by Nancy Sleeth
The kitchen in our town house is smaller than any I have had since our pre-kid days. Yet I produce more meals from this kitchen than at any time in my life. During a typical week, we host several gatherings with friends, neighbors, and colleagues—ranging from three people to twenty or more. In addition, Friday night is family night, when our children often also invite their friends to our table.
Matthew appreciates good food, and I like to prepare it, but with so many guests, I have learned to keep things simple. Soup, salad, and homemade bread are my standard offerings. I rely on excellent, no-fail recipes for mushroom, creamy potato, and curried lentil soups. (See the appendix for tried-and-true recipes.) As the seasons permit, I branch out into cream of asparagus, broccoli, and vegetable-whatever soup. Whenever we go out to eat on our travels, I check out new soups and try to re-create them at home. Right now, I’m working on a spicy ginger pumpkin recipe.
One of the many exceptions that make my lifestyle almost Amish is my technique for bread making. I mix the dough and complete the first rising in a bread maker (forty-five minutes on my quick-rise setting) and then shape the dough, do the second rising, and bake the bread in the traditional manner. You have not tasted heaven until you’ve had my braided challah—the traditional Jewish egg bread served on Friday nights.
Salads are creative opportunities. In my vegetable garden, I grow a wide range of colorful greens from spring to fall. The garden provides tomatoes in various shapes and colors, along with many other vegetables as equal-opportunity salad enhancers. In winter, I rely on dried cranberries, sharp cheeses, nuts, and homemade croutons to give substance to the salad. For a simple dinner, I might add grilled chicken or salmon as an optional topping. Always, I make my own vinaigrette.
The Bible is explicit about the importance of hospitality. Think about Abraham entertaining the angels under the oaks of Mamre, Rebekah watering Eliezer’s ten camels at the well, Lazarus opening his home to Jesus and his motley crew, Zacchaeus being stunned and humbled to have Jesus over for supper—these are examples of people who shared their table with others. Paul also explicitly states that willingness to offer hospitality is a qualification for becoming a church elder (see 1 Timothy 3:2). As my husband likes to say, no one knows whether the fish that fed five thousand were broiled, baked, or fried; what we do know is that the spirit of generosity and the miracle of faith ensured that there was plenty for all.
Most of us are familiar with the parable of the wedding banquet told in Matthew 22:1-14. A king invites guests to a great feast. But when the time comes, most of the guests who sent in a positive RSVP find themselves too busy with business meetings or piano recitals or the big game on TV to show up. Jesus is making the point that God has prepared a feast for each of us—eternal life—yet many of us get too consumed with the busyness of existence to accept his grace-filled invitation.
It is no accident that Jesus uses a meal to illustrate his point. The parable is not only about eternal life but also about life here on earth. And it is not just about how to be a good guest but how to become a welcoming host. Three times a day, twenty-one times a week, we are given opportunities to act like the King. We are to invite all to our table, not only family and those who can reciprocate, but especially the single mother, the exchange student, or the disabled person in our pews.
As hymnist Charles Gabriel wrote in 1895,
“All things are ready,” come to the feast!
Come, for the table now is spread;
Ye famishing, ye weary, come,
And thou shalt be richly fed.
It is not the number of fancy gadgets or beautiful serving platters that matters; rather it’s the hands that prepare the meals and the holy communion that takes place when we share our table with others that make our kitchens the heart of the home.
Clean out your bedroom closets
The Amish wear plain clothes—homemade dresses and aprons for women and simple pants and shirts for men. They eschew patterned fabric and even buttons, which could be considered ostentatious, and instead rely upon hook-and-eye closures and suspenders. Women cover their heads and dress modestly. They avoid using appearance as a form of self-expression or to attract attention to their bodies, which can lead to pride.
I do not dress as plainly as the Amish: many of my clothes have buttons, I wear some patterned fabrics, and I cover my head only when it gets cold outside. But my closet, nonetheless, reflects my values, as it does for each of us.
I tend to wear long dresses and gravitate toward looser-fitting clothes, for comfort as much as modesty. Almost all my clothes are secondhand. The reason: I cannot justify the huge amount of water, fossil fuels, and chemicals that go into manufacturing, shipping, displaying, and advertising the clothes that fill our malls. Killing the planet so I can look fashionable just does not seem like a good trade-off.
I wish I could sew. My son’s mother-in-law is a math genius but also a fabulous seamstress. She sewed all the dresses for Valerie and Clark’s wedding. But if I cannot sew, I can at least mimic some of the values the Amish demonstrate in their closets.
First, keep it simple. Despite what the magazines tell you, only those with darker coloring look good in orange—period.
Second, don’t try to keep up with the latest fashions. Designers spend billions to convince us that brown is the new black and the tie width we thought respectable three years ago is now totally out.
Third, avoid malls. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Emma was twelve before she ever went to a mall, and then only went because her adopted big sister/favorite babysitter Kate felt sorry for her and took her on her birthday. When they returned home, Kate said she wasn’t sure if Emma had a good time—she seemed a little overwhelmed.
Well, I consider that a sign of good health. I am more than a little overwhelmed myself—every year or two—when I step into a mall. I leave feeling fat, ugly, and decidedly uncool. Of course, that is what department stores are designed to do, so they can sell us on the lie that buying their products will make us as thin, gorgeous, and hip as the ten-foot models in their displays. “Fancy Nancy” is just as oxymoronic as “Fashionable Amish.”
Fourth, clean out your clothes closets. Matthew is ruthless when it comes to his closet—if he has not worn something in the past year, it gets donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. When we go on the road, he wears outfit A (a gray suit) or outfit B (khaki pants, white shirt, and navy sports coat). Pretty much the rest of the time, it’s outfit B minus the sports coat, though occasionally he gets wild and wears the blue oxford shirt instead of the white. The end result is that clothes take up very little room in his closet . . . or his thoughts.
Few of us today have the talent or skill to sew our own clothes. Yet even so, the Amish probably spend considerably fewer total hours on their wardrobes than the average sixteen-year-old in America. Reading fashion magazines, staying up with the dos and don’ts, driving to the mall, returning clothes that don’t fit, and shopping on the Internet sap our time and energy. As one of my favorite poets, William Wordsworth, said more than a century ago, “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.”
And that’s what the fashion industry is to the Amish—not only a waste, but a distraction from the family, friends, and faith that really (should) matter.
Clean out your vanity
The average American family spends fifty-five to eighty-five dollars per month on toiletries. I would be surprised if our family spent eighty-five dollars a year, even though I try to buy natural and organic products, which tend to cost more per ounce. The reason is that I just don’t buy most of the products big business tries to convince me I need to stay clean, beautiful, and young. That means no hair dyes. No special anti-aging creams (okay, almost none). All my makeup fits in one small pencil case. My blow dryer is a vintage 1970s model—the Vidal Sassoon my mom bought back when the Dorothy Hamill bob became the rage. It’s large and awkward and shaped like a dangerous weapon, but, hey—if it ain
’t broke, why replace it?
Of course the Amish would not even own a hair dryer, and they don’t wear any makeup at all. But my husband thinks they (and Hasidic Jews, who dress rather similarly) are the prettiest women around. I agree. One of the most charming—and rare—qualities is being beautiful without knowing it.
Think of the most attractive older woman you know. Besides my mom, whom I love above all else, the woman who comes to my mind has gray hair, worn just above her shoulders. The only cosmetic I ever recall seeing her wear is clear lip balm. Her eyebrows are thick and expressive. She’s in great shape, her body strong and her movements spritely. But the traits I notice first are her smile and her prolonged hug. Though blessed with six children and a dozen grandchildren of her own, every time I enter her home she treats me like a daughter she has been waiting to see. The lines around her mouth and eyes deepen when she laughs with me, and she continues to hold my hand while we talk. She is one of the most lovely women I know.
We’ve seen photos of people in the public eye who, because of a fear of aging and constant scrutiny by the press, end up with distorted bodies and unexpressive faces. Too much attention to their naturally lovely features ultimately makes them less, rather than more, attractive. While most of us are not celebrities, each of us should be wary of focusing too much of our time on appearances. For physical and for spiritual reasons, we should guard against the “vanity of vanities” that Ecclesiastes is pretty explicit to say will waste our lives.
So, what is the Almost Amish way? Because we’re all starting at a different point, it will probably look different for each of us. For example, while speaking at a church in Texas, Matthew met a woman who admitted to spending three hours in front of the mirror each morning. Maybe it doesn’t take you that long to get out the door, but we could try cutting back our grooming routine by 25 percent. And emptying a drawer or two in our vanities. (There’s that word again!)
Organize your attic, garage, and basement
One of the positive benefits of moving every so often is that we don’t store a mound of little-used stuff in our attic, garage, and basement. Each of the children has one “memory box.” In addition, Clark has asked us to keep his college notebooks for a few years, until he is ready to part with them. Emma now has only one craft box, since she gave most of those things away to a first grade teacher the last time we moved. Matthew has his tools—just the bare bones for carpentry and household maintenance—and I have a few gardening supplies—nothing fancy, just a shovel, hoe, rake, gloves, and a couple of spades. The sports equipment fits in one plastic tub, and we have two well-used bikes. We own a few suitcases for travel, the pressure cooker and some canning equipment, and our root cellar/pantry to save trips to the store—that’s pretty much it. The attic is for insulation, nothing else.
And while very occasionally I will miss something that Matthew has given away, mostly I am thankful that my husband prevents me from becoming a hoarder. “If someone else can use it now, why should we store it for someday?” is his frequent and much-appreciated refrain.
Let’s Sum It Up
We might as well face it: what burdens most modern American homes is the accumulation of mass-produced junk, bought on impulse and paid for with credit, which either falls apart or no one uses. Even heirlooms can become clutter if we are not wise in our stewardship of them. Cluttered homes lead to cluttered lives, and cluttered lives can harm families.
Our homes reflect our values. They reflect who we are inside and what we hold most precious. If our houses are cluttered, our hearts are too. Possessions should work for us; we should not work for them. Too easily, our homes and the stuff that fills them can become false idols, tempting us to break the first of the Ten Commandments. The Amish offer a simpler, less cluttered, more sustainable way of life. We have much to learn from their example.
Chapter 2
Technology
Technology serves as a tool and does not rule as a master.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who make lists and those who don’t. I do. Lists are useful not just at the grocery store: they organize my week, and they help clarify my thoughts.
Recently, I sat down and made a list of the things I love about our twenty-first-century technology:
1. I can work anytime, anywhere.
2. I can check e-mail anytime.
3. People get back to me immediately.
4. I can access entertainment anytime.
5. I can stay informed all the time.
6. I can get in touch with almost anyone, anytime.
7. I can buy almost anything, anytime.
8. I can multitask.
9. There’s always something to do.
10. I never feel alone.
And then I made a list of what I hate about modern technology:
1. I can work anytime, anywhere.
2. I can check e-mail anytime.
3. People expect me to get back to them immediately.
4. I can access entertainment anytime.
5. I can stay informed all the time.
6. Almost anyone can get in touch with me anytime.
7. I can buy almost anything, anytime.
8. I can multitask.
9. There’s always something to do.
10. I never feel alone.
While we may not all be list makers, I know I’m not the only one feeling this love-hate relationship with technology; millions of people share it. We love the convenience technology affords. We hate how technology is taking over our lives.
The Amish are different—famously so. They’re well known for their rejection of technology, but the intention of those choices is less understood. In this chapter we’ll take a look at the reasons the Amish might not find anything to love about my Top Ten list and what we can learn from their less-is-more approach to technology.
Limitations of Technology
When we think of the Amish, we often focus on the prohibitions: the Amish do not drive cars. They do not have electricity lines to their homes. They do not hook up to cable Internet or cable TV.
But, just as I saw with my lists of the pros and cons of technology, each of their restrictions on technology has a positive side as well. Not driving means walking more. No cable television means less time devoted to empty pursuits. In general, their limits are less about restricting privileges than fostering a calmer, more peaceful, healthier existence. Many of us plan expensive vacations to seek these very qualities and “get away from it all.” For the Amish, it’s a way of life.
Envision an orange triangular hazard sign on your computer monitor, with the word “CAUTION!” stamped in big letters. This is how I picture the Amish approach to technology. While not all technology is inherently bad, if left unchecked, technology can destabilize communities and amplify worldly messages. Instead of priding themselves on being “early adopters,” the Amish provide a much-needed reminder to slow down and look before taking the next technological leap. Where and why do the Amish draw boundaries, and what can we learn from them?
One of the first things you notice about Amish communities is that their homes are not hooked up to power lines. This is because the Amish do not want to be dependent on networks. The specific guidelines for the use of electricity vary from community to community. Old Order Amish, for example, forbid electricity from public utility lines but allow electricity from batteries. In some settlements, batteries are used to power calculators, fans, flashlights, copy machines, and computers. In other communities, solar energy is used to charge batteries, operate electric fences, and power household appliances. Why this distinction between power lines and batteries? Because electricity from batteries is more local and controllable; moreover, its use requires the virtues of forethought and restraint, which the Amish value highly.
This reasoning makes sense to me, but perhaps most compelling is the Amish understanding that there is no free lunch. What technology offers us in terms of convenience and connectivity will alway
s come at a cost, and the Amish carefully count that cost. One of the costs of being linked in is our privacy. Information about the movies we watch, the music we listen to, and our buying habits—even we ourselves—become products sold to advertisers.
Many of us who live far-from-Amish lives do value our privacy, and yet we may not be aware of the implications of today’s dependence on connectivity. When it comes to understanding the New Big Brother, the Amish are a step ahead of us in thinking through the costs. Each time we turn on the computer, we are unwittingly granting the government, marketers, employers, and future employers access to the most intimate details of our lives. Over the last decade, a new breed of “data miners” have created a multibillion-dollar business of buying and selling information that most of us would not share with our closest friends, let alone complete strangers. What we do with technology from our homes and offices does not always give us what the law calls a “reasonable expectation of privacy.” Who can read your e-mail? Track your web-surfing history? Monitor what you are watching on TV? Log who, when, and where you call? The Amish have long understood that the price of admission for connectivity is the surrender of your privacy.
But where to draw the line? To outsiders, many Amish rules surrounding technology use can seem hypocritical. Why is it okay to power equipment from a 12-volt battery but not a 110-volt current from the public utility? Isn’t it splitting hairs to forbid phone lines to the home but to allow their use elsewhere? And why ban car ownership but hire non-Amish drivers to operate cars for you?
Many apparent inconsistencies in the Amish restrictions regarding technology are resolved when the motive is understood. Consider, for instance, the Amish use of diesel generators and an inverter to power small household appliances. Generators are noisy and expensive to run; they are also less convenient. This conscious decision to make power loud, costly, and inconvenient leads people to use less of it and to live more mindfully.