Guest Post--Notes on Poetry Workshop--Hudson Kropf

[Hudson Kropf is a young poet and writer whose workshop on poetry received lots of positive feedback at the Western Anabaptist Writing Conference in February. I asked him if I could share his handout and he said yes. 
So here it is.
I love his poetry selections, including one he wrote himself.]

Here's Hudson leading singing at the conference.

Ephesians 2:10

For we are his workmanship (ποίημα poiema poy’-ay-mah),
created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath
before ordained that we should walk in them.

I. Rhymed and Bound verse.
(Has a specific rhythm and rhyme.)

II. Blank Verse
(Is bound with rhythm, but does not rhyme.)

III. Free Verse
(It doesn’t have to rhyme, and nor is it bound by a certain beat.)

I. Rhymed and Bound Verse.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

U = This represents the unaccented beats.

— = And this represents the accented beats.

Iambus: U — (This kind of Poetry is called, Iambic.)

Trochee: — U (This kind of Poetry is called, Trochaic.)

Anapest: U U — (This kind of Poetry is called, Anapestic.)

Dactyl: — U U (This kind of Poetry is called, Dactylic.)

U U — U U — U U — U U —

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

U U — U U — U U — U U —

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

U U — U U — U U — U U —

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

U U — U U — U U — U U —

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Each segment of meter is called a foot…

Monometer: A one foot line.

Dimeter: A two foot line.

Trimeter: Is a three foot line.

Tetrameter: A four foot line.

Pentameter: A five foot line.

II. Blank Verse

Everything that is true about rhymed and bound verse, is also true of blank verse, except for one thing.

Blank verse doesn’t rhyme, it is only bound.

A Poem’s Advent

When poets birth their words,
They bring their message forth
All trembling, wet.
And lay their glistening ink
In swaddling paper.
Then use their poems as mangers.
For there’s no room in common prose
To accommodate
A thought that comes from God.

— J. Hudson Kropf 2/22/24

III. Free Verse Poetry

Go Down Death

(A Funeral Sermon)

Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more;
She only just gone home.

Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from his great, high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell on Sister Caroline,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.

And God sat back on his throne,
And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand:
Call me Death!
And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder:
Call Death!--Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
Till it reached away back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,
But they didn't make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God's command.

And God said: Go down, Death, go down,
Go down to Savannah, Georgia,
Down in Yamacraw,
And find Sister Caroline.
She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
She's labored long in my vineyard,
And she's tired--
She's weary--
Go down, Death, and bring her to me.

And Death didn't say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven's pearly gates,
Past suns and moons and stars;
on Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
Straight down he came.

While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Caroline;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I'm going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.

And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she didn't feel no chill.
And death began to ride again--
Up beyond the evening star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Sister Caroline
On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.

Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.

—James Weldon Johnson

IIII. Literary Tools in Poetry.

Alliteration=
Similar consonant sounds at the beginning of words.
“Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:”

Assonance=
Repetition of similar vowel sounds.
“Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.”

Onomatopeia=
Words that sound like their meaning.

Pretty Words

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little Gilded and sticky

—Elinor Wylie

ABC Post 3--Amy's Update from Thailand

 [Our oldest daughter Amy teaches English in Mae Sariang, Thailand, and is home for a visit. She gave me permission to share her recent update as a guest post. If you want to be on her mailing list, please contact her at jamy.ane@gmail.com . You can follow her on Instagram at @amysmucker]

[Her roommate, Lori, writes at https://insearchofabrook.wordpress.com/]

March 23, 2024

Hello, everyone!

Almost 4 weeks ago I sat down and started to write an update, since February was almost over and according to the schedule I’d planned, I’m supposed to send an update in February. I wrote about 15 words, and downloaded a few pictures--and then promptly forgot about it. It’s been a flurry of activity ever since—lots of finishing up grading, celebrating graduation, school activities, getting ready to go back to America over break, and so on. It doesn’t sound like much when I write it out, but in the moment I had too many other things to think about to even remember that I was supposed to write an update. And now I'm back in my old room in the farmhouse where I grew up, looking out over the green, green grass fields and listening to the raindrops on the roof and the train going by, with no pressing demands on my time, so I have no excuse to put it off anymore.

So yes, I’m home for a visit! I arrived March 19, and will be here until April 24, so 333please let me know if you’d like to get together! This year I’m not planning a fundraising dinner and don’t currently have plans to speak at church or anything, but I’d love to sit down and chat with any of you who are nearby.

I’ve just finished my third year of teaching at Mae Sariang Boripat Suksa School. It’s gone by so fast, yet when I think about when I first came, I feel like I’ve come a long way. Yet I still have a lot to learn, especially with classroom management and finding ways to connect with students.

I posted selfies that I’d took with some of my classes, and several people commented to me on how many students there are. I think it hits you more when you see their faces. But yes, there are around 500 students that I personally taught last term. If you count all the students I’ve taught at least 1 term in the last 3 years, it’s probably over 2000. I only remember a few names, and can recognize some of their faces, but I really struggle to remember who is who, let alone develop a relationship with them. Once in a while we have a chance to connect outside of class, and those times are really special. A couple of times recently a student has come into the teachers’ office and started to chat, and then just sat down next to my desk and talked for a while. Or sometimes they’ll come up and ask questions after class. After I made brownies for an activity with the Christian student at school, several of the girls told me they really wanted to learn how to make brownies, so I invited them to come over last Saturday. In the end only 1 of the 3 girls was free, but she brought 2 of her friends along. They didn’t want to go home when it was over—they stay in a dorm in town, and have strict rules, so they’re not allowed to get out very much, and it was a treat just to be in a real house that’s a little more out in the country. It would be fun, and a good opportunity, to start some kind of regular activity for dorm kids. We’ll see if Lori or I has the time and energy for that next year.

    

Making brownies

Me with one of my grade 7 classes

Anyone who’s come to Thailand in March or April knows that it’s generally very hot and smoky. Chiang Mai is often on top of the list of most polluted major cities this time of year, and the smoke seems to come out of nowhere. But in our town we can see it—during the day, sometimes, there are billowing pillars of smoke rising from the neighboring mountains, and at night you can see trails of fire. One evening last week I heard the snap and crackle of a fire, and could see the orange glow on the hill behind our house when I looked out the back window. It was a little scary, but as annoying as it is to know that the fires are set intentionally, the one good thing is that you know someone is monitoring it so it’s not likely to come burn your house down. For the most part, the fires just burn the leaves and underbrush, but aren’t strong enough to burn down the trees. Sometimes, however, the fires do get out of hand and burn uncontrolled, and then they are more likely to burn the trees too.

I’m not entirely sure why they’re burning so much, but I know that one reason is that burning encourages the growth of a certain type of mushroom that is very valuable and fairly prolific in the hills in our area. These mushrooms only pop up at a certain time of year—I think maybe it’s in June. In Thai their name is “Het Top,” but I don’t know what they’re called in English. I’ve had them before at church potlucks, and they’re really good, but not significantly better than other mushrooms in my opinion. And certainly not worth having unhealthy levels of smog for weeks on end. Anyway, I’ve heard they also burn just for general forest maintenance, getting rid of the fallen leaves, etc. They also burn the straw after rice harvest, but I don’t think that’s part of the problem now, because that was months ago. I think the biggest issue is that everyone thinks, “I have these leaves I have to get rid of, and my one little fire isn’t going to make much difference,” but a lot of little fires DOES make a difference, unfortunately. Some of the smoke also comes from agricultural burning in neighboring countries like Myanmar and Laos.

     

1 day on the way to school--obvious fires on the hills // next day view from the exact same spot--can't see the hills at all // night view of the fires on the hills, from our house.

A few random highlights since my last update:

There’s a place about a 2-hour drive from our house where there’s a whole hill covered in Mexican Sunflowers. (They look kind of like big yellow daisies). They always bloom in November, so Lori and I too a quick trip to see them one weekend. The glowing yellow hill of flowers in the light of dawn is stunning—well worth the trip. We also got a pleasant surprise when we ran into our pastor’s family with a bunch of the kids who live at church. We’d both made plans to come without telling the other.

           

All of Thailand celebrates “Buddhist Lent” which starts around July/August and ends sometime in October, based on the lunar calendar. But in our town we have a special festival to celebrate the end of Buddhist lent. There are vendors who come in to set up booths selling all sorts of things, a mini amusement park for kids, a parade, concerts every night, and other activities that last for several days. It’s always beautiful because they put up colorful lanterns all around town.

   

Another religious holiday, one that more people are familiar with, is called Loi Krathong. For this one, people make little floats with banana stalks, decorated with flowers. They put in a stick of incense and light it, and float it in the river, as an offering to apologize to the river for using her water the rest of the year. It’s also common at this festival to light sky lanterns and send them off into the sky. The lanterns are supposed to carry away your bad luck. In Chiang Mai, this festival is stunning, with thousands of lanterns rising into the sky, and many tourists come to see it--although for the Thai holiday the floating the offering in the river is the point of the holiday, more than the sky lanterns. Here in our little town, it was much more laid-back, but we did have a market/walking street along the river with lots of food vendors, and it was really crowded. Lori was busy studying, so I went by myself, and ended up seeing a lot of students, and sitting and listening to the school band play for a while. Once again, the lanterns in the night and all the lights along the river were beautiful and magical, but it’s sad to think of people depending on these things to take their troubles away and never really finding true peace.

    

Lori has finally finished her course to get her teaching license. She still has to take some exams, but the bulk of it is done. So it’s really nice for her to have a bit of free time again. You might be wondering what’s happening for me, with studying and licensing and stuff. I’m still trying to decide for sure, but I’m probably going to take the course from the Thai education department. The complicating factor is that it’s still really new, and so far I haven’t heard any reports from people who have taken the course, on what it’s like. The course Lori did seemed good, but pretty intense to try to squeeze into a schedule that’s already pretty full—and also pretty expensive.

Lori’s parents and sister came to visit soon after Christmas, so over New Year’s day she went to Chiang Mai to pick them up, and I was home alone. The pastor and his wife invited me to go with them to the mountains, to the home village of one of the 2 college-age girls who are doing ministry internships at the church, who both went along on the trip also.

They’d told me it was about a 4-hour drive away, and we were late getting left, so I was bracing myself for a long trip. I knew the pastor was driving fast, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up because nothing makes a trip feel longer than when you think you’re almost there but you just keep going and going for another hour or two. Well, this time, about two hours and 15 minutes after we left, we stopped in a village and the pastor said we had arrived. I thought he was just joking, but he wasn’t! So that was a pleasant surprise.

The church had kind of a big combination Christmas and New Year’s celebration. It was in the church building, which was just this big empty building, and everyone sat on the floor. When the introduced our group, the pastor told me as we were walking up, “You should sing a special song” and I was stumbling around trying to gently decline, when he picked up the mic and announced that I was going to sing. He played the guitar and the two intern girls helped sing, so at least I wasn't entirely alone as I stumbled through “Here I am to worship” in English and Thai.

Then the pastor preached a sermon, and for the rest of the night we had a gift exchange and performances. It was a typical Thai gift exchange—everyone who wants to participate brings a gift, and they put a number on each gift. Then they put all the numbers on slips of paper, and each person reaches into the box and chooses a slip of paper, and whatever number you get, that’s your gift. I never know quite what to give, but I try to get a variety of things, including snacks, so no matter what age or gender of person gets my gift they will enjoy at least part of it. The gift I got, this time, was some body wash and lotion and a pair of socks. Other times I’ve gotten laundry detergent, a towel, or a pillow. Anyway, they would have about 10 people choose their gifts, and then they would pause for a song or dance from a group of people, usually kids. I think there were about 150 gifts all together, so this took a while. I bowed out eventually and went back to the house to sleep, so I wasn't around to see how long the program lasted. 

The next morning, soon after I was up, our hosts had breakfast made for us, but the pastor’s wife warned me not to eat too much because we had been invited to several other houses and would probably eat there also. Breakfast is basically the same as any other meal in Thailand—rice, with several side dishes—usually at least one of which is soup. So we did our rounds of visiting in the village, and actually only got served one more breakfast, but stopped and chatted at a couple of places. Then we packed and loaded all our stuff, they said we had just one more place to go—the other intern girl, Tida’s village, not far as the crow flies, but maybe a 20 minute drive away.

At this point it was about 9:00 a.m., and all our morning visits and meals so far had passed rapidly. I figured by 10 or 10:30 we’d be done and on our way, and be back home again by early afternoon, so I would have time to get some stuff done at home or go to a coffee shop. So we got to the village, and went to this little store that Tida’s family owned, which had a little bamboo room on the side that had a lovely view over the valley. We sat down, and someone brought some drinks, but nothing was really happening. Then after a while the intern girls came with a group of young people from the village said they were going to go sing Happy Birthday for their friend, and invited me to come along. So we went, and sang for this girl, with some candles stuck into a pile of snacks. It turned out that I knew her—she had come to our school for area academic competitions a few months previously, and had competed in the storytelling contest that I helped judge. So we hung out and ate snacks in her house for a while, and then I went back to the store where the pastor’s wife was, and took a nap and read a book. There was still no sign of the meal we were supposed to eat at this place (I wasn't really hungry after all that breakfast, but they had said we would eat there) and no clue of how long we were going to stay.

Finally someone came and told us to come eat, and we had a late lunch inside one of the village homes. Then we went back to the store for more reading and relaxing. I went on a walk with one of the girls, and when I came back, the pastor said we were going to have a worship time with Tida’s family, and then leave. But we had to wait a while until her parents got there. When they arrived we sang some songs, and the pastor shared some Scripture and we prayed together. I thought we would leave then—but no, the pastor said he wanted to take a shower before we go. I just laughed when I heard that, but thankfully he didn't take long too long, and about 15 minutes later we were on the road. We did have to make one more stop on the way out to pick up some goat meat someone wanted to give us. By the time we got home, it was after 7 p.m., and dark. It would have been a lovely day if I'd known from the beginning we would just relax all day--I just got a little stressed when I kept expecting that something would happen any moment and it never did. But that’s just how it tends to be, when traveling with Thai friends—you never know what’s going to happen. It’s good for me to learn to be more flexible and patient and trust that things will work out even when I don't know what's going to happen.

   

One of the morning visits: Jiu the intern is on the far left, and next to her is the pastor's wife

 Lunch in Tida's village (in a house like this you can just drop your orange peels or chicken bones through the cracks in the floor)

It was fun to meet Lori’s family! Her sister was here last year, and is actually joining the Igo team in Chiang Mai, but it was her parents’ first time in Thailand.

Our Thai friend Max, Lori, her parents, sister Sara, her friend who also came along, and me.

I taught some of my classes about Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving day, and made them mini pumpkin and apple pies. Christian-based holidays are a great way to talk about Christianity within the scope of what's expected in English class, since it's part of American culture.

Every year in December I pull out my suitcase full of blankets and sweatshirts and warm socks, and re-arrange my closet for the 2 months of cold weather.

The young people who board at the church bring so much joy

I love getting away to quiet, beautiful places on weekends or holidays

     

Once again, thank you to each of you for your interest in Thailand and what I'm doing.

Please pray:

--That my time at home would be refreshing and I would return with lots of energy and motivation and ideas for the new school year

--For connections with students, to build relationships and have opportunities to share the Gospel

--For the salvation of the students and staff at Boripat school

--For our local church, Pamalaw New Life of Peace church, as we reach out to the local community

Blessings to you all,

Amy

Belize--Touches of Familiar in a Foreign Place

 [We are once again doing the Smucker April Blogging Challenge. Expect a post every other day from Emily, me, or a number of guests.]

On a warm Sunday morning in January, at the Greendale Mennonite Church in Spanish Lookout, Belize, I settled into my seat beside my friend Darlene, looked around, and had a sudden sense of being back in the little Beachy Amish church in Minnesota that I attended growing up. It certainly wasn’t the very modern padded chair I sat on that awoke the memories, as we always sat on hard 100-year-old wooden pews. But men and women sat on separate sides of the church, and the women carried Bibles but not purses.

 No one ever told us to sit separately or not to take a purse to church, back at Believers Fellowship in the 1970s, and I suspect the same is true at Greendale. They were simply unquestioned traditions. As teenagers, we managed to take many of the contents of a purse—tissues, pens, paper, cough drops, ChapStick,  notes to and from our friends, and who knows what other necessities—stuffed inside our Bible covers.

 When the congregation at Greendale turned to a German hymn and began singing, that felt familiar as well. The song was printed in normal letters rather than the old-fashioned Fractur script of the Old Order Amish of my early childhood, so I could easily follow along and even translate in my head as we sang. In a new place in a new country, those touches of the past warmed my heart and made me feel at home.

I think it might be a Midwestern trait to look for the familiar in the foreign.

My sister Rebecca used to mail photos from their home in Yemen: spice markets, ancient stone buildings bright in the sunshine, and dark men in robes with curved knives strapped to their waists. Everything looked utterly strange, from another world.

Rebecca would also mail pictures of her little boys sitting on the sunny front steps playing with their pet kittens. “Ei, sie gooka gdawt vee Minnesota katze!” my mom would say in wonderment. [“Why, they look just like Minnesota cats!”]

Maybe Mom's precious grandsons were still on this solid Earth after all.

When we went to Kenya in 2003 and again when we traveled to Thailand for three weeks in 2012, I found the strangeness deeply unsettling. Not only were both places hot and humid, but the languages, food, landscapes, cultures, and everything else felt like I’d landed in a different universe.

However, one day I happened to walk down the street in Kisumu, Kenya, behind a small herd of cows. True, they had huge humps at the shoulder, unlike the Holsteins and Jerseys of my past, but they ambled along with their straight back legs stepping stiffly, just like the cows in the pasture in Minnesota when I brought them in for milking.

That touch of familiarity settled the agitation in my soul. I was going to be ok.

In Thailand, I also walked down the street, past empty lots with lush jungle growth that looked like it would reach out and grab me, and elegant terracotta birdbath-like pools lush with goldfish and water lilies. And then, there it was, a frightened but determined gray cat, pausing in her excavation of a garbage can to give me a cold glare.

It was a touch of home, a look I’ve received a thousand times from fearful,  judgmental Minnesota and Oregon cats. 

Having lived in numerous places and traveled to many states and maybe eight countries, I now see not only the Minnesota-like cats and cows, but pieces of everywhere I’ve been before.

That’s what happened in Belize this past January.

Last year, two women named Anna and Alvina asked me if I’d come speak at the Mennonite colony of Spanish Lookout. Alvina had served in missions in Canada with us when our children were little and remembered Matt’s endless curiosity. She and Anna started organizing an annual ladies’ conference about five years ago.

I had never been in Central America, so I didn’t know what I’d be walking into, but how could I possibly say no to the Caribbean in January? Also, it meant that a door of opportunity was re-opening, and I was relieved and grateful.

Our daughter Emily lives in Houston, Texas, with Matt and his wife Phoebe. She was willing to accompany me as a traveling companion, tea-maker, supporter, and scheduler, so Paul and I flew to Houston, and Emily and I went on to Belize.

Leaving the airport, we walked into the warm, damp tropical air, met our lovely hostesses, and set off for a short tour of Belize City. We saw bright painted concrete storefronts like they have in Kenya and Mexico, over there were groups of students in tidy uniforms, also like Kenya, and over it all was the warm and lively Caribbean ambiance I remembered from Jamaica.

At an open-air restaurant near the beach, this iguana befriended us.

I love the bright colors of the Caribbean.

We drove off into the countryside, through small villages and bigger towns, past resorts and swamps and hills, caught behind large slow trucks until Alvina casually zipped around them.

Belize seems like a gentle place. There were none of the police checkpoints of Mexico or Yemen or Kenya, where intimidating armed men watch your car with all the glowering judgment of a cat on a garbage can. Instead, the brightly-painted bus stops and fruit stands and tire shops had a relaxed feel, like anyone was welcome to stop in or pass on, as they wished. And no one was in a rush for any of it.

Belizian views--see the Sleeping Giant?

We left the coastal swamps and traveled to higher ground, with more hills and trees. Then, suddenly, the forest and undergrowth gave way to well-maintained highways, large cultivated fields, neat houses with tidy lawns, and huge businesses featuring construction supplies and farm equipment.

This was Spanish Lookout.

Founded by Mennonites from Mexico in 1958, Spanish Lookout is an agricultural, religious, and economic island carved out of the jungle of western Belize. I’m told the first settlers struggled to survive, but with the help of American Amish and Mennonites who sent a planeload of cows and other assistance, along with Hurricane Hattie in 1962 creating a market for Mennonite goods, the fortunes of the colony changed. It is now the agricultural backbone of Belize, supplying the country with eggs, chicken, and grain, and employing thousands of workers from the surrounding villages.

Driving down the main street feels like going down the center of Shipshewana, Indiana, or other big Anabaptist communities. In the Midwest, the signs say Yoder Mini-Barns and Miller Plumbing and so on, while in Belize the names are Dueck and Penner and Friesen. But the air of hard work and success is similar.

While most residents still speak the dialect of Plautdietsch and attend one of the Kleinegemeinde Mennonite churches, some have left the church but remained in the colony, and others have joined by adoption or marriage. Friendships and work relationships outside the colony are becoming more common as well, so the women’s conference was the most racially and culturally diverse that I’ve ever spoken at.

It was also the most attentive audience I’ve ever had, an advantage of speaking in an isolated place where women’s events are uncommon. In Holmes or Lancaster Counties, I'm sure you can pick an event out of numerous options, suiting your wishes and schedule, and your expectations for the speaker are proportionately higher. In places like Belize, anyone who is willing to come and teach is appreciated. The women welcomed us in every way, making sure Emily and I were cared for, fed, talked with, invited, and driven to and from. It was more than duty and obligation, a heart-deep warmth that I will never forget.

Women in Central American Mennonite colonies have in the past faced a lack of information and opportunity due to obstacles of language, distance, and tradition. I was encouraged to learn that the internet has brought access to books and other influences. Also, far more women can speak, read, and write English than could 30 or 50 years ago.

I have a feeling, though, that even with more outside influence and options, they won’t lose their innate hospitality and warmth.

Even though so much of my experience in Belize was foreign territory, in one way it was returning to a familiar place that I thought I might have left for good.

For almost twenty years, I had been speaking at out-of-state women’s events at least once a year, plus frequent local events. I enjoyed it enormously and saw it as my reward for the sometimes agonizing work of writing. Then, Covid hit, Paul had a bad fall, and almost all the speaking invitations stopped.  I did one women’s event in Canada via Zoom in the middle of Covid, but as the months passed after that, it felt like a door had closed and might never reopen.

I didn’t know what my calling was supposed to be, or how to find out. But all right then. I found other things to do—sewing, hosting, joining a writing group.

Months later, I heard the creak of rusty hinges and a door slowly opened. A group in Kentucky asked me to speak at their retreat, and I heard from Anna and Alvina.

I was back in familiar territory, scribbling ideas onto post-it notes, buying tickets, messaging the organizers, and praying for the women who would attend. Once again, I shared my stories with groups of beautiful women who were under no obligation to sit there and listen, or to laugh and cry and tell me their own stories afterwards, but did anyhow.

I decided I will never take this for granted. Never.

So Belize, for all its newness, reminded me of other places and gave me the gift of a calling renewed and affirmed. I am so grateful.

Here are some pictures and stories.

Esther and her husband and part of the family took us out for lunch on Sunday. She made a list of all the things we have in common--
--married 39 years
--six children--three boys and three girls
--we like to read, sew, grow flowers, and go to the beach
--our very busy and active pastor/teacher husbands were disabled in the last years, hers by a stroke and Paul by a fall. Her husband has more lasting injuries, however. Both of them were incredibly determined patients who amazed their physical therapists.
--our moms died about ten years ago
--our dads would always talk to strangers
--both lost loved ones to suicide
--we have a hard time asking for help 

 

Ronnie [pronounced Roe-nee] was a local girl who married a Mennonite guy and moved onto the family farm.

Alvina knew I wanted to see some cows up close, so when Ronnie told Alvina she'd like to have a private conversation with me, Alvina did the math and sent us off together.
Ronnie took me to her house and we got into her Gator.
She drove us down a long grassy lane to a large gate. A dozen lovely Brahma cattle were on the other side and came to see what we were up to.

I patted a few noses and then turned to see that Ronnie had brought two camp chairs and set them on the grass. We sat down and talked and watched cows. It had been a hot day, but the afternoon sun was behind the clouds and it was pleasant and cool.

Speaking publicly is fun but exhausting. I had given two talks that day, toured the colony, and talked with a lot of people one on one. Sitting quietly there by the pasture with Ronnie, enjoying the cows, and taking in the immense green world and the dramatic sky was absolutely and by far the most relaxing thing I've ever done after speaking.

A memory to keep and treasure. 

On Sunday afternoon, we went to the Mayan ruins not far away.

The Mayan ruins were beyond comprehension and so ancient that few explanations remain of how and why they were built and used.

Returning from the Mayan ruins, we crossed the river on a ferry.
Emily took a selfie with Alvina's son Usher.

Emily was invited to a local high school to talk about writing. I loved the breezy, well-lit classroom. Even more special was the students' enthusiasm about writing creative stories.

Teacher Tina introduces Emily

After the weekend conference, we spent a day at the beach.

The committee in Belize asked me to come back next year.

Of course I said Yes.

Guest Post: What Mennonite Readers Want From Mennonite Writers

At our recent writing conference, Rose Miller led a discussion on what's missing in Anabaptist writing, then summarized it all and sent it to me. You can read it below.

What do you think of when you think of Mennonite writing? Some of us have visions of poorly designed covers and stories that followed a prescribed path. Mother always smiled gently, Father chuckled softly, and Peter and Rachel learned their life lessons with diligence. We also think of writers that combined compelling characters and realistic lives into an unforgettable story. For me, one of those writers was Christmas Carol Kauffman. Her books were my favorites in the school library and were read and re-read with enthusiasm.

Writers have a tremendous opportunity to speak into and influence our culture and thinking. They also provide a window into our lives that speaks to people not in our faith. That’s why it is important to constructively discuss how we can improve on our writing and make it relevant to current generations.

The questions below were asked to a random group of about 30-40 people.

Discussion Questions

1. In a typical year, how many books do you read by Mennonite authors? What would help this number rise? Church libraries, ease of access, platforms like audiobooks and ebooks?

Most answers were less than five. Very few were more than that, and none were over ten. To help the number rise, quite a few suggested more well-read audiobooks. Church libraries would also help, because most readers have limited space and money for all their books. Another suggestion was a place to buy used copies, like Thriftbooks. Affordable options are great! Hard covers with illustrations are generally more expensive than soft-covers.

2. What genre (mystery, memoir, etc.) do you feel is lacking in Mennonite writing? What would you personally enjoy reading?

It seems good fiction is the biggest lack. Most of the stories that are published for adults are about someone’s painful, harrowing life experiences. (This may have more to do with publishers than writers.) There is not a lot of relaxing, happy stories for entertainment. A good suggestion here was for historical fiction about Anabaptists throughout history. There could be room for this on several age levels.

Another thing lacking seems to be literary works, whether fiction or journalism. More suggestions were for Mennonite apologists; non-fiction that meets ethical and academic standards with cited sources; subjects like sciences, psychology, and marriage; and more in-depth exploration of the complex human experience. Ordinary life is also beautiful and interesting to read! A good Mennonite mystery could be both humorous and insightful if done well. There also seems to be a real lack of men that write: does a culture that values physical labor consider that to be an acceptable profession for men?

3. Do you consider fiction worthwhile? Would the Mennonite life-style be cheapened by it, as in Amish romances that present a glamorous and unrealistic view of Plain People?

One of my personal pet peeves is when I hear people say, “If it’s not true, I don’t have time for it.” All good fiction contains elements of truth and it can be an effective tool for difficult subjects. To Kill a Mockingbird is a good example of this. We (mostly) agreed that good fiction can teach a lesson, be very inspiring, grapple with reality, and make us kinder, better people. One of the most powerful tools in fiction is honest characters with flaws that deal with real issues. In real life, not all the loose ends tie up into a neat bow on top. Good fiction will reflect this.

4. What do you find unattractive in Mennonite writing? What do you find appealing?

The answer here was largely unrealistic. Some others were lack of humor; small world-view; poor syntax, structure, and plot; using writing for a “bully pulpit”; over-emphasized morals; narration instead of story-telling; shallow and unemotional. Whew, that was a lot! Let’s move on to what we find appealing.
 

Most of us like authors that are trustworthy. Writing that doesn’t contain bad language and compromising scenes is getting harder to find, even in children’s books. Some more strong points are real people’s stories; authentic descriptions of Mennonite life; the practical teaching on living out our faith; and a common world-view. Another comment here was that reading a book carries a lot more weight when it is written by someone whom you know to be a person of good character.

5.What are some practical ways Mennonite readers can support Mennonite writers?

We need and want Mennonite writers! Here’s some ways to encourage them:
Buy their books! Tell other people about them. Rate and review their books on platforms like Amazon and Goodreads. Email or message them to let them know what you liked about their book; writing into a silent void can be disheartening. Support writers’ conferences and encourage writers to seek further education. Promote and teach good writing and literature in Christian schools. Encourage men to be creative and share their writing. Don’t take writers too seriously! They should be given room to be human and to also exercise creative license so they can tell a good story. Keep criticism kind and productive.

An interesting comment was that we as Mennonites place a high value on community. Writing well requires a certain degree of loneliness: sometimes writers are forced to choose between writing and community. Give them some room for that and don’t judge them harshly for not always showing up. And last, but not least, offer to wash their dishes or babysit so they can write.

To summarize, I’ll quote from a fellow reader: “I find the same things appealing in Mennonite writing as I do elsewhere: information presented in ways that are easy to retain, stories that help me understand others, and writing that is witty and skillful at conveying ideas.”

---
A big thank you to Rose for asking good questions, leading a lively discussion, and summarizing it here.

How would you answer her questions? What would you like to add? Share your thoughts in the comments. Comments are moderated, so they won't appear right away.