Tag: gratitude

Becoming Placed

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

If you haven’t had the chance to meet Jill, you should. She’s the property manager for her family’s farm (High Point Farms) where Maple Key is located. She is by far and away one of the most generous people I have ever met. Hers is the kind of generosity that is rooted in interdependence, a true and mutual joy in sharing life and resources together.

Jill has been the incubator for countless other people like me including Morgan at Creekside Flowers, who got her business started at High Point. As a side note: Before starting Maple Key, I worked for the tutorial that meets at the farm on M- Th and driving in each morning my girls and I would see Morgan working hard on maintaining the health of her plants. I know she learned a lot from Jill, who also raises flowers for weddings and for individual sale. Hearing Morgan’s story (delivered impeccably, I might add) was inspiring and reminded me a lot of getting Maple Key off the ground. You play, tinker, research, and experiment when you don’t know how to do something.


Such has been the case with our late fall garden this year.

Jill suggested that we start a garden this year and I told her I would need help. My vague cries for direction were met with her voluntarily having a portion of land tilled by the tractor and two big piles of manure from the animals on the farm waiting for us. She even called her neighbor, Joel, who lives a mile up the road from her to come get us started with the garden. I laughed when she said she told him we needed a lot of help because we didn’t know anything 🙂

He came out to the farm as promised and skeptical though he was, worked with us for 3 hours (barefoot!) with no breaks talking to us about soil health and the basics of working with minimal tools and dirt since we clearly didn’t have a plan. After we marked off our lines, we used the seeder to ensure a straight row of plants. We watered it heavily and Joel prayed over the land.

Doing all this work in mid October (instead of August like the internet suggested we should have), we had no idea if the 2 month drought and coming cold snap would ruin our crop, but lo and behold we kept coming back to a new surprise of growth each week.

We only used one-third of the area Jill gave us to grow plants because Joel told us not to bite off more than we could chew. He was right in that trying to weed and harvest that much would have taken more time than we have in our 4 and a half hours each week. We did add some strawberries donated by one of our families though.

The time finally came when we had our last day at the farm for December. We decided to harvest some radishes, kale, and stray turnips greens that ended up in the other rows. It was more than a complete success. We have more food than we know what to do with, so this year we’re using it in our homes and giving it away to friends. Perhaps in the future we can still enjoy it for ourselves and friends while also selling it to give the proceeds to charitable organizations the girls research or fundraise for a special project.

Either way, there is such profound gratitude in seeing the Lord’s provision and work of your hands.


When it comes to risk, I like to think of myself as being a cautious personality. However, the constructive criticism I hear from other people is that I tend to underestimate what yield could come from faithfulness. I can definitely be like the servant in Matthew 25 that buries his talent and convinces himself he’s being a good steward. My faith in many areas of life is lacking because I hedge my bets to avoid the pain of embarrassment or loss. Modest success is better than no success, right? Reading one of my favorite naturalist authors, Robin Wall Kimmerer, helps me to see a path forward in demonstrating responsibility to something other than just keeping my ego safe. She says in her book, Braiding Sweetgrass:

“Being naturalized to place means to live as if this is the land that feeds you, as if these are the streams from which you drink, that build your body and fill your spirit. To become naturalized is to know that your ancestors lie in this ground. Here you will give your gifts and meet your responsibilities. To become naturalized is to live as if your children’s future matters, to take care of the land as if our lives and the lives of all our relatives depend on it. Because they do.”

When I showed my husband the pictures each week, he kept saying, “That dirt must be magic!” Though I know he was kidding, the truth is the dirt has been cared for for decades. They don’t use pesticides. Their compost is fresh. They make sure the pH balances. It is also reasonable to assume that the land was cared for by the Cherokee, a vital part of the history of this land.

The garden has reminded me how much part of “becoming placed” as essayist Wendell Berry says, means growing to love an area through being fully present and acting in faith and commitment to its history of care.

Coach 4 Life

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

Because I believe in asset based approaches, I recently took a strength finders test.

My top 5 were:

– Coach (supports others’ growth; dislikes wasted potential)
– Philomath (loves learning; dislikes know-it-alls)
– Strategist (sees big picture; dislikes slow decision makers)
– Catalyst (generates momentum from stagnation; dislikes wasted time)
– Brainstormer (idea generator; dislikes closed-minded people and practices)

In other words, I can get a lot done in short amount of time, but I really like to see the long term growth.


I was discussing this with my oldest daughter on the way home from a rainy cross country meet in Nashville. Her sisters were almost finished with their fall sports season with incredibly gifted and kind coaches. I told her my personality was definitely built like a coach and she was confused.

“I thought a coach was someone who screams at their team when they don’t do well after a game.”

I told her, who hasn’t had much sports experience, that unfortunately, some coaches do that but that her ideas were largely formed by TV sports tropes; coaches come in many shapes, sizes, and volume levels. I explained that life coaches don’t yell, but help adults stay on track to meet their goals. I said that asset-focused teachers are coaches because they know that they are only partly responsible for the results; the students is the one who must exercise their agency and make choices to propel their own growth.

She responded, “So you mean like an encourager?”

Exactly.

I have had those coaches that demeaned the players and being a sensitive child who had little tolerance for injustice, I was always demotivated and angry at them. I am thankful that organizations have moved toward placing the child’s needs above the competition through modeling community spirit. Seeing this posted on my old sports league’s website gives me hope that the community will hold itself (and all its coaches) to a higher standard and that’s just good for everyone.

I will never embarrass my child or [this organization] by verbally abusing/insulting participants, coaches, board members, other parents or officials.

Also, I understand that the stands are NOT the place to shout personal instruction.

If something occurs with which I disagree, I will calmly seek an appropriate solution, at the appropriate time.

I understand that instigating or participating in a confrontation in front of any child is NEVER appropriate and will not be tolerated.

I will never lose sight of the fact that I am a role model. I understand that children imitate their role models and by acting appropriately.

I will be modeling what I expect of my child as well as influencing others in the program.

When I look for people to help with Maple Key, I look for coaches though I don’t want their leadership profile to look just like mine. With the unique skills God has given them, these tutors see what can be when the girls in Maple Key learn over time the habits that are worthy of pursuit while knowing that making mistakes is a part of the cycle of growth.

Come to the Potluck!

Posted on by Rachel Lonas
Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

An opportunity presented itself this fall at our church. We have been looking for practical ways to engage our community and after much discussion, being able to teach financial literacy to low-income participants made the most sense. I signed on to be the facilitator for the group which means I will help everyone engage the content every week. Each participant in the program will have an “ally” who comes alongside them as new concepts are shared and practiced. Everything about this program is based in best educational practices which affirm the dignity and worth of everyone in the room, so I love this program on a number of levels:

– Teaches basic money management skills, not just focusing solely on wealth accumulation
– Focuses on interdependence — allies, participants, and facilitators are are on equal ground (i.e. no hierarchy — everyone has something to bring to the “potluck”)
– Explains that people’s life outcomes are not just the sum of their choices and that broken systems do exist
– Dialogue and movement based education, not lecture style
– Encourages fellowship around a meal as often as is possible

Now, as a disclaimer, my husband works for the organization that runs this program, so I have been hearing about all of these principles for years. Not surprisingly, this training confirmed something I know very well about myself — it’s so easy for me to load up on book knowledge and have ZERO experiential knowledge. When I hear from the other people in my training cohort, many of whom work with consistently work alongside clients who can benefit from this, I realize I am handicapped by knowing all the “right answers”, but have never seen this program played out before in real life. In many ways, they and their clients have a greater understanding of this content than I do because they have felt it in their bones; the ups and downs of difficult financial circumstances live in their bodies. Meanwhile, I have a heart to serve, but am often stuck in my head with a financial safety net.

Honestly, I am excited to learn from the participants because I know too many people who are quick to invalidate experiential knowledge as a legitimate way of knowing things. If it didn’t happen to them or someone close to them it doesn’t count. What deeper understandings do we miss when we don’t listen to peoples’ stories? Can we acknowledge that we’re all broken and gifted in different ways and one kind of brokenness or giftedness is not superior to another?

My training to become a facilitator reminds me that one of my goals for Maple Key is to always have learning from one another in the forefront as a means of grace and understanding in all the activities we pursue.


“Some People Cry, Some People Do Other Things”

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

I have a thin scar between my chin and mouth. It’s offset to the right of my face. When I was in 3rd grade, I was hitting a beach ball over the swingset with my sister in our backyard. Our next door neighbor was playing on the tandem swing seat at the same time. I dove for the ball while he was gliding forward with all his momentum and suddenly an ER visit was born. Thankfully, my dad was home when my face started gushing blood. What do you put on a face wound like that? My memory recalls an ice pack or cold water in the mix of temporary relief in order to get me to the ER (ultimately a drenched washcloth compressed to my face did the trick).

I have a strong memory of my dad driving like a banshee in his red S-10. It was the first and only truck he ever owned because a few years later a drunk driver hit his truck bed and the sports trading cards he was transporting for his business flew all over the road. It’s a strange irony knowing that my dad’s body experienced reckless driving for different kinds of numbing — himself full of adrenaline driving a hysterical child whose face needed an anesthetic and colliding with a driver whose ability to cope with his trauma that day was maxed out.

Eventually my mom showed up and waited with me in the emergency room, too. Before they stitched me up, there was a part of me that wanted to see what the pain I was experiencing actually looked like on my face. I was too afraid to actually push hard for a mirror, but I remember my mom telling me that I really didn’t want to or need to see the hole. I somehow soldiered through the suturing that eventually left a bright red scar which showed up prominently in my class picture along with my brushed out curls (not sure which was worse my or hair or the scar). However, at age 38 even my own four children haven’t noticed the scar that I used to get a lot of questions about, so the doctor apparently did his job well.

My husband recently got to experience a similar fate as my dad, our first ER visit with a child after 13 years of believing we could avoid it. We were camping with church friends watching a movie at someone else’s site while he was about to put our four year old to bed. She had been monologuing and wildly gesticulating as children her age often do for 30 minutes. His wise strategy was to let her keep talking until she wore herself out. Unfortunately, as he was about to get up to escort her to her sleeping bag she made a miscalculated movement, tripped, and fell back into the smoldering fire. He quickly yanked her out as her favorite nylon princess nightgown instantly melted in the back. He rushed her to water and mercifully none of her outfit stuck to her. Her right hand did get licked by the flames though and it required some quick decision making. Both flooded by adrenaline, we ultimately decided for him to take her to the ER back home an hour away and I stayed at the campsite with the other girls until morning. Her initial care went smoothly and she got the ointment she needed to start the healing process.

When we all got home, my husband asked me if I wanted to look at her melted gown and I immediately said, “No!” My body’s reaction took me right back to the ER of my childhood, being so thankful I chose the parental wisdom in not being permitted to see the hole in my face. Instead of carrying that image in my mind for the rest of my life, I can now only see through my scar the healing that took place. I hope my daughter doesn’t ask to see her gown again, having to see the image of the gaping hole and the knowledge that she can no longer wear it and the memory that it burned right off her. But if she does, I will lovingly explain why I threw it away. I might wonder if that was the right decision for her as it was for me? Taking away the images of what could have been and focusing on the healing that lies ahead.

The papers from the hospital said there’s a possibility that even with the ointment her hand might be slightly discolored from the healing process. Our hope is that it will heal up entirely with no trace. But if not, she’ll end up like me, with her own story to tell about how her daddy showed up tender in his own way with a wound care variety pack and a box of fruity tic-tacs.

Before taking me to the ER, my dad was no stranger to hospitals because of the many surgeries my sister had to have due to her hydrocephalus and seizures. He showed up time and time again for her, my mom, and me. He still shows up in how he treats his granddaughters with the same level of sacrifice, spoiling, joke telling, and concern when someone is upset. Seriously, if there was an award for the grandfather who has played the most games of Candyland to calm someone down, he would win it no question.

I knew I wanted to marry my husband when I saw how deeply he thought about the implications of life. He read tons of books, was an incredible writer, and always kept his dorm room exceptionally neat. I don’t know that I believe the adage you try to marry someone like your father. There are many ways my husband is not like my dad at all, but I find that to be a healthy thing. In the ways that truly matter, I have two men in my life who are just alike — they.show.up.

Given the nature of this post, I am crying while writing it. I choke up a lot more these days than I used to: tears mean that my mind and body are processing well together. Writing out my memories means a similar healthy expression as well. Our oldest daughter, when chided by her younger sister about not crying at the news of her younger sister being burned, had her notebook out and was trying to write the events of the day by headlamp in the tent. She said as stoically, confidently, and slowly as a firstborn can, “Some people cry, some people do other things”. Her attempt at writing the facts helped her nervous system process in a way that kept her from completely losing it over her littlest sister’s injury. She might have taken my somber marching orders for everyone to get good sleep and not freak out a little too seriously, but I hope she heard my tears on the air mattress, too.

Witnessing Childhood

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

Our neighborhood is very walkable — gridlike in its layout. Over the years we have burned up the pavement with our tennis shoes, wagons, scooters, and strollers. We walk to the library. We walk to the cemetery cattycorner to our backyard. We walk to church. We walk to restaurants. We walk to playgrounds. We walk to Wal-Mart.

Toward the end of the month I am moving our time away from the farm and over to my town so we can walk on asphalt instead of lush grass. We will first pick up a lot of trash, as it’s one of the things you notice right away when you pass by all the ditches and little creeks. I’m excited to see how much we collect as we discuss all the signs of spring!

I also hope that we come across something like this:

I don’t know the story behind this, but it brought me a great sense of joy as I passed by it in a neighbor’s yard last night. Getting an opportunity to witness someone’s childhood is no small thing.

The Trees of the Field

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

In the Baptist church I grew up in, there weren’t too many songs we could make a ruckus with. An occasional holiday song like “Up From the Grave” on Easter or “Go Tell It on the Mountain” at Christmas raised our volume, but otherwise we sang solid hymns each week. Our minister of music was a man of robed choirs and tradition during the years when vapid praise songs were invading the churches in the early to mid 90’s. However, there was one song, based off of Isaiah 55, that I could always count on to get us moving — The Trees of the Fields by Bill and Gloria Gaither. We got to clap our hands because the lyrics implied that you were supposed to mimic the praise of the trees. Generally it was only pulled out on Sunday night church, further implying that it could never make the big time on Sunday morning. As a child, that always saddened me. That song’s odd status led me to believe that joyful, embodied worship in church was an anomaly.

When I sang that song as a child, I always pictured the trees like something out of a Disney cartoon. Lush and vibrant maples rustling their green leaves loudly together. I never thought about the trees being barren and cooperating with the wind like this:


As I walked through the winter woods in eastern North Carolina, I saw the naked trees clapping their hands and wondered if I was seeing Scripture. Could it be that these trees were worshiping the Lord with their creaks, squeaks, and groans, no leaves to muffle their noises’ ascent to heaven? Watching the black birches sway on the side of the mountain was nothing short of mesmerizing. Being a small person engulfed in the middle of a forest of dancing trees took me back to the song:

You shall go out with joy
And be led forth with peace
The mountains and the hills
Will break forth before you
There’ll be shouts of joy
And all the trees of the field
Will clap, will clap their hands

I believe there are shouts of joy even in winter, but it requires a different kind of listening and expectation. The acclamation is not showy, but rather raw with creaky echoes and no wilderness voices to add to the sound. As we await the New Jerusalem, our own creaks, squeaks, and groans are no less important than the smiling praises we might sing in a different season. Both are testifying that the Lord reigns.

Consider the Wildflowers

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

It could have been my imagination, but the air felt much more biting on the walk home from church at noon. In my mind, the day should always promise more warmth as the hours go by, not less. We walked anyway.

Walking to and from church is a normal occurrence for our family. We pass the apartment buildings behind our home, the local cemetery, the Methodist church, the title pawn shop. Then we cross the busy four lane road (which has no crosswalk), past the used tire store on one side and emergency service vehicles on the other. The final stretch is the row of homeowners, their various and sundry yard ornaments, and curious yappy dogs.

Today, however, the walk was a bit blustery even for our usual dogged determination for exercise and insistence on the children being more pedestrian (in all uses of the word) than they would normally care to be. Despite having to cross the traffic-filled street together at lunchtime, the route is very close to a straight line from point A to point B, so none of our children could ever get lost. Even the three year old knows to walk on the correct side of the road at all times, but we still have varying paces. My husband’s lumbering 6’3″ stride is not the same as my impatient I-feel-like-I-had-3-cups-of-coffee-already stride, nor is it the same as our preschooler whose inconsistent stride is always based on her whims.

So being vigilant, but still several paces ahead so as to encourage our 3 year old to reach the warmth of our home faster, I suddenly saw her stop on the side of the road and shriek with delight. What could have caused this burst of exuberance in such a chilly climb up the hill?

She found a lone dandelion.

Being so low to the ground, a burst of sunniest yellow had caught her eye amidst the dull and dark browns while the rest of us just motored on past so we could reach our destination. She laughed so naturally as she picked it for me to put in my coat pocket. Once inside, I started talking with my husband and getting out the leftovers to heat up for lunch, forgetting all about the flower. Out of the corner of my eye I saw our daughter filling up a clear plastic cup half full of water from the fridge.

“No, that’s too much for you to drink. You need to get a straw and then take it to the table.”

Frustrated in being redirected and misunderstood she said plainly, “No, it’s for the flower, Mommy!”

She hadn’t forgotten it.

I don’t know if her instinct to give the flower water came from watching her 7 year old sister do this all year round with “shot glass bouquets” from the yard or if she just knows that flowers need water to even have a chance at surviving in a house. She wasn’t thinking about how quickly it would wither once brought inside; she wanted to preserve and share the beauty of God’s creation as best as she knew how. Either way, her exceeding childish joy and loving care for something we older people ignore or pull up as a nuisance gave me a needed opportunity to reflect on the Lord’s Day.

“Consider how the wildflowers grow: They don’t labor or spin thread. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was adorned like one of these! If that’s how God clothes the grass, which is in the field today and is thrown into the furnace tomorrow, how much more will He do for you—you of little faith?” Matthew 6:27-28 (HCSB)

My husband reminded me that this passage from the Sermon on the Mount is actually a meditation on the first commandment, where Jesus tells His listeners that in God there is no need for worry because He is the provider. The Greek in verse 27 essentially translates into “be discipled by this flower”. In our age of instant and easy answers, how strange it is to be taught how to orient your life by a plant. And yet that is what I was called to on the roadside — to notice that He is still giving me an opportunity to push out distraction and comfort to see His wonder and provision that was so evident to my little girl. Being outdoors with my children is a constant reminder that I am too addicted to the illusion of self-sufficiency and far too rational to seize moments of discipleship that have been there all along.

Shades of Bronze

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

Last week my family and I drove up to see my in-laws in North Carolina for Thanksgiving. It’s a day where we usually think of bright pumpkins and yellow and green striped gourds with fall leaves in a cornucopia. However, I saw a different side of the season this year while taking a walk with my husband and two of our daughters down to a frozen pond.

I’m actually ashamed to say that I never noticed it before then; I had walked that property in the fall many times over the 15 years my husband and I have been married. This year the shades of bronze from all the spent plants on their 23 acres (and neighboring property) sang to me. The milkweed pods with their wispy white interior and curved shapes, the playful beige fluff of the goldenrod stalks, the crispy four-lobed pattern of tan hydrangea petals, the scraggly splash of lemon yellow from the witch hazel.

The next day we took pruners and a leftover cardboard box, snipping anything bronze, off-white, or muted yellow. After reaching the garage, I sat and made an arrangement of mostly dead things. As I worked, it struck me that what I was constructing was the opposite color palette of those bright fall images you see in Thanksgiving kid crafts and Hobby Lobby decorations. The items in the vase were devoid of the colors we are used to identifying them by, which would signify to many that the “abundance” has already passed or the usefulness of the plants were withered or diminished. But that’s not what my eyes saw as I strolled down the chunky gravel road.

I noticed two things:

1. Even if the color and shapes had changed some of these plants, it did not detract from their fundamental beauty. The textures, shades, and lines were simply stunning. It was almost like once their usual color was stripped away you could see aspects of their character that would have otherwise been concealed.

2. The arrangement wasn’t there to show creation’s abundance had left and was no more, but its beauty was actually a reminder that abundance is still here, albeit a different, but no less lovely form. It served as a reminder these plants will show up (and show off) abundantly again next year and for years to come.

One of the Nature Connection videos (from John Muir Laws) the Maple Key girls and I watched was on drawing and making collections based on a theme you notice as you spend time outdoors. I truly believe I noticed the shades of bronze last week because my eyes are getting sharper. Not literally, of course (I inch closer to the big 4-0 each year!), but rather through being diligent to listen to Laws’ lessons on what it means to live a reflective life outdoors. He gives his viewers better eyes to observe even when they don’t know they’re supposed to be looking.

What a gift to be able to notice God’s generosity through walking in His free wonders and delights.

Be Astonished

Posted on by Rachel Lonas


If you’ve never read Mary Oliver’s poetry, you’re missing out on the sublime. I can say this because for most of my life I haven’t been a patient person with poetry. I don’t recall it being taught to me with joy, often only purpose and meaning. I thought it always needed to steep in my mind for it to be worthy of consideration. The economy of words it required made me feel insecure about forming a decent interpretation. I hate admitting that. I feel the weight of guilt — literature majors are supposed to have an innate love of the word in all forms, right? It wasn’t until I understood that poetry could simply be approached with delight (as opposed to only seeking joy in the clever meaning or rhythm) that things started to change course. I thought and taught differently.

Enter Mary Oliver. She just passed away in 2019 and was eulogized like this:

“Mary Oliver isn’t a difficult poet,” Franklin says. “Her work is incredibly accessible, and I think that’s what makes her so beloved by so many people. It doesn’t feel like you have to take a seminar in order to understand Mary Oliver’s poetry. She’s speaking directly to you as a human being.”

Oliver told NPR that simplicity was important to her. “Poetry, to be understood, must be clear,” she said. “It mustn’t be fancy. I have the feeling that a lot of poets writing now, they sort of tap dance through it. I always feel that whatever isn’t necessary should not be in the poem.”

Oliver’s world is simultaneously whimsical and serious without melodrama. Her collection called Dog Songs could be read to all ages and guaranteed to produce more than a few tears of joy and grief. I started reading these poems with the Maple Key girls and the anticipation is high on which of Mary’s canines we will have the pleasure of meeting next week.

God bless you, Mary. If somebody had told me about you when I taught high school, I would have read you every day to my class. The world is a bit sadder without your wholehearted presence speaking to our tender souls.

What Awaits us in the Woods

Posted on by Rachel Lonas

My older 3 girls started taking swim lessons this fall. They wanted to gain some confidence in the pool and learn new skills, so two days a week we head to a local university where college students run both a swim program and a gymnastics program for children.

During that time I take our 3 year old out on a nature walk on campus next to a creek. I enjoy that special time with her because she goes to a preschool program from 9-2 on those days. She and I have no agenda. Just walking and seeing what awaits us in the woods.


As we got to the end of the trail today, she asked if she could throw rocks in the water and “make music” with her splashing. I told her yes and watched her pure joy for several minutes. It struck me how different my unhesitating response is to her than when my oldest was her age. It has taken me more than a decade to grow into a mom who can say yes to their many requests about exploring the outdoors on their terms. Watching a lot of webinars from experienced early childhood educators has helped me revisit the limitations I used to set out of my exhaustion or anxiety. Their refrain is always the same: Just let them play. Let them learn about the world in their own way.

So I did. She tossed stones, carefully held and observed a pokeberry, asked me to take a picture of a small green bug she spotted, requested a smartweed plant be put behind her ear, wondered how to pronounce the plant I picked up (‘Osage orange’), and took her precious sweet time coming back to the building when we needed to collect sisters to go home.

I can’t believe she spotted this guy!

If there is a takeaway from these little excursions of ours it’s that every time we in the larger culture make time for these moments, we are teaching the next generation that accepting nature’s invitation is a worthy pursuit. Eventually observing nature will no longer be a pursuit, but a lifestyle that has “snuck up on you” as we say in the South. My husband has steered our family in this direction in the most humble and patient ways, and yet he always foremost credits his grandfather who grew up surrounded by gardens and animals as showing him a slower, more intentional way to live.