Dear Mrs. Marzarella

I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm an older version of a seven-year-old that entered your second grade classroom with fresh cut brunette bangs angling around a face of uncertainty. I would love you to know that I have been talking about you for many, many years and I have been wanting to write to you for quite awhile about the impact you have had on my life.  Even now after my graduation from college I can still remember drawing the crab apple tree that grew right outside our window every season and bringing in a cardboard box to symbolize my house in the large classroom map we created of our town.  I can still identify the black capped chickadee, tufted titmouse, junco, morning dove and downey woodpecker when I see them at my feeder.  But most of all I know you loved me and I felt a special connection with you. As I entered the second move of my lifetime in the middle of my third grade year, I was called into your room. I had already left your flock but you handed me a box of notecards with paintings by my favorite artist from the "Artist of the Month" that I learned about in your room. Since that time I moved once more, each time carrying with me this box of Monet stationary enscribed with a personal message from my favorite teacher.  Since then I have wanted to be an artist, an astronaut, a historian and a scientist (and looking through an old box the other day I noticed an entry from fourth grade me describing how I felt like an oddball because all I did was think about science, hysterical). As a young girl and over my lifetime I have struggled with worry like the water stains that have speckled your message on my box but I have always carried a piece of you with me in my heart. Today I took the first steps into my own second grade classroom ready to become Miss Goetz. I am beyond confident and excited to be able to touch the hearts of my students the way you touched mine. Thank you so much Mrs. Marzarella, for when you taught you loved. 

I love you!

Sincerely, 

Miss Sarah Goetz

Former Student and Second Grade Teacher

 

This season is about becoming

As I struggle with the job-search God meets me where I'm at.  It's called "twenty-five" a chapter in the book Bittersweet by Shaun Niequist and these are His whispers to me:

Here are a few thoughts of being twenty-five-ish...

(Advice #1)
You are young enough to believe that anything is possible, and you are old enough to make that belief a reality...
it takes about ten years after college to find the right fit, and anyone who finds it earlier then that is just plain lucky...
That's what this time is for to figure those things out...

(Advice #2)
Now is also the time to get serious about relationships. And "serious" might mean walking away...

(Advice #3 and #4)
Twenty-five is also a great time to start counseling...
the perfect time to get involved in a church you love...
to connect with God in a way that feels authentic and truthful to you...

(Advice #5)
Stop every once in a while...
Ask yourself some good questions like, Am I proud of the life Im living? What have I tried this month? What have I learned about God this year? What parts of my childhood faith am I leaving behind, and what parts am I choosing to keep with me for this leg of the journey? Do the people I'm spending time with give me life, or make me feel small? Is there any brokenness in my life that's keeping me from moving forward?

This season is about becoming...
Now is your time. Become, believe, try.  Walk closely with people you love, and with other people who believe that God is very good and life is a grand adventure.  Don't spend time with people who make you feel like less than you are.  Don't get stuck in the past, and don't try to fast-forward yourself into a future you haven't yet earned.  Give today all the love and intensity and courage you can, and keep traveling honestly along life's path.

I need to admit I need to hear this. I need to know that even though a month has passed since I graduated (and only a few weeks have past since I finished my last class) that I need to give myself time.  I need to give myself space to become, to risk, to try, to have adventure, to find friends, to find love, to find a church, to find God.  And! It all doesn't have to happen the summer after I graduate.  I have time and space in this season, and though I'll admit to tears and to being grumpy, this is my season, and here's to becoming!

Homemade

Before my stay in Lancaster County I assumed the food would be homemade, but it was not until I actually experienced their daily life first hand did I realize how sustainable their lifestyle truly is.  During my six days with my family I do not remember taking out the kitchen trash one time whereas it occurs almost daily or every other day at my own home.  Instead during my time we filled a small slop bucket multiple times, emptying it into a pile or feeding it to the pigs.  Additionally, one morning I crushed egg shells with a rolling pan to put in flower pots for added nutrients.  Banana peels were also used for the rose bushes.  Most of our meals depended on what was available to the family whether grown in the garden, provided by their married siblings (such as one of the older boys produce or the milk directly from the dairy their son now operate), extras brought home from market, or whipped up from scratch via the bulk products like sugar and flour in the home.

The farm I stayed at also operates as organic. Pesticides were not used meaning that twice during my visit I went through rows of potato plants removing the hard shelled white bugs (once drowning them in cans of chemicals and the other time squashing them with sticks) and their juicy brown young and smushing their nest of eggs between the plant leaves.  Organic also meant that the cows on the farm were grass fed and given all natural feed in their troughs.

My homemade experience is epitomized in the day I made seven gallons of "media tea."

Wednesday May 28, 2014- Making Tea

On Wednesday morning, I was sent out into the garden to pick a variety of tea leaves.  My Amish host mother in Lancaster County wanted to spend the day making tea, particularly for a brother who was going to host the School Committee Meeting of five representatives who reported to Harrisburg earlier that spring.

I set out into the large garden in front of the house, following behind Barbara (the 27 year-old daughter).  We walked along the side row where patches of herbs were growing.  She pointed out the three different types of plants used for the “Meda Tea;” spearmint, peppermint, and woolly.

Spearmint

Woolly

Peppermint
 (see the  reddish stems?)

 During the course of the morning I went out with scissors and cut four dish tubs full of the herbs. Each time I brought in the tubs I would wash the mint in the drinking water, squeezing the leaves to wring out the dirt. Then, I would lay the mint in the dish drying rack to dry off. My host mother then filled 13 quart kettles with water, brought the water to a boil, and then put in the herbs. The mix was two fistfuls consisting mostly of spearmint (the largest of their herb patches) and then some woolly and peppermint to taste.  The timer was set for 3 minutes and would take out the plants.  When this mixture was complete we funneled the tea into glass jars and set them out on the table to cooler before bringing them to the cooler (if the hot tea went directly into the cooler the jars would shatter). We made 7 gallons of tea and then dried the rest up in the attic by placing the stalks on old window screens draped across the laundry drying rack.

Here are some pictures of our process:

Tea drying and jugs ready to be filled

Filling the jugs

The pot of brewed tea

Some completed jugs

"You will be our new sister"

Around 11 o clock this morning the Messiah van pulled onto Zook lane to drop off myself and another Messiah student to our Amish families. The van turned and my stomach twisted with nerves.  But very shortly I was put at ease; I noticed my favorite plants (succulents) about the house, seashells and a large bowl of popcorn. I would be alright!

I shared dinner (Amish lunch!) with the family members at home internally forgetful of the after meal prayer. I helped wih dishes and set out to hoeing and picking off "potatoe bugs" from the potato plants, squashing the eggs that had made the leaves their home. I toured the farm with the youngest daughter who was eager to let me trail behind her all day showinf me the ropes of their life (around the barn and sheds). We wheeled potatoes in our wagon and I set out to help to mash them and prepare a salad. When the entire family was home we settled in for supper and I almost forgot the silent prayer again at the end, thankful for the family's reminders. 

After some more dish washing, I was mystified as the youngest daughter and I climbed through hay bails in the second floor of the barn. Barefooted (as I was all day!) I jumped over the dried stalks in my long skirts, and as we peered out the barn door over the gardens and the misty earth from the passing thunderstorm andi had a brief moment of wonder. I couldn't believe I was there taking to a kind Amish girl just a few inches from myself like I would with Rachel (my younger sister). Surreal!

This evening, we cooked popcorn over the stove and I enjoyed learning that often their Sunday dinner consists of popcorn like at my own house. Although I'm intrigued by the different ways of doing the daily routines, (it's baffling that just a few hours away my family is living their own usual day!) it's still people. People who I laughed with, chatted with, and connected with, going about their life as I would go about mine.

I am so blessed to be here for a week aloud to be a part of the family, and that is how they see me! I am so thankful for the welcoming words of the youngest daughter upon my arrival, "Your our new sister for the week!" 

Full Circle

In fifth grade I wrote my first paper on the Amish.  Today, I interacted with them for the first time.

As a young girl I visited Lancaster County more times then I could count on two hands.  I was enamored with the Amish lifestyle.  How could they live so conservatively and so simply in the face of such a fast paced modern society? And why did they want to?  The farms, the cute dresses, and the buggies awed me and as I drove along country roads I desired to be one of them.  I was nostalgic and it all seemed a bit romantic to me. Today however, I got to experience it!

This morning our class scrambled into the 15 passenger and took our first trip to Lancaster County.  We started with a touristy place called the Amish Experience, where we witnessed a somewhat "corny" yet informative video production on an Amish story.  Afterwards we visited several shops eating meals while also getting a taste of the culture.  What was particularly intriguing in those initial situations was gawking at the various Amish we encountered while also being gawked at while walking around in our long skirts and conservative tops.  I felt the tension of standing on middle ground as both the offender and the offended.   A women even asked a classmate, "where are you from?" and "what are you up to?"  When she found out we were with a college she said she knew because we did not indeed look "authentic." While impressed that she knew the true dress, it evidenced the way we did indeed stick out like sore thumbs.

After these morning activities, our group travelled to the shop and home of an Amish friend of our professors, a one Samuel Riehl. Sam, a minister of the church greeted us openly inviting questions as we surrounded him in a grassy circle behind his store.  Of particular note throughout the conversation, was the demeanor of this Amish man.  Crouched strong, upon one knee he spoke to us, pausing before responding, flavoring his speech with humor, and humbly displaying his perspective, repetitively proclaiming not to be the judge while offering his personal convictions and describing all of us as Christians. In our conversation, several of Sam's responses struck me.  A classmate asked him about the pacifist roots of the Amish in light of the Old Testament. Samuel responded with surprising appreciation for America and a shocking awareness of Memorial Day (coming up on Monday) with prayer and gratitude towards our veterans. As I was sitting there I could not help but think of my own army man and wonder what his thoughts would be had he been a part of the conversation.  Samuel continued to describe that he and the Amish believe in the powerful warfare of prayer, impressing me with a component of my faith I have never taken so strongly.  During the conversation, I had the opportunity to ask about the rejection of the assurance of faith (Amish do not boast of a known salvation) and whether he still finds peace. Samuel did not denounce the dramatic experiences of people who feel great change at the time of conversion, but he himself felt he could not claim a similar attitude, having grown up in the church.  This response brought up an irony, given thought, it may appear to be prideful suggesting that he had never committed so aggregious a sin to warrant such a conversion moment, while also claiming a humility that he has never experienced those feelings proclaiming the continual process of his salvation. Samuel admitted to not feeling peace at all times (seemingly associating his faith with his actions?) indeed proclaiming however, the peace of knowing that Gods grace is available at all times.  Among other tidbits he proposed keeping the Bible simple and encouraged us as the future of the nation to pursue our dreams. While more answers brought with it more questions I was blessed by the wisdom of Sam and the opportunity of this meeting.

Later in the afternoon we visited the homestead of Jacob and Anna Esh.  After learning about Anna's quilting business, exploring the farm, riding Amish scooters, observing milking (I even got to pour fresh milk from the can!) and playing with kittens we sat down to an Amish meal.  Anna served us salad, fresh bread with jam, chicken, beef brisket, mashed and scalloped potatoes, baked corn, asparagus and for dessert, Reese's peanut butter cake(?) and french rhubarb pie with ice cream. Even more striking then the meal however were the interactions of the Amish family.  Anna went about her work humbly, cheerfully and kindly. I was struct by the shyness of the young children expecting them to be more outgoing then the adults (seemingly opposite of our American culture). The compliance of the girls to sing after supper to us English (what the Amish call outside Americans) upon request of her father and mother demonstrated obedience and a reverence of their parents.  What an honor and blessing to be singing songs alongside these people, that they would even invite us in their home, which felt like an invasion to me, was welcomed and met kindly.  Anna cheerfully showed us her gardens and I picked her asparagus with her and my classmates.  We filled two buckets! Leaving, even after only being their for a few hours she proclaimed, "I wish I could hug all of you" and the parting made me desire to begin my home stay even more!

We concluded our day by tracking down the local Amish/Mennonite baseball tournament that Jacob and Anna's son was participating in.  This experience was a picture of "rumspringa" or running around of the Amish "youth" before joining the church.  At the game I was overwhelmed, both astounded and confused by what I was seeing.  In many instances I could not tell Amish from Mennonites from English! What particularly struck me was what the Amish chose to do during their "rumspringa" period.  Many of the young men continued to wear suspenders over patterned and brand name shirts.  Girl also stretched tees over their Amish dresses but did not wear their hair loose though I thought I saw one girl wearing makeup.  Other piled out of cars and many of the young men were smoking.  It seemed that the men were much more rebellious then the women and at points I am sure I couldn't tell Amish men from English!  This patterns finds similarities in the decision to leave the church.  In the van one of our professor highlighted that Amish men tend to leave the church at a greater rate then the females.  In all religions women generally tend to be more devote and in Amish culture men have much more opportunity to interact with the world possibly accounting for this difference.  This could also explain the more drastic differences in rumspringa.  During our time at the game, one of my classmates proclaimed that she wished our communities would participate in activities such as this and I agreed, saying, "this [the gathering of youth] is just crazy enough for me, without being too much."  As I ponder it more it seems similar to the young people who scout each other out on the boardwalks of the beach in the summer.  On the ride home, our professor mentioned how many of the tamer youths would have been at home this Saturday night.  As we drove I considered myself and my close-in-age younger brother.  I imagined myself sitting at home quietly while he rambunctiously attended the baseball game,  thinking of similar evenings in while he was out with friends and how the Amish parents feelings must be akin those of my own parents in regards to the various young people.

Wow, today was full circle for the young girl who wrote her first research paper on the Amish in fifth grade and I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to move past the romanticism and experience the people, for all of their similarities and differences to my own life. I am so excited for the homestays beginning Tuesday!

Fellowship

It's amazing the difference of 24 hours.

One day ago, my body and soul were terrified, trembly and nervous. I was hollowed by heaping a plate too full. I was my own worst critic. Expecting an unreasonable performance in all of my roles; teacher, student, RA, friend(?)  I churned with the tense paradox of insecurity woken from a bed of pride. The kind that demands "I can do it all" "I must hold it all together" forgetful that I can't.  

I'm in my last month of college and it is a heavy place. And an awkward place. Competing with friends for job positions wriggles ugly fingers into relationships. Over these past few weeks, I believed I needed to be the calm in the senior storm of the unknown. Wasn't I past my anxious days of perfection?  I didn't realize that in those very moments I was returning to the old double headed monsters of pride and insecurity.  That, that in itself was undoing.  

And I undid. 

As I anticipated participating in a teaching round interview for a local school district last night, my "all-together" persona shattered into the insecurity of my lack.

But I was held. Held up by a friend who was willing to put aside her own to agenda to listen to me practice and practice and offer support and advice for a position she too applied for a was let down by (a true Frederick friend!). I was held by a friend who told me to stop apologizing for the tears and overwhelmed feelings that overflowed from my body. I was held physically and emotionally by my love who went above and beyond, knowing me at my core and loving me still. I was held by my family and my mother who talked me out of my panicked sleepy dreams. I was held by text messages and cheers and questions from friends today before and after my interview.

It was in my undoing that I remembered it's okay to be held. I shed my pride and reversed insecurity in fellowship. 

Today as I go to sleep, I go to bed different. A period of 24 hours. My lesson was successful and I received astounding and wonderful news. And tonight in these happy moments I was also held.  I was cheered and I was celebrated.  I am reminded of the beauty in the vulnerability of my whole self and in fellowship I am loved. 

New life breaking through

Walking along collecting items for a preschool camping unit and I noticed this. I love how the new growth has pierced directly through death. 

Story

I just started my final semester here at Messiah and it is bringing me full circle.  In my first year I took a seminar class called "Learning to Tell Our Stories" and over the course of the past four years I have gathered many, many, many, stories and began to create and reveal my person, my character I play in this life narrative.  Now in this final semester I am taking a class on the "Inklings" the work of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and I am brought back again to this concept of story.  Lewis believed that the  best metaphor and media to explain the human existence is story, because of the tension between the temporal and the transcendence we all grasp for as children of God.  Here is a bit of my story (our first writing assignment):

She sinks down in the chair hugging her sweatshirt tight around her stomach, trying to hold together the hollow weight of emotions that flutter inside like the tumultuous feeling of being hit square in the gut.  Her mind rushes with a flood of thoughts that erode the banks of her identity as a daughter of the king.  A life built around to-dos and a constant spiral of busyness: “You didn’t accomplish enough,” “you weren’t kind enough,” “you aren’t good enough,” intermingle with fears of hypocrisy: “you are too prideful,” “you want too much attention,” “you are too much.” She has made camp here, besieged from both sides by aggressors of pride and shame, whose arrows both pierce with insecurity.  “How do I live as His daughter? How do I make His love the foundation of my footfall?” she thinks.

A healer probes her to give a name to the “shoulds” in her life, the to-dos that she “should” accomplish, the way she “should” feel, and the Christian she “should” be.  This one word has such a grip in her life to perpetuate the internal attack on her self-worth and inheritance as a worthy daughter.  Upon uttering the words, she finally summons the voices out creating a power in naming that diminishes their strongholds in her life and exposes many as lie. 

This is her struggle.  A battle of years.  A long, unending fight that stalks her long after its seeming defeat.  She draws her own sword again trembling under its weight. 

Slice. 

The bottom two-thirds of a calculated list of tasks floats to the ground.  She makes a shaky attempt to attack pride as she chops at the to-dos by which she measures her success each day.  Between her palms, she crumples the writing and tosses it into the garbage can.  Eyes lift, empowered. 

Days pass and she falls again, easily, prey to this subtle enemy that tip toes into her life masquerading in a cloak of enviable ability and success.  Wiping tears from her eyes, fists pound the ground frustrated by her inability to just break free. “I can’t do it!” she cries in defeat ripping off all pretenses lying there exposed and broken.  In this instant different whispers whisk by tenderly sending cooling shivers down her hot, wet cheeks. “My grace is sufficient for you,” “My power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).”  Dazed she finds herself face to face with another.  Slowly, the speaker stands and she lifts with Him in an embrace, arms encircled around His form.  Arms that once clutched her hollowed and chaotic insides now clutch Him.  She breathes Him in and the fires of turmoil disappear filling with an elixir, cool and refreshing.

From her position of complete exhaustion and inability, she notices Him bend and clasp steady fingers around a handle unsheathing a blade that glints in the light He radiates.  He grasps it firm, hard, perfect, strong.

Slice.

He pierces the words of failure with victory, the chains of pride and shame with glorious freedom.