| General Non-Fiction posted January 22, 2023 |
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An effort to describe why I stayed so long
Don't Call Me Brother
by T B Botts
A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about some of the trials of corporate living. I mentioned a few of the issues of living with others, including having to eat together in a large room with people you knew but didn't necessarily care for. To say nothing of the quality of the food.
My first meal at the farm consisted of a large plate of rice with chunks of Coastal Brown Bear (Grizzly) meat in gravy, and a salad of sorts made from the leaves of a wild plant that grew around the farm. Frankly, it was gross and I left the table hungry, a situation I would face many times in the next ten years.
The next day I was assigned to work in the fields weeding cabbage plants. Lunch time came and I assumed we would go in to camp to eat. I was wrong. A fellow I came to despise, drove a team of horses out to the fields with our lunch. In the back of the wagon there was a red and white checkered cloth, covering a large, industrial sized, rectangular pan. Plates and forks were handed out, and for a brief moment I thought we might be having a picnic. What fun. When he drew back the cover it revealed a putrid looking brown and yellow mass unlike anything I've ever seen before or since. Someone asked what it was.
"Um, well, the ladies in the kitchen said it's bear liver mush," he stammered.
In my wildest dreams I couldn't imagine offering anyone so foul a meal. So much for the picnic. Needless to say I didn't partake of any, and I can't recall anyone else being hungry enough to try it either. It was only day two and I was sure I would starve before the end of the week.
Believe it or not, the poor quality of food wasn't the worst of the issues I confronted at the farm. For the first five years there was no electricity, running water, or sufficient supply of dry wood. I suppose those conditions would be similar to many parts of the world, but that being said, it wasn't very much fun. We lived in a rain forest where 68 inches of rain fell every year, as well as 98 inches of snow. That is the average. Sometimes there was more. Most days were either cloudy, rainy or snowy. The stats say there are 85 sunny days a year. I think that's kind of a stretch, but who am I to argue? In any event, if you weren't depressed when you arrived, you would be before long.
What made things intolerable was the fact that I was like a square peg in a round hole. While I considered myself a Christian, I didn't identify as that alone. I was surrounded by people who seemed to want to outdo their fellow Christians by what they thought was Godly behavior I suppose. Some wanted to sing while doing menial tasks. Others spoke of nothing but God, and more than a few addressed me as Brother Tom. I didn't want to be "Brother Tom." I wanted to be plain Tom or Carnal Tom or Tom, Tom the Piper's son. While some wandered around the camp like they'd died and gone to heaven, with broad smiles and whistling the latest song, I was depressed and angry, tired of living but afraid of dying. If Snow White had been real I could have been one of the seven dwarves- Grumpy.
Giving the conditions I've mentioned, understandably, some folks have wondered why I stayed for ten years. I wish there was a simple answer. There's not. I can't begin to speak of the countless days and nights of frustration; the fear, confusion and struggle that took place in my mind as I tried to reconcile the situation I found myself in.
When we first arrived at the farm, we had spent almost all of the money we had just getting there. Of course I had no idea what was awaiting me, or I'd have never come. I had repeated to my folks some of the doctrine I had heard at the meetings in Charleston, parroting phrases and ideas like I was an expert; giving glowing accounts of my friends and neighbors there, certain that we were doing the right thing.
Upon arrival at the farm, I immediately realized that I had made the most monumental mistake I'd ever made, but I couldn't very well depart. My pride prevented me from asking for money to leave, especially considering we had sold almost everything and made the thousands of miles trek. I expressed my discontent to my wife, Jan, and was surprised to be confronted with her reprimand that we'd just got there and I needed to buck up and stop bitching. It established a new dynamic I wasn't used to and didn't care for. Though she didn't mention it for many years, she was discontent too, but was afraid to leave.
As time went on, Jan seemed to adapt to the miserable conditions, while I balked at every uncomfortable situation I found myself in. I was starting to feel isolated from my wife and children.
The eldership, a group of people who were selected by the father ministry, had almost complete control of most of the aspects of the farm. They decided the work schedule, the food we ate, and even if you could travel to town. They also presided at the twice weekly meetings that on average lasted three hours at a whack. While there wasn't a whole lot they could do if you didn't comply, no one wanted to be called in to an elder's meeting. The most they could do was ask you to leave the farm. On the one hand that would have been great, but the fact was I had no money and frankly, I wasn't sure that Jan would leave with me should I decide to go. It left me in another no win situation.
After we had spent five long years on the farm, living in ever larger apartments above the tabernacle to accommodate our expanding family, I had to make a decision. We either had to leave or have our own cabin. I had a job in town so I was earning some money to buy materials for building or to buy a vehicle and leave.
Prior to being faced with the decision to stay or go, one of the members of the father ministry had given a message titled -If they should fall away. He was describing what happened to people who left the Move. In essence, if you left, you'd go to hell. I didn't relish the idea of spending all of eternity roasting in Hades without even the benefit of a package of hot dogs, but I wasn't convinced that the future looked so bleak for those who left. Jan seemed to have her fears enforced though, so we opted to build a cabin. Over the next five years she got more and more fed up with the way things were on the farm, and we started discussing leaving. However, there was another consideration before we left. The house which we had spent a considerable amount of money building wouldn't be ours when we left. It was located on property owned by the farm and we had to sign a resident's agreement after we had started building it stating that any homes built would become the property of the farm. Leaving would mean walking away from our investment. We also had to consider the fact that we had seven children to take care of, and living in town was expensive.
We were between a rock and a hard place, but I had turned 34 and knew if I didn't go soon, I would never leave. We struggled with our decison, weighing the pros and cons and eventually decided it was to our advantage to go. It was bittersweet. Even with all the trials and tribulations, the farm had been our home for ten years, and we were going off into an uncertain future. As it was, things worked out beyond all that we could have hoped for. God blessed us and we've never looked back.
A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about some of the trials of corporate living. I mentioned a few of the issues of living with others, including having to eat together in a large room with people you knew but didn't necessarily care for. To say nothing of the quality of the food.
My first meal at the farm consisted of a large plate of rice with chunks of Coastal Brown Bear (Grizzly) meat in gravy, and a salad of sorts made from the leaves of a wild plant that grew around the farm. Frankly, it was gross and I left the table hungry, a situation I would face many times in the next ten years.
The next day I was assigned to work in the fields weeding cabbage plants. Lunch time came and I assumed we would go in to camp to eat. I was wrong. A fellow I came to despise, drove a team of horses out to the fields with our lunch. In the back of the wagon there was a red and white checkered cloth, covering a large, industrial sized, rectangular pan. Plates and forks were handed out, and for a brief moment I thought we might be having a picnic. What fun. When he drew back the cover it revealed a putrid looking brown and yellow mass unlike anything I've ever seen before or since. Someone asked what it was.
"Um, well, the ladies in the kitchen said it's bear liver mush," he stammered.
In my wildest dreams I couldn't imagine offering anyone so foul a meal. So much for the picnic. Needless to say I didn't partake of any, and I can't recall anyone else being hungry enough to try it either. It was only day two and I was sure I would starve before the end of the week.
Believe it or not, the poor quality of food wasn't the worst of the issues I confronted at the farm. For the first five years there was no electricity, running water, or sufficient supply of dry wood. I suppose those conditions would be similar to many parts of the world, but that being said, it wasn't very much fun. We lived in a rain forest where 68 inches of rain fell every year, as well as 98 inches of snow. That is the average. Sometimes there was more. Most days were either cloudy, rainy or snowy. The stats say there are 85 sunny days a year. I think that's kind of a stretch, but who am I to argue? In any event, if you weren't depressed when you arrived, you would be before long.
What made things intolerable was the fact that I was like a square peg in a round hole. While I considered myself a Christian, I didn't identify as that alone. I was surrounded by people who seemed to want to outdo their fellow Christians by what they thought was Godly behavior I suppose. Some wanted to sing while doing menial tasks. Others spoke of nothing but God, and more than a few addressed me as Brother Tom. I didn't want to be "Brother Tom." I wanted to be plain Tom or Carnal Tom or Tom, Tom the Piper's son. While some wandered around the camp like they'd died and gone to heaven, with broad smiles and whistling the latest song, I was depressed and angry, tired of living but afraid of dying. If Snow White had been real I could have been one of the seven dwarves- Grumpy.
Giving the conditions I've mentioned, understandably, some folks have wondered why I stayed for ten years. I wish there was a simple answer. There's not. I can't begin to speak of the countless days and nights of frustration; the fear, confusion and struggle that took place in my mind as I tried to reconcile the situation I found myself in.
When we first arrived at the farm, we had spent almost all of the money we had just getting there. Of course I had no idea what was awaiting me, or I'd have never come. I had repeated to my folks some of the doctrine I had heard at the meetings in Charleston, parroting phrases and ideas like I was an expert; giving glowing accounts of my friends and neighbors there, certain that we were doing the right thing.
My first meal at the farm consisted of a large plate of rice with chunks of Coastal Brown Bear (Grizzly) meat in gravy, and a salad of sorts made from the leaves of a wild plant that grew around the farm. Frankly, it was gross and I left the table hungry, a situation I would face many times in the next ten years.
The next day I was assigned to work in the fields weeding cabbage plants. Lunch time came and I assumed we would go in to camp to eat. I was wrong. A fellow I came to despise, drove a team of horses out to the fields with our lunch. In the back of the wagon there was a red and white checkered cloth, covering a large, industrial sized, rectangular pan. Plates and forks were handed out, and for a brief moment I thought we might be having a picnic. What fun. When he drew back the cover it revealed a putrid looking brown and yellow mass unlike anything I've ever seen before or since. Someone asked what it was.
"Um, well, the ladies in the kitchen said it's bear liver mush," he stammered.
In my wildest dreams I couldn't imagine offering anyone so foul a meal. So much for the picnic. Needless to say I didn't partake of any, and I can't recall anyone else being hungry enough to try it either. It was only day two and I was sure I would starve before the end of the week.
Believe it or not, the poor quality of food wasn't the worst of the issues I confronted at the farm. For the first five years there was no electricity, running water, or sufficient supply of dry wood. I suppose those conditions would be similar to many parts of the world, but that being said, it wasn't very much fun. We lived in a rain forest where 68 inches of rain fell every year, as well as 98 inches of snow. That is the average. Sometimes there was more. Most days were either cloudy, rainy or snowy. The stats say there are 85 sunny days a year. I think that's kind of a stretch, but who am I to argue? In any event, if you weren't depressed when you arrived, you would be before long.
What made things intolerable was the fact that I was like a square peg in a round hole. While I considered myself a Christian, I didn't identify as that alone. I was surrounded by people who seemed to want to outdo their fellow Christians by what they thought was Godly behavior I suppose. Some wanted to sing while doing menial tasks. Others spoke of nothing but God, and more than a few addressed me as Brother Tom. I didn't want to be "Brother Tom." I wanted to be plain Tom or Carnal Tom or Tom, Tom the Piper's son. While some wandered around the camp like they'd died and gone to heaven, with broad smiles and whistling the latest song, I was depressed and angry, tired of living but afraid of dying. If Snow White had been real I could have been one of the seven dwarves- Grumpy.
Giving the conditions I've mentioned, understandably, some folks have wondered why I stayed for ten years. I wish there was a simple answer. There's not. I can't begin to speak of the countless days and nights of frustration; the fear, confusion and struggle that took place in my mind as I tried to reconcile the situation I found myself in.
When we first arrived at the farm, we had spent almost all of the money we had just getting there. Of course I had no idea what was awaiting me, or I'd have never come. I had repeated to my folks some of the doctrine I had heard at the meetings in Charleston, parroting phrases and ideas like I was an expert; giving glowing accounts of my friends and neighbors there, certain that we were doing the right thing.
Upon arrival at the farm, I immediately realized that I had made the most monumental mistake I'd ever made, but I couldn't very well depart. My pride prevented me from asking for money to leave, especially considering we had sold almost everything and made the thousands of miles trek. I expressed my discontent to my wife, Jan, and was surprised to be confronted with her reprimand that we'd just got there and I needed to buck up and stop bitching. It established a new dynamic I wasn't used to and didn't care for. Though she didn't mention it for many years, she was discontent too, but was afraid to leave.
As time went on, Jan seemed to adapt to the miserable conditions, while I balked at every uncomfortable situation I found myself in. I was starting to feel isolated from my wife and children.
The eldership, a group of people who were selected by the father ministry, had almost complete control of most of the aspects of the farm. They decided the work schedule, the food we ate, and even if you could travel to town. They also presided at the twice weekly meetings that on average lasted three hours at a whack. While there wasn't a whole lot they could do if you didn't comply, no one wanted to be called in to an elder's meeting. The most they could do was ask you to leave the farm. On the one hand that would have been great, but the fact was I had no money and frankly, I wasn't sure that Jan would leave with me should I decide to go. It left me in another no win situation.
After we had spent five long years on the farm, living in ever larger apartments above the tabernacle to accommodate our expanding family, I had to make a decision. We either had to leave or have our own cabin. I had a job in town so I was earning some money to buy materials for building or to buy a vehicle and leave.
As time went on, Jan seemed to adapt to the miserable conditions, while I balked at every uncomfortable situation I found myself in. I was starting to feel isolated from my wife and children.
The eldership, a group of people who were selected by the father ministry, had almost complete control of most of the aspects of the farm. They decided the work schedule, the food we ate, and even if you could travel to town. They also presided at the twice weekly meetings that on average lasted three hours at a whack. While there wasn't a whole lot they could do if you didn't comply, no one wanted to be called in to an elder's meeting. The most they could do was ask you to leave the farm. On the one hand that would have been great, but the fact was I had no money and frankly, I wasn't sure that Jan would leave with me should I decide to go. It left me in another no win situation.
After we had spent five long years on the farm, living in ever larger apartments above the tabernacle to accommodate our expanding family, I had to make a decision. We either had to leave or have our own cabin. I had a job in town so I was earning some money to buy materials for building or to buy a vehicle and leave.
Prior to being faced with the decision to stay or go, one of the members of the father ministry had given a message titled -If they should fall away. He was describing what happened to people who left the Move. In essence, if you left, you'd go to hell. I didn't relish the idea of spending all of eternity roasting in Hades without even the benefit of a package of hot dogs, but I wasn't convinced that the future looked so bleak for those who left. Jan seemed to have her fears enforced though, so we opted to build a cabin. Over the next five years she got more and more fed up with the way things were on the farm, and we started discussing leaving. However, there was another consideration before we left. The house which we had spent a considerable amount of money building wouldn't be ours when we left. It was located on property owned by the farm and we had to sign a resident's agreement after we had started building it stating that any homes built would become the property of the farm. Leaving would mean walking away from our investment. We also had to consider the fact that we had seven children to take care of, and living in town was expensive.
We were between a rock and a hard place, but I had turned 34 and knew if I didn't go soon, I would never leave. We struggled with our decison, weighing the pros and cons and eventually decided it was to our advantage to go. It was bittersweet. Even with all the trials and tribulations, the farm had been our home for ten years, and we were going off into an uncertain future. As it was, things worked out beyond all that we could have hoped for. God blessed us and we've never looked back.
 Recognized |
#26 January 2023 |
Artwork by Jamhn at FanArtReview.com
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