An Essence of the Peculiar.
My name is Keturah. It's one of the oldest names floating around, I figure, and owns ancient meaning: the fragrance of sacrifice; incense. There's a scripture floating somewhere in the Bible that says ye are a Peculiar people, set apart to do good. Along those same lines, we are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. When people see me, I want them to be pleasantly taken aback. I want their senses to be invigorated. I want them to feel as if they are smelling, tasting and witnessing something so sacred and beautiful, just as the children of God would when they came to the altar to burn cinnamon and incense in thanksgiving toward God. I want to be a living sacrifice.
I think every young woman wants to be pleasing to those around her, and yet no matter how hard we try to be normal, or worthy of acceptance, we find ourselves disappointing someone. I was an odd child. I preferred to get up in the early mornings to study my school lessons before my younger siblings filled the house with their noises, so that I'd have the rest of my day (once my chores were finished) to daydream over encyclopedias and novel ideas. I'd occasionally burn the bread while studying algebra. And I never let the world see my hair, keeping it tucked up under a fisherman's hat. I had a eleven younger siblings. We were all home schooled except for a couple years when we attended a private Amish school called Acorn Melody. We traveled often, and I collected pen pals and books everywhere I went. I befriended older ladies and acquired obscure skills and trivia and piles of free sewing materials.
I was mostly a happy child, until the whispers of naysayers awakened me. Why do you wear dresses? Don't you know men don't like that? You should save. You'll stink if you don't wear deodorant-- body odor is bad. You can't visit us, because we don't like how you smell. How often do you shower? Twice a week? You should do it at least twice a day, or you can't visit us. You'll never be able to live in this world without a social security number. Why didn't your parents get you a birth certificate. Aren't you sad your parents raised you so weird? Why do you have so many siblings? Wouldn't you be happier if you didn't have to help so much? Oh, you'll change your mind about life once you're older and more experienced. You'll want to wear makeup someday. Dying your hair is fun. For now, at least buy a razor. Oh, and don't eat peanut butter on your bananas. That'll make you fat. You need to be skinny. And you need to wear jeans. Men will like you better that way... a little paint never hurt a ship.
So I bought a razor, showered more frequently, and I stressed about how I smelled and every detail of my bodily appearance. My style was bland, because I just wanted to not be noticed. But I remained a bit of a rebel. I didn't completely give in to all the criticisms. I knew I couldn't be completely normal, and that nobody else was happier for fulfilling the standard expectations.
I am fourth generation without a social security number or birth certificate. I write more about how to thrive as an undocumented American citizen at the Girl Who Doesn't Exist. I am the eldest of twelve children and of dozens of cousins. I didn't fully appreciate the rarity of my upbringing until I spent six months in Germany, and failed to be the expected barbie-doll American. When I returned, my whole world changed.
When others tried to coerce me into shortening my dresses, I lengthened them another inch or two. I added more gathers to my skirts instead of tightening them. I stopped wearing shoes and bras and threw away my razors and deodorant and any polyester I owned. Just by becoming happy, I started exuding my own, sweet perfume (it's true). And this blog, that started out as teenage rants, turned into the occasional glimpses of my extraordinary experiences as I embraced life in my bubble.
My side-gigs (cleaning and sewing) made good money. So I'd work a few months, then travel several months, often living out of an old five hundred dollar station wagon. I went through a couple heartbreaks. If ever anything burnt the incense in my soul, it was these seasons of grief and letting go of what I thought I wanted. I laid my desires on the altar, and spent a week in the woods of Vermont. I emerged as a new creation. The sacrifice continued to consume me, I patiently waded through several months of quiet awe and prayer, until at last I left it all behind for five months on the road, telling my best friends, "I will marry the first kind, interesting man I meet."
My husband, Andy, called me in the last week of those travels, only after I had completely offered up every thought and vanity.
I've dabbled in a lot of spheres. I've been involved in local politics and grassroots organizations, and once ran a campaign for my father, winning 21% of the votes as a third party candidate mostly by knocking on every door in our district with my siblings, and visited all the churches. I turned those church visits into a church hopping series that amassed a lot of controversy and interest, so I continued to visit and write about other churches. I organized many community events, speaking on my experiences and bringing like minded people together in a meaningful way.
To ground myself in some fashion, I worked on a large quilt that took five years to complete. I started teaching embroidery and knitting and Montessori schools, and would host monthly craft socials with food in my home. Eventually I steered these past times toward a vision to help more girls find community through spontaneity, skills, and splendor. I call it the Living Room Academy.
Now that I'm married, and I've moved to Upstate New York, a lot is changing. I still do all the things I love, as I iron out the details of what that means in my new station of life. Perhaps, even, I have more time to accomplish my dreams. My main goals are centered around traveling with my husband, building a sustainable community to raise free children, keeping the Living Room Academy alive, and writing a few more novels.
Elizabeth Goudge, George MacDonald, Robert Louis Stevenson, Katherine Paterson, Thomas Hardy, and other favorite authors whisper direction into my ear. They tell me stories about God, and I believe them. Mostly I believe God wants my words to be a sweet aroma for His people, something like cinnamon and sacrifice and candlelight.
Thank you for being a part of the varying stages of my life.
I love to hear from you all, too! If you have things you'd like me to write about, or just want to chat, feel free to email me at keturahskorner(at)gmail(dot)com
Find me on:
Pinterest (Keturah Lamb)
The Whatever Girl (YouTube)
Instagram (keturahlamb)
Twitter (@KeturahAbigail)
My work:
I have a couple fairy tales and articles published on in some anthologies available on Amazon.
