Why is New England a Mission Field?

Is New England a mission field? Is the gospel all but forgotten in the very place where the Puritans fled to for the sake of preserving it?

As a rather new transplant to New England, and a daughter of the true King (not the tyrant the Puritans were fleeing), I love the Good News. The gospel, which makes it clear that we serve a sacrificing Savior who wants a personal relationship with each of us, all failures in our own right, well, it changed my life.

No, let’s make that present tense. It’s continually changing my life, even in the midst of my continual failures.

Recently on Instagram I shared some stories of our old, dilapidated, but in-the-state-of-repair-and-rebuilding New England church. And so many started asking me questions. Questions about our preaching and theology (exegetical and expository, and reformed) where we were located (the heart of central New Hampshire) and if it was true that where I lived was a mission field where a huge percentage of the inhabitants are nonbelievers.

That last question is one I got a LOT that day.

So I asked folks if they’d like to know my thoughts on this… on why New England has become a mission field. I got more response to that little question than maybe anything I’ve asked on instagram, and this little article is my answer.

New England Front Doors

When we moved to New England 8 years ago, from the mid-Atlantic area, we quickly noticed an odd thing about the homes. Almost every front door is either obstructed, seemingly nonexistent, or unused.

Our own home was no exception. While the main door, right in the middle of our double cape home, opens up to a curving set of stairs that reveal a 2-story chimney, made of old, chipped, romantic brick, this door was never used by the previous owners, They had a large, ugly, handmade box that stood taller than the first stair landing, piled high with wood for stocking the wood stove. This built-in, 6-ft-tall wood box made opening the front door treacherous at best. (Read more about our old farmhouse, built around 1800, here.)

The first hour of owning our new, 200-plus-year-old, home, that giant wood box was in the front yard and partially disassembled.

I was determined that every guest who came to our home would absolutely be greeted at the front door.

But I was disheartened. Everyone who visited would walk right past the front door and knock on our secondary door; the door that would have opened into the carriage house back in 1800, a sort of entrance to the barn, which is attached to our old farmhouse.

Except the census survey gal and the furniture delivery guys. They both knocked on the front door. But maybe they’re instructed they have to go the the main door? Plus, the delivery guys had driven their truck from NJ. They weren’t locals.

You see locals know how to immediately evaluate which door is the “used” door.

My good friend, and boss, and pastor, explained this phenomena to me the first Christmas we lived in New England. I had just told Nate that the girls and I, and a few church friends, were going to make and deliver cookies to houses in town to say “Merry Christmas” and invite everyone to our candlelight Christmas Eve service.

Nate explained that I need to be careful to not bother folks by knocking on an unused front door but look for the “family door.” He assured me l’d get the hang of recognizing which door this was, explaining a bike left on the ground by the door, or a trail of toys, or just the worn look of the grass leading to it, would disclose the family door. But it would almost never be the actual main, front door on the home.

In some ways, this phenomena weeds out the folks who aren’t welcome. Those who are truly welcome know the right entrance. If someone knocks on the front door, you can let the dogs bark and ignore them. But don’t write off these front-door-blockers as total jerks. We’ll get back to that…

New England’s Coldness

While New England is a natural wonder of beauty, with rolling mountain ranges and lush green fields bordered by deep hardwood forests… while New England is a daily natural fingerprint of a merciful loving creator… it’s also cold. Cold with long winters, and cold with closed hearts.

I had no idea when we moved here that New Englanders are considered, by many standards, to be a “lost people,” a mission field in need of the gospel.

I don’t follow gallop poll results, or I would have known. Gallup polls placed the six states of New England in the top ten least religious states in the nation.

Then a separate Gallup poll brought it eerily close to home and obvious that here in New Hampshire we live in the least churched state in the nation.That poll discovered that, among all 50 states, the least self-proclaimed “religious” people live in New Hampshire (tied with our next-door-neighbor Vermont).

And according to the Glenmary Research Center, those in New England who attend evangelical churches hovers between 1 and 3% of the population. I’d venture to say, from what I’ve personally witnessed, that percentage is even lower–maybe even less than 1 in 100–post-Covid.

But how can this be? Why are hearts so cold here, here where the Puritans first set up a “city on a hill” to be a beacon for the gospel?

This is something I’ve thought about a lot, and talked with Nate about (after he taught me about the family door). Nate wrote a popular book on this topic, Reviving New England, that I highly recommend.

Now that I’ve been a New Englander for a while, I think New England states filled up so much of the tops slots of that 2009 gallup poll because folks up here often refuse community and conformity.

I can’t say I blame them. Winters are seriously long, cold, and dark, and one gets used to curling up inside by a warm fire and never venturing out (especially when there are multiple feet of snow on the ground). So being invested in community is hard. And it gets harder with every winter that passes.

I also think often about those pioneers who ventured out from Plymouth 300 years ago and tried to make a life in the New Hampshire wooded mountains. They had to brave huge difficulties, not to mention move huge rocks… seriously, have you seen the foundation of an old New England farmhouse? They couldn’t be cut from average cloth. They were tough, at least the ones who survived. So New Englanders have been rejecting conformity, and forging into the darkness, and dealing with heavy rocks, for a long time.

These amazing people have breed individualistic, nonconformist generations, and understandably so.

But those tendencies, I think, are why we face a lack of the gospel here in New England today. Let me explain…

New Englanders Struggle to Embrace Community

We like to go solo.

Or at least closely guard our inner circle.

We don’t have a need for a welcoming front door, because those few folks who are truly welcome know the right entrance.

I should stop here and explain that I also have figured out that all of the old farmhouses here have other justifications for this. And by “old” I really mean it.. I’m not talking the “old” homes built in 1955 in the Mid-Atlantic area we moved from, but “old” homes that were built when George Washington was still alive. Our home was built, the nearest we can figure, around 1800. The true front door on an old Cape Cod farmhouse often just doesn’t work well, or is exposed to the elements and hard to get in when snow is piling up, or it needs to be blocked by furniture inside since old New England homes are also rather small, which was necessary when early settlers were trying to stay warm to survive the winters.

So know that just because a neighbor has blocked off their front porch does not mean I feel unwelcome there, but it drew quite an analogy in my still-mid-atlantic-front-door-loving mind back when I was first questioning how New England ever became a missions field.

Can’t we be reclusive & still embrace the gospel?

If we’ve convinced ourselves our whole lives that we are strongest on our own and have no need for other’s help or friendship, then we have no reason to foster community.

But the gospel insists on community. We’re told in Galatians 6:2 “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” You can’t carry others burdens if you don’t spend time with them and know them. And in Hebrews 10:25, we’re told to “not abandon our own meeting together, as is the habit of some people, but encourage one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near.”

Afterall, the gospel, by its very nature, insists that we share it. We can only do that in community. We can’t “proclaim the gospel to the whole creation” (Mark 16:15) if we don’t like to leave our warm home or open our front door to a stranger.

New Englanders Struggle to Conform on any Topic

The first New England settlers understood that conformity to the world’s standards is something to flee from–even across a treacherous ocean.

Yet, today, “New England pulpits have been hijacked! They were once filled with the preaching of the Word of God, but now they are filled with the shifting opinions of sinful men. This is a tragic thing!…It is from the pulpit that God speaks to His people through His word, so when His voice is removed and replaced with another, the church is quickly led astray.” (from page 19, Reviving New England, by Nate Pickowicz)

Aren’t believers called to be nonconformists?

While we are told, as Christians, we will not be befriended by the world, and while that makes us outsiders and nonconformists by nature, we’re refusing to conform to the world’s ideologies and repetitive sins. But, you see, at the same time we are eager conformists. We are trying to conform to His likeness. To His laws. To His desires for us. To the desires He has placed in our hearts. We’re working at conforming to His plans for us, not our own.

When I was trying to decide what to title this article I did what I always do… I googled some things to see what phrases folks are searching on this topic.

When I googled “Is New England a Missions Field” and scrolled down a little I came across a article written by a Congregational pastor who refers to herself with the pronoun “them” and insists that laws restricting the killing of babies in the womb are dangerous, just to name a few areas in her life where she is not living a life in line with scripture. But “Em” is a pastor who stands in a pulpit in New England every Sunday. And she (like many others who grace New England pulpits, preaching politics of acceptance, void of the need of a Savior) insists the gospel is alive and well in her beloved New England and resents anyone “calling our neighbors sinners.”

But you see, Em, that’s how I know the gospel is almost squelched here in what is also my beloved New England.

Inherent in the good news of the gospel is the fact that His rules and laws (including ones related to marriage and life in the womb) are in place for us to try to follow because He wants us to have life, and have it to its fullest possibility. (John 10:10) That can only happen when we define sin and put on the full armor of God to fight it.

If we truly love our neighbors, we want them to have life to its fullest, and that doesn’t happen in a life that is deep in unrecognized sin.

So, yes, Christians need to be nonconformists to the world, but New England is filled with people who, for generations, have worked at being nonconformists of a different mold. Cold nonconformists who stubbornly worship individualism and independence above all else.

In fact, individualism and nonconformity are New England’s gods of the 21st century.

So does our family use our front door?

As for our front door? I gave up. In the beginning I’d intentionally open the front door when guests pulled up our long drive and I would beacon visitors from where they stood, on the side porch, to come enter through the front door. But it made folks uneasy. Then I realized when I have a rug in the entranceway I couldn’t open the old door all the way anyway. So I gave up.

But I’ll know when it’s time for a new national census. She’ll knock on my front door.

If you’d like to know more…

I have so much more to say on this topic…

Watch for a future article(s) on this topic, diving into:

• The biggest problem churches face in an area when people are not invested in a community.
• The biggest problem housed in New England pulpits.
• The heresies heard weekly from New England pulpits, and
• The hope I have that more gospel-centered churches will be dotting New England horizons in years ahead.
• Some thoughts of why NH ranks where we do on the gallop poll listing of “most sinful” states (45th).
• And, also, how our church is doing things differently, with a long-view and what that looks like.

Find out more about the little church I’m active in, and where I serve as Assistant to the Pastors, in the video below.

We are a humble church, striving to do big things for the gospel, here where hearts are sometimes as cold as the winters: https://www.hbc-nh.org/giving/

Talk to me!

If you have any questions, leave a comment below. And please tag me on ig @souly.rested.

More Encouragement For You:

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Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth. Hosea 6:3

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We had dinner in a beautiful port town of New Hampshire. Portsmouth, NH, is a historic seaport and popular little patch of quaintness on the Piscataqua River that beckons summer tourists. But I wonder how many folks miss the story growing tall and strong just a few blocks inland.

Edit to add: While our nation faces a year–2020–like none of us have lived through before, while we worry if our nation will survive such division, fears, anger, and a global pandemic, we need to remember that our nation is founded on such things (well, maybe not the pandemic part), and we overcome by claiming and planting hope, guys. In simple ways.

It’s the theme of my Simple Doesn’t Mean Easy Podcast.

William Whipple did this in a very tangible way…

His One Simple Act is Still Growing Today

In what used to be the yard of William Whipple grows a Horse Chestnut tree with quite an autobiography. While that may not seem like a fair word to use (since I’m the one telling you its story today), trust me this tree has a novel coursing through its sap.

But I know you’re asking, “Who’s this Whipple guy?” William Whipple was one of our founding fathers that doesn’t get much press. A signer of the Declaration of Independence. And today I gotta tell you his story.

It’s a great one. Mr. Whipple’s story clarifies the fact that doing “simple” things isn’t easy, but wow, is it worth the effort.

That’s Bill and I, with Mr. Whipple’s gorgeous tree behind us. Like I said, I love a great tree. And a great story.

Sweet Maple hits bookstores October 1st, my opus of a few great trees and a great story. So yes, put them together–a tree and a story–and I’m happy.

And obviously the love of my life was pretty happy about this chestnut too. Gotta love his school-boy smile.  He’s also holding my leftover shrimp, which he willingly carried all over Portsmouth while we window shopped. Now you have a glimpse into why he’s been the love of my life since 11th grade. But I digress…

A Signer and His Seed

The Horse Chestnut behind us was planted by William Whipple, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, after returning to his little New England seaport town from Philadelphia and that monumental occasion in 1776. Just imagine as he planted that seed what he must have wondered. He must have doubted if it was even worth the effort. If the city–his colony’s main port city–would be burned to the ground by British forces. If the colonies would crumble under the dictates of a powerful and angry king when he received that signed parchment that declared these humble people were going to try it alone and would no longer acknowledge his dominion.

But William Whipple chose to cling to hope. And I imagine he prayed a little too as he caked dirt under his nails, pounding the soil firmly around that little lifeless looking brown seed that offered just a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of a promise of a day when it would provide shade and comfort in possibly a free nation that could govern itself.

Thinking a lot about Mr. Whipple after standing under his tree, I had to look him up. I love one fact I read… William Whipple freed his slaves when he returned home from signing the Declaration of Independence. (And, yes, slavery did exist in the far north at that time, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.) His reasoning was that he could not fight for freedom while keeping others from having their own.

I knew I liked this man.

Facing an Uncertain Future

This week we will celebrate Independence Day. We will celebrate that document that Mr. Whipple risked his very life to sign. I think we should celebrate that little seed that Mr. Whipple planted as well.

After all, we’re all facing something today that seems daunting. Something where the outcome is uncertain. Something that we wonder what we should do about it or how or if the effort is even worth it.

This fourth of July week remember Mr. Whipple.

He rode 800 miles on horseback to sign a paper that could have easily have led British soldiers to his door to drag him to the gallows. But instead of coming home and hiding away in depression or discouragement–exhausted, depressed, and uncertain of tomorrow–he kept on doing something.

Something that clung to hope.

Clung to promise.

Clung to faith.

An Example Worth Following

William Whipple’s simple act now grows tall for the world to see, overlooking the picturesque Piscataqua River in this glorious Land of the Free that we get to call “home.”

So I have to say “Thank you, Mr. Whipple.” Thank you not only for that long ride on horseback, and that daring act of putting pen to paper in defiance in the name of freedom, but thank you for your courageous, oh-so-simple act of hope.

Thank you, Mr. Whipple, for getting down on your knees, getting your hands dirty, and planting hope.

Thank you, Mr. Whipple, for planting hope that still stands and still grows.

So what about you? What about that simple thing that intimidates you today? That thing you don’t know the outcome of but you know you should be brave and do it? Pray, dig in, and get it done.

You never know the benefits others may reap.

Is it Really That Simple?

If you’re trying to simplify your life a tiny bit in the midst of a chaotic world, take heart, just one simple step toward simplifying your family’s life (like planting a tree) can someday reap a harvest that you can’t imagine today.

In this podcast episode I talk about another simple step that everyone can take to make a huge stride toward simplifying their home:

Photo by Rob Mulally on Unsplash

You never know the forest of joy that may grow.

Photo by Collie Coburn on Unsplash

Where do I Get the Strength?

I can’t write this–this little post of inspiration; this little post of a story of a man who acted in faith when he didn’t know what tomorrow held–without explaining that it’s MY faith that gives me strength.

Without my faith in a personal savior I would be a wet floppy noodle drowning in a puddle of discontent and inaction. Instead, I am oh-so blessed to know the sovereign creator of all as my personal father and friend. I know he goes before me and he holds all things together. (Colossians 1:17)

• I could not have moved from the only home I’d ever known to start a new scary, unknown adventure without assurance that He had a plan.
• I could have never worked at setting up a rural homestead, survived our barn fire, and worked through my continual failures (please don’t make these mistakes) without knowing He had gone before our family and prepared us for this.
• I could have never faced the grief I did of loosing both Mom & Dad suddenly had it not been for His strength.
• I could not have held a daughter’s hand 18 days in the ICU, facing a horrible neurological syndrome, had I not rested in His goodness that goes hand-in-hand with His sovereignty.

But I am a better, smarter, stronger person today as I look back and see how He held all those things together. 

Today when we stand on the narrow street in Portsmouth and look up at Mr. Whipple’s chestnut we have no idea the storms it has weathered and the difficulties of its planting, but we sure can enjoy its strength and beauty today.

So get down and dirty today, keep on doing what you know you’re supposed to do–even facing an uncertain future–and trust in the one who is “the Most High over all the earth.” (Psalm 97:9)

More articles about living a simple life:

Overcoming the worst tragedy a homestead can suffer.

A modern homesteader remembers when it wasn’t a choice.

12 Questions to ask yourself if you want to someday own a farm.

8 Things Wanna-Be Homesteaders Need to Know.

{{Please consider leaving a comment for “the world” to document what intimidating thing you’re gonna dig into.Then come back and let me know how it turns out. I’d truly love to hear.}}

Yours, LORD, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the majesty and the splendor, for everything in heaven and earth is yours. Yours, LORD, is the kingdom; you are exalted as head over all. Wealth and honor come from you; you are the ruler of all things. In your hands are the strength and power to exalt and give strength to all. I Chronicles 29: 11-12

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The post A Great Reason to Plant a Tree first appeared on Souly Rested.

Yesterday made it very clear to me that indeed every vote counts. Yesterday marked the first evening since our family moved to New England that the sun set over our little cape at the bend in the road, where the lake spills into the wandering river, on the eve of a presidential election day. And I wasn’t even in our state when the pink sky turned to gray beyond our barn’s roof. I was on a greyhound bus heading north.

On Election Day 2016, my youngest and I were in our native state, Delaware. Delaware is the only state where I have ever voted for a president on Election Day. And every four years a huge majority of Delaware voters had always disagreed with my own personal choice for commander-in-chief. Always seeing the opposing candidate garner all of Delaware’s measly 3 electoral votes with a giant margin of popular votes, I never felt like my little vote put much of a dent in things. While I never felt like my ballot made a difference, I also never stopped making sure I showed up on election day. I know that every vote counts, and I would never miss having my say, even if it is a meager whisper in a thundering sea of different opinions.

But this year–my first election year in my new, small, New England town–was different. Not just for me, but across the country. All night long, across the nation, we saw that states were “Too Close To Call.” The saying was repeated incessantly by newscasters as polling numbers rolled in but offered no decisive winners in state after state. It was repeated so much my daughters and I renamed the phrase by its initial letters and kept singing out “TiC. TiC.” with every new announcement that was no announcement at all.

Our own state’s numbers continually swung red then blue then back to red, often with 100 votes between the two, reminding onlookers on the edge of couches across the country that every vote counts. Once the number dipped as low as 15. Only 15 votes were separating the two candidates for president.

I almost cried tears of joy for my own vote, and the three others in our household, when I saw that puny number of 15. I counted our 4 votes as part of that 15. Just 3 other households across our state, along with our own, and that number would be in favor of the other candidate. Every. Single. Vote. Mattered. In fact, they each mattered so much, the volunteers in our town hall didn’t leave until 3 a.m. the next morning, recounting every single vote until there was definite assurance of which candidates won in our little cut out on the New Hampshire map. The winning presidential candidate in my small town won by 545 votes. In the state as a whole, the difference between the winner and the loser? 1,437 votes.

If just a little over 1,000 people had stayed home in my state, or just over 1,000 more had driven to the polls, the outcome could have been different.

Every vote counts.

I can’t describe my joy over the value of my vote that I had placed by absentee ballot in the prior week. I had waited until the last minute, as I was driving past the old town hall on my way to the bus terminal with my daughter, on a trip to visit family.

I pulled into the small parking lot past the picket fences and under the 2-century-old cupola and ran up the steps to cast my vote, knowing I wouldn’t be back in town until after the polls closed on election day.

But I had forgotten that this day was the one day of the week that town hall closes. I knocked. I almost cried. Then I decided to call inside, to see if anyone was by any chance working on their day off and would be willing to hand me an absentee ballot.

The clerk, Debbie, was in catching up on paperwork, and she not only answered the phone but gladly welcomed me in when she heard my dilemma. I stood at the main desk, in the dimly lit, silent room and filled in the circles for the candidates I wanted to lead our town and our nation in the years ahead. I would have been able to hear a whisper two rooms over in our old, empty Town Hall on that solemn moment. It was edifying to reverently, quietly color in the circles. Yet for all I knew, my votes would yet again be a whisper in a thundering sea of different opinions. 

I knew differently one week later, after 11 hours on greyhounds and in bus stations in four different states. After my daughter and I had swayed into the final station of the day and my husband drove us the additional 30 minutes to our rural neck of the woods, we arrived just 1/2 hour after the east coast polls had closed. We eagerly looked to see if New Hampshire was painted blue or red. And we watched over the next hours as so many states were “TiCTiC”–“To Close To Call.”

I felt invigorated sitting in my moose flannel PJ pants by the soothing fire and watching the numbers swagger back and forth. My puny little, almost-didn’t-happen ballot mattered.

The post Every Vote Counts first appeared on Souly Rested.

When I first set up my blog, I knew there was one topic I’d never approach: politics. Or the press. But when I witnessed firsthand that the press is biased, well, I decided I have something to say.

So today I’m gonna take a tiny break from writing about all that sweet stuff I love to write about–ya’ know, our beautiful calf, our crazy old farmhouse, and our sweet syrup making process–and write about something I feel like I have to…

Plus, it turns out that in a New Hampshire in January… in January of the U.S. presidential primary season… a girl can’t HELP but approach politics. In fact, politics comes to her. Last winter, politicians came to American Legions, high school auditoriums, country churches, and the little country store on the corner. Giant buses rolled in with candidates’ mug shots and tag lines on each side. The state was abuzz with talk of the candidates at every turn, in every corner. And hundreds of cameras, microphones, and steno books spilled into every venue…

… setting up squatter‘s rights where there was no room; towering above onlookers, with no thought of actually squatting down so anyone behind can see.

With the next presidential election only days away, my daughters and I have had a whole different perspective on what we see nightly on the news, given our personal experiences with the press last primary season.

We also have a different perspective, given another one of our current insights… I’ll mention that later in this post. Please stick with me, because there is a very positive conclusion to all this circus-crazy mess.

Last January, in a local country store, my daughters and I were surprised that we couldn’t see the podium where the candidate was speaking, because more than two dozen news channels were represented by more than four dozen people and all their paraphernalia, and they were stationed at the bottleneck area of the small store, at the top of the two steps that lead to the small speech platform.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, about three other giant cameras stationed themselves to our left, in front of an obstructed view of the podium. Their corresponding reporters would periodically make obnoxious sounds and flamboyant gestures, overpowering parts of the senator’s speech. Their goal was to get Mr. Cruz to look in their direction, for a better photograph, that was indeed probably not much different than the 2,080 previous shots they had taken of him all across New Hampshire.

Even though he was only ten feet from us, all we could see of Senator Cruz, at the ironically named “Meet and Greet,” was the image we could glimpse through the small screens on the cameras in front of us. I was truly shocked at the rudeness of the press in the few hours that we spent in that little country store. Even if the women’s designer bags and hairdos, in lieu of baseball caps and ponytails, and the men’s argyle sweaters and black shiny loafers, in lieu of muddy work boots, didn’t scream “outsider” in our tiny farm town, their attitudes alone would have labeled them as such.

Direct Answers

Since our family’s move, from suburbia to a small farm in small town, USA, I’ve felt blessed on a daily basis.

But the past month I’ve felt richly blessed to be, more specifically, a New Hampshire resident in our great democracy. This is exactly how a government of the people should work. Every man and woman who wants to lead this great country should have to make themselves available to answer directly to the people, and that’s what happened this winter in small country stores, rural American Legion offices, and school auditoriums all around the Granite State. It was a wonderful experience to meet the candidates directly, in small groups, and form my own opinion without filtering out the press’s opinions. Because indeed, I learned, the press is biased.

A Third Party

The discussions, you see, are not just between the candidates and the people. On every shoulder and behind every elbow of the people there is a third party, who isn’t a separate party really at all, but–very often–an extension of the Democratic party. Regardless of each reporter’s personal political stance, they–just like all of us–also have preconceived notions and personal theories that will sway their portrayal of any given situation. The press is biased. Although one khaki-clad reporter I talked to from California did not come across with a political agenda, per se, in his article where he quoted me, he certainly had an original, preconceived thesis. He quoted just the right amount of my statements to uphold that thesis.

I attended many Town Hall meetings in January and early February, and at the last one, after many minutes of heartfelt discussion one-on-one with Rubio, both my 15-year-old daughter and I were interviewed by 3 different reporters: a young, golden-haired gentleman from California, a middle-aged man with the Associated Press, and one quiet, white-haired reported from Kasich’s home state of Ohio.

In the California article, to make my quote support his theory, Mr. Nash (the reporter from the Golden State) did quote my words word-for-word, just out of context and incompletely. You see, Mr. Nash had a theory that Rubio was working hard to pull Cruz supporters to the Rubio campaign. It was surely even an accurate theory, but I wasn’t the correct interviewee to support his theory, so he just reported part of my words. He wrote that he spoke with “a 46-year-old homeschool mom who said she was torn between Cruz and Rubio, finding both senators articulate avatars of the conservative philosophy.” He went on… “Now that I see what happened in Iowa, I came off the fence,” the mom said in an interview.

What Mr. Nash didn’t explain what I told him first thing in our probably 5-minute-long interview, which was that I was a Rubio supporter from the beginning. Then I met Ted Cruz and was pleasantly surprised that he impressed me as genuine. (I didn’t feel that from debates, his commercials, and different details I had read about him.) Then, I explained to Mr. Nash, I watched polls and knew if Rubio dropped too low I could, with good conscience, vote for Cruz if I felt a vote on Rubio would be wasted. After seeing how many Iowans agreed with me, and after meeting and talking with Rubio in person, I decided to definitively put my vote where it was to begin with, with Marco Rubio. On a side note, Mr. Nash, although not the most talented man at summarizing another person’s views accurately, did in real life look like a golden boy from the Golden State, showing an uncanny resemblance to Brad Pitt.

“Pantless” Truth

Unfortunately, no matter how attractive the reporter of a lie may be, as Winston Churchill said, “A lie gets half way around the world before Truth has a chance to get his pants on.” I’m not saying that all reporters lie (at least not intentionally). But the press is biased. Reporters have their own personal view points and their own world views, and they are quite skilled at twisting facts to fit nicely into their outline.

Mr. Nash gave me one more inaccurate quote in his little article. He quoted the 46-year-old homeschool mom saying, “I hope the Trump supporters are going to wisen up and realize that he can’t even begin to be elected, and they’ll go to Rubio, too.” In reality, this was only a smidgen of my comments about Trump as well, making it appear that I felt there was no way Trump could ever win the nomination. In additional remarks, which weren’t quoted, I explained to Mr. Nash that I did not mean, literally, that Trump wasn’t able to win, but just the opposite. I was afraid, even back in early February, that he could win the Republican nomination, when in my opinion, there were much better, more conservative and morally upright candidates. Yes, I was concerned that Trump could win the nomination and, hmmmm, there might be an ugly run for the presidency offering a situation where no one truly had a candidate they could fully stand behind. So my meaning, which didn’t make it into the article, was “Trump can’t even begin to be elected if we as a people value our country and all that is at stake… if we want a leader of substance, character, and well-grounded, level-headed policies, we can’t elect Trump for the conservative leader of the Republican party.”

Like it or not, and whether they ever disclose full, unbiased truth or not, reporters are a staple of the primaries. They brighten up a room with enough radiant light to make a room unbearably hot, even on a cold February day.

They literally take over any area in which they are allowed to expand, like the downtown Radisson where we went to hear Rubio’s speech on the night of the NH primary. The Boston newscasters literally had a full-scale news desk set up in the front hotel lobby, complete with a hanging trellis of lighting, multiple cameras for multiple angles, and about two dozen large-screened monitors on rows upon rows of tables.

But before you even got to the Radisson, you had no doubt where the political circus was that night. Bright lights, huge tents, multi-level camera platforms, and even a CNN reporters’ trailer on an elevated lift, all pointed the way to the center ring of the political craziness.

Even after they had been standing for three hours to guarantee their front-row status, eager teen voters and patient, tired elderly ones were deprived of an intimate view of the candidate by camera men and women who waltzed in minutes ahead of the senator and blocked all views with their camera screens and flashes.

I decided that all reporters in the Radisson that night had a specific agenda and a predetermined thesis in mind for the evening as I watched all of them parade right by a man worthy of talking to, without asking him a question. A man who had obviously been a part of this political circus for quite some time and who seemed unphased by the craziness of it all. He was there under the bright lights, far behind tall cameras, elbow to elbow with other crazies like my daughters and I, just hoping for a conservative leader this time around (and of course a winning political pin).

The reporters-by-the-busload frenzy during the months leading up to the New Hampshire primaries does pay off, literally, for the Live Free Or Die state. Because, let’s face it, all those members of the press do not live for free… In New Hampshire (according to the U.S. Travel Association), visitors in town for the campaign spend approximately $350 per day on transportation, hotel rooms, meals, rental cars and the other basic needs. In hotel revenue alone, it estimates an extra $8.9 million. So I guess they all spend plenty to rest easy when they lay their heads down at night, regardless of the circus and confusion they participate in each day.

And while, like Mark McKinnon said, “The media has wrested complete control from the parties and candidates over everything….[it’s]  become a circus…” we also have a little more insight into all this craziness. You see, we’ve been studying the book of Daniel recently. Daniel as a young teen was taken into exhale in a foreign land because his own nation–that had once been the most prosperous in the world–collapsed. But he never gave up hope, and he even personally survived a deadly circus of killer furnace flames and ferocious lions. Daniel had God-given insight into his seemingly desperate situations, and that insight still holds true today. This insight rings in my ears and comforts me when I see the political circus that has engulfed our nation. It reminds me that on November 8th, God is the reigning authority. “He changes times and seasons; he removes kings and sets up kings; he gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to those who have understanding.”–Daniel 2:21

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My other posts in this series on the 2016 NH presidential primaries:

A post about the day When I Met Marco Rubio.

One about the different venues in the NH primary and what it’s like to meet the candidates.

And one about why NH holds the first primaries and a history lesson about the constitution.

The post A Look at the Presidential Primaries (and the press) first appeared on Souly Rested.

Back in January, when we had some snow on the ground and baby bunnies in the barn…

I was facing an important decision. I knew in a few short weeks I had the awesome privilege of being among the first in the nation to choose one presidential candidate whom I felt would be the best Republican nominee. I knew I’d have to shade in one circle on the ballot, and only one, among many.

An Amazing Privilege

Based on my respect for the constitution and its view of the roles of our federal government, I knew I would be voting for a presidential nominee who was conservative. Based on my Judeo Christian heritage and beliefs, I knew I would be voting for one of two candidates whom I felt most closely shared my values, while having enough support to be a valid possibility for nomination.  A vote for anyone without a legitimate chance to win the nomination was, in my opinion, a vote for a misogynistic, racist, pompous alternative candidate.

I knew Senator Cruz had, as a teenager, memorized the constitution, and I knew he was a staunch defender of the constitution. I knew I wanted to meet this man.  (More about that in a future post.)

Another candidate I first heard of when I watched his speech at the Republican convention in 2012. I loved what I heard and personally hoped then that I would see more of him in the political arena. Little did I know not only would he be running for the highest office in the land in just 3 brief years, but I would get to talk to him about how he viewed his role if elected Commander in Chief.

It’s an amazing privilege afforded residents of little ole New Hampshire… if you take the time, go to the town hall meetings and rallies, and wait patiently, you can hear the candidates, up close and personal. You truly get a feel for their genuineness, or lack thereof.  You watch their mannerisms and interactions with others, behind the scenes. You can form your own personal opinion, based on your own observations, of whom you personally believe is worthy of your vote.

Undimmed Enthusiasm

When Marco Rubio was talking at a small American Legion headquarters one hour south of us, and exactly one hour north of my oldest daughter, who is attending college outside of Boston, two daughters and I met their sister in the middle and attended the town hall meeting together. After listening to his very personal description of his childhood; his family; his career; and his passion for our country, our military, and our constitution, we sat for a long time enjoying listening to his open responses to question after question from a wide array of audience members. Long after his staff mentioned that the next question would be the last, he kept asking them to take the microphone to one more audience member, then one more. It was his last stop of a very full day, but he wasn’t ready to actually stop. While he did look a little tired, his enthusiasm never dimmed. He seemed to truly want us to know his opinion on every topic that surfaced with every turn of the microphone.

After the last question, it took a while for the crowded, standing-room-only-from-wall-to-wall room to empty. We considered staying and making our way to the front to shake the hand of this man for whom our respect had grown immensely in the past hour or two, but tests to study for, unsureness if he’d stick around for long (making our wait for naught), and mainly our churning, empty stomachs pushed us out the door. Even so, the restaurant where we stopped next was all abuzz with people who had just experienced what we had… a politician who genuinely wanted to talk openly about his detailed thoughts and beliefs… and everyone–a group of gentlemen in their 60s, two young military men who traveled from Vermont, and a group of local college students– everyone was excited at the possibility of such a genuine, committed, America-loving, constitution-honoring man in the White House.

The young age of supporters…

…and the level of enthusiasm for Marco was obvious.

Days later, one daughter was lamenting that we let our stomachs win out over our desire to talk to Marco Rubio that night, so we did what any one would do in the Granite State, in February of a presidential primary year, we went to see the same candidate again, just 72 hours later. It was cold and rainy.

But it was also the morning after the Iowa caucuses, and the large room in the old mill building was filled to overflow, with young, old, and every age and type in between.

Many people were wanting to see this candidate who apparently, after doing rather well in Iowa, was proving he was worthy of a vote.

Many stories he shared and points he made were different than he had shared at the previous town hall meeting we attended. Some parts of his speech were word-for-word the same, but I felt he somehow managed to deliver the same words fresh and sincerely. Of course, this was before the debate that labeled him a “robot.” But I saw no robot. I genuinely felt he meant what he said.

This time when he had answered the last microphoned question and the room started to drain into emptiness, my daughter and I fought the wave that was headed toward the door, instead traveling upstream, toward a large circle of people who hoped to get their picture with the presidential candidate and pick his brain on issues that were important to them.

Eager to Talk

We waited to the side, where we could observe his interactions with others. I was very surprised at his calm manor, listening intently to question after question, often with a hand on a shoulder of the questioner and a tilt and shake to his head to signal he was following along, even surrounded by bright camera lights of reporters and ruckus of the crowd. I was also surprised that he seemed to answer thoughtfully, not rushed, and leave his voice trailing open a little, to clarify they didn’t have any thing else to share before he turned his attention to the next person.

Twice he turned to my 15-year-old and smiled, about to make a step in her direction and talk to her, even though she was to the side and meekly waiting, and even though plenty of adults were anxious to jump right in his line of vision. He knew she was there, and he was eager to talk to her. But she held back, and his campaign assistant kept directing someone else to step up.

She wound up waiting until we were the next-to-last group of people around the senator, except for a few members of the press interviewing stragglers, and a few camera men still packing up their equipment. I think she may have hung back because she assumed her question, belonging to a teen, probably wasn’t as important as others in the room, or maybe she figured she should give precedence to voting-age people. But she was blown away by the respect he showed her and the sincerity which he answered her.

Senator Rubio put his left hand on her right shoulder while shaking her hand and looking her in the eye as she explained that she is only 15 and of course couldn’t vote, but she had, nonetheless, been closely following the candidates and felt very stressed that if she could vote she truly did not know if she would vote for him or Cruz, but she would choose based on whom she felt was most likely to gain the most delegate votes to make sure he would be able to beat Trump. (Hmmm, back in January, I wouldn’t have thought her worries would truly come to fruition, but sadly, here we are today facing this very concern.) She went on to ask if he was concerned that he and Mr. Cruz may split the vote, giving the advantage to Trump.

He spent a few minutes discussing with her how most likely many candidates would drop out after one or two primary results were in and then hopefully there wouldn’t be a problem moving forward.

Explaining My Reservations

After a few minutes of my daughter and a POTUS candidate discussing the delicate nature of delegate votes, I was ready to contentedly go home and would never have felt slighted if I personally didn’t ask a question. After all, the senator had been at this Town Hall meeting for hours and graciously stayed until the last attendees were filling out. Yet Marco Rubio, once he felt he and Kayla had wrapped up their thoughts, looked me in the eye, nodded his head, and lightly raised his eyebrows as if to say, “And your question?”

I couldn’t resist. I explained my reservations against his more lenient stance on immigration and how it could, in the course of just a few decades, completely eliminate the Republican party. We had a thoughtful conversation about how he and I were in agreement that free enterprise was truly the best way to help those who need help, allowing everyone an opportunity to rise without pulling anyone down; an economic model that allows poor people to become richer without making rich people poorer. He laid out his thoughts about how the Republican party truly does care about the disadvantaged and how the party can, as a whole, help others understand this.

Having read some about his financial background, and knowing that he was far from rich, with a net worth of around $100,000 (versus the over-$3-million net worth of Cruz), I had already decided, before meeting him, that Rubio could actually sympathize with the everyday plight of the common person more than other candidates could.

At this point, his campaign assistant interrupted and pointed out that they needed to be in the bus in less than 10 minutes. Since there was still one small group after us, I started to walk away. He could have easily left it at that, finished with the last straggler and headed on his way. But another thought came to him that he genuinely wanted to share with me, so he rested his hand on my shoulder from behind, and explained, as I stepped back towards him, that a huge majority of the legal immigrants he meets in Florida are very deeply committed to a conservative catholic church, so they do extol many of the same values as the conservative Republican party, but the Republican party needs to do a better job of reaching out to them and helping them understand this common ground.

I was so impressed by his sincerity at that point, sincerity that I saw in the deep line of his brow and heard in the low tone of his voice, that I asked one more question, with deep sincerity of my own, and without a second thought.

“How can I be praying for you, daily?”

He didn’t hesitate. He asked me to pray for his family. He said, “You know, this has all been quite crazy for them. I’d really appreciate your prayers for each of them.”

Turns out I’m not the only one he’s asked this of. Near the end of this six-minute video (below), he asks the same of his audience. He actually did not discuss a lot about his personal faith at the town hall meeting we attended in February. He was asked about his faith at the first Town Hall meeting we had attended, days earlier, and he gave an answer that included a few of the points he mentions in the video below. (By the way, this was one big difference I felt between Rubio and Cruz: the way they expressed their faith. If asked about a particular aspect of his religious beliefs, Rubio was eager to answer and expressive with details, but he didn’t bombard us with his faith, unlike Cruz who peppered his memorized speech with Bible verses for emphasis. After meeting both, I remember being impressed that Rubio’s faith is an integral part of him, while Cruz wears his faith on his denim-clad shoulders as almost a badge of honor or mark of an outsider. Not that one is more sincere, but they definitely express their faith differently.)

Oh, and in this video (below), Senator Rubio gives a detailed explanation of his faith and his background in the Catholic church, Mormonism, and the Baptist denomination:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXZq3QvXq6c

I am proud to say that in the NH primaries I placed my vote very eagerly and confidently for Marco Rubio. Given his low number of delegate votes at this stage of the game, if I was voting in the next primaries, I would be placing my vote for Ted Cruz. Unless I was a Florida resident, where I would wholeheartedly vote for Rubio, hoping he keeps Trump from winning Florida’s winner-takes-all delegate votes. Although I realize his bid for the white house might be an impossibility in a few weeks, depending on upcoming primary results, I sincerely hope I can someday refer to him as “President Rubio.” He would be a godly, sincere, passionately patriotic President.

But if you’d like to see more about my homesteading, homeschooling life in rural New England–what I’m usually writing about–find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, as well as following my blog.

p.s. On a side note, neither my daughter nor I talked with the senator about his views on homeschooling, but had researched in many sources and listened to his own debates on the topic and knew his stance is very pro-homeschooling. A fellow homeschool friend DID talk to him about the topic and assured me he was extremely positive and supportive about it, explaining that his own family was homeschooling while the children were on his campaign tour with him.

Other Related Posts

My other posts in this series on the NH presidential primaries:

One about the different venues in the NH primary where one can meet the candidates.

And one about why NH holds the first primaries and a history lesson about the constitution.

Tomorrow’s post will be about the press and politics.

The post When I Met Marco Rubio first appeared on Souly Rested.

The presidential primaries in NH are a snapshot into a government by the people, for the people. They, and the caucuses in Iowa, allow “we the people” to meet our future president in an intimate way not possible anywhere else–not possible in large, urban towns; not possible after the national excitement builds and crowds grow exponentially. The NH primaries are a time that we can bare our national, and personal, concerns to a potential president–one on one. And they are a time that we can hear his personal convictions and decide for ourselves if he is genuine.*

John Adams said, “You will never know how much it has cost my generation to preserve your freedom. I hope you will make good use of it.” In honor of John, I decided last month to see candidates in a variety of venues, from a quiet meet-and-greet to a packed rally, and make an informed choice.

New to the Granite State (home of the nation’s first presidential primary), I was dizzy with excitement these last few weeks.  Born and raised in Delaware, I am a native First-Stater; I’ve always liked being first. The thought that as a Granite Stater I get to truly be one of the first voters in the nation to make my choice heard, well, that was exhilarating.

Add some picturesque snow to the mix…

… and really, who wouldn’t want to live in New Hampshire in an election-year January?

The Nation’s First Presidential Primaries

My first presidential primary election as a New Hampshirite I was a lucky lady in an amazing candy store where the options were many, the variety profound, and the choice all mine. For a 3-week period in January and early February, I was giddy with the notion that in roughly one hour or less drive north or south, on any given day, I could see almost any one of the presidential candidates who were vying for my vote.

I became hooked on the excitement after my first meet and greet last month, when I realized that the next POTUS was not only within an hour’s drive on any given day, but I very well might be able to get up close and personal and talk to him. The whole experience has been so exciting, I thought I’d share some details. Some insight into life in the state of the nation’s first primaries in January of a presidential election year. Insight into our democracy at work, on the ground. Insight into a month’s worth of hundreds of Town Hall meetings held by more than a dozen candidates, and filled with real people… talking to real candidates… about real issues.

So stick with me. Over the next few weeks, in between breaking ice on water tubs and mucking stalls…

I’ll give you a little glimpse into the first presidential nomination primaries in the nation. A little glimpse into the interactions I had with presidential hopefuls that lead up to the day I could step into my town hall, confident of which candidate’s circle I would color in with confidence.

Up Close and Personal

Coming from diminutive Delaware, with three puny electoral votes, I am not accustomed to presidential visits in my state. The closet I’d ever been to a candidate was when he and six of his body guards brushed past me in one of his crowded casinos in Jersey. He was barking out orders over the sounds of slot machines, and it was decades before the casino billionaire got the notion to run for the highest office in the land.

Having never had an opportunity to shake a presidential hand, I was shocked when I found a link to an online campaign tracker that listed every single stop of every single candidate who was in New Hampshire in the weeks leading up to the state’s primary.

I grabbed scrap paper and scribbled an itinerary.

One daughter stated a desire to meet every one of the five candidates, both Republican and Democrat, whom she felt had any chance of being our next President, because then she could say, with certainty, that she had talked with a United States President. Life got in the way of reaching that goal. In the end, I attended six events in all, for a total of four different types of venue (a Meet-and-Greet, three Town Hall meetings, one rally, and one voting-night celebration that turned out to not be much of a celebration), seeing three different candidates.

My 6 Presidential-ish Experiences

For today, I thought I’d paint a picture of the types of venues the presidential hopefuls offer during NH’s primary season. In upcoming posts, I’ll share more details about the candidates, their actions, their words, and their impression they made on me.

–A Meet-and-Greet–

When I heard that a presidential hopeful was planning on hanging out at a little country store 5 miles from our home, I knew my daughters and I were going. You see, pretty much nothing is 5 miles from our home. Heck, the nearest traffic light is 11 miles away. A presidential hopeful was coming to our little corner of nowhere to talk to a  handful of people to find out what issues were important to us. I confirmed on the little store’s Facebook page. We and 18 others were definitely attending. Yes, 18. Parking was filled when we arrived. But parking at the White Buffalo consists of 6 spaces squeezed beside their propane tanks and under their sign proclaiming the number of delicious fudge flavors they make every day. I parked across the street, in a field. Our snowy boots stepped onto the wide-planked, smooth-worn floorboards in the country store, walked past the counter where we’ve purchased mint chocolate chip fudge many times before, walked around the canned goods and the cereals, and stood near the Pepsi display, waiting. We recognized a few faces from the softball fields. Talked with others, many also clad in muck boots and Carhartt jackets, about the day’s bitter wind and frozen hen eggs in our coops. My daughters and I were surprised that we couldn’t see the mic where the candidate would be speaking, because more than a dozen different news channels were represented by more than two dozen people and all their paraphernalia, and they were stationed at the bottleneck area of the small store, at the top of the two steps that lead to a small platform usually filled with 3 or 4 tables, for sitting and enjoying a piece of pizza.

We realized later, after the candidate and press had left, that a few dozen people were seated in folding chairs, lined up where the dinner tables usually stand, facing the back wall of the store, where the temporary sign declared we could trust this candidate. But until then, all we could see of that area was through the small screens on the cameras in front of us.

But from our vantage point, we did see the large bus pull up outside the front windows. Within minutes, the candidate was down the main aisle, past the chip display and milk and soda refrigerators, removing his layers of scarf, hat, and gloves as he shook hands with a few people and neared the back platform. He  spoke for about 20 minutes then explained, jokingly, he would answer–or dodge–as many questions as he could before his bus had to move on to the next town meeting.

He left the way he had entered, stopping to shake both my daughters’ hands and pause for me to get their picture. We talked briefly, then enjoyed watching how he interacted with others on his path as he made his way back toward the fudge counter and eventually on to another stop.

–Town Hall Meeting–

The past month, we sat in on town hall meetings in an American Legion lodge, a banquet facility, and a refurbished mill. There were certainly differences among the candidates as to how the meeting was run, but overall the format was the same. People arrived early, hoping to snag seats near the candidate so they could get a good picture or shake his hand.

But long before the candidate arrived, those who had seats at all, even in the back row, were happy they were not one of a hundred or more people who were standing around the edges and back of the room.

Music was playing; each candidate having their own soundtrack they would repeat at each meeting. (When I noticed candidates were playing certain songs multiple times, I looked some up and learned that candidates actually pick theme songs. Somehow I never knew this.) Depending on his time crunch, some politicians worked the room, entering through an opening in the crowd that their campaign workers had cleared as he arrived. Other times, they would simply appear in the front of the room and start in on their speech. Some had supporters who seemed to travel with them and deliver the same testimonials about the candidates pre-meeting, others just played their soundtracks while the room anticipated their entrance.

When it was time for questions, I was always pleasantly surprised at not only the variety of questions but also the personal nature of each one. One man was disabled and felt crushed by the medicare system and wanted to know how Senator Cruz would help him have a job and become self-sufficient. Another gentleman shared the first name of an illegal immigrant he has had in his employment for years who was one of the best employees he ever had and a man whose family was relying on his paycheck; he wanted to know if Senator Rubio would want to see his friend deported and his family left without a provider.

It was obvious that the NH residents came out to meet these candidates to not only hear the candidates’ views on important subjects, but also voice their own concerns as well, doing their part to leave these candidates with some snapshots of down-home American concerns and daily worries, hoping that if he becomes president he will remember the plights of the average American and long to make a difference.

–Rally–

Of all the venues available to us, we enjoyed the rally the least. The one we attended did nothing to shed light on the candidate’s detailed plans, but served as an hour-plus live commercial filled with meaningless rhetoric. I should admit, though, that many in attendance seemed to enjoy the experience, almost like fans at a rock concert, waving signs instead of lighters and cheering instead of singing. I’m glad we went, to have a comparison to the smaller meet-and-greets and town hall meetings, but beyond that I was tired and ready to go home before it ended.

–After-the-Polls-Closed Celebration–

Our final primary week activity, after waiting in an unusually busy town hall to place our votes, was to attend a post-election celebration. Turned out to not be much of a “celebration,” since our choice candidate placed 5th in the state primary, but we were glad we went. It turned out to be a capstone on our first ever NH presidential primary. But more about that in a future post.

I Prefer Muck Boots to Political Shoes

I’ll share a few more upcoming posts about my presidential experiences this past month. I’ll share about my conversations with Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio, up close and personal, and my overall impression of the two men that ultimately led to my voting decision. Then I will gladly step out of my political shoes and back into my muck boots and get back to sharing about business-as-usual around the farm.

*While it was pretty amazing to have not one but two possible 2016 presidential nominees who were female, I, sadly, didn’t get to meet Carly or Hillary. To avoid the awkward he/she construction, I intentionally chose to refer to all candidates as male in this post.

———————

“When one rules justly over men, ruling in the fear of God, he dawns on them like the morning light, like the sun shining forth on a cloudless morning, like rain that makes grass to sprout from the earth. ” 2 Samuel 23:3-4

The post A Look at the Presidential Primaries (the venues) first appeared on Souly Rested.

an exciting addition to our farm…

and presidential candidates to our little neck of the woods. . .

But the fervor of the country’s first 2016 Presidential Primary was extra special for me. Why? Two reasons. You see, two is the total number of states I’ve lived in in my 46 years (Delaware and New Hampshire). Two is also the number of states that played the most pivotal roles in the ratification of the U.S. Constitution: the unhesitating first and the deciding ninth. Those states–the ones so important in the life of our Constitution–happen to be the two states important in my own life: Delaware and New Hampshire.

I’m quite proud of my connection to the supreme document of fundamental principles that makes our nation great. And the past few months I’ve been more intrigued with our Constitution than ever, as I’ve been analyzing how well I believe the presidential candidates will ensure that the document’s original intentions are upheld.

Growing up in my native state, I learned to dig for sand crabs, appreciate blue hens, and develop a snobbery for Capriotti subs. I also learned to be proud that I grew up in the state that was home to the penman of the Revolution (John Dickinson), the first log cabins (brought by the Finnish settlers), and the infamous fighting Blue Hens (who accompanied Delaware’s brave soldiers to Revolutionary War battle lines). Yes, my native Delaware (along with its fiery fighting birds) is near and dear to my heart, and its slogan lets no one forget that it is indeed “The First State.” Back in 1787, the diminutive Delaware needed to see the Constitution ratified quickly or it was threatened to be devoured by nearby, larger, stronger states.*

The Granite State—the state I’ve just recently had the privilege to call “home”—is where I’ve learned to recognize the sound of “r” as an “ah” and appreciate that every way is the “long way” when you’re driving in the Lakes Region, but at least the long way includes a lakeside view.

I’ve learned that New Hampshire is more reserved than Delaware, both in its people (who never waste words, food, or time, if they can help it) and about its place in line when ratifying the Constitution. But its ninth-place status is truly just as important as Delaware’s first-place distinction. As the ninth state to jump on board, New Hampshire finalized the deal. The Constitutional Convention had called for only a 70% ratification for the document to be in effect. While the drafters knew that a full, unanimous agreement would be impossible, they also knew that time was of the essence or our nation might be fractured beyond re-piecing.

New Hampshire, true to its rebellious spirit and its promise to “Live Free or Die,” signed the final pen stroke that made our Constitution the law of our land, even though it was an extra-legal document** that had been written behind closed doors and was under severe scrutiny by the anti-federalists (which included worthy patriots like Patrick Henry I might add).

So, you see, my native state’s unanimous vote—of all 30 Delaware delegates—accurately foretold that our nation would rally to form a more perfect union, truly the best one formed on this side of heaven at least, without bloodshed. And my now-home state confirmed this fact and made the Constitution the highest law in our land, guaranteeing domestic tranquility and liberty, at least as long as we the people are willing to uphold it.

And now the Granite State continues to take its role in upholding the Constitution very seriously, as the location of the first presidential primaries. Funny, the Hawkeye State became the first location for presidential caucuses in the early 70s because of a simple lack of hotel rooms, but the hardline, stubborn Granite State voted into law in the 40s the fact that it will always be the first primary. I’d like to think that those lawmakers in 1949, thinking of New Hampshire’s stance as the state to sign the Constitution into law, wanted to make sure that New Hampshire continued to have a say in honoring the Constitution– by carefully, painstakingly considering the candidates whom it felt would uphold the Constitution–and proudly be some of the first to reveal its opinions to the watching nation.

I, a First State girl and now a Granite State woman, have been loving my first presidential primary election year as a New Hampshirite. For a 3-week period in January and early February, I have been giddy with the notion that in a roughly one-hour-or-less drive… north or south… on any given day… I can meet almost any one of the presidential candidates who are vying for my vote.

So over the course of many school days that followed, in between caring for the animals…

and working through math and grammar lessons with my daughters (and a few stray bunnies)…

We talked to some presidential candidates.

I thought others might like some insight into this process. Insight into life in the state of the first primaries in a presidential election year. Insight into our democracy at work, on the ground. Insight into a month’s worth of Town Hall meetings filled with real people… talking to real candidates… about real issues.

So stick with me over the next few days or weeks. In upcoming blog posts, I’ll give you a little glimpse into the first presidential primary. But don’t worry, I’d much rather talk about ducks that lay eggs and cows that offer milk than elephants that bicker and donkeys that lie. So soon enough I’ll be writing about the promises of a spring garden instead of the emptiness of wintered politicians.

But for this week, I’m elated that I personally got to meet some presidential candidates, and I’m elated at the prospects of a new Commander in Chief who might value and honor the Constitution. I’m elated that we the people can get to know the candidates and then have a deciding voice in determining the next President of the United States. After all, as the American author Elbert Hubbard said, “Parties who want milk should not seat themselves on a stool in the middle of the field in hopes that the cow will back up to them. ”

* For those of you looking for a history lesson, I’ve read many varied arguments as to why Delaware jumped to sign so quickly, from wanting a strong central government, to protecting their long beach line, to lowering inter-state taxes, to desiring to be first in line for federal grants. Truth is, very little documentation was kept of what went on in the short three days of deliberation in Dover, Delaware, but every one of the 30 voted-in delegates (10 from each of the state’s three counties) was a Federalist. Delawareans were obviously pretty passionate about signing the Constitution. But as a native Delawarean, I’ve always heard that we were eager to sign because we would then be official as an entity of our own and less likely to be gobbled up by nearby states who wanted to extend their boundaries.

** The Articles of Confederation had made it clear that all states must be in agreement for  ratification.

The post A Look Into the NH Presidential Primary (part 1) first appeared on Souly Rested.

As a writer, I wholeheartedly agree with the Russian author.

As a teacher, I instruct my students to interrogate all of their readers’ senses.

As a New Englander, looking forward to the approaching Harvest Moon that will bathe our homestead in cool, penetrating splendor in the crisp autumn stillness, I have to rephrase Chekhov’s truism.

On September 27th, when we amble across our moon-illuminated fields and rest in our hammocks under the apple branches, or when we move our picket fence gate to the side and inspect our corn crop or tap our watermelon to test their ripeness, I might remind my daughters, “The Harvest Moon has lit these fields for generations before us. But tonight just might be one of those simple moments that is worthy of being remembered as great. Write about this moment and keep it for the next generation. Tuck away your words and unfold this moment again some day, to show your own daughter.”

Along the lines of Chekhov’s theme, I will tell them, “Don’t just tell her that the moon was shining, but show her how the cool light highlighted the apples bowing over our rope hammock and bleached the corn silk standing regally in the garden rows.”

If you have the privilege of driving a New England backroad this fall–one that bends around mountains and opens to bold autumn vistas or humble sugar shacks tucked under glowing yellow maple trees–and if you’re here on one of the last days of this month, be sure to not miss this “other” New England beauty.

Yes, we’re known worldwide for our fall foliage that bedazzles our rolling forests with colors yet unnamed.

But we have another Autumn jewel as well… the Harvest Moon.

She’s the quiet but oh-so-bold luminary who has lit our rocky fields every fall, for every generation before us. The generous Harvest Moon has shed her accommodating light over New England farmers since that first brave man and woman turned over their own patch of the rocky soil. The mountainous, granite-rock-covered land can be so unforgiving. The arduous farmers must have been grateful to glean a bounty from her. I’m certain the gracious lunar light that extended their profitable working hours for many harvest days in a row also extended their gratitude.

And this September, we’ll even enjoy the extra-large size of a supermoon. It earns that recognition because this year’s Harvest Moon will be full on the same night that it is closest to the Earth.

Yet we know the moon, regardless of appearances, never actually changes size. So why does the Harvest Moon appear to be so enormous? Well, plenty of scientifically minded folks, who know way more about the cosmos than little ole me, still don’t agree on this. But I’ll give you my two-cent description. (This is based on lots of reading; don’t think for a minute I actually came up with this hypothesis.) You see, when the full moon hangs on the horizon, there are plenty of things surrounding her–trees, houses, mountains–and those things are so tiny compared to her that she eclipses them and makes us think she’s larger than when she’s in her everyday habitat. Up in her usual setting–high in the great expanse of night–the moon is dwarfed by huge amounts of blackness.

But regardless of how large she appears, the Harvest Moon was beloved by farmers because unlike typical full moons, she wakes up as soon as her brother, Sun, tucks his head down for the night. In fact, for many days in succession, she works hard continually illuminating the crops. In the days when our old Cape was first built here, where the lake spills into the river and provides irrigation to a thirsty farm, the Harvest Moon would have been relished. Because for well over a century after our Cape was constructed, the farmers who lived on this land had no tractor lights to help them harvest past sundown.

Turns out September 27th’s Harvest Moon will even be a lunar tetrad too, but that’s getting way too scientific for my little language-arts brain to describe, so you’re gonna have to google that one.

Just promise me if you’re out under New England’s Harvest Moon and you see a little red Cape nestled by the river and bathed in generous moonlight, promise you’ll think of me.

———————————

The post Don’t Miss this Autumn Jewel: the Harvest Moon first appeared on Souly Rested.

On a dirt road behind the church, we chatted with a man who brought history alive as he shared details about his unique ride–one of only seven like it that are still in existence today.

From tractors to quilts to art to bees, it was history and small town life on display at its finest.

But small town life wasn’t just on display; we were an intricate part of it–a part of history in the making in a small town.

As we ambled back around the turns in the road to reach our car, we passed sweet reminders of those men who served in the Revolutionary War, the men who revisited the land of their youth on the first Old Home Week.

I felt overwhelming grateful to be a tiny part of this small town’s story as it is being written throughout the annals of time, at the hands of an abundantly immense God. A gracious God who marked out our family’s boundaries in a land so fair. Long before we even heard of this tiny town or set eyes on our little cape on the hill, by the dam, where the crystal clear lake empties into the winding river, He planned to place us here. For that I will always be thankful.

“From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands.” Acts 17:26

The post History and Small Town Life at its Finest first appeared on Souly Rested.

What Will You Find at an Old Home Day?

While on summer vacations over the years, I’d attended quite a Old Home Days, in small rural towns speckling the central New Hampshire landscape.

At these marvelous festivities I’d met fascinating craftsmen; watched all kinds of trades in action, from wooden bowl carving, to wool spinning, to fused glass creations; and devoured decadent baked goods from fresh kettle cooked corn to Maple Sugar Cotton Candy.

I have decided, btw (with the means of the official editorial decision-making capabilities at my disposal), Maple Sugar Cotton Candy is worthy of an initial-capped, esteemed-looking name.

(It is also, by the way, definitely worth the calories. Although, given the way it dissolves so sweetly on your tongue, surely the calories must be at rudimentary levels, if not non-existent.)

It Turns Out There Aren’t Typically Any Old Home Tours

For all the crafts I’ve witnessed and delicacies I’ve imbibed at various Old Home Days, as a vacationer from “the South,” I never knew the history of the occasion.

I always assumed somewhere in each town there were, indeed, old homes open for public tour on this one beloved day of the year. I never thought to ask if my assumption of the name was correct. Silly enough, I never even thought to ask where the tours were and if I could attend one.

I guess I was too busy standing in line for every Maple Sugar Cotton Candy bag I could afford.

It Was a Ploy That Worked

I recently learned the history behind this New England summer tradition. And it doesn’t typically involve any old home tours at all.

After the Civil War, many men who returned home to the rugged, unforgiving New England fields, often headed south and west for easier farming. (This old rocky, rough soil has certainly earned its nickname of “The Granite State.”)

In 1899, the Governor of New Hampshire decided to try to change the tide and encourage native New Hampshirites to return to the land of their roots. He figured if he could just draw them home in droves, families would realize how much they missed the beauty of their old home place.

He organized, aptly named, an “Old Home Week.”  Towns across the state welcomed native New Hampshirites to revisit their old homesteads…

Revisit the land dotted with crystal clear lakes and sweeping vistas…

Revisit the land of their youth.

And they did. Many visited for a long week, catching up with friends who had grayed and bent a little but who still had youthful jubilee in their voices when talking of their New England childhoods together. As they reminisced, they soaked up the forgotten beauty of the landscape.

Roads that wind and unfurl, opening up to one scenic overlook after another. Mountains that curl their backs up into the pulled wisps of clouds, who themselves are stretching across the azul summer sky.

Intricate marvels of nature that await anyone who will slow down and let the beauty envelop them.

Lakes that lazily take in the bounty of the scenery and offer it back serenely, reflected among the water flowers that dot their shore.

It Drew Folks Back to Their Old Homesteads

The original “Old Home Week” was a success. Meet the man behind it all right here.

Families moved back to the beauteous land they didn’t even realize they had missed so dearly. And New Hampshire’s population increased.

Over the years, the celebration shortened to a single day, but the intent of celebrating the charm of New Hampshire and its people is still thriving today, well over a century years later.

I’m excited to be a part of my small town’s celebration next weekend as a true New Hampshirite myself, no longer one just vacationing through who knows the deliciousness but not the history.

Mind you, I am also hankering for some Maple Sugar Cotton Candy.

Other articles you’ll enjoy:

The History of the Harvest Moon

How I Make Money Blogging

Our Move from Suburbia to Rural Life

3 Secrets Old Farmhouse Owners Might Never Tell You

I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you… have set my feet in a spacious place. Psalm 31: 7-8

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The post Old Home Day in New England first appeared on Souly Rested.