Spiritual Heroes: Wendell Berry

"He's Kinda Like Jesus": My Encounter with Wendell Berry and Ice Cream

By Kate Young Wilder

‍

It seems to me that most times we experience our spiritual heroes from afar: through their writings, their music, from pilgrimages to places we find holy, and through quiet hours of prayer. I had the gift of an unexpected encounter, though, with a spiritual hero of mine.

It was 1998. I was a graduate student at UMass, Boston; a young mother with two little girls at home; and here I was—on my way for a weekend at Bellarmine University in Kentucky, to join some of the writers I most admired. We were gathering to honor the life and work of the poet, Jane Kenyon who had recently passed. I respected her work tremendously and found her poetry deceptively simple and truly profound. Her husband, Donald Hall, was there. And her friends: Galway Kinnell. Joyce Peseroff. Gregory Orr. Also in attendance was the man I consider a spiritual hero: Wendell Berry.

I felt a bit shy among these famous friends of Jane Kenyon. I was a young poet, finding my way in the world of words. My days consisted more of organizing teacher appreciation luncheons and driving my daughters to piano lessons and orthodontist appointments than rubbing elbows with poet laureates. And yet, also—I realized I was experiencing a delicious sense of being star struck. I felt shy, yes. But I also felt very, very lucky to be among poets of this caliber. I loved being near their light.

After a couple of days of poetry readings, conference papers, and personal reflections, my mind was jumbled with ideas and images. I had almost completely filled one of the little notebooks I always carry with me for observations and ideas. I was in need of some fresh air and quiet. I slipped out between speakers for a small walk in the blue grass fields. As I turned the corner of the hall near the exit, there was a man standing there, eating a chocolate covered vanilla ice-cream on a stick. He turned and smiled at me with a face full of kindness.



Wendell Berry. It was him. Right there! The man whose novels, set in the fictional small town of Port William, had an honored place in the stacks on my bookshelves. The hero of environmental activism who still worked the family land as a sixth-generation farmer, inspiring a lasting and essential movement. The man who prophetically declared, “The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy, and after all, our most pleasing responsibility. We have the world to live in on the condition that we will take good care of it.”

And those important things about this man went through my mind as I stood there taking in how tall he was in real life and how easily his smile beamed. But what I was thinking about most was that this was the man who had written my favorite poem prayer, “The Peace of Wild Things.” I had memorized it years before and found that, like the 23rd Psalm, its words would come to mind regularly and unbidden when I was most in need of consolation and perspective.

Do you know this poem? I hope so but let me share it here. It is worth reading and reading again.‍

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the sound in fear of what my life and children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of the wild things who do not tax their minds with forethought of grief. I come into the presences of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Like the 23rd Psalm there are lovely echoes here of still water. There are references to pastoral scenes and their restorative ways. Also, there is a helpful acknowledgement of trouble. In the 23rd Psalm we have the valley of the shadow of death, and evil, and enemies. And we have the lovely resolution of dwelling in the house of the Lord forever. Those ancient words are a part of my regular prayer cycle. I carry them with me in my spiritual toolkit.

With Wendell Berry’s work, there is what I think of as a companion piece to that more familiar psalm. In “The Peace of Wild Things” what really draws me into his psalm (if I may so define it) is the way he names a thought process so familiar to me. “When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be…”

Do I sometimes despair for the world? Oh, yes. Especially in these times. Do I lie awake in fear? Surely. The tangles of the middle hours of the night are deeply familiar to me. Do I get caught in the spin of thinking and overthinking my life and my children’s lives and what they may be? Absolutely. Those are places where I can lose my way, my center, my sureness of God’s goodness at the core of our lives.

In his words, I find a call to the renewal that awaits us in the goodness of God’s creation. Berry shows us a way to find and reclaim our lost selves—through returning to the offerings of our universe. Over and over in our lives, as the work at Rolling Ridge so helpfully emphasizes, we need to remind ourselves to revisit God’s glorious book of nature and the solace it holds.

And so there I was—standing before the author and creator of the words I so often call upon. I wanted to thank him for accompanying lonely hours. To give credit for the many times his images restored my soul. To talk about the idea of “day-blind” stars” and how I still shake my head in wonder at that gorgeous line.

But I could not find the words in that moment. We talked about Jane’s poetry. Named a favorite line or two. I told him I lived not far from Eagle Pond Farm and sometimes drove by to see her daffodils and asked if he had seen them. A lovely site. By then his ice cream was really melting and a couple of hunks of chocolate fell into his hand. He gobbled them up and then slipped the rest of the mess in a nearby trashcan. He pulled out a large handkerchief, laughing, and wiped his hands clean.

“Look at me,” he said shaking his head. “And I haven’t even properly introduced myself.” He stuck out his large hand and said, “I’m Wendell. Nice to talk with you.”

And I offered my name and shook his still-slightly-sticky hand.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I am in need of an afternoon nap,” he said and I watched him as he strolled up the long hill to the dorms.

And in that moment, I thought, “Huh. He’s kinda like Jesus.” There was his offering of generosity and kindness. Of his life’s work and its giving lasting and restorative words filled with wisdom. And, also, of leaving the crowd to rest.

And I think that is what our greatest spiritual heroes do. They remind us of the best part of Jesus’ days among us. They make us want to be in their presence to soak up goodness. They offer new ways to think more fully about concepts we only somewhat understand. They gently tell us who they are and invite us to offer who we are, too. That’s the part that remains with me as I think back on our encounter.  

I think that is what our greatest spiritual heroes do. They remind us of the best part of Jesus’ days among us. They make us want to be in their presence to soak up goodness. They offer new ways to think more fully about concepts we only somewhat understand. They gently tell us who they are and invite us to offer who we are, too.‍

Wendell Berry did not assume I knew who he was. He might have. He was certainly a big frontliner at the conference. But he was way more humble than that. I was just a grad student there on a scholarship, and a young mother pretty much out of her element. But he invited me in. He valued what I had to say. And, like Jesus, he sure made a lasting impression. Thirty years later, I can still, so clearly see him wiping smudges of melted ice cream from his hands, and chuckling. And while I was never able to tell him what “The Peace of Wild Things” means to me, I am grateful for the opportunity to tell you here.

I want to invite you to spend time with these images. I encourage you to memorize the lines and the wisdom they hold. Slow down. Allow the gentleness of the images to soothe your soul. Breathe in the words. Breathe out the words. And in that spiritual practice, I hope that you, also, will find sustenance for the times you most need it. I hope that, like me, you will, “for a time, rest in the grace of the world and be free.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: There is just so much to learn from the life and work of Wendell Berry. A good resource to begin is The Berry Center (berrycenter.org). There you will find details about his life and the ongoing vision of The Berry Center. There is a bookstore where you can find all of his novels and books of poetry. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long. 

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their minds with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

(Wendell Berry, 1968)