a jerk? No, but he also chose not to love in a way that was radical or meaningful. That’s very significant. It’s just dressed up in a way that doesn’t look so violent.”

It feels to me like I set out to find answers about why my grandfather disowned me. I find myself with more questions, and now, with more convictions. My eyes feel opened to the realities of mental illness and

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"So, what does all this mean about my grandfather?

About me? Maybe this journey wasn’t the Spirit pushing me toward clarity but toward conviction.

Maybe the story wasn't about my grandfather at all, maybe it was about me. About all of us."

generational patterns. In talking to Dr. Fisher about Alzheimer’s, my heart is broken in how that could have played a role in my grandfather’s life. Since talking with Nancy Kane, I realize that other issues are at play here—issues I am the victim of and the perpetrator of in a long lineage of familial mess. So, what does all this mean about my grandfather? About me? Maybe this journey wasn’t the Spirit pushing me toward clarity but toward conviction. Maybe the story wasn't about my grandfather at all. Maybe it was about me.

About all of us.

How does this particular story end?

I gathered the rough drafts of all the episodes, and let my parents digest it.

Brian’s mom: “We were both listening to it separately, and we both finished it about the same time, and we both cried. We felt just awful. We didn’t know they [Brian’s Uncle Tom] needed help. I felt awful that we didn’t know that their dad [Grandpa Tom] had been having memory problems for many years. I’ve listened to it three times now. And the second time I listened to it; I was angry. I was angry because I heard something the second time that I didn’t hear the first time … when Tom said that he kept the girls away from you kids and our family because of his unhappiness, his anger at your dad. I was also angry because I hope

that if we had known, that if he [Grandpa Tom] was having so many memory issues, that we wouldn’t have made such a big deal out of the birthday stuff that started everything. And the third time I listened to it; it just made me sad because it made me think of all the years that were wasted because we didn’t know.”

Brian: “I was shocked that your dad never once asked about you—or us—in those 10 years. When you found that out, Dad, what was your reaction to that?”

Brian’s Dad: “In a way I wasn’t surprised … but obviously it seems way out of the norm to not ask about your grandchildren … you look back and see there were a lot of mistakes that I made … in retrospect, I should have called shortly after that [incident] when we got no reaction and more often than that subsequently. There is no good answer…”

In fairy tales, people live happily ever after. But real life isn’t exclusively like any of that—as my family story clearly indicates. The Christian life doesn’t allow us to escape the realities of sin. The generational consequences of brokenness. The uncertainty of human relationships. Much of life is unresolved. Sure, there are periods of intense joy and sorrow, but none of us can escape unanswered questions and unresolved pain. That’s why I’m grateful for Jesus. Following Him enables me to have hope and peace in the midst of life’s struggles. His life, death, and resurrection over two thousand years ago invite us to endure a tumultuous life with the promise of an ending far beyond what we could imagine or deserve. //

Brian Dahlen became a Cleveland morning show host after working at Moody Radio in Chicago as a radio host, producer, and co-host of a weekly podcast. Brian caught the radio bug while teaching history at a public high school near Minneapolis, where he was co-host and producer of a weekly radio program. After teaching six years and graduating with a master’s degree in education, Brian lives with his wife and five children in Broadview Heights, Ohio. For more information on Brian and The Grandfather Effect, visit www.moodyradio.org/grandfather.

This has been a condensed re-telling of Brian Dahlen’s podcast, The Grandfather Effect. To listen to the full story, we encourage you to find The Grandfather Effect on your favorite podcast platform.

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AMISH INSIGHTS ON: FAMILY LIFE

This Month's Question: With so many things in life demanding our attention, how do you keep family a priority?

Answered by:

Ivan Keim & Jerry D. Miller

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Ivan: Much is said these days about “Family Time.”

What comes to mind is some far-off vacation spot where we can unplug and spend time with the family.

Sometimes we tend to forget that the time we spend with our family every day is our best opportunity to create family time.

I grew up on a farm where there was always plenty to keep us occupied. At a young age, we all have the tendency to fantasize about other opportunities “out there.” I would dream of being Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, or some other young lad that “had it made.” At the time not realizing that these would be the moments that would be tomorrow’s memories.

We were all part of the daily routine on the farm.

Each morning we would groggily pull ourselves out of bed after being awakened by Dad from the bottom of the stairs. We headed to the barn, where we were greeted by the clanging of the milk cans being prepared to receive the morning's harvest. The cows munched on the feed that was set before them to appease them while we sat next to them extracting their milk by hand.

Every morning and evening this process would be duplicated, all while the conversation flowed from one person to the next. Anything from plans for the day to the most recent happenings in the community.

We were sharing life together. The cows needed to be milked morning and evening, and because we were

doing it by hand, we needed all available persons. Dad would milk the wild heifer that would try at every angle to kick the bucket of milk and get rid of this person who was intruding into her life—which had been pretty easy up to now.

At eight to ten years old, us younger children would get to try our hand at milking. With our little straw hats perched atop our noggins, milk stool in one hand, and the stainless-steel milk pail in the other, we would nervously sit down next to old Dolly. She was the cow that would usher us into the milking world.

She patiently munched away at her feed seemingly unaware that somebody had sat down next to her.

Occasionally she would swat at a fly with her tail, accidentally swishing our hats off our heads.

While the rest of the family labored away in the cow stable, the younger siblings were attending to their own chores. They fed milk to the hungry calf.

The rabbit hutch behind the barn housed “their” rabbits. They would keep an eye on Mama Rabbit because soon she would have a nest full of bunnies.

The younger sister had her own little milk stool that she would perch atop in the middle of the cow stable.

Her feet barely touched the floor while she played with the barn cats. The little kitty enjoys rubbing around the bottom of her legs, all the time purring her happy tune.

Occasionally she would get up and push the youngest

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member of the family on the baby swing that was mounted from the barn beam.

This is FAMILY TIME. We are all together, and we are accomplishing LIFE together. We can get a feeling of satisfaction as another day is completed. The local YMCA or ball field cannot bring meaning and fulfillment to us like life on the farm (or homestead) can bring.

Even though we may not get together every morning and evening to milk the cows, we still have lots of opportunities to spend time on the homestead with our family. We can work together in the garden, pick strawberries, cut firewood, forage for morels, butcher chickens, the list could go on and on. This week it was time to move the cows to another pasture. One of the children was rolling up the electric fence while the others were extracting posts from the ground. The same process happened in reverse as we installed the fence in the new area. Oh, the look of accomplishment on our daughter’s face when she was able to use the pipe post pounder to drive in the iron posts. She wrestled the pipe over the post and brought it down with full force, inching the post into the ground. We were doing an ordinary project, but we were having fun because we were learning new things, and we were together as a family.

One of our daughter’s friends remarked that it sounds like you have a lot of fun at home. Her reply was, “Yes, we have fun, but it is a lot of work.” Homesteading is not easy, but the good far outweighs the bad as we have family time together.

At the end of the day, we can wind down on the front porch with a cool glass of milk and watch the sun descend behind the tree line. We are thankful for another day that we could spend with the people that we love, doing the things that we love, and enjoying the nature that was created by a God who loves us.

He created His earth, plants, and animals for us to dress and keep, while in turn, it provides food for our nourishment.

Jerry: The word “priority” came into the English language in the 1400s. According to author Greg McKeown, who wrote the book Essentialism, it remained exactly that until the 1960s when computers lit the scene, and the word became plural. I’m talking about a singular priority, but we now are bigger than life and can have multiple priorities. When the CEO in a company meeting talks of priority 1, priority 2, priority 3, and so on, this gives the impression of many things being priority but actually means nothing is. So it is with the word “multitasking” which first appeared in a 1965 report from IBM describing the abilities of its most recent computer. The word now gets thrown around freely with the idea that, if you can’t multitask, you are a real dunce—which would be fine, but in reality, the human brain is not wired to multitask.

In a 2003 study, it was found that the typical person checks his email every 5 minutes. On average it takes 64 seconds to resume the previous task after checking your email. In other words, because of email, a person wastes one out of every six minutes. This, in the business world, is called the switching cost. The disruption in performance as we switch from one task to another sounds like redeeming the time, does it not? We'd do very well to simply accept Jesus’ teaching when He said, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.”1 The myth of multitasking is exactly that. A myth.

Yes, I know a busy young mother who is harried and harassed with school children, preschoolers, and a baby on the hip gets the feeling she just doesn’t reach around, but let's always remember, if we seek first, the rest of life falls into place. I have a sneaking suspicion that the same sincerity we as adults use in serving our God, a young child senses simply in the way a busy parent relates to him or her. Remember, the Lord does not demand perfection, He demands sincerity or genuineness. It has been said the only thing a person can take to Heaven is his children. In the light

About Ivan and Jerry Ivan, Emma, and their four children live on a 12-acre homestead where they strive to raise as much of their own food as possible. Each year they have a large garden, harvest from their orchard, use raw milk from their own cow, and process chicken, turkey, beef, and pigs for their freezers. Ivan is a minister in the local Amish community. He builds tiny homes and animal shelters for a living. His models can be seen on tinyhomeliving.com or by calling 330-852-8800.

Jerry and Gloria Miller, along with their six children, operate Gloria’s home farm, a 173-acre organic dairy. They milk between 60 and 70 cows with a few small cottage industries supplementing the farm income. Jerry is a deacon in his local Amish church. Questions and comments can be directed to Jerry at 330-600-7481.

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"Homesteading is not easy, but the good far outweighs the bad as we have family time together."

– Ivan Keim

of eternity, many of the things we deem so important tend to recede. No, the house doesn’t always have to be tip-top, and the fences can wait to be mowed.

I am reminded of an incident that happened years ago to me as a young father. We were visiting a neighboring district for church, and our son Kevin, who was 3 years old at the time, was struggling mightily with behaving in church. Three times I stepped outside to try and convince him that behaving was in his best interest. After church, one of the ministers—an older fellow for whom I had a high regard—stepped up to me, laid a huge work-calloused hand on my shoulder, and said, “I want to give you some advice.” I braced myself for some deep theological revelation. He simply said, “Jerry, whatever you do, don’t give up.” Possibly the best advice I ever received. Twelve years later, Kevin died in a farm accident. In the ensuing weeks, so many times I thought of those words: Don’t ever give up.

Yes, this life with its many responsibilities pulls us in many different directions. Yet, our genuineness in serving God shines through to our families, and they don’t demand perfection—only sincerity. //

Submit Your Questions!

If there's a question you'd like The Roundtable to answer, email it to: reachout@plainvalues.com or mail it to: The Roundtable, P.O. Box 201 Winesburg, OH 44690

1) Matthew 6:33 PLAIN VALUES

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WORDS BY:

Melissa K. Norris

Homestead Living COWS AND COMMUNITY

WANT TO GET TO KNOW PEOPLE in your community and neighborhood?

Get a cow—at least two. They are herd animals after all.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m quite serious. There has been nothing like cattle to introduce us to new people in our neighborhood, despite having lived here for over forty-two years.

I have lived my entire life on the same road. My grandparents settled here in the 1940s, coming from the gaps and hollers of North Carolina’s Appalachians.

I can tell you the history of every house on our road, who lived there before the current inhabitants, and sometimes when it was built and the original founders. To say my roots go deep here is an understatement.

Yet, many of those homes are no longer filled with the families who lived there when I was a child. Family farms have been sold (we bought one of them last year which you read about in last month’s column), and people have moved in from all different walks of life.

With the closure of our small local gas and grocery store five years ago, you no longer run into folks in common places. More and more people tend to keep to themselves.

Sadly, the small church on our road has stood empty without a congregation or pastor for over a decade.

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While it seems I’m painting a dire picture for community even in rural areas, I’d argue we’ve never been better-timed to cultivate and strengthen community.

People are hungry for community. It’s the reason we see online communities growing by leaps and bounds; it’s easy to find people who align with your already prescribed belief and value system.

Community is a feeling of belonging. Traditionally it’s defined by geographical proximity or by similar interests, attitudes, and beliefs.

Online communities can be incredible, especially if you don’t have a local source for information, support, or encouragement. It’s one of the most powerful aspects of my online membership, the Pioneering Today Academy. Our private community forum is sometimes the only place folks have to be among likeminded people.

It’s also why we see the need for and growth of inperson conferences, such as the Modern Homesteading Conference. These are all good, but there is something about creating and finding community where you live.

Not everyone in your neighborhood will want to

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homestead or grow a garden. They won’t have the same political or religious views as you.

They don’t have to for you to create community.

Everyone wants to feel they’re doing their best for their families. This looks different for everyone to some degree. But if you focus on that, you’ll find you have more in common with your neighbor than you think.

While some of my neighbors raise cattle, many do not. And no one has had a milk cow on our road for decades.

But when the bull we were borrowing hopped the fence last summer, I met a neighbor I’d never met before. He kindly let me know my cows had come calling to his yard and even showed me where they’d busted through the barbwire fence.

As we tracked down said bull (he had a hankering for some new lady loves), other neighbors came out to help us direct him back to his home pastures.

Last spring, we brought home our first milk cow.

After a few weeks, I quickly realized I could not keep up with the gallons of milk she produced each day, even with cheese making. We put the word out that if anyone wanted fresh raw milk, we could help them out.

Lo and behold, neighbors who had lived on our road for twenty years pulled into the driveway to introduce themselves and inquire about the milk.

Sadly, as many of you know, we lost Clover this winter due to a breech birth. But even in her death, she cultivated another layer of community.

While we were trying to save her, I put out on my Facebook page a desperate call for hip clamps. From the next town over, a recently opened dairy farm that was new to the area saw my plea. She showed up, in the dark, at night, to a stranger’s house with hip clamps in tow.

She ended up helping us pull the calf (saving the calf’s life) and helped me with Clover, even though sadly it didn’t end up saving her.

We now meet once a week for Bible study and I’m able to get raw milk from her while we decide when and if we’re ready for another milk cow.

Many of my relationships inside my community I can track back to a cow.

While I firmly believe they’re an excellent way to go, the real moral of this story is that community doesn’t just happen.

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With the cow, it provided a way for interactions to happen.

Community has to be cultivated, and sometimes it takes someone stepping out first in order to make that happen.

It’s the old adage, “Do unto others what you would have done for you.”

I would rather teach someone how to raise their own food, from poultry to cattle to fruits, vegetables, and herbs, not only because I know how much better that food is for them, but I also know the immense spiritual and mental benefits we get when farming.

The truth is, not everyone wants to learn or cares to do it.

I can still serve those people. I can still create opportunities for them to enjoy the fruits of the labor.

It’s why we raise more than what we can consume and offer it to our neighbors. Some will take you up on it, and some won’t.

Be prepared for rejection.

But also be prepared for some friendships and interactions with folks you didn’t even know lived by you OR would be interested.

Last week a neighbor’s two cows, bull, and one pig got out. The entire end of the road was out helping to round them back up. I ended up meeting another new person and, between herding cows and a pig, learned he was looking to start up a mobile butchering unit. By the end of chasing the dairy bull for several hours, we were all wishing he had it set up now if truth be told.

It set the stage for future discussions and pulling together as a community.

Community can come in many different ways and places. We have to be willing to invest in them and, sometimes, to start them. //

Blessings and Mason jars,

Melissa Melissa K. Norris is a 5th generation homesteader who married a city boy … but that city boy quickly became a country boy and turned into a bonafide farmer when they moved to Melissa's family property. With their two children, they believe in keeping the old ways alive. She is an author, blogger, and podcaster. Learn more by visiting: www.melissaknorris.com.

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Low-Sugar Cherry Jam without Pectin

Yield: 3 pints or 6 jelly jars

This jam is one of our favorites. It's delicious inside homemade pop tarts, biscuits, toast, or stirred into yogurt. Invite neighbors for cherry picking or deliver a jar as a way to open a conversation and hopefully, a community!

Ingredients •

• •

6 cups sweet cherries (any variety of sweet cherry will work; if using sour or pie cherries, increase sugar to taste) 2½ to 3 cups sugar (depending on how sweet your cherries are and your preference) 6 tablespoons bottled lemon juice

Instructions 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Prepare a water-bath or steam canner, jars, lids, and bands.

Wash, remove stems, and pit cherries. Roughly chop up cherries.

Place chopped cherries in a large stockpot. Add ½ cup water to cherries. Bring to a boil and allow to simmer for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. You’ll see the cherries begin to break down and thicken.

Stir in sugar and lemon juice, mixing well. Bring to a full rolling boil, stirring constantly. Sugar will scorch quickly if not kept moving. Boil, uncovered, until thick, about 10 minutes, and test for set or gel.

Cherry jam is not meant to be extremely thick.

Remove from heat and pour into hot clean jars.

Wipe rims with a damp towel; put on lids and bands. Submerge in a water-bath or steam canner and process for 15 minutes.

Take off heat and let sit for 5 minutes before moving to a folded towel. Let sit for 24 hours before checking seals on jars. Then store in a cool, dark place for up to a year. If any jars didn’t set, store in fridge.

Altitude adjustments: 1,001' to 3,000'—processing time + 5 minutes, 3,001' to 6,000'—processing time + 10 minutes, over 6,001'—processing time + 15 minutes

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WORDS BY:

Dr. Theron Hutton

Functional Medicine IT WAS A DRIZZLY MONDAY morning at our sixtyfive-acre farm south of Nashville. Our seven young children were already up and descending on the kitchen needing help to start a busy day. I had a packed patient schedule at my new medical practice, and my first patient would be ready in 45 minutes. I rolled over, fumbled for my phone, and called my nurse to tell her we had a problem. I could not get out of bed.

I did a system check. Fever? No. Headache? No. I could breathe just fine. I didn’t have the flu or other illness I could put my finger on. “I never get sick,” I thought. What was wrong with me?

This was about two years after we had our sixth child, who had been conceived while we were serving as missionaries in Uganda. Early on in pregnancy, after several alarming events and an ultrasound that alerted us to potential concerns, we journeyed the five hours into the capital city for further investigations.

Several more scans and discussions with specialists back in the U.S. gave strong indications that our son might have an extra chromosome and a Down Syndrome diagnosis. With that news, the eight of us packed some essential things into a few plastic trunks and said rushed goodbyes to neighbors we had grown to love. We booked a 24-hour flight to Nashville and took off back to our old home into a future of uncertainty. photos by Aaron David Thomas and Elliott Lopes

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Our son, Caleb, was born seven months later in Tennessee. He would spend the first six months of his life in and out of the ICU, enduring several major surgeries, and surviving a serious infection and two episodes of heart stoppage. He was kept alive through several tubes with around-the-clock efforts that, on more than one occasion, saved his fragile but extraordinary life.

This began a season in my life that is still somewhat difficult to recount. At some point, I returned to Uganda with our oldest child to pack up all the things we had left behind and bring them back to Tennessee.

Suddenly, we needed to build a life here.

As I am sure is the case with most people, a few defining events shifted the trajectory of my life. That minute, that phone call, that news, which alters the perspective of everything.

I needed a job and started working at a local hospital, performing clinic hours as a family doctor and moonlighting shifts in the ER. At times, I would receive heart-wrenching calls from the hospital to hear that Caleb had stopped breathing. I waited anxiously for news and breathed with relief when I was told that he was alive. All of this while trying to manage a busy home on a farm with our other young children.

As I lay in bed that Monday morning, not sure what was wrong, I remembered my father commenting to me recently that I needed rest—a conclusion he had no doubt drawn from the obvious stress of our multiple and rapid unforeseen transitions. At the time, I heard him but wasn’t convinced. I was healthy, a former stand-out athlete who worked out every morning at 5 a.m. I was a physician and knew how to stay well.

Surely he was mistaken. It had to be something else.

Over the next several months I visited several physician colleagues who, though sympathetic, could not point out anything specific that could be blamed for my ailing body. I lost nearly 40 pounds.

My once athletic 210-pound frame had shriveled to an unrecognizable 170-pound shell. I was dragging myself to work, often leaving early to go home and sleep. My thoughts spiraled downward. “How is this happening? How will I keep up with all I have to do?”

I felt isolated. I withdrew from friends and family as I imagined they wanted no part of this. Despite living in

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a full house and always being with people, I felt alone.

During this time of difficulty, I remember sitting across from my patients in the examination room quizzing them as they unpacked their own story of health and how it remained elusive for them. What I soon realized was that, as I asked them questions to try to understand what was happening for them and in them, I was seeing glimpses of my own reality. The questions I was asking them I was also asking myself.

I began, over time, to gain a greater understanding of the impact of the symptoms they described and the cause of their disease.

Thankfully, after learning of my trouble, a friend of mine referred me to his wife, Dr. Jill, a medical doctor and expert in something called functional medicine. She called me as I was on the way home from a meeting. I pulled over into the parking lot of a local Baptist church, and she talked to me for as long as I needed. She was kind, compassionate, and thorough. She asked me all the typical medical interview questions, but then she dove deeper. She inquired about my lifestyle. How was my stress?

Had I had any traumatic experiences recently? Was I working too hard? After about an hour on the phone, we said goodbye, and I thanked her for her time. I sat for a while longer and reflected on this conversation, the talks I had with my patients recently, and what my father had said a few months earlier. Were they more right than I imagined? Maybe I was sick because of my lifestyle and circumstances. I then decided that things had to change. I decided to start with me.

I educated myself on nutrition, supplements, and natural remedies. I realized that I needed different foods to fuel my body. I found out how to source these locally and even learned to grow many of them

"Maybe I was sick because of my lifestyle and circumstances.

I then decided that things had to change. I decided to start with me."

"...another day may come when I have trouble getting out of bed again—but I won’t try to do it alone." myself. I spent more time nurturing and reconnecting relationships that were supportive of my well-being. I started counseling. I began to take seriously my need for rest. I remembered the Sabbath and rededicated my efforts to keep it. I worked to listen to the story I was telling myself about my life. I started to ask the bigger questions.

I started getting better.

Inspired by the conversation with my friend’s wife, I signed up for a functional medicine training course. I mustered enough energy to fly to Arizona and began my own training in functional medicine. I learned more about this type of medical approach. I became dedicated to practicing medicine and living my own life in a way that honors the whole person and sees and acknowledges the mind, body, and soul connection.

Soon my practice began to change. I became more attentive to the deeper issues of my patients. I was asking how their heart was doing, not just medically, but emotionally. Initially this was uncomfortable for me, and my patients would respond with shock and surprise. Then tears would come. “No one has asked me that. No one has listened to me,” many would say as they reached for a box of tissues. I started listening to my patients as they told me about the state of their minds. Together we began to see and understand the connection between what we think and believe and how we feel. We were learning together.

“Is this all in my head, Doc?” became a daily question. I explained that there is a connection between the mind and the body that is too often ignored at our own peril. If we want to work toward healing and what that means in any illness and circumstance, what is happening in the body is symptomatic. When we address it holistically, we treat the body in a way

that respects and responds to the person. I was seeing healing firsthand in a way I had not expected.

As a Christian, I had a vague notion that wholeness and healing should come as broken relationships were repaired and restored. I was seeing this bear out over and over again in my own life and in the lives of my patients.

As I continued to gain a better understanding of why we get sick and how we can heal, things began to change. In my own life I continued to heal. I regained my energy and strength. I was prioritizing relationships with friends and family. I was practicing gratitude more. I was cultivating my relationship with food and nurturing my environment. I planted a garden. And the more I nurtured these relationships, the healthier I got.

And as I continued to learn and incorporate this into my life and medical practice, everything got healthier.

As my practice became healthier, it got bigger. It turns out that healthy things grow.

I now have a bustling medical practice on Main Street where we have 15 staff helping thousands of neighbors work to restore health by repairing broken relationships. As you can imagine, our practice looks different. We focus on nurturing those relationships in our lives that are essential for health and wholeness.

We walk with our patients as they explore the story they are telling themselves. We talk about lifestyle, nutrition, and healthy habits first.

Personally, I am continuing to become more intentional about healthy disciplines and practices in my life. Caleb and the other children are thriving and doing well. I know I still have a long way to go, and I continue on this life-long journey of wholeness. I won’t do it perfectly, and another day may come when I have trouble getting out of bed again—but I won’t try to do it alone. //

Dr. Hutton lives near Nashville, Tennessee. There he raises his 8 children, vegetables, and animals on his 65 acre farm. He opened a primary care clinic nearly a decade ago where he as his staff practice relational and functional primary care. He loves learning and teaching about all things health. His blog and other content may be found at www.lifeatmulberry.com.

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WORDS BY:

Shawn & Beth Dougherty

Community Inter-Dependence Day JULY FOURTH IS AN IMPORTANT DAY in our village. We always say Hinton has the best fireworks display in the valley, and people come from all over to watch. The park is full of strangers as well as neighbors, and the lines in front of the two village ice cream stands are backed up for miles.

It’s a big event.

Weaving through the crowds until we find a place among our friends on the already-crowded park benches, we can finally slow down and take a deep breath. What with all the holiday preparations, as well as the ordinary farm chores, it has been a busy day. And since community picnics wouldn’t be complete without our molasses ginger cake, we really had to prepare ahead.

Sour cream must be started days before you are going to need it.

In July heat, milk clabbers overnight, but cream takes longer to reach the perfect thickness for baking and to develop its rich, tart flavor. We started ours last week to make sure of being ready. Churning butter in warm weather is a different kind of challenge since warm cream makes slick, soft butter, unsuitable for cake-making. So, we get up early in the morning on churning days to take advantage of the cool temperatures that settle into our hollow overnight. It all works.

The Barnyard Halfway through mixing up the ginger cake, we find that the egg basket is empty. That means a trip down the hill to the hen house to gather eggs. Beowulf, our farm dog and self-appointed escort and guardian, trots ahead of us along the narrow creekside trail, protecting us, we suppose, from any fierce, man-eating frogs and chipmunks that might be around. No one needs to teach Beowulf

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what community means; he’s just naturally involved in whatever is going on.

Really, all the farm animals are like that. Passing through the barn, we stop to admire a litter of kittens nesting in the manger where last winter the sheep were fed. The grey tabby curls purring around four tiny blobs of pink, white, and grey, her eyes yellow slits of contentment. Our young heifer, Pansy, snuffs them loudly, her eyes wide and alarmed, but Delphinium, the old black Jersey, is all benevolence, interested in a grandmotherly sort of way.

Under the manger, a cochin banty hen is sitting on thirteen brown eggs—not her own, but from our Rhode Island Red flock. Banties are better mothers than most chickens, so we let them do all the hatching on the farm. It’s amusing to see a banty hen surrounded by half-grown chicks bigger than she is, but still identifying her as ‘mother.’ Even chick-raising is really a community effort.

The Farm The cake in the oven at last, we set to work finishing chores before we head for the village to join the celebration. Sheep and heifers are moved forward on their hillside pasture; chickens are fed their afternoon scratch, and eggs are collected. The three pigs in the barn are slopped early, with an extra bucket of whey to

celebrate the holiday. The four dairy cows are milked and taken back to pasture, mamas plodding sedately, their calves racing in mad circles around them.

A lemon-cream-and-powdered-sugar glaze puts the finishing touch on our picnic offering. The flowered platter it rests on was great-grandmother Mary’s, and it’s not without some trepidation that we see it go out the door; but Grandma would have wanted to be a part of our festival, so we just say a prayer that it will make it home, and let it go.

The Park The streets are full of cars, bicycles, and folks on foot all headed down to the riverside to get as close as possible to the high school stadium where the fireworks will be set off. The village fire trucks shoulder their way through the throng still draped in the banners they wore for this morning’s parade, their diesel engines grumbling and muttering. Now they’re all about business, stationing themselves strategically in case of fire. Better to be safe than sorry.

Andrew, our fire chief, looks the very image of relaxation as he tosses a softball with his four-year-old.

Big, strong, slow, he’d remind you of a sleepy bear— until something goes wrong. Seeing him helping his wife Bethany in their garden, you’d never guess how fast he can move in an emergency.

"Community feeling is powerful ... six years and ‘a day that will live in infamy’ later, those same strikers and lawmen lined up together..."

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Tim and Caroline join us carrying matching green folding chairs with John Deere logos. Tim is recovering well after his bypass surgery, and many friends stop to say how glad they are that our village mechanic will be back at work keeping our vehicles running.

Tim is usually at the Methodist church on the Fourth of July, grilling hotdogs for the men’s group barbeque fundraiser, but this year he’s taking things a little easier.

Younger men will step up to lead.

The Village Like Tim and Caroline, and Andrew and Bethany, most of the village folk have been here for generations.

Hinton came into being more than one hundred and fifty years ago when it was just a whistle-stop for steamboats plying goods to farms up and down the river. Then there were the boom years, when the pipe works employed four hundred men and brought a brief prosperity. Back then, Hinton had a racecourse and an opera house, and divas came on sternwheelers from Pittsburgh and sang for crowds.

It wasn’t always peaceful. One or two of our oldest folks can just remember the pipe works riot of 1935, when violence broke out between union strikers and law enforcement, and six men were shot, one fatally. Community feeling is powerful, though; six years and ‘a day that will live in infamy’ later, those same strikers and lawmen lined up together to volunteer in defense of the country they all called ‘home.’ What we have in common turns out to be more important than our differences.

Today the pipe works is gone, and the park where we are sitting, where neighbors gather for fireworks or to walk their dogs on wooded trails, has taken its place.

Pyramids of clay tile still lurk in the underbrush where they have lain all the decades since the kilns were idled. Children play hide-and-seek where their greatgrandfathers defended their rights as they saw them.

The People Cakes are sliced, desserts passed around among the crowded benches and tents. The ginger cake is

its usual success. Dusk settles over the village, and, right on schedule, the first rocket bursts in a golden fountain against the darkened sky. Children breathe a wonder-struck ‘ahh.’ At the high school stadium, the band begins to play. It’s like this every year.

Our future looks uncertain. Everywhere we see institutions we’ve always counted on, crumbling.

Even at the very highest levels of our country, even in our churches, truths we thought could never be in doubt are being questioned—truths we have fought wars to defend.

But the fireworks we set off tonight celebrate more than a revolution, more than any merely human principles. They celebrate the spirit that built these farms, this village, the spirit that defended those truths; and sitting here now, among these people, on this soil, we’re surrounded by hope. //

Shawn and Beth Dougherty live in eastern Ohio, where their home farm is 17-acres designated by the state as "not suitable for agriculture." Using grass as the primary source of energy, they raise dairy and beef cows, sheep, farm-fed hogs, and a variety of poultry, producing most of their food, and feed, on the farm. They are also the authors of The Independent Farmstead, published by Chelsea Green Pub.

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WORDS BY:

Ferree Hardy

do you wish you knew

the Future?

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THE SUMMER BEFORE my first husband Bruce died, we took a rare walk down the street behind our house. Just as rarely, we talked about our future instead of the usual concerns involving our children or the church Bruce pastored. The setting sun cast long shadows and golden rays as it neared the tree-lined horizon. The air was calm and light, and so were we. This was just a leisurely stroll after supper.

We wondered out loud, “What lay ahead for us?” Bruce had been pastoring Riverview Church in Novelty, Ohio, for almost seven years. He’d pastored two other churches before coming here. In each one, at the six or seven year mark, it just happened that another church would ask him to come to them. Would we sense God’s calling and be moving on to a different church once again?

Our roots were settled deep with this congregation. When we were first married, they called Bruce to be their first youth pastor. Now he was back as their senior pastor. The teenagers we’d loved so much when he was the youth pastor were young adults now—marrying and starting their own families. I taught their children in Sunday School and Children’s Church. Our own children were teenagers, involved in the church youth group, baseball, and a variety of school events. We’d purchased a home. Life was good.

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I had even given notice at my full-time job that I’d be leaving at the end of the year, or as soon as we could find and train my replacement. I was looking forward to being a full-time mother and wife. Staying home would be a huge—but welcomed—change.

Yet, we both sensed that there was something more—that a deeper level of change was out there.

What was it, and how should we prepare? We were blissfully, and blessedly, unaware of the brain aneurism that waited ahead in the dead of winter.

When I interviewed Marlin and Sharon Beachy for their story* last month, they told me something that I didn’t have room to include then, but it’s fitting for today.

They said, “We don’t want to know the future.” I agreed wholeheartedly, and we had a great conversation. Isn’t it better to live each day as if it’s our last? Life is precious; the people in it are precious. If we knew our “expiration date,” it might consume us with anxiety; some of us might cower and hide. Or if we had plenty of years left, we might squander the here and now.

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"Isn’t it better to live each day as if it’s our last? Life is precious; the people in it are precious. If we knew our 'expiration date,' it might consume us with anxiety..."

I wish you’d been in on our talk. What thoughts would you have added? Why not share this article with your community of friends, neighbors, and family and hear what they have to say? I’d love to hear from you too, so please feel free to contact me. My address is at the end of this column. I can learn from you; this is an important topic for your input and perspective.

But let’s continue the walk from those many years ago. After some moments of silence, Bruce and I came to the end of the street. Dried grass and wildflowers— Queen Anne’s Lace, the papery blue flowers on chicory, and the deep brown seeds clinging to stems of curled dock brushed lightly as we turned and headed back home. As our house came into view, so did the plan.

Almost simultaneously we agreed: the next thing we were to do was to “get the house ready.” That was all we needed to know. Whether Bruce was called to a new pastorate and we’d need to sell, or whether we’d stay in this lovely place long enough to see grandchildren running through the living room, “get the house ready,” was a good directive. Innocently, I just thought we’d strip off the old wallpaper and give the walls a fresh coat of paint.

Years later, at lunch with a group of widows in Charlotte, North Carolina, I mentioned this rather mysterious incident. My widowed community gave me the crystal clear meaning of “get the house ready.”

Without hesitation, one of the women gasped, “Set your house in order!” She was referring to the Old Testament story of King Hezekiah being told by the prophet Isaiah that his death was imminent. “In those days Hezekiah was sick and near death. And Isaiah the prophet, the son of Amoz, went to him and said to him, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Set your house in order, for you shall die, and not live.’” (2 Kings 20:1 NKJV)

Looking back, I realize that, although we never connected our plan with Hezekiah’s at the time, God did give us what we needed to know that day. Months later, the day after Bruce died, a carpenter and a designer both knocked on my door. They had no way of knowing what had happened the night before, and they were there for the appointment we’d made to help us “get the house ready.” I was numbed by shock and grief, so I asked them to come in and get started! Awkward and unnerving as that must have been, they did.

Over the next weeks as wallpaper was stripped, the floors redone, and everything was a mess, it pictured perfectly what was happening to my life. My life was being stripped; my footing would never look the same. I understood a bit more of Jesus’ work as a carpenter, and of God’s work as my designer. I don’t want to make light of how painful it was, but widowhood was a fresh coat of paint, new flooring, and much more storage space in my heart.

My community of Plain Values readers, widowed friends, and The Divine Carpenter and Perfect Designer continually gives me cohesion, order, and peace. The wisdom of widows is a priceless perspective. Make sure you see, acknowledge, and consult the widows in your community today. And, like Marlin and Sharon Beachy also told me, “It’s the grace of God that we don’t know the future … Do not dwell on IF your loved one might die. Instead, love them to the fullest.”

The future we plan for ourselves is tenuous at best.

We have no guarantees except the never-changing ones from Jesus: God is love, God is good, He cares for you … Therefore, He has the full authority to tell us, “Do not worry about tomorrow...” Matthew 6:34 (NKJV). // Let's rest our future in God's hands,

ferree l

* See “When A Phone Call Marks the Darkest Night,” Plain Values, June 2023.

To learn more about widowhood, order a copy of Postcards from the Widows’ Path—Gleaning Hope and Purpose from the Book of Ruth. It’s a gentle, biblical guide for widows that has many saying, “This is the best I’ve ever read!” Mail a check for $14.99/copy (paperback, 248 pgs.), along with your address to: Ferree Hardy, 76 Grace Ave., Ticonderoga, NY 12883. Please allow 2-3 weeks for delivery. Free shipping for all Plain Values readers!

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WORDS BY:

Wendy Cunningham

Honest Conversations with Wendy S ET A PART WE'RE RUINING EVERYTHING. Humans. Have you noticed?

When thinking of farming, you might picture thousands of acres, crop dusters, and giant green tractors. Maybe you conjure up images of a perfectly Pinterest-ed red barn with a white X on well-greased rolling barn doors. Perhaps we have forgotten that until recently—in the grand scheme of humanity—farms were intimate family affairs. Men didn’t leave for work in the morning. Well, they didn’t leave the farm anyway. Food was grown, harvested, and shared locally. The burden was heavy, but the gratification was high. Oh, and I’m certain the barns were rugged and well-used, but not pretty.

What about school? When you think of school, you might imagine yellow buses, lines of kids following teachers like ducklings, or hundreds of yelling students crammed around lunch tables. But the public school system is a new phenomenon. It’s one gigantic experiment. One that’s failing to provide the promised value if you ask me. A one-room schoolhouse with multiple grades mixed together—older students teaching younger students—and a teacher selected by the community is more familiar to generations before us. That, or perhaps homeschool—learning from mom around the chores of a busy life on a homestead.

How about church? When I hear that word, huge, blocky buildings come to mind— buildings that look nothing like the steepled architectural specimens of European postcards. I fear it’s become more about the coffee bar in the lobby and less about the Holy Spirit in the congregation. Many of us have fallen into the routine of three songs, announcements, message, lunch. Repeat. In so many cases, church has become sterile, void of life. Another box to check.

"In so many cases, church has become sterile, void of life. Another box to check."

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"We moved to a homestead to become more self-sustaining and to be reminded of where food comes from, to be reconnected to the sacrifices involved."

My husband is a real estate agent, and we’ve become aware of a movement happening in this country. People are going “back to the land.” They’re coming from all over the country—mainly they’re fleeing coastal cities and states that shall not be named—and they’re flooding into places like Texas and Tennessee where we live. I can’t tell you how many couples I’ve met here in the last two years have moved to Middle Tennessee for no other reason than God told them to.

We jokingly say that we’re here for “the thing” God is going to do.

And yet, as we become aware of the potential errors of modernized civilization—thousand-acre farms in place of homesteads, public school in exchange for homeschool, and giant religious organizations as opposed to community churches— we are trying to restore some of what God might have always intended for His people. I, for one, have been intentionally choosing to go “backward.” We moved to a homestead to become more self-sustaining and to be reminded of where food comes from, to be reconnected to the sacrifices involved. After one year in public school, we opted to follow God’s prompting and now homeschool our children. And in place of a cookie-cutter (read comfortable and familiar) church, we sought out a spirit-filled, alive congregation with challenging truth coming from the pulpit. And although I knew I was closer to what God had for our family, I still felt something was missing.

These pursuits can be very isolating. And I, an introvert, had fallen into the trap.

In both the modern way of doing things as well as the “new old way,” we’ve forgotten the most important ingredient God always intended to be included…

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Community.

My husband used to work for a farmer. He drove a tractor across long expanses of row crops for twelve hours a day. I’m not kidding when I say he would set an alarm on his phone to wake him up when he was about to reach the edge of the field to turn the tractor around.

He would spend an entire day alone, never seeing another person. The farmer (not always the owner of the land) took out a huge loan each year, and it was on him to bring the harvest—financial and otherwise. The work, the risk, and the reward were not shared. Even when another farmer was doing the exact same thing a few miles down the road.

When we’re in school, our test results, our grades, and our essays are our own. Everyone hates group projects because we either don’t know how to delegate, or we feel most comfortable getting things done ourselves. It never fails that one person in a group will carry an unequal amount of the assignment. We haven’t learned the value of shared work and shared accomplishment. It’s not taught.

Sharing answers is cheating.

And of course, church; just because we may sit in a room full of people does not automatically mean we’re in a community. I fully understand and appreciate the appeal of an overly large congregation. There is a peace to slipping into the back row a few minutes late and not feeling pressured to socialize after the fact. And who will really miss us if we don’t come at all, right?

God created us to need each other.

When I started to homestead, the first thing I did was find the people in my area who were doing it too. As a matter of fact, after a recent homesteading conference, a few lady friends and I have formed a group where our families will pick one day a month to collectively visit each other’s homesteads to work on a bigger project. We all need help sometimes, but how often do we ask? What I’ve learned the hard way is there are just not enough hands on the farm or hours in the day to accomplish all that needs to be done. I joke with my friends that when you get married you have a bridal shower, when you have a baby there is a baby shower, and when you move to a homestead, there should be a farm shower. I’m coming to understand why people had

"These endeavors can be godly, but the devil aims high. He has his eye on this movement, these people that are uprooting their lives ... and becoming more independent. We have got to be intentional about staying connected." more children in the past, and why multi-generational living is a critical part of life in most countries.

People need people.

In our case, we’ve even gone so far as to recruit dear friends to possibly buy some of our land and build on it so we might work together toward a shared vision. Why would we have separate gardens, meat herds, dairy cows, and egg layers when we could share the yoke and benefit of a collective result? Many hands make light work. And the same is true in most circumstances.

I thank God every day for my friend Ashley who became my homeschool mom mentor as I began the journey. She didn’t mean to be. She surely didn’t volunteer for the role, but she and her kids became my people in a season when I desperately needed support. And even now, I know my kids can easily become isolated in the workload of a farm and the schedule (or lack) of a homeschooler. We need co-ops, sports, friends, and playdates. I have formed a field trip group that meets twice a month. We learn, play, and grow together. It’s an important part of development— learning how to be in community, learning how to solve conflict.

At our church, although we have two campuses, and there are thousands of people who attend over many services, we understand the value of intimate community groups. Twice a month we get together with a small number of families, and we break bread, catch up, and “do life together” in a real way. We pray together. And I mean we share vulnerably, cry, and lay hands on one another, firmly believing for miracles to manifest among us.

Community doesn’t happen by accident.

These endeavors can be godly, but the devil aims high. He has his eye on this movement, these people

that are uprooting their lives, breaking free of traditional “norms,” and becoming more independent. We have got to be intentional about staying connected.

Satan wants the focus to be on the independence.

And it can easily become an idol.

Vulnerability is never easy, but it is required to establish community. Community can be messy, but it’s necessary to steward and share God’s gifts and blessings well. I do believe God is calling His people to an old way. We’re not supposed to do things the world’s way. We can see it’s broken—more and more every day— but we’re not meant to be separated from each other.

It’s when we unite that we can truly be set apart. // ~ until next month, Wendy

Wendy Cunningham is wife to Tom and homeschool mom to three amazing gifts from God. In addition to that calling, she is an entrepreneur and author. Her book What If You’re Wrong?, blog, and devotionals can be found at gainingmyperspective.com. She is also host of the podcast Gaining My Perspective. Wendy loves Jesus and inspiring people to step into their calling—whatever that might look like in this season. When she’s not working, writing, traveling, or podcasting, she can be found homesteading and chasing kids and cows on her farm in Middle Tennessee.

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THE PIECES OF

STEPHANIE FAST PART ONE: SEEKING HOPE

WORDS BY: Elaine Tomski

“Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch your hand against the anger of my foes, with your right hand you save me. The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O LORD, endures forever— do not abandon the works of your hands."

PSALM 138:7-8 NIV

LIKE EVERY CHILD, Stephanie was born imprinted with the image of God. Perfect. Complete. The sweet baby felt secure in her momma’s arms. But too soon, her life would fall to pieces.

Near the end of the Korean War, Stephanie’s unwed mother brought disgrace to her South Korean family. Korean babies were born with black hair, but Stephanie’s was lighter. Korean babies had straight hair, but hers lay in curls. The father Stephanie had never met was an English soldier, and she looked neither fully Korean nor Caucasian. It was evident to everyone in the village who she was. Stephanie was a tougee (pronounced two-gee), a worthless, throw-away foreign devil. The name rang in her ears and scarred Stephanie’s heart as she grew.

Stephanie and her mother lived isolated in a room off the kitchen. Her mother cried every night as the family pressured her with two choices. She could either keep Stephanie and have no life or deny her

child and remain in good standing with the family by marrying a man they chose from the neighboring village. Stephanie’s mother picked her for several years.

Then, when Stephanie was four or five years old, her momma announced, “Today, we’re going on a train ride!” “I remember that day so well,” recalls Stephanie.

“My mom dressed me in the best outfit she could find.”

She skipped along a dirt path with momma’s hand in hers. Stephanie noticed the young poplar trees planted after the war. A gentle breeze blew as the farmers worked in rice fields. “I heard the whistle before I saw the train. Eventually, we got to the station and found the train car. My mom found a seat, and when I sat down, she looked at me and said, ‘I can’t go with you.

But when you get to your destination, my brother will meet you, and he will take care of you.’”

Stephanie’s mind could not understand. Her eyes could not see her momma hidden by steam as the train pulled from the station. She leaned out the

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"A small girl could never understand why people wanted to discard her, but Stephanie lived it. One memory took her to a group of farmers who dragged her to an abandoned well at the edge of their village and threw her in." window crying, “Momma, Momma, you’ll come for me, right?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come for you.”

“That’s the last time I saw my Momma,” shares Stephanie.

When she reached her destination, Stephanie stepped off the train onto a wooden platform, where she searched each man’s face. Which one was her uncle? “I knew he would recognize me,” says Stephanie, “because I was a tougee.” She waited all day long. “As the station closed that evening, the train master came to me asking, ‘Tougee, why are you still here?’”

“I’m waiting for my uncle.”

“No one is coming for you. No one.”

That night, little Stephanie took shelter under an oxen cart leaning against the side wall of the station and opened a cloth bag her mother had given her.

She ate the rice ball, hard-boiled egg, and pickle found inside. Laying the empty bag over her head like a blanket, Stephanie cried for her momma. She lay broken with the crushing truth: She could trust no one, not even her momma.

The next day, the lost girl decided to walk back to her village following the railroad tracks. “That seemed

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like the smart, logical thing to do.” Her plan lasted a day, then a week, and eventually, Stephanie lost the rails. “I found myself in the hillsides and villages of South Korea, trying to find my way home.” Stephanie survived long, brutal winters without adequate shelter or clothing for the next two years. She endured the angry, bitter people who tried to rid their villages of a pesky, worthless tougee. Villagers and farmers grew tired of thieves—even little girls who needed to fill their empty tummies.

A small girl could never understand why people wanted to discard her, but Stephanie lived it. One memory took her to a group of farmers who dragged her to an abandoned well at the edge of their village and threw her in. Can you see the girl as she drops to the bottom? Can you hear the splash and the thrashing of arms and legs? Can you imagine her crying out only to listen to the echo of her voice? Stephanie can still close her eyes and see the horror. Thinking she would die—and not wanting to die, Stephanie gasped until she discovered a slippery rock. With all of her might, she climbed up and waited. All day long Stephanie waited.

Finally, near dusk, she heard a voice. “Little girl, are you down there?” Stephanie cried for help, then listened to the bong-bong of a metal bucket making its way down until it hit her body in the darkness.

“Can you crawl into the bucket?” asked the voice.

When the freezing, wet girl came to the top, she could see that her rescuer was a hunched-over grandma.

Stephanie says, “She grabbed me as tight as she could and ran with me through the village to the edge of town where there was a dry, warm oxen stall. She covered me with straw and said these words. ‘People have no idea who you are, but it’s very important, little girl. Listen to me. You must live!’”

A few months later, a group of farmers caught the tougee stealing to fill her tummy again. They grabbed the

Stephanie as a

fearful girl and marched her to a water wheel across the village. The men placed her face up, binding her hands above and feet below her before releasing the wheel. “I remember my face as it went under the water and as it came up, sputtering whatever was in my mouth—a second time, a third time, until I could taste blood.” The crushed stones marred Stephanie’s face until her eyes began to swell shut. “I knew I was going to die. Then all of a sudden, the wheel stopped.” She heard a kind voice say, “Girl, don’t fight me.” This farmer untied Stephanie and placed her gently on the ground. He used a soft cloth to wipe the blood and grit from her face. Then he spoke words to Stephanie, much like the old grandma had. “Little girl, these people don’t know you, but it’s so important. You must live!”

When Stephanie was seven or eight, she wandered into a large city. Stephanie saw bicycles, oxen carts, buses, and people everywhere for the first time! Around every corner, the city felt foreign to her, so Stephanie decided to find her way out. From the crowd, a teenage boy shouted, “Hey, tougee. Are you new here? Do you need a place to stay? Come with us.” From the time Stephanie boarded the train until that day, no one had invited her to join their group. So, she followed the boy

young child

to the banks of the river, where she discovered a whole village of street children. They lived in makeshift shelters created out of other people’s trash, but Stephanie found a place to belong. Each night, the children told stories around the campfire. They placed their feet close to the flames as they slept so the rats couldn’t nibble their toes. The common bond these children held was their brokenness. Eventually, the older boys began to abuse Stephanie sexually. She says, “I knew it was not right. I knew it hurt. But I wondered, is this something I must contribute to belong to the family?” She had been hoping for a place to belong since her mom placed her on that train. “I belonged, didn’t I?” Stephanie knew the answer one morning as she woke to an empty camp. Everyone was gone. No one wanted to be near the girl with cholera. Stephanie didn’t realize a cholera epidemic swept South Korea, yet she was sick. She tried to make her way back to the countryside. While wandering through the alleyways, she found an ill and abandoned younger girl. Stephanie placed the girl on her back and walked to the market to sneak food for their aching tummies. Some farmers recognized her and shouted, “It’s that tougee. We’ve got to get rid of her.” This time farmers left the two girls

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in a bombed-out building near the edge of town. The little girls were sick, starving, and dying, and grown men treated them worse than dogs. “That’s the last thing I remember,” said Stephanie. “I passed out.”

When Stephanie opened her eyes, she didn’t notice she was lying on the village garbage heap. All Stephanie saw were the most beautiful eyes staring back at her.

Could this blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman be an angel? The Swedish nurse, who came to South Korea to rescue abandoned babies, bring them back to health, and place them in an orphanage for adoption, was indeed the angel Stephanie needed. Stephanie lay dying. She was not a baby. There was no room for her at the clinic. So the nurse turned to walk away, but God stopped her feet. Frozen, she heard a clear voice speak aloud, “She is Mine.”

“In that garbage moment of my life,” says Stephanie.

“He loved me the most.”

Her blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel nursed Stephanie back to life and took her to a World Vision Orphanage when she was healthy enough. As the oldest orphan, she had work to do. Stephanie says, “My job was to wake at the crack of dawn, gather all the dirty diapers, walk down to the river with the load on my back, get them as clean as I could, carry the wet diapers back to the orphanage courtyard, and hang them out to dry—all before the first meal of the day.” She ate corn mush and greens three times a day.

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Because she knew street life, Stephanie welcomed three meals daily, clothes on her back, and a warm place to sleep with no abuse. “And,” she said, “there was laughter.”

As Stephanie looks back at her early years, she wonders how a little girl could go day in and day out without food in her tummy. Who sent the grandma to rescue her from the well and the kind man to untie her from the water wheel? Who brought a nurse to heal Stephanie’s sickness and restore her hope? “I look back on my childhood and say, how, except for God? He was there all the time.”

Next month, discover how Stephanie meets Goliath of the Bible, a giant of her own, and the amazing ways God continues to craft the pieces of Stephanie back together again. // Story continued next month...

To read Stephanie's full story, you can find her book, She Is Mine, on Amazon, or ask for it at your local bookstore.

Elaine Tomski is a wife, mother, grandma, and contributing writer for Plain Values magazine. She and her husband, Jeff, appreciate the beauty of God's creation from their hilltop near Killbuck, Ohio.

Elaine is the author of Pregnant and Praying, a prayer journal for expectant mothers.