Y’all. I have agreed to an 18 mile hike up and down a mountain to see a lake with my father. Lord help me. What on earth am I thinking? Wait, I know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking: oh, this is a terrific opportunity to bond with my dad and see the land and be out in nature. I’m not thinking: this is gonna be really, flippin’ hard. Well, to be fair, now that reality has set in that’s exactly what I’m thinking.

I try not to talk about my illness too much these days. There was a period of time where it took over my entire life, made me crazy, damaged my relationships, and became my identity. Then, after three years and a level of disability that still shocks me to think about, I was healed…but not totally. Enough to reclaim my relationships, my family, and to begin a new life in Montana. Enough to reframe my entire worldview and to lead me to Christ. Enough to make it through obstacles, temptations, and challenges…but not enough to be like I was, and I have to be fine with that. Even Christ still had wounds after His resurrection; so do I.

There remains physical struggle in my life which I regard as something that is teaching me to pray. I have pain in my joints which is sometimes debilitating. There is the terribleness in my belly diagnosed as endometriosis by the surgeon who removed my organs and excised the bleeding lesions. And man oh man is there fatigue. There’s more, but I carry through and I try to not complain about it too much anymore. Few people look at me like a sicky these days and I prefer to keep it that way. I crave no pity.

So I will walk up a mountain. Everything is a mountains these days, darlings, so how hard can it actually be? Christ grabbed me from death’s clutches and I’m fairly sure this will not be my end. Hopefully just yet another beginning.

The onset of strawberries :).

Before I start, let me first say that I do not consider myself to be “a conservative”. I have found that the dialectic of the American political system more so functions as a pseudoreligion and a tribal identity than a way of discerning which public policy matters pertain most to the benefit of one’s family and community. So personally, I opt out of that and into Orthodox Christianity. However, my previous experience from my B.C. time was fraught with liberal and leftist politics so that is where I tend to focus my analysis. The same problems occur “on the right”, but I don’t have experience there so I contain my thoughts to the American left.

Definitions are important, so I will start there. Progressivism is a primarily linguistic religious movement that serves to reframe commonly held societal beliefs into god-like concepts that provide the adherent with a sense of moral superiority (“being on the right side of history”) and creates a pretext for violent revolution. It dissolves the role of individual responsibility and agency and instead shifts the onus onto what it describes as vast social systems that maintain a conspiratorial hold over human civilization as well as a psychic control over individuals (capitalism, inherent bias, and so called “whiteness”). For example, injustice becomes “global white supremacy”, traditional male and female roles become “heteronormativity”, and one’s “lived experience” is somehow the arbiter of truth. The problem is that injustice is not always the fault of primarily white individuals/groups, traditional roles are not always oppressive, and one’s lived experience ends where another one begins.

Lingo is key in progressivism. One must know the verbal dance in order to effectively communicate inside the belief system. However, it’s also the key to undoing its knot. When I was in a progressive bubble, I almost never dealt with anyone who rejected the meanings of slogans with the intent of establishing a working definition between opposing viewpoints. I’ll give you a hypothetical example:

Me: a friend told me that she won’t visit me in Montana because she is black.

Progressive friend: well, that’s just her lived experience.

Me: the problem with that argument is that she doesn’t actually have any lived experience in Montana. She’s been told a narrative about the people here which does not align with what I have come to know about them. Perhaps, after many years of friendship, she simply is content to let us go our separate ways and does not wish to maintain our connection. While tragic, I can understand that the vast distance between us is a challenge. My lived experience is that there is actually less racism here than what we experienced as an interracial couple in DC and Baltimore. Sure it exists, but it isn’t blatant and in our faces. Everyone we have met here has been lovely.

Why is the movement religious? Well, dear reader, one simply has to look at the response to having beliefs challenged to determine the level of religiosity that has taken hold of progressives. Me: I reject the notion that the LGBT “community” is incapable of harm. Them: that’s bigotry!!! Me: I believe that each and every abortion is a preventable tragedy and that we should encourage young women to get married and to start families. Them: that’s misogyny, abortion is the lynchpin for equality in the labor force!!! Me: everyone has their own abhorrent opinions and no one should be automatically assumed to be evil because of their political affiliation or voting history. Them: YOU RIGHT WING EXTREMIST!!! Bigot, -phobic, extremist, far-whatever, has replaced heretic and apostate. Yet the religion is without God and without redemption so ultimately it leads only to misery and destruction. No utopia is actually being built, only the groundwork for violent revolution is being laid.

I will expound more on why I believe that progressivism ultimately serves violent revolution in a later musing, my friends. Forgive me because my tolerance for my own thoughts on this matter is somewhat limited and I wish to move on to writing about farming and gardening. I grieve for my friends and my loved ones still caught in the midst of all this. I pray that Christ liberates them as He liberated me.

Ma and Pa Kettle carrying chicken feed up the driveway.

“You’re a real farmer now,” my For-Reals-Farmer-Friend said to me on the phone. We were catching up about the lambing, the castrating, the banding of tails, and the losses. I told her that I was still in 100% but I found myself less delighted with new life than I was upon the birth of that first lamb. “I’ve learned a lot about life and death,” I recounted as I told her of a recent conversation with a progressive friend. “There’s just so much I cannot care about because I have so many creatures to keep alive. There’s sheep that sometimes just die. There’s lambs that sometimes won’t nurse. There’s chickens who have heart attacks suddenly as you are trimming their butt feathers. On top of that my ###### almost died and my ###### is struggling. So…I just can’t care much about politics, even the ones I agree with.” And with that I became a real farmer, I suppose. Committed. Less excited. Priorities focused on my animals and the land. Helping living beings to continue living. Glory to God.

Welp! I am disappointed to let y’all know that the freeloaders are officially freeloading once more (makes this face at the thought 😑). The chickens are hiding their eggs somewhere and the little ones won’t be laying for quite a while. I suppose that means I really do need to make concrete plans to build that chicken run. Sigh. And yet, I still really like them. Not love! But definitely like. Also! If we are fortunate, we might have llama babies in the next two weeks or so. Never a dull moment on the farm! The garden is now mostly planted due to the lateness and intensity of the Montana season(s). Our berry patches are about to expand to include honey berries and goose berries. I couldn’t be more excited.

Thank you so much for being here and for reading, my friends. I appreciate you dearly and I am still a bit gobsmacked that anyone would have an interest in my little musings. May God bless you all. If you would like to contribute to the feed and farm budgets to help support my writing, I would be eternally grateful. Thank you!!! ☦️🙏🏻❤️

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So…what do you do with the feelings? I asked the 17 year old farmer who was trying to help me save an ill-fated lamb. Talk to the Lord, she said, and honestly you get kind of used to it.

My husband has become a champeen sheep wrastler.

A marathon everyday since January 12; since my ######’s diagnosis of severe coronary artery disease. That is the feeling deep in my bones and my energy wanes. I doubt myself. Have I chosen the right path? Am I cut out to be a farmer? I’m just a city girl. Three lambs and a matriarch have died. The guy who usually cuts our hay has declined because there is one less pasture (due to the sheep) and we will not be spraying chemicals because of our free range chickens. I am momentarily uplifted after scheduling shearing day with Leroy-Sheep Shearer. I tell my people, that is indeed his name if you believe the contact info that was shared with me by my mentor-shepherd friend. We all giggle. We walk down to see the lamb races and watch the baby chickens frolic. It’s a nice way to end the day. Spring is here and both my eyes and my nose are definitely letting me know it. My intended remedy for my personal brand of depletion is to travel to Texas to visit my family. After so much caretaking, I will receive some care and I think it will be just the thing.

Clearly I have made the right choice. Beebee swans and the company of my beloved family seem to be soothing my frayed nervous system.

Texas is warm but not too hot. Humid, which feels good for my breathing. I’m sweating and sleeping and talking. I’ve seen a dear friend. I’ve had coffee and a “poptart” made by a local bakery. Life seems to be bordering on manageable again. God is merciful.

I couldn’t save this lamb. But I tried very hard. A tragedy and a metaphor.

A sweet, Orthodox friend once asked me something to the effect of: when you are talking to people about God, what do you do with His wrath? It was a good question. I believe that I answered her with something to the effect of: behind all of God’s actions, even the ones hardest for us humans to understand, is compassion. A decent answer…even if it was a bit of a cop out at the time since I usually do not address it in conversation. But as I have said before, I am learning a lot about God through the experience of becoming a shepherd so allow me to expound.

I was rammed by our ram. Thankfully it was in the thigh, it wasn’t from too far away, and I was spared being clipped by his massive and sharp horns. I screamed, threw the treats in my hand far away from me, and ran quickly from the pasture. Truthfully, this had been brewing. He was showing signs of aggression toward me for days. Finally, he took his shot and rammed me square in my right quadriceps. I was advised to smack this 300 lb beast over the head with a metal snow shovel in order to reestablish my dominance. Metal snow shovels do not harm rams and they make a very loud GONNNNNNG which can serve as a deterrent. I did it, but smiting him did not work. Again, he displayed aggression toward me with stomps and posturing. He chases the llamas away from the lambs and the ewes usher their babies away from him any time he is near. It is time to take drastic measures in order to bring peace to my flock and to preserve our safety…and perhaps my life. He is large enough to kill me should he desire. So, on May 20th he will be delivered to the butcher to be processed for his meat, his hide, and his bones. In a way, this is my wrath as the shepherd of this flock. I have failed to bring him into submission and obedience and I must consider the wellbeing of the entire farm including our humans. My decision to end his life is not out of tyranny, but out of compassion for us all.

I am at a crossroads with my writing. During Great Lent I feel that the biggest lesson I learned was about my choice to engage or not to engage with online “discourse”. I use quotes here because in person discourse is far difference than what we encounter online. Although, these days the latter is most certainly influenced by the former. Rarely do I find myself wanting to comment or to post a hot take (of which I have plenty). However, I recently met up with a friend who maintains a progressive worldview and it got me a’ thinkin. Do I still want to write about leaving the left? Can I do it in a way that truly demonstrates my love for people while teasing apart the arguments and the semantics that I believe are deceptive? At its core, progressivism is a linguistic movement based on theory whose mortal enemy is praxis. The problem is that it is also religious…and violent. Which means that folks develop a zealous defensiveness when these ideas and sayings get challenged. The kind of zealous defensiveness that can end relationships which is exactly what I do not want. The Orthodox approach would be to focus on my own repentance…and…I feel that part of my repentance is to try to undo some of the ideological damage I feel I may have caused amongst my students and my friends. What do you think, dear reader? What is your advice?

###

Thank you for reading my musings! I’m honestly so flattered and humbled that you are here and reading my strange, little brain-ial things. If you would like to support my writing efforts by donating to the feed budget for all of the animals, I would be exceedingly grateful (as would the freeloaders). God bless you! 🙏🏻☦️❤️

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🐓🥚🐑🦙💪🏻

Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal have mercy on us.

Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal have mercy on us.

Glory to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Both now and ever and to the ages of ages amen.

I wrote the following after the loss of our first lamb to predators:

“Where is he,” she seemed to cry. My heart wrenches with every terrible bleat she makes. “Where is he?” Something took him and he is not coming back, I tell her, my own eyes brimming. It could have been anything. An eagle. A coyote, although not likely because we heard no yips and howls. Likely a fox. “Where is he,” I want to vomit and to scream and to give up and to keep going and to to to go back in time and to have slept in the field to protect him and to make the pain and the grief of it go away and never come back. In the moments alone I weep.  “You have to be the rock,” my giant told me as he laid on that recovery room bed during the first heart surgery. I am dutiful and I have obeyed. While others crumbled, the tower I built around my heart and my mind stood amidst the onslaught of spiritual war, relational strife, and tragedy. But…in the face of the loss of a wee lamb and his grieving mama ewe…all of it comes undone. “Where is he?” He is gone and I cannot bring him back. He will never again nurse at your breast. He will not sleep next to you quietly and sweetly. He is dead. A portion for foxes.

I have been told that farming will give you the highest highs and the lowest lows. Not unlike the arts, in a strange way. It is notable that there are so many artists and shepherds in the Bible and in Holy Tradition. Methinks the callings may go hand in hand.

###

Is there such a thing as a peaceful apathy after chaos and hardship? At one point in my life, when I was aboard the trauma-train and I believed that adversity was the root cause of all suffering, I might have described my current state as a “freeze state”. Basically, I’ve been through so many trials in the past four months that I currently have little energy to care about a lot of things that I may have once devoted time and brain-space to. Like…I can’t care about what is happening in other countries…because I have to ensure the survival and care of farm animals in my keep who are very vulnerable. I can’t care about the outrage du jour on any side…because I must care for three, older relatives affected by their own and each other’s health struggles. I can’t care about the causes and obsessions of others because I must care about the impending launch of my son into the next, big phase of his life. And strangely enough…I find myself in such a weary peacefulness about it that I just don’t care. Perhaps God, through Holy Week, healed me of what once was a dangerous passion in my life: intractable empathy. So maybe this isn’t a “freeze state” in the sense that it is disordered, maybe it’s a thawed state in the sense that God has warmed me up and shown me where my priorities should truly lie. Glory to Him.

###

Mike and I enjoy “walking the sheep”. Basically we let them out into the hay field to graze on fresh forage for an hour or so and just stand there and watch them. It’s fun to see them get their bellies full and then go back into their regular pasture to nap. Our goal is to one day have fencing built in order to create paddocks for them to rotationally graze throughout the whole property.

I am learning more about God through being a shepherd than from any other experience in my life. For the moment, I am still wrapping my tiny, human brain around this experience and I have not quite figured out how to write effectively about it. But it’s coming. One day the words will flow, God willing, and maybe I will do this whole shebang-chillada a modicum of justice. Here is what I have come to believe and upon which I will expand at a later date:

1. God rejoices and He grieves. Especially in the presence of new life and death.

2. God wants what is best for us, like fresh forage, greener pastures, safety from predators, and clean water.

3. God takes tragedy and redeems it for good. A lamb may die, but we become more knowledgeable and we are strengthened in order to battle the oncoming challenges.

4. Even in hardship, God is with us and we are not alone. As I watched my ewe cry for her missing lamb, I stood with her and wept. I did not leave her as she navigated her grief. I hand fed her so she would eat and I brought her nearer to the water trough to drink…small mercies in the face of tremendous loss.

The lamb that was lost. Tiny and probably slightly premature which left him extremely vulnerable to predators.

Thank you for reading my musings about God, farming, and leaving my politics behind to follow Christ. I realize the journey is not always puppies and rainbows. Sometimes it is loss. But my hope is in Him and I am grateful to finally be aspiring to the life He is urging me toward. May God bless each and every one of you.

If you would like to support my writing by contributing to my feed budget for the freeloader chickens who have FINALLY decided to lay eggs, I would be extremely thankful.

🥚🦙🐑🐓: buymeacoffee.com/mmjans

The gates of Hades flung open, Christ has trampled death by death and we have been granted life. What a blessed Holy Saturday it was.

***

Thoughts after the Sacrament of the Holy Unction and helping my ###### to heal after open heart surgery:

Healing is physical and metaphysical. A sensing and intuiting activity that requires a certain kind of abandonment of the rational and intellectual mind. It is a springboard dive into deep and unsure waters that may drown or redeem depending on whether or not one chooses God. It cannot be quantified but it can be identified and broken down into components. Healing requires suffering to exist. Pain is the signal. Then comes the great humbling and confession: I need help and my own actions/beliefs have contributed to my current circumstances. Next, a facilitator or many is/are required. This needs to be someone with some kind of expertise in the bodily and the spiritual and, in my opinion, ordained into Holy Orthodoxy. Then there is the medicine, the conduit of God’s grace (the Holy Unction, the Eucharist, Marriage, Baptism, etc). Trick is, one must be willing to receive. The last element is time. Time to wait and to see what God has decided to plant, sow, and reap in your life.

***

Thoughts on caretaking for aging loved ones:

The human heart. In my experience, if it isn’t broken and burdened then it is most certainly diseased. The heart is not self sustaining and it requires corporate support. A team of people with expertise and the motivation to care. The team is vital and usually there are one or two who lead. Sometimes the human heart rebels against the soul, the leaders, and the team. It strikes out even though it has been nurtured and treated with the utmost care. But if you look closely in and around the rebellion, even though it hurts, there will be sparks of God’s mercy. Perhaps those mercies will be contained in the blue/green bubble of a text message from an important observer saying that what you have done is the essence of love itself. Or maybe it will just be God that notices and that’s ok too. It is proper and right to make caretaking secret and good work. Unnoticed in earthly life but a heckin’ big deal in the eschaton when done with grace free of judgment…if I am correctly remembering what my saintly sources have said.

A Palm Sunday lamb, one day old.

Updates on the farm, the good, the sorrowful, and the works in progress:

1) The sorrows: Lent was a season of deep reflection and huge reality checks about what it is to have a farm and to raise animals. We have endured our first losses.

In addition to the miscarriage one of our ewes experienced prior to the fast, we lost both our favorite sheep as well as the first born lamb from our flock.

Belle, the only sheep who came to us with a name and the matriarch of our flock, suffered some kind of wasting illness related to her pregnancy. We tried for four days to save her and sadly, my dear husband and son had to put her down and to dispose of her body. It was deeply traumatic.

The first lamb was born three weeks ago, possibly slightly premature, and was taken by a predator. The incredibly tragic part of the story is that we were in the process of integrating our new livestock guardians into the flock in adjoining pastures when this happened. Our whole family was rocked by this. The poor mama ewe cried loudly for her baby for a whole day and still seems to be asking where he is. For a week, each and every time I found myself alone, I wept.

2) The blessings: I am reminded of how God cared for Job after his suffering. Farming, so I have been told, will give you the highest highs and the lowest lows. New life, and also death. I feel that becoming a shepherd has taught me more about God’s love, grace, and mercy than any scripture ever has. More on that later.

As I alluded to, we have welcomed home our new guardians for the flock! We have brought in two, female, Ccara llamas we have named Chocolate and Milk. They are slowly adjusting to life away from their large herd and assimilating into our flock. They’re very curious and will eat treats from our hands, but they do not appreciate being touched. Yes, they do indeed spit, but mostly at each other.

The first lamb was taken, but since then God has blessed us with five more. Two boys, three girls, three single births, and one set of twins. We are hoping for three to four more in the coming days. Initially, we did plan on harvesting them ourselves, but after the emotional toll of our losses, we believe it would be best for us to have them butchered at a local processor. This will be a significant cost, but I have faith that God will provide.

Thank you all for being here. I was shocked that in spite of my Lenten absence I did not lose even one subscriber. Glory to God! If you would like to help support my writing by contributing to my farming efforts, I would be much obliged and truly humbled. If not, no worries at all. I am simply glad that I’m not alone in this weird and winding journey and I hope that my little musings help alleviate your boredom and encourage you toward Christ. God bless you. ☦️🙏🏻❤️

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🦙🐑🐓🥚☦️

…Amongst my ambitions is to write truthfully and candidly about my experiences and my thoughts. But I also aspire to write kindly and with humility about my life while doing my best to respect the privacy of those whom I love. So, bear with me as I attempt to get a little creative in order to preserve anonymity and privacy while processing a very difficult experience.

I am wounded. A therapist once told me it was an “archetypal” wound. I prefer to think of it as sin. Most people recoil at the thought or mention of sin because they don’t understand it as intimately as someone who has confronted it face on. In the best, most pure version of myself as God intended, I would be navigating my current reality (my ######’s open heart surgery and my ewe’s miscarriage specifically) with the kind of grace befitting a bourgeoning matriarch. Alas, due to my sin-wounds I am not in that pure form and while I am doing a decent job, I shrink in shame that I just cannot seem to meet this moment how I wish to meet this moment. I pray for the intercessions of my saintly grandmother, Joan of Texas. Sin keeps me from the version of myself that God is leading me toward. The wound festers…resentment builds. I want to be right too much. I talk back too much. I cannot shake the slights…it is too much. As our priest said in his homily yesterday: (paraphrase) it isn’t about winning the debate it’s about seeing Christ in the other person. Jesus, I am looking long and hard for You in ### but my eyes are blinded by my own fallen-ness. I have never experienced a week like this past one. Please God, save me from suffering stress like this ever again. How I have made it through is solely due to the mercy and grace of God in the form of my brother, my husband, my son, and my friends. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Let me not be a portion for foxes, but instead enfold me into Your merciful embrace.

The biggest lesson I have learned of late is to not let perfect be the enemy of the good. Dear Reader, there is just so much beauty and good in this world. Often it collides with suffering and in those moments the good becomes a life-giving droplet of ice cold water in the desert of our pain. Watching good squandered in the pursuit of perfection is a gut wrenching experience especially when lives hang in the balance. Good lives that have been well lived. Perfect? No. Without harm to others? No. But good nonetheless. God is perfect, that is a given, but He is also good. I have never seen perfect, but in the throes of my own suffering this past week I have seen so much good. Good doctors and nurses doing good work. Good friends. Good family. Good problem solving. Good care. Good weather. Good animals. Good children. Good food and wine. Good medicines. Good teachers. And heck…even a good hair day. Glory to God.

After this temperate winter of my family’s discontent I am planning all of the farm and Montana adventures I possibly can. I long to write about those things after a season of wrangling my feelings and sleeplessness over the intensity of late. Spring and summer cannot arrive fast enough. Come, garden come. Lambs, I welcome you. Hikes through the mountains…please. Just, please. Anything to disperse the energy in my chest. Especially if that anything is something from this glorious land. I cannot wait to share all of this with you. Thank you for being here and for sticking with me through this.

If you would like to support my writing efforts by contributing to my feed (and now medicine) budget, I would be most thankful.

🦙🐑🐓🥚💉:

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There is a very substantial man in a wheelchair wearing all red. For a moment I consider saying hello. But then I notice…

There are chains on his feet and a sheriff by his side. Someone has draped a black, leather coat over his expansive shoulders. I assume it was meant to both to keep him warm and to hide the handcuffs.

He is staring at me and smiling. Did I mention how extremely sizable he is?

Once this may have unnerved me. But today I am stronger and keenly aware of situations where I am safe. He is a sick, suffering, incarcerated soul who is waiting for heart surgery. He poses no threat. Besides, he is accompanied by a Montana sheriff. They make men different out here and it’s easier to depend on them for all sorts of things including protection.

A sweetheart of a nurse comes to get him for his surgery. She’s tiny and brunette and treats him no differently than any of the other patients in the waiting room. I am both deeply impressed by her and convicted of my own prejudice.

My ######’s procedure does not go as planned. ## will need more extensive surgery of the open heart varietal. The metaphor is not lost on me…a heart should never be opened to the world, only protected by the strong, loving fingers of the rib cage God encased it in. ## will surely die early and unexpectedly without it. The situation is…pressing. Pressing on my own heart-parts for I am not entitled to my own feelings about the matter because the feelings of others are more volatile and immediate. Be the rock ## is about to ask you to be, I coach myself in retrospect…I wish I could send these words back in time but instead I write them into the future-void hoping for some clarity and some future sympathy from strangers and friends.

I hope the man in chains made it through his procedure ok and I hope God forgives me for the sin of my reticence to say hello. Lord have mercy on us all.

“You appeared to me in a dream last night so I thought I would reach out,” a blue bubble blooped onto my phone. It was a very old friend from whom I hadn’t heard in a while. It was hard for me not to leap up and shout something to the effect of Y’ALL GOD IS SO REEAAALLLL!!!!! Yesterday was a long day in the hospital getting ready for my ######’s big surgery. All day long I prayed the prayers in my prayer book and read the psalms. I tried not to cry and failed a few times. It was hard to fight back the fear and the stress. And yet! There was a friendly face. My friend from church is a nurse for the surgeon, my cousin is a tech in the ICU, and last night God put me in an old friend’s dream and it was important enough in her heart and mind that she reached out to me. We exchanged pics of our kids and the farm animals. She might come to visit. When I write that God’s mercy is vast I do not mean it in a metaphorical way, I mean it in a concrete absolute. My friend reaching out, just a few short messages, was like a glass of water on a hot day. Like an extra hand to carry a heavy load. Like a shelter from a strong, and rainy wind. Glory to God.

I do not know what the coming weeks will look like. There is a lot of caretaking I will be doing and that means that I may not have as much time for writing. Such are these kinds of seasons, I suppose. Perhaps I will be limited to notes for a bit, perhaps essays will take a back seat, or perhaps I will have so many thoughts that they will spill from my brain into the substacks-a-verse. I don’t know. But I hope you’ll stick around. No matter what happens, I promise I will be back. If you would like to contribute to my feed budget for my not-so-freeloading chickens in support of my writing, I would be tremendously appreciative.

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We fought a war with Nazis. Then we hunted Nazis down all around the world. After that, we watched fifty-plus years of films telling us that hunting and killing Nazis was the most American thing we could possibly do. Then, all of our trusted sources told you that your neighbor, who happened to vote for a man you despise, isn’t an American simply exercising his right to vote. No, he’s actually a Nazi. Not only that, Nazis are taking over the federal government which means that anything it now does is Nazi ‘ish. What is the next logical step in this sequence? Is it to destroy your family/neighborly relationships? Is it to organize a resistance? Is it to do whatever it takes to defeat an evil enemy? Is it to die gloriously in battle?

But…

…What if all the fervor you are experiencing is based on a lie? What if your neighbor isn’t actually a Nazi and what if the things your trusted sources are telling you simply aren’t true? What then? What is the value in organized resistance when the enemy is not actually the enemy? What about the decimated relationships? The Face-webs-insta-sky proclamations of virtue and intentional exclusion? The flags? The risk to life and limb? The destruction of lives?

What…does…it…all…mean…if…it…is…based…on…a…lie?

Sincerely,

~Megan, your old friend

I haven’t been this tired since I gave birth. Since graduate school. Since being denied medical care when I was hemorrhaging. Since my surgery. Since that initial walk in the woods after my miraculous healing. Since my move across the country. Since that first real day of farm work. Since the last hike up Sweathouse Falls with my dad (he’s a beast and we did it in three hours). Since that time I sang three different services in a row with a back ache.

Yeah. I’m that tired after a day in the hospital when, for the first time, I was not the person on the table. A giant stared up at me and all at once, he looked quite small and vulnerable. “You have to be the rock,” the giant said to me. Like St Peter I thought to myself. It didn’t feel good; the monumental responsibility that is being hoisted upon me. St Peter must have felt much the same and suddenly my heart for the apostles grows larger. Poor Peter, He knew you were the right man for the job even though you struggled. I’m the right woman for this job even though I don’t want it. If I were younger and less glazed-and-fired, tears would have been an option. No tears today. I’m too tired and I have to be strong.

A brief conversation with my husband.

Me: there are aspects of convent life that I do find really appealing. Like, get up and pray and sing, eat together, pray and sing more, do something nice for the world, pray and sing more, play games with the sisters, and then pray and sing more.

Him: it kinda sounds like a vacation.

Me: in a way it is a forever vacation from the world.

Him: I think I would get bored.

Me: Probably, but I couldn’t take you with me anyway which is kind of a deal breaker. Because I like you.

Him: you can’t be a nun with benefits?

Me: No, I don’t think it works that way.

Him: awww man.

Well! I have had my very first supporter make a contribution to my buymeacoffee, or as I like to call it my buymyfreeloaderssomechickenfeed. I couldn’t be more grateful or thrilled! Also, whoever you are, you made my husband a little less concerned about how much time I spend on the ol’substack-o-rama. So thank you doubly!

In farm news, this weekend could possibly mean the arrival of our two llamas who will be protecting our small herd of sheep. My mother is beside herself with excitement and I am busy brainstorming names. I’ll take suggestions! So far I’ve come up with Lovegood Llama and LeStrange Llama. God has provided everything we have needed on this journey to start our little farm and all of it has happened in the best timing imaginable. Glory to Him!! ❤️☦️🙏🏻

If you would like to support my writing and my little farm efforts, please follow the link below:

buymeacoffee.com/mmjans

🦙🐑🐓🥚❤️

“I’ve moved further to the left,” an old friend said to me after reaching out on an app I recently downloaded for a church group chat. Aside from the subject I am about to write on, there are far too many flippin’ apps y’all. It’s confusing. Anywho! I tried to be gentle as my friend described being made aware of the “political horrors” and working with an “anarchist group” that gives out meals in public spaces. “I hope it helps,” I replied and then I mentioned that I had left the left. The conversation was brief and I wished him well. He is a tender, kind, and sensitive soul. There was no merit in starting an argument over leftism and possibly destroying a relationship. No, it was better to simply plant the seed of having left that belief system behind in hope that if one day he needs to speak freely, he can come to me.

The bigger issue at hand, I believe, is understanding why folks have turned to the left politically to begin with. Of course there are the usual speculations: they’ve been brainwashed, social media, the public school system, etc. However, the deeper reason that I glean from conversations both new and old is that there is a sense of abandonment and a lack of meaning that goes back at least two generations. “No one is coming to help us,” is a common and heartbreaking refrain. It stems from a misplaced faith in ideology and a lack of understanding about the role of suffering in our lives. While I deplore the belief system that wrecked my discernment, my health, and my relationships, I cannot despise those who are still caught in its sticky and vice-like grip. It is pain that draws these folks in and it is their deep empathy that gets exploited by powerful people enacting a terrible agenda. Even the leftists who commit violence are suffering. They suffer from the previous generations abandonment of God and the subsequent a lack of meaning that inevitably follows.

The solution is actually fairly simple: connection and the bestowal of meaning. God did something crazy in my life when He healed me. He plucked me from everything I knew and plopped me down in a strange land amongst people I thought were my enemies. The more I prayed, worshipped, and ate with them the more I began to realize that they were not my enemies…they are my friends. Then, I began to not only eat with them but to feed them in my home from the labor of my hands and to sing for them in Church. Every once in a while someone will come to me after Liturgy and in a quiet and hushed tone they will thank me for chanting. I’m almost always caught off guard because I’m a little out of my element as a former musical theatre singer attempting Byzantine Chant. Suddenly, and without conscious intent on my behalf, I am both living in community and I have a meaningful role: I feed and I sing. These things keep me accountable to God. I do not want to compromise my relationships nor my role in our community. I want to keep doing the good that God is requesting of me. So I practice music and I have learned to cook very large meals on a budget instead of becoming embroiled in toxic politics meant to divide me from my neighbor.

So, dear reader, I encourage you to pray for your enemies as Christ taught us to do. Even if they’re leftists, even if they’re right-wing, even if they’re a different religion or ethnic background, even if they’re wrong about everything, and even if you despise them. Forgive them their trespasses and search for ways to connect and to bestow meaning on others. Miracles are real and the glory belongs only to God.

Our farm and animals are doing well during this strangely snow-less winter. The sheep were moved to a new pasture and are officially refusing hay since there’s still grass for them to eat. We hope the ram will continue to do his job and God willing we will have lambs in the next few months. We will be building him a pen to separate him from the ewes in March when the ground is a little softer. Moving forward, our family is looking forward to the arrival of our guardian llamas and we are debating names. I came up with Lovegood and Lestrange, but of course we will have to meet them before we settle on proper nomenclature. Our plan is to attempt a miniature version of rotational grazing through our established pastures this coming spring and summer and to continue growing hay in the big field. Eventually we would like to fence off grazing paddocks in the big field and possibly increase the size of our flock. If it is God’s will, no doubt it will happen. In the meantime, if you would like to support my writing by making a contribution to our feed budget, I would be greatly appreciative. Please follow the link below to contribute.

🐓🐑🦙: buymeacoffee.com/mmjans

My freeloaders and I thank you kindly! ☦️🙏🏻❤️

I think St Seraphim of Sarov might be praying for me. This summer we re-homed over 30 animals, none of which we asked for, and we are preparing to welcome two llamas to guard our flock of sheep. All of our animals are working animals and their purpose here is to help us build/heal the soil and to nourish our family and friends. We are considering expanding our capacity and moving toward a more regenerative model of farming called rotational grazing. Rotational grazing mimics the way the bison used to graze on this land prior to settlement. It helps to build healthy soil, limit parasite load in the animals, and manage grasses and weeds without the use of broadleaf herbicides and pesticides. The results are healthier lands and more nutrient dense meats for us and our community. If you would like to support my writing by contributing to our farm and feed budget, I would be extremely grateful. Thank you for being here and may God bless you all.

🐓🐑🦙: buymeacoffee.com/mmjans

❤️☦️🙏🏻

You’ve changed. Yes, it’s true. I don’t recognize you anymore. I imagine this is difficult for you. Why are you like this now? Because I saw real darkness and then I experienced God’s mercy. That doesn’t make any sense. Exactly. I’m glad you found something that works for you but don’t try to convert me. I wouldn’t dream of it.

The short version. No one from my past will actually have the conversation with me. They might glance in from afar and form their own conclusions but to have the conversation means confronting their own religious beliefs. Make no mistake, the dominant progressive worldview is religious. It demands fealty and the rejection of dissenters. It maintains a doctrine of a gendered identity (re: soul) and worldwide conspiratorial oppression. It precludes redemption and damns through cancellation…ostracism. The only way out is apostasy and that is painful. Trust me, I know; I get it. So, the conversation won’t happen and I’m ok with that. I pray for all of them. Lord, help them understand that I love them and I care perhaps even more now than I did then. I just can’t be one of them anymore.

Sweet, sweet dreary in between-ish winter. Do you give me anything to say about anything at all? Maybe a little. Maybe it is during this time that I muse about stuff and thingies that matter not but may engage the brainial cavities of a few equally as addled minds as my own. The weather has been unseasonably warm here and there is no snow. “Nice spring we are having!” I say to a friend and neighbor who laughs heartily. He wants to know how we are doing. Great! Which is a partial truth. We are doing great, but we definitely have some big challenges on our plates. Nothing God won’t see us through. But I digress from the nothings I was writing about. The absence of things both interesting and mundane. Nothing is far more interesting than all the horrid somethings happening in the world these days. I do miss the garden and the summer heat. Is this the version of my winter blues when I am thriving and life is good? Gosh I hope so. There really couldn’t be a better experience of seasonal meh than this one I am having right now. Hopefully the sticking snow will be here soon and I will get some proper hygge. That will cure the nothingness for a while as well as my summer garden longing.

Yesterday we spent a few hours outside by a camp fire after we moved the sheep to a new pasture. It was some much needed time out of the house after weeks and weeks of rain. We roasted hotdogs and ate sour cream and onion potato chips. One of us, not me, was diagnosed with a potentially fatal medical condition this past week and it has taken a toll on all of our hearts and minds. So we sat and we healed by a small kettle of smoldering embers till after the sun had gone down and the stars started to twinkle. Stars are something else entirely out here in rural, western Montana. Kinda like stars in central Australia but that is a story for a different time. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that we all have a finite number of dinners and fires together. When I was younger it just didn’t seem like something that could end. No dinner, no fire should ever be wasted in disagreement or discontent. They are gifts. At the risk of anthropomorphizing God, I sometimes try to imagine how it must feel to Him to have watched death come into a world that He created for life. Death is so painful to us…what is it like to witness it on a cosmic scale? To see so many of your children lost…to hear the laments of those who cry out in grief? I have to be careful. I do not want to waste any time pre-grieving the impending loss of someone I love who hasn’t died yet. There are still more dinners and fires and it would certainly be a sin to squander them over a scary medical diagnosis.

There is good farm news! We have finally found guardians for our flock of sheep. As soon as the ground freezes and a trailer can be safely driven into a pasture about twenty miles from us, we will become home to not one but TWO llamas! God is providing and we couldn’t be more thrilled. If you would like to help support my writing by contributing to our feed budget by clicking the link below, I would be tremendously appreciative. Thank you for being here and for reading my musings!

Freeloading 🐓 and Guardian Llamas 🦙

Cozily, I slept on my left side with my face on top of my hand and I awoke this morning with a small, purple mark on my cheek. Being one of the anaphylactoid injured from the pandemmy, waking up to dark spots on my face is never a good thing. Thankfully, this ended up just being a sleep mark and not a sign of an impending reaction.

So much has left its mark on me. Academia, the performing arts, illness, recovery, religious conversion, to name a few. The deepest mark on my psyche and relationships was inflicted by progressive politics and leftist ideology. I look back upon what my life became because of it, and I barely recognize myself. Was I that radicalized that I would consider putting myself in the path of law enforcement only to leave my child motherless? I don’t know. I hope not. Coming from that mindset, I think that Renee likely and firmly believed that she was standing up for the weak in the face of injustice. Her death is a tragedy…she is as much of a victim of the current leftist zeitgeist as she is of the individual who fired the gun at her.

It is both her children and our nation that will bear the mark of Good’s death. To be motherless, even when one’s mother is deeply flawed, is one of the worst wounds someone can suffer. Friends, lovers, even spouses can be found elsewhere but one’s mother can never be replaced. The left will use this tragedy as pretext for riots and more violence, the right will use it to vilify all left leaning folks and will eventually retaliate militarily. Will we devolve into sectarian conflict? Admittedly, it is becoming harder to see a way out of our national division without a separation and/or a civil war. What an utterly depressing thought that is. A divorce and a civil…frickin’…war.

Where are the peacemakers in all of this? And not the hippie dippy ones singing, “give peace a chance,” through a cloudy haze of cannabis vapor. The ones who can cut to the quick with their analysis and moral authority. The blessed ones. All of this must stop lest we lose ourselves, our souls, and many more lives over propaganda fueled outrage. I find myself disheartened and leaning heavily on prayer. Oh, my God! What would You have me do? My voice is a drop in the bucket. Does anyone actually read this? Does it matter to say to folks: put down your words and your weapons and find the humanity in your enemies! Pray for them and for yourselves! Turn back to God before more children are robbed of parents and before a war drives us apart!

I cannot shake the fear that Renee’s fate could have been my own had I not been awakened by God to the reality of leftist progressivism and my own self-righteousness. The mark left on me by this deception is only my personal shame and embarrassment. For her, the mark is death. That mark reaches forward through time and marks her children and their future children. Who is to say how it will manifest for them. I pray that God intervenes.

I know the tone of this essay is not my usual one. Whoever you are, whether you agree or disagree with me, I am grateful you are here and I thank you heartily for reading my musings. If you would like to support my writing by contributing to a bag of feed for my freeloading chickens, it would be greatly appreciated. May God bless you and may He have mercy on us all.

Freeloaders 🐓🐓🐓

Hashtag farm-life has been rather slow of late while hashtag life-life has been fast. One day, in the distant future, in moments such as these I will do something totally unheard of…God willing, I will take a real vacation. GASP!!! It’s true. One day it will happen. No, not a trip but an honest to goodness Bahama-vention style vacay to a sunny place on a sandy beach front where I can have a tiny, paper umbrella in a frozen drink. I’ve never had a proper vacation in my adult years. Plenty of trips…no relaxing, restorative vacations. “But Megan! Aren’t you super pale? Wouldn’t a beach vacation spell certain doom in the form of a terrible sun burn?” Fair question, dear reader, but in this fantasy umbrellas are real as are big hats and gauzy sarongs. I’ll survive. I promise.

We have navigated a lot of conflict in our two decades as a family. Internal conflicts, external conflicts, professional conflicts, familial conflicts, conflicts with friends, political conflicts, and institutional conflicts. It’s been a lot. We are tired. Of course for the interpersonal stuff I did what all folks of a certain age have done and sought out therapy prior to my conversion. I’m sure there are good therapists out there but quite frankly I have yet to encounter one that is truly worth their hourly rate. Most are ideologues and concerned more about their liability and their weekly patient load than the actual healing of strife. So they pick at old wounds and encourage you to stay with your feelings when all that does is disrupt wisdom. Christ was right when he said the heart is wicked. And listen, it’s not that I think feelings are all bad or unnecessary, it’s just that in my experience they don’t govern the best decision making…like, ever. So here are some existential (maybe even philosophical) questions I have about navigating, observing, and/or resolving conflict outside of an established therapeutic model.

1. In the midst of, or perhaps on the tail end, of personal and institutional conflict, do we ever truly see our personal culpability until long after resolution…if at all?

2. In the heat of the moment, are we all doomed to instinctually shirk responsibility for our own behavior out of fear of consequences or being wrong?

3. When intervening or sharing the gospel amidst someone else’s conflict, what is the line between self-absorption/projection and offering the wisdom of experience?

4. Can certain aspects of psychology and Christianity truly coexist? Is it helpful to understand behavioral tendencies and their origins in order to live in the modern world as a Christian pursuing a sacramental life?

5. Why is forgiveness and reconciliation not a therapeutic benchmark when it comes to trauma? What the heck does “resolving issues” actually look like without the radical forgiveness of Christ? In my life, healing has been possible through the grace of God. Mind you, my repentance and healing has come with constant maintenance and effort, but it happened. Why is that not the ultimate therapeutic goal?

6. As Christians, what protections or boundaries should be put in place socially once a conflict has been resolved in order to prevent a reoccurrence? Should any? Or, should forgiveness be free and clear of any instinct to place a restriction around whatever caused the conflict?

There’s this old joke about a guy caught in a flood. Someone in a boat comes by and he says, “no thanks, God will save me.” Same thing happens with a helicopter. The guy dies and when he appears before God he says, “why didn’t you save me?” God replies, “well, I sent you a boat and a helicopter.” I’m always keeping both eyeballs peeled for the divine boats and godly helicopters. I truly hope to be those things for others. But it is hard to discern. I welcome your thoughts.

The freeloaders are still at it. Hiding and eating whatever small amount of eggs they’re producing. Tsk tsk. But we love them :). So thanks for being here and if you’d like to support my writing by helping me to buy a bag of feed for my little dinosaurs I would greatly appreciate it.

Freeloaders 🐓

Dear Clementine Morrigan,

Recently your writing has been delivered to me once again via an algorithm. Back in the days when I was suffering, I followed you on Instagram. At the time, I found your life and writing to be wildly resonant with my own journey and extremely compelling. I too suffered from autoimmunity and began a journey down the rabbit hole of trauma. I read all the books and did all the therapy and self-healing one could imagine. Once, I even considered doing an ayahuasca ceremony but decided not to go forward with it. Today, I am grateful for that moment of clarity in the haze of a very difficult time.

You have done an amazing thing by standing up firmly against cancel culture. In fact, that was the reason I started reading your work! I too had ethical issues with this egregious practice and it was the first crack in the mirror of my leftist beliefs. I realize that politically speaking, you are very much rooted in social progressivism and my own opinions now differ drastically, but that is not why I am writing to you.

I am writing to you as someone who sees you similarly to how I have witnessed my past self and who has been miraculously healed. Lately, you have been writing about your mother and the terrible experiences you had growing up. My heart aches for you. You have written that your mother is a well-known feminist scholar in Canada and that for whatever reason, she did not believe you about the abuse you have experienced. I cannot imagine what that must have felt like, nor can I imagine the subsequent life you led as you navigated the feral streets unprotected by adults.

I used to think I knew a lot, was very smart, and had important things to say. This was especially true for me during the hardest parts of my suffering from autoimmunity and disability. What was born of that experience, however, was not expertise in how the world works, but a tremendous humbling as I experienced God’s unfathomable mercy. During a moment of desperation I prayed for healing and I got it. The months following were very confusing. I spent a lot of time alone dealing with challenging emotions and questions about why I was healed. Wasn’t my life supposed to devolve even further until I was dead? If God is actually real, what does that mean for the life I have both behind me and ahead of me? How could I have been so wrong about so many dearly held beliefs? Experiencing true and divine mercy does that to a person. It changes you. It convicts you. It shifts your perspective and it often leaves one in need of solitude to manage the embarrassment and shame of living a life that to put it gently, was not in alignment with God’s purpose but was instead aligned with personal desire. This is a theme I discover over and over again in the lives of the Christian saints. They sinned greatly, perhaps in response to the sin perpetrated upon them by others, God intervenes, they are confronted with the reality of themselves, they spend years in the desert, and then they heal others miraculously as well as through the example of their lives.

I do not expect this to land well with you and doubt that you will ever see this letter, but having mercy and forgiving others who have harmed you is the most profound thing a victim of trauma can do. It is an extension of God’s unfathomable grace and it is what He calls us to do. As hard and undeserved as it may be…I believe that you should forgive your mother.

As I write these words I can imagine the anger that might be bubbling up inside of you. How could I, a stranger on the interwebs and one time appreciator of your work, have the audacity to suggest you forgive the woman who was supposed to protect you and didn’t. It is precisely because she is undeserving that I suggest you do it; because it is God’s mercy for both of you. I cannot promise what God will do in your life after forgiveness, should you choose to take my advice, but I have a sneaking suspicion that peace and reconciliation is a distinct possibility.

There is a newly recognized saint in the Orthodox Church, St Olga of Alaska. I think you might find her life and her miracles very interesting. She comforts the grieving and heals survivors of abuse. In Christian Orthodoxy we do not pray to saints in the same way we pray to God, but instead we ask them to pray on our behalf similarly to asking for prayers from a friend. I think St Olga could be a spiritual friend to you in this moment and I pray that she intercedes on your behalf.

May God bless you, Clementine, and may you go on to lead a life full of the peace and the abundance of His grace and mercy.

Sincerely,

~Megan Morse Jans

Information about St Olga: https://www.oca.org/saints/lives/2026/10/27/100561-righteous-mother-olga-of-kwethluktanqilria-arrsamquqwonderworker

On the Merits of Suffering

My eyes fling open and as if through gravel they roll to the left. There is pink light coming from my southeast facing window and it is 6am. “Well heck,” I think. I lived…again.

He turned the bed a port and against the wall because we had no footboard. Had he not, the pillows I needed to prop up my feet and keep the blood flowing to my brain would have slid off. Otherwise, I would be continuously passing out. He is beside me, not so much sleeping as collapsed in exhaustion. I’m the one going through it; he is the witness. Neither are enviable positions to be in.

“I was fine till I got that damn vac-” I’ll leave it at that.

Last night, at some bleary point, I tried to make it to the bathroom by myself but something stabbed me low and deep in my belly. I fell starboard into the wall and slumped to the floor, but when I looked down I saw no knife. It came from within. The killer was inside the house, so to speak.

I look for Stick. That is what I dubbed my trusty cane. My constant companion who never leaves my side. Stick is at my bedside and always within reach because when you are dying, you learn all the tricks to make it easier to maneuver through your home. I manage to get myself downstairs toward the promise of coffee and to refill my pill box for the week. I convulse on the couch alone for about 15 minutes.

My one pleasure is sitting in the garden and watching the aerial plankton float and flitter about as the early morning sun makes its way toward my tomato plants. I sit. Sometimes I listen to a podcast. I breathe as deeply as the terribleness in my belly will allow. The coffee is good. It isn’t too hot outside yet. For a moment I forget.

He comes down before work and kisses me. He finds me sexy even in this state which bewilders me to no end. Maybe he still sees the young woman he married back when he was a bona fide pirate. The girl who was a dancer and who sang on moderately decent sized stages for the first 15 years of our marriage. Maybe he chooses to see her instead of my inflammatory  state…or maybe he just loves me that much. Even though at this moment I don’t believe, I say a prayer thanking God for this man. In sickness and in health, it turns out, are important parts of those vows.

A witch gave me a spell to help alleviate my suffering. She said that I needed to repeat these affirmations seven times under the full moon, make a bracelet out of red thread, and to wear it till it broke. Seems harmless enough and I’m one to try anything twice, so I sit down on my bed to give it a shot.

Sigh.

This is bull-sh-ridculous.

What the hell is this going to do other than to deplete my red thread supply and to waste my precious time? So instead, I desperately pray to the God with whom I have wrestled like Jacob. I ask to be healed and I ask for the Truth.

This clumsy prayer is not a waste of time.

Now-a-these-days, things aren’t so bleak. Stick is packed away (thank you for your service, kind sir). I no longer lament pink sunrises, the coffee is still good…maybe better, and pre-work kissin’ still happens on the daily. We live in a dryer climate now so the aerial plankton is slightly less spectacular and has been replaced by an awe inducing company of woodpeckers, hummingbirds, hawks, and golden eagles. The volume of the terribleness in my belly is no longer at an 11 and the foot of my bed is liberated.

Think what you want, I really don’t care. I know what happened that night. What God did and undid in my body/life. I understand. I’m no evangelist and so I won’t try to convince you of anything. But I will say this:

I would not change anything and ain’t no one ever gonna waste my time again. There is a depth to despair that is unfathomable until you choose to glance right instead of to the gravelly left. Turns out, sunrises are a promise and gardens can be planted anywhere. Marriages can succeed and illness can abate.

Yo ho! Pretty lady, give us a song and a dance and let us be lovers.

“It gives me hope,” she said with eyes that were ever so slightly glistening. Apparently, after I left she had her own brush with the same health conditions I have battled. “They” are researching. I will leave you to fill in the proper designations for the particular “they” to which I am referring, dear reader. In that moment of not wanting to dash the hopes of my beleaguered friend, I could not help but be grateful that my own hope is in God and no longer invested in any of the institutions of man. Faith dashed across the wreckage of a health crisis and a failed medical system is not faith wasted if it becomes redirected toward the Truth. The little t truth is quite simple: “they” will not make us well no matter how much research they do because “they” do not actually want us to heal. The cost is too high. Folks are trying, for sure, but it is far too complex and would involve disclosing their own deceptions. The big T Truth is that God does want to heal us and will do so in this life or in the next. But how do you say that to someone who credits trauma* for illness and has their eyes turned toward the false promises of medical research? All I said was this: “I no longer think there is anything wrong with my body, I think I was poisoned…so I had to let it all go.” I forgive my poisoners even though I still struggle with my anger toward them. It was hard to do but it was integral to my recovery. I pray one day that they repair what they have torn apart but I do not hold out hope for anything other than the promises of the Great Physician.

Before we left for our east coast visit, Mike and I worked a fundraiser for a very special project. Friends of ours started a private school for the children in our community. We raised an extraordinary amount of money, which means a lot of kids will get to go there for no cost whatsoever. Academia taught me that the picture below is “white supremacy!!! Christian Nationalism!!!” Professors browbeat me into believing that folks like these would rather see “marginalized” people erased from the earth and blah blah blah. To be very honest, when I look back on my former community and beliefs I find myself completely bored and in jeopardy of having to chase my eyeballs down the street due to the excessive rolling. However, what I witnessed that night was a community coming together with the express intention of investing in itself for the purpose of creating a better environment for its most precious resource…its children. The Anabaptists, the various Evangelical denominations, and our little Orthodox family were all there together. Of course there are things upon which we disagree, but we were there putting our money where our mouths are. While the academics taught me that the most important diversity was that of skin and sex, what I witnessed that evening was a diversity of the mind, a plurality of the spirit, and a unity of the heart/intention. That other diversity kinda pales in comparison, dontchathink? For all the preaching the academic intelligentsia does…there is not a whole lotta action when it comes to implementation. All theory. No praxis. Or perhaps just failed praxis. In other words, blame and failure and no real Love. I’ll take Love.

*Re: Trauma and the link to chronic illness. I have read all the literature (Maté, Van Der Kolk, etc) but I have become unconvinced by their claims. At best their research is qualitative and demonstrates a correlation between trauma and illness, but it does not indicate causation. My understanding is that chronic illness, autoimmunity, and cancer are multifactorial and also involve various levels of toxic exposure in addition to a history of trauma.

Freeloaders 🐔

buymeacoffee.com/mmjans

Wow! Y’all, thank you so much for being here and for reading my musings about life and stuff and things. If you would like to support my writing and my small farm at the same time, it would mean the world to me if you would consider donating to my “buy me a coffee” which should really be my “buy my freeloaders some chicken feed”. Maybe one day they’ll start laying eggs again rather than just living their best chicken-y lives on our homestead in the Bitterroot Valley. Stranger things have happened.

1) Why does God allow suffering? In short, I don’t know. Of course there is a lot of theology and apologetics written and articulated about this matter, but as I have said before I am neither a theologian nor an apologist. I am simply a woman who experienced suffering and then a miraculous healing. What I do know is that our God is compassionate and merciful and what may seem to be a cruel fate often contains the seeds of that compassion and mercy. “I am dying of terminal cancer,” a thin, bald woman having difficulty walking said to me the last time I was in an airport. “Are you in treatment?” I replied. “Yes, and my doctor says she cannot cure me but she can keep me from being in pain.” “Glory to God.” Also…lamenting is a thing that is ok to do.

2) Often, those who witness suffering lose faith in God or worse, have their existing doubts affirmed. Hidden in the awfulness of being a witness is a call to the Christian to repent/return. This has been my experience. I am often humbled by my inability to say the right words or to do the right things that bring comfort to my loved ones during times of adversity. Platitudes don’t help anyone…but prayer does. As a current witness to some pretty terrible things, I often pray: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner…have mercy on my friend…help me to be what they need right now…whatever your will is in this moment I pray that it be done.

3) Keeping the faith during an ongoing tragedy is a corporate activity. There have been times when mine has been shaken to the core and nearly obliterated. It was then that the humble prayers of my grandmother moved me back toward Christ. I have seen it again and again, the body of Christ (the Church) can serve as a cradle that holds us as we wrestle with the meaning of all of the terrible things that happen in our lives. The arms of godparents, fellow parishioners, and the clergy are warm and strong when we cannot be. It is our job to keep the faith while someone struggles with a receding wave of trust in God. Faith might occasionally break, but that is never a done deal. Why? Because his mercy endureth forever.

Everywhere there are people…there is drama. Especially in our digital era. So many conflicts are caused and exacerbated by bad behavior amplified by the lack of established internet etiquette, unfettered impulse, and algorithmic gasoline when all it would really take to soothe hearts and minds is eye contact. Maybe it is my encroaching middle age, maybe it is that I am just so tired of division-self-righteousness-vitriol, but more likely it is that God is softening my heart. I have less energy to devote to correctness and tribalism because I am consumed by learning to farm, learning to live an Orthodox life, and raising a teenage son. I bear witness to the healing power of a shared, homemade dinner and a few songs every single week with my small singing class and it humbles me. I can look into the eyes of my friends, talk about serious things, disagree, hug as they leave, and do it all again the next week. Is it perfect? No. Is it good? Most certainly yes. Is it more effective than letting digital communication drive a divisive spirit into our communities? Oh heck yes.

When one starts rehoming animals…it becomes a kind of cascade. Even if said animals are working animals that will eventually be euthanized or harvested once they cannot contribute to farm-life (except my Belle, she is the one sheep with a name and our matriarch and she can stay here until her last dying day). I guess that is what differentiates a working farm from a “rescue”. My mission is not to simply provide room for an animal to frolic, but to work symbiotically with an animal for the betterment of our mutual lives and the land until that relationship has run its course. Yes, it means that I will slaughter a lamb, a chicken, or whatever other livestock I may blessed with, but I will also provide said livestock with the best possible life during its working years. Fresh air and sunlight? Check. Plenty of pasture to graze? Check. Local hay for the winter? Check. Well water? Check. Parasite medicines and whatever minimal preventatives we believe necessary? Check. Good fences and hopefully one day a strong guardian (yes we are still looking for a llama or LGD)? Check in progress.

Freeloaders 🐓

We have officially come to the end of the fall molt and our freeloaders are starting to look less like horrific little nightmares from Jurassic Park and more like chickens again, thank God. However, it is unlikely that we will see many eggs till the end of winter. So if you would like to contribute to their feed budget, I would be much obliged. If not, no worries at all. I’m just glad you’re here and that someone out in the aether finds my musings to be readable.

Me: There’s snow on the mountains

Friend: Take that climate change haha!!

Me: Haha! Who’s the right wing extremist now?

Friend: Well, I did go and protest yesterday soooo….

Above is the context for the following advice for navigating a conversation where there is political disagreement but also amicability and good faith.

1. Respond with curiosity instead of judgment. “That’s interesting, what made you decide to go?”

2. Try to find common ground before exploring disagreement, “I agree that____is a problem, I feel somewhat conflicted about____though.”

3. Whataboutisms usually have the opposite effect of what one intends unless you can demonstrate a willingness to understand the point of the person you are speaking with. “This thing happened and it was really really bad!” “I am not as familiar with that thing as you are. I will have to do some research so that I can be on equal footing with you when discussing it. It is my understanding that another thing also happened.”

4. Don’t take yourself too seriously. When speaking with my more left leaning friends, I often like to joke that I’m a right wing extremist now that I have waist length hair and drink raw milk. It usually lightens the mood a bit. Then they freak out about the milk. The milk is fine, trust me.

5. Rejoice in the fact that the conversation is taking place. We are so divided as a people that any civil discourse about our culture and our politics is an absolute miracle. “Thank you for speaking with me about all this. I truly love that we can have these talks.”

6. Pivot to a new and neutral subject fairly quickly. The proverbial rabbit hole of political differences is not a place to spend too much time in. “Oh I forgot! Did I tell you that I am singing again? That I got sheep? That Mike has a new project? That my kid turned 17?” The options are endless as far as what subject matter you can redirect to.

Let me be clear that my advice is in no way about changing anyone else’s opinions. I no longer traffic in persuasion and I have no vested interest in ideological homogeneity. What I am interested in is civility and the healing of relationships broken by politics. I hope this helps you.

There is a man in my life who fires his words at me like bullets from a gun. His gaze a red dot aimed at my beliefs. He finds it hard that I question America. I try to reassure him that I love the land and her people but our institutions have caused great harm to a great many folks. When he accuses me of lying, in not so many words, I momentarily lose my cool and my resolve to navigate politically tense talks with politeness. “You may have said that,” he fires at me, “but you did not mean it.” “I absolutely meant it and I chose my words very carefully to express exactly what I meant. You are creating a narrative around my intentions to suit your own opinions,” I fire back. “I’m very good at reading tone and movements when people speak.” “That may be, but you are wrong.” Believe it or not this ended in laughter. Next he wants to debate theology. I move on to how we have lost sight of beauty as a culture. Instead of striving for the proverbial gothic cathedral, we are instead teaching artists the kind of brutalism that resulted in that god awful FBI building in downtown DC. It is a rollercoaster of a conversation fueled by too much wine and the lateness of the evening. He tells me I need to dumb it down. That’s a compliment, by the way. It is the same conversation that happens roughly every month. The same topics. The same fervor. The same laughter. I wouldn’t change it for the world. We holster our weapons for the evening and resolve to do this again as many times as the Lord permits.

Freeloaders 🐓

Whilst I do appreciate the offer to “buy me a coffee” seeing as I do drink a “medically risky” amount of it daily (according to my doctor but what does she know), and if you would like to support my writing please consider helping to feed my freeloaders, aka my chickens. We rehomed 30 working animals and a menace of a corgi puppy on our farm this past summer and it turns out that “working” is a very subjective term. Thank you so much for reading my musings and for helping us to continue to grow our right wing conspiracy theory dreams…ahem, I mean our homestead. May God bless you! 🙏🏻☦️❤️

Two weeks ago, Bruno and I had a brief and exciting moose encounter on our walk through the park while waiting for kiddo to finish up his morning activity. So of course today we went back into the park looking again for said moose. Sadly, we did not see it. However, we did have a much better time with the leash and were joined by a dear friend who shared some fantastic news with us. Here’s something to know about me…whatever your good news is, I want to hear it. I don’t care if it’s “today I tied my shoes!” or “I’m so happy that I found my favorite carrots at the grocery store!” HUZZAH! I want to celebrate with you. In fact, nothing would make me happier than to hear about your babies sleeping through the night for the first time, your reconciliation with a long lost friend, or the success of your long awaited medical treatments. New job? Give it to me. First loaf of sourdough? Yep, I want to hear that too. Your austistic child spoke? Glory to God! Tell me everything.

There is a peace and a sweetness to being disconnected from politics. In talking with my good news friend today, my assessment of “nobody here really leads with politics and few actually care,” was most certainly affirmed. There is a blessed exhaustion amongst these folks and their priorities are different. Yes, there is the occasional interaction with a liberal neighbor or a fan of Trump, but for the most part it is all quiet on the western, political front in my corner of the world. Today, instead of minding protesters, I fed sheep by hand. I walked my dog through the woods with a friend. I sat for a bit in the warm sunshine; a truly finite resource as the Montana winter is closing in. I practiced music for tomorrow’s Matins and Liturgy. I let my freeloading chickens live another day because surprise! They laid six eggs. Trust me, this is huge because they’ve been hiding and eating their eggs for months and I’m ’bout ready to sharpen my cleaver and fire up my crockpot. All of this is to say, don’t let the bad behavior of certain powerful folks and their proxies deplete your ability to look around you and find beauty. Beauty is everywhere.

Since I write about nothing at all, I would feel a little like a poser if I put anything behind a paywall. That’s not why I’m writing these little musings of mine. My only hope is to process life/change and try my darndest to do good with what God gives me. So if you like my thoughts or feel like you’d like to help me feed my freeloading chickens or contribute to a warmer for my sheep tank to prevent the water from freezing, I will not say no and I will be eternally grateful.

Freeloaders🐓

I am bordering on the kind of burnout that only a slow Montana winter can remedy. The intensity of the spring, summer, and fall have been like a wildfire fire burning through all my fuel reserves and the world just wants more. I have loved it! And I am tired in a way I have not been since my dance, theatre, and teaching days. If I do not slow down, my body will slow me down in ways that I will find…unpleasant. It began yesterday with a minor belly and headache like a warning. Rest or don’t, and risk being non-consensually rested. So I chose to rest. I read essays and scrolled through dog and garden videos and planted myself like a couch seed. I ate leftovers and watched some cop shows with my extended family and went to bed early. My dreams were intense. I dreamt that was in a new body and no one recognized me. I went swimming with a stranger and almost missed the award ceremony I was to attend. There was more I can’t remember. It was all so bizarre.

Today we woke up to temps in the thirties and snow creeping down the mountains and into the valley. It’s the middle of October, y’all, and if I ever doubted I lived in Montana today has remedied that misconception. Admittedly, I have been anxious lately. Anxious about predators, anxious about getting everything done for homeschool that we need to get done, anxious around people, and anxious to travel back east for Thanksgiving. I am thrilled to see our family, of course, but I am nervous about stepping back into the vibe of the east coast where every social interaction is contingent upon political fidelity to a faction. Opinions are no longer opinions, they are flags displaying party loyalty. How do you say: “that thing you fear is not rooted in the happenings of this current moment, but is instead inflamed by a media and an academy that profits from our division…you have more in common with your perceived enemies regardless of whatever abhorrent opinions we all hold,” to a loved one without starting a fight at the dinner table? A fight would be very rude to my dear mother in law who is so graceful when it comes to these things. She is a true matriarch with a talent for remaining neutral amongst warring ideologies. The answer to any and all things is prayer, so I will continue to pray.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.

And He will. His mercy is like the ocean. Big, salty, cool, and healing of all wounds. Including ideological and relational wounds. Nothing is beyond His reach. It may sting a little at first, but it will heal.

*clearly I meant to use the word inquiry rather than injury, but I will leave the mistake in so y’all know I’m not an AI.

1) Get kinda good at doing art stuff, make the quintessential mistake of getting a terminal masters degree in performing arts, fail miserably in academia, and do not accomplish your professional goals. This is the foundational step to becoming a rural, novice farmer and Orthodox Christian. Just trust me.

2) Survive a pandemic, but not unscathed. Become imprisoned in your home and realize that now is as good a time an any to plant your first, grown up garden without adult supervision. Plan it and plant it over and over again for a few years while managing the disabling fallout of being injured by a “certain medical procedure” (wink, wink, jab, jab) and get kind of obsessed with things that grow. Stare at it every day for hours from either a lawn chair or from your bedroom window as you are suffering debilitating hemorrhages, vasovagal syncope, and anaphylactoid reactions.

3) Become insufferably progressive and damage all your family relationships. Watch as your friends move on with their lives and become consumed with envy. Look for “spiritual” answers in all the wrong places and find none. Have major surgery but experience no improvement. Get desperate enough to be at the crossroads of: do I do this witchy ritual that a witchy friend recommends or do I pray for the Holy Spirit to help me un-heck my life? Now this is crucial, DO NOT DO SAID WITCHY RITUAL!!! I repeat, DO NOT DO SAID WITCHY RITUAL. Instead, pray for intercession by the Holy Spirit and marvel at the grand un-hecking that unfolds in front of you.

4) Experience a miraculous healing. Go from bedridden and wheelchair bound to walking two miles a day in three months. Here’s the kicker. Intercession by the Holy Spirit does not just come with healing, it also comes with conviction. I recommend hermit-ting for a couple of years and getting off the socials in order to process all of ways you have fallen short of God’s expectations of you. Start secretly going to church because this is a lonely part of the process and you will need Christian community.

5) Fix your relationships with your family. Whatever happened in the past is in the past. Forgive and ask for forgiveness. Get to know them again and show them the ways you are letting God work in your life.

6) When your family says: “come to Montana and live on the new farm,” say yes within 24 hours even though your east coast family thinks you are nuts and bolts and wearing a tight pair of crazy pants. Work for a year and a half to secure employment and the means to make this very expensive move. Spend all of your money and then some to make it happen.

7) Arrive on the farm and immediately begin thinking about this whole, “one holy catholic and apostolic” church thing that you’ve been saying when reciting the Apostle’s Creed. Get involved in your local homeschool community. Get brave enough to visit an Orthodox Church. Realize again that there is much you have been wrong about. Make lots of new, interesting, and contrarian friends. Ask your priest for a blessing to start chanting. When he asks you if you can read music, blush and humbly reply: “yes, but I am a little rusty.” Start to learn the hymnography even though it is a LOT. Do meaningful things like singing for your new friend’s baptism.

8) When friends ask you how many of their chickens you can take because they’re moving to Arizona, say: “heck! I’ll take all of them!” without realizing that there are sixteen of them. Also say yes to a menace of a corgi puppy that needs a new home, a very handsome rooster, more chicks, and ten endangered sheep. Do you know what you are doing? Nope. But the good news is that there are plenty of folks about you willing to help because they have made all the same mistakes you are about to make.

9) Work your tail off in a way that you didn’t think possible after being poisoned by medical awful-ness and spend so much time outside in the garden that you get your first official suntan of the farmer variety and raise your vitamin D levels to a clinically concerning high number so much so that you have to stop taking your supplement. Get tired. Smell terrible. Be so dirty that you can smell the soil wafting from your hair in the shower. Stop being freaked out by chicken poop because it’s everywhere. Say things like, “I can’t wait for winter so everything slows down,” for the first time in your life. Start a substack and write about it all because probably no one will see it but maybe someone will.

10) Give the glory to God.

I hope that you have enjoyed these ten easy steps to becoming a novice farmer and an Orthodox Christian. May God bless you on your journey and may your sourdough starter always be bubbly.

Boom.