Kelly Keller

Well. We made it out of 2020. Or at least some of us did. I wish we had more people with us.

Here are some things that I recommend based on my last year of life. Some of them might make your life better, depending on who you are.

The Ordinary skincare line: I actually began using this stuff back in 2019, but 2020 gave me more opportunity to try things out and nail down a routine. I usually order from their website, but you can find part of their line at your local Ulta store. I took a bad picture of their store in London last year. Their products are pretty uncomplicated and inexpensive. Here’s what I use:

• Rosehip seed oil
• Acetic acid
• 2% Reintoid
• Hyaluronic acid
• AHA/BHA peeling solution
• Glycolic Acid Toner
• Mineral sunscreen

I don’t use all of these things every day, but over the course of the week, all of it gets used. One thing I use twice daily that isn’t on this list is TruSkin (vitamin C/hyaluronic acid). I used to use the vitamin C from the Ordinary but I found it too oily. Vitamin C has also helped my kids who struggle with teenage acne (when they remember to use it).

East of Eden: this book has been on my to-read list for years, and I finally jumped in and did it, with the help of my little book club. It is dark, heavy, and glorious. As a writer I could see little episodes where Steinbeck just wanted to include a funny story to lighten things up a bit. It was one of those books that I closed and immediately wanted to begin again. If you read it, tell me.

Nadia Hussain’s noodle jars: when shutdown began in March of 2020, I did a lot of experimenting with food to keep my mind off things. This recipe was a clear winner. It’s a little labor-intensive at first (and the smell of the paste cooking might drive your family or roommate to resent you), but it’s worth it in the end. Basically you make a flavor paste to keep in the fridge. When it’s time to eat, turn on your kettle (or as they say in Australia, “boil the jug”). Put a spoonful of the paste in a small mason jar. Top with uncooked vermicelli (I’ve found that these noodles work the best), frozen or leftover cooked veggies, and meat if you desire (I use canned chicken breast most often). When the water’s boiling, you pour it over the whole mess and let it stand for a little bit. Then you have a hot and happy noodle bowl lunch. You can easily do this at work if you have access to a way to boil water. See all of Nadia’s recipes here. You’ll recognize her if you’re a fan of The Great British Baking Show. She also has a show on Netflix.

New York Times No-Knead Bread: while we’re talking about food, let’s talk about the easiest bread you will ever make. The hardest part of making this bread is remembering to start it the night before you want to eat it. It comes out crusty, a bit sour, and airy every single time I make it. I’ve made it so many times this year that I have the recipe memorized (not that impressive. It has four ingredients.). If you want to take another version for a spin, try this no-knead everything bread from King Arthur Flour. I know you’re all doing Whole30 right now, but in February, try this thing.

Amazing Birdseed: This is such a weird one. About halfway through the year I upgraded the kind of birdseed I buy, and we are the most popular lot in the neighborhood now. It turns out the Audubon society really knows something about birds, go figure. It’s been great to watch the huge variety of birds we play host to. I also bought one of these bird feeders for the dining room (where we do school most days) and it’s downright distracting — in the best way. Here is the bird seed I buy at our local Lowe’s.

So there you have it — skincare, books, food, food, bird food. Seems about right for a year at home. What were your winners for last year?

I began this year dreading another election year on social media. Last time around, I saw things reach such a pitch and pace that I couldn’t really hear much by the time November arrived. I have a few friends who have good, reasonable conversations on social media, but most of the talk seemed like furious yelling by the end of the election cycle.

This year, I wanted to compose some Commandments of Social Media to help me and perhaps others navigate this year.

But then, 2020 happened. And it has continued to happen. For the last six months. And now it’s half over.

Along the way, I have realized that many of my own struggles on social media translate into real-life contexts as well. I’ve seen myself be paralyzed by fear in these days. I’ve felt my brain go blank with the uncertainty of what to do or how to act. I have lashed out in anger at my family. I have given days over to “doomscrolling.” I have been prayerful on some days and prayerless on others.

As a result, my Social Media Commandments have morphed into some Resolutions for 2020, or perhaps better said, Resolutions for the Remainder of 2020 and the time beyond. Resolutions frequently weigh me down, when I take into account the work of God being slow and steady rather than instantaneous. However, my prayer is that these would be a steady guide to my thoughts when I drop into the spells of fear and confusion. They are intended kindly, to myself and to you. Remember that we have a great high priest who sympathizes with all our weaknesses (Hebrews 4).

• Resolved: to treat other human beings as image-bearers of God, regardless of their political affiliation or lack thereof.
• Resolved: to acknowledge that I probably don’t have all the information.
• Resolved: to remember that I am foremost a citizen of a kingdom and a servant of the King, not one of an earthly country or ruler.
• Resolved: to work for the good of my earthly country in the small ways I am able.
• Resolved: to represent the statements and actions of others truthfully.
• Resolved: to live my life in real time with three-dimensional people, and to speak in contexts that provide community and require accountability.
• Resolved: to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and quick to forgive.
• Resolved: to act from a place of wisdom, service, and love, rather than one of fear.
• Resolved: to remember that it is the Lord Almighty who makes kings, peoples, and nations rise and fall.
• Resolved: to believe and think about the good headlines (from verified sources) as much as I do the bad ones .
• Resolved: to begin the day meditating on eternal truths given for my good rather than temporal truths given in headlines created to drive web traffic and advertising revenue.
• Resolved: to refrain from passing and distributing on social media: gossip, uncharitable speculation, or insult.
• Resolved: to implement a “Year of Jubilee” policy. In Old Testament Israel, the Year of Jubilee came once in a generation, and it was when debts were forgiven. Forgotten birthdays? Not answering text messages? No worries. It’s 2020. No one has ever done a pandemic before. 
• Resolved: to implement a “Year of Jubilee” policy going forward into years when there isn’t a pandemic.
• Resolved: to be a humble student of history and science, and therefore acknowledge that I am not one impervious to (a) bad research; (b) viruses and pandemics; (c) the political climate of the day and age; (d) my own biases.
• Resolved: to have proper expectations of authority, be it police, presidential, or scientific; to have the same expectations of myself in whatever capacity I bear authority.
• Resolved: to make good use of the “mute” or “unfollow” button if it helps me better love people in real life.
• Resolved: to press into truth, beauty, goodness — both eternal and temporal, both given for my good.
• Resolved: to read more books and fewer tweets, articles, headlines, and polls.
• Resolved: to allow hope to triumph over cynicism. 

One Friday night in November, a shiny black car with New York plates pulled up in front of the Big House on Dawson Road. Four men got out. They were wearing expensive suits topped by long wool coats, and each sported a fedora. As the cases were pulled out and brought up the narrow cement steps into the house, the guests were welcomed inside by the hostess, Annie Armstrong Dawson. She briskly introduced herself to each of the newcomers. “Hello, come in, there’s coffee on the stove. When you’re settled, come downstairs for some pie.” Annie’s Belfast accent was charming, but the men understood that this invitation was more of an instruction.

Annie was used to having her upstairs rooms full of guests during the weekends of hunting season. Every year the second floor of the Big House was occupied with men from all over the Northeast, come to hunt in the acres of wooded hills that surrounded Deer View Farms. The days took on a familiar rhythm: coffee in the early morning hours, a big hot breakfast after the sun rose, quiet afternoons, and then Jack Daniels, cards and cigarettes in the evenings. 

After the evening milking, Annie’s son Sam washed up and made his way up the hill and into the kitchen at the Big House. He wanted to meet the men he would take out hunting that weekend. He knew one of the faces immediately from the morning paper. Even to those who weren’t baseball fans — Sam wasn’t — Babe Ruth was a household name and face. Not wanting to embarrass his guest, Sam made no sign of special recognition. He exchanged names with all of the men, shook hands politely, and told his usual few stories about the successes and failures of hunters on the farm. The men laughed along with him easily. After a few instructions for the early morning meetup, he walked the short distance back to his own small home next door.

That Saturday’s hunting expedition was a successful one for everyone but the Babe. Sam watched him spew his frustration after a few narrow misses. Much like he might have at home plate in the Bronx, Babe ground his teeth and spat. Eventually, the band of hunters headed back to the house for breakfast and a nap. They gathered that evening around the farmhouse table in the kitchen of the Big House, drinking too much and telling raucous stories. Annie tried to stay ahead of them, washing glasses and emptying ashtrays.

When the sun rose after hours of hunting the next morning, the Babe still found himself without a trophy. He walked empty-handed back to the house, squinting into the white sunrise and muttering. Even their host, Sam, had bagged a beautiful buck, though the rack was nothing to speak of — it had a broken brow tine on the right side. Still, it would feed his own small family through much of the winter, and Sam was thankful.

After a few hours, the group of men had packed up their belongings and made their way to the car. Sam emerged from the barn in his coveralls, wiping his hands on a towel. He smiled, shook hands, and invited them to come again. The car was laden down with the deer from the weekend, its shiny paint coated with a layer of dust and hair. They drove off and left the farm quiet again.

On Monday morning, Annie performed her morning duties as usual, tending the farm cats and brewing the coffee for the morning break from chores. She fetched the morning paper from the box at the end of the driveway. Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee from the percolator and settled into her usual spot at the yellow table. She smoothed out the front page of The New York Daily News and saw Babe Ruth’s grinning face looking back at her. Next to the bold text “Babe Bags a Beaut,” Ruth crouched triumphantly next to a buck with a broken brow tine on the right side.

“‘No. You’re forgetting,’ said the Spirit. ‘That was not how you began. Light itself was your first love: you loved paint only as a means of telling about the light.'” – Lewis, The Great Divorce

Hello, dear fellow Hutchmooter.

You are now experiencing reentry. Please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and wait until the car comes to a complete stop. Reentry is not pleasant for anyone. It’s a strange mix of feeling full, of having so much to talk about, to share, to process — and maybe you don’t have anyone to do that with. Maybe you have to hit the ground running with small children the moment you enter the door. Maybe you have an unforgiving boss who doesn’t care about your weekend. And you — you’ve been altered, you’ve been fed. You feel different and you wish you could put it into words.

Maybe this was your first time at Hutchmoot, and you were astonished at the restful space that was given to you. You were unhurried in your heartfelt conversations with people who were once strangers, but now are dear friends. You lingered over your coffee, made with care and love and handed to you with a smile. You’re overwhelmed with the simultaneous joy of a creative space like Hutchmoot, but you’re also exhausted and your brain and spirit feel full to the brim. While you don’t want to leave, you feel that if you had one more session to sit through and think through, you might slump over onto the floor out of sheer overload.

Maybe this was a returning time for you. You knew the faces to expect, the hugs to anticipate, and the jokes to be told. You might have opened up on a new level and shed some tears with kindred spirits. You felt, as you have many years before, that this was a home-going of sorts. Yet every year is different, and there are new things to think about and sort through. Your heart feels uplifted and filled. You lingered in the parking lot and didn’t want to leave yet again. 

If I may, I’d like to remind you of one very hard thing: Hutchmoot isn’t a staying place; it’s a sending place. 

Wherever in the world you’re returning to, you’re sent there. You’ve been placed there by design. You aren’t there by accident. At least for now, and for most of us, Nashville isn’t where we belong.

You, artist/creative type/appreciator, serve a purpose in the kingdom of God in your actual, local, geographic location. You are a part of the body, unlike any other part of the body where you are. You aren’t meant to be like everybody else.

Part of the glory of Hutchmoot is that you feel like people “get” you. You ask them if they’ve read that book, and they have! And they loved it, too! Remember Lewis’ quote about how friendship is born the moment someone says, “What, you too?! I thought I was the only one!” Hutchmoot is full of those moments, and they are delightful and soul-nourishing.

But back at home, you are a bit more unique. Not everyone thinks the way that you do. This, also, is by design. If everyone thought like I did, the budgets would never be balanced and the times tables would never be learned. But that’s because I serve a different function than someone else who excels at those things.

It’s easy to interact in that “you too” manner at Hutchmoot because some of the work has already been done for us. We know that we make a Narnia reference and almost everyone will perk up. We know that people will want to talk thoughtfully about films and not cast them aside out of hand. There are relatively safe conversational spaces to occupy and know you will be welcomed. But that’s because the Proprietor, the Hutchmaster, and the staff have worked very hard to establish grooves for us to run in. The way has been paved, the example has been set, and the space has been made. At home, this is probably not true. 

May I suggest that you do some hard work to find those “you too” moments with the members of your local place? 

Not everyone there is easy for you to love. You’re not easy for some of them to love, either. Recall Paul’s teaching to the Corinthian church about the parts of the body. You might be an eye who has nothing in common with an ankle or a hand. Remember, you have the most important thing in common: you have Jesus! The body of which you’re a part is the very thing you have in common. 

Because you’re good at imagining, let’s imagine for a moment a group of eyes talking to each other. “What a night I had!” one says. “The Body left the contact lenses in overnight and it was a battle all night long.” The other eyes nod in agreement — they’ve experienced that as well. Another pipes up, “I saw the most beautiful meal the other night, but Stomach was a real downer and said we could only have a few bites.” Someone replies, “yes, my Stomach is that way too. Why don’t they understand what we see? How beautiful it is?”

It might take more effort for an eye to have conversations with stomachs, ankles and hands than with other eyes. But they are still part of the same Body, and they can’t do without each other.

I have long felt, as many of you do, that The Rabbit Room is a unique place worth preserving. It’s different, it’s new to some of us, and it’s a haven. Anytime there is a sniff of controversy, we have the difficult conversation or we just do the hard work of lovingly pressing through and forgiving a difference. There is special care taken to major on the majors and allow kind disagreement on the minors, because we can’t let conflict destroy this special place we’ve got.

But this is what the church ought to be to us, as well. Perhaps familiarity with the institution of the local church, and the way it has become lazily enfolded into cultural Christianity, has made us careless in striving for the preservation of it.

If the past decade in America is any indication, there is a shift happening in American culture. We are, slowly but surely, moving from “a Christian nation” (may I say, we were never this — and that’s another post) to a post-Christian one. Though the changes are uncomfortable, the church is being refined. It’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable for people to hang onto churches for the social capital. This is a good thing.

As this shift continues, the need increases for you, Rabbit. Your local body needs your voice of hope. Your vivid descriptions of Heaven. Your songs in the night. They won’t all understand it at first, and some of them will never “get it” at all — at least, not at the level your idealistic heart wants them to. But for those who do, you may function as a life preserver. Russell Moore has made it a habit of saying that the church is moving from moral majority to prophetic minority. As this happens, the songs and stories will grow all the brighter. The church needs its artists and its poets, striving with their musical hearts towards peace in the church and for the hope of Heaven.

So don’t stay in Nashville, Hutchmooter. Go sing to your people at home. Maybe we’ll see you next year. We’ll hug you when you get here.