Blue Collar Confessionalism Preview

My forthcoming book, Blue Collar Confessionalism, is a mix of Hillbilly Elegy and the Westminster Standards. It’s all about finding your people, place, and past (i.e., tradition). I decided to frame it through my own personal experience.

I grew up in two different households, lived in multiple states, attended eight different schools, and had a hodgepodge of spiritual and cultural influences. In a nutshell, I grew up religiously and culturally confused. While the particulars of my story might differ, I sense that I am somewhat representative of many Americans.

Therefore, I wanted to make a case for recovering an American manifestation of historic biblical Christianity based on my own experience. 

Anyhow, here’s a bit of a preview from the first third of chapter 1:

“Finding a Home” 

Grandma’s new car spun up dust as we bounced down the gravel road. My six-year-old eyes were glued to the passenger seat window. I stared at the endless fields of corn, every so often interrupted by a pasture full of cows. I was born just outside of Kansas City, MO. I knew nothing of the country life. 

My mom and dad had decided to send me to live with my grandmother on her farm. The reason for this was simple: I was a troublemaker. And I had earned that title from how I behaved at my elementary school.

For example, I once had army crawled on my belly during a lesson and hid underneath my teacher’s desk. When she had sat down from writing on the chalkboard, I grabbed her ankles and roared like a lion. She let out a bloodcurdling scream. I laughed. Neither my parents nor the principal thought it was funny. 

“Mrs. Foster,” the principal chided, “Your son is a troublemaker and we want to help you straighten him out.” My mother agreed with the problem, but not their solution. Mom’s solution was the old German woman currently driving us deeper and deeper into the Indiana countryside. 

Grandma Liane grew up on a wealthy estate in Germany just before the Second World War. One of the battles with the Russians spilled over onto their property, and they were forced to flee when she was still a little girl. During the bombing of Dresden, she became separated from her family and bore a huge scar for the rest of her life on her leg where shrapnel from the bomb had cut into her. 

She and a couple of other kids who had become separated from their families set up camp in the woods not far from a railroad track. They stole a huge barrel of peanut butter from one of the box cars that they lived off for weeks. When not scrounging for something to eat, she and her band of friends would pour dirt and gravel into the gas tanks of the enemy vehicles. It turned out that Grandma was a bit of a troublemaker herself. 

The sun was setting over the woods as we pulled into the farm. My grandfather and uncle stood on the porch, waiting for us. Though not related by blood, they were family. My maternal grandfather had died in 1970, leaving Grandma a widow. In her grief, she left Chicago for Olathe, Kansas, where, some years later, she met and married a widower, Paul Peetz. Grandpa Paul was a giant of a man—both strong and stoic. After hugging Grandma, he effortlessly snatched my heavy bags from the trunk as if they were filled with feathers.

Grandma’s house was a simple three-bedroom farmhouse with a basement. My Uncle Roberto, an adopted son six years my senior, led me to my room. I got the guest room, though it was more of a sewing room. In the corner rested an old Singer sewing machine. The walls had shelves full of yarn, thread, and half-finished dresses. I had a bed and a dresser, but Roberto had to take the dresses off my bed. 

There was nothing—nothing but the chirps of crickets and the ticks of the grandfather clock. In Kansas City, there was a constant buzz of cars and sirens, but not in Osgood, Indiana. The room, like the rest of the old house, was pitch black. There was no glow from streetlights or flicker of passing headlights. If I squinted, I could see shapes forming in the faint moonlight—shapes that looked like people watching me. I stayed awake, listening to the calls of whippoorwills into the early hours. 

I woke to the bright morning sun, as there were no shades on the windows. The figure watching me through the night turned out to be an armless sewing mannequin. I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen, where I could smell something delicious.

Grandpa was already seated at the head of the table with a bowl of cornflakes and a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. When I walked in, he hopped up and asked, 'Want breakfast?' I replied, 'Yes, sir.' I’d never said 'sir' before in my life, but Paul was big, so I said it. He handed me a plate of eggs over easy with a side of toast. I sat down next to him and started eating. He stopped me and showed me how to sop up the broken yolks with the toast. He seemed to enjoy it, and so did I.

Grandma drove me into town to Osgood Elementary. We met with the principal, a man I remember being named Mr. Coffee. He said to me, "Michael, I hear you’ve had some trouble at your old school. This is a new school, and we think you can do well here. What do you think?" I was scared out of my wits and nodded yes. Mr. Coffee walked me to my first-grade classroom and handed me off to Mrs. Dixon. I took my place at a desk situated dead center in a sea of stares and giggles. Funny how a bright room full of six-year-olds can be scarier than a nearly pitch-black room full of dark figures.

In retrospect, it’s clear that Mrs. Dixon had been prepped for me. She knew how to handle a “hyperactive,” extremely defiant little boy. I was on Ritalin, but it was Mrs. Dixon’s patience that transformed me into a top student. My classmates, however, were normal kids. There was some light teasing but mostly curious questions. I recall one, Kevin, asking, “Why were you sent to live with your grandparents?” I told him the truth as I understood it: “I got in too much trouble at my last school, and my parents sent me here.” “Huh, that’s weird.” I replied, “Yeah.” Then, he invited me to play freeze tag during recess. We became fast friends.

The day flew by, and before I knew it, the Blue Bird bus was stopped in front of the farm. It turned out the school day wasn’t over. Life followed a rhythm on the farm, and part of that was getting your homework done before playing outside. I worked on my math assignments. After I finished, I went out and walked around the farmyard. Off in the distance, I saw Grandpa feeding a dozen or so cows. Grandma was working in our smaller front garden; we also had a large half-acre garden behind our two barns. I explored the smaller of the barns, which was full of old tools and a strangely red John Deere tractor. Then Grandma rang the dinner bell. This would have to continue later.

In Kansas City, I ate a steady diet of fish sticks, spaghetti, and hamburgers. I would eat little else. It was a different menu at Grandma’s—a mix of German dishes and standard farm foods. Grandma had no patience for picky eaters. On my second night there, I was served roasted chicken, potatoes, and asparagus. I devoured the potatoes but left everything else untouched. After several requests, I still refused to clear my plate, so I was sent to bed without dessert. The next morning, I was greeted by last night’s cold dinner. This happened a lot during the first month, but they broke me down to the point where I was happily eating cow’s tongue.

Amidst all the discipline and order, there was a grace that was new to me. One evening, I woke in the middle of the night and ate another piece of cheesecake we had for dessert. The next day, Grandma asked if I had eaten it. My heart dropped, and I lied. She knew I was lying and told me it was okay that I had eaten it—but it wasn’t okay that I lied. I stuck to my story. Back home, this would have meant big trouble. That night, Grandma served me twice as much dessert. I caved and confessed the truth to her in tears. She said nothing. She hugged me and said, “We love you, Michael. This is your home.” 

Though I didn’t understand it at the time, I felt it: she was right. A house is just a building, but the farm was a home. It represented an orderly way of life where everything had a place and meaning, including me.