My great-grandfather cast out a demon — that night, it returned



We never celebrated Halloween. My family were so Protestant that they rejected any ritual or tradition that was not explicitly detailed in the Bible.

Even though we never dressed up as witches and wizards, we believed in demons. You might say it was a requirement of the "family business."

They could hear an axe swing against one pine tree, then another, randomly and drawing nearer. This was punctuated with bursts of maniacal laughter.

My paternal grandfather was a traveling evangelical preacher who had seen and cast out demons. He’d jump on the trampoline with us, and then when we were all exhausted, he’d regale us with tales from the Bible or stories from his youth.

Family tradition

He'd grown up the third of thirteen children. One of his most memorable stories was about his father, a former Pentecostal preacher who also had a talent for ridding people of the demonic.

It happened when my grandfather and his brothers were teenagers. The family had met a middle-aged husband and wife who owned a forested island in Florida. Eventually the woman came to my great-grandfather with a problem: Her husband had demons. Could my great-grandfather help?

He could. My grandfather watched as his father cast out the man's demons.

The axe falls

My grandfather and his brothers camped on the island that night to watch over the couple, who were now friends of the family.

There were four or five of the brothers gathered around a campfire singing gospel songs they’d learned or written and popping corn. Everything was dark except for the fire at their center and the stars above them.

Then chopping soundsinterrupted their singing. It sounded like someone was cutting a tree down somewhere — which was odd, considering that they were on an island that nobody lived on except the middle-aged couple, who were certainly sleeping right now and not chopping anything.

Nevertheless, they started to sing another song.

Sound and fury

The sounds became stranger. They could hear an axe swing against one pine tree, then another, randomly and drawing nearer. This was punctuated with bursts of maniacal laughter.

Whatever it was at first seemed to be several miles away, and then two, and then only one. Now it was a quarter-mile away. The brothers had stopped singing, and they waited until they were sure that the creature — man or evil spirit — was quite close.

The brothers put their heads together and formed a plan to surround it. If it were a trespasser, they’d catch him and tell him he wasn’t allowed to be chopping trees here! They convinced themselves that they were not scared, because God was on their side — and they figured there were more of them and only one of whatever it was.

Spiritual combat

They spread out and closed in around the laughing man, who continued to chop at the trees, coming nearer to them. When they knew the voice was at their very center, they rushed at it. The creature broke into one last, long laugh.

Whoosh! They were all pushed back as something went up out of their midst. Faint laughter rose to the top of the pine trees. It stayed up there for a moment, then fell back to the ground outside their circle.

The sound of the axe chopping at the trees resumed, but this time it began traveling away from them until it faded away. They knew then that it was the demon their father had cast out of the man that day.

They returned to the campfire. Their popcorn was burnt, and they all felt a little unnerved.

In the morning they looked around the forest, but they could find no sign of any tree being cut into. After that, they would see other demons, but that particular devil was never heard from again.

Tatting lace with no regrets



If you're Euro-American, your great-grandmother probably tatted, and if her great-grandmother was a lady of class, she probably also tatted.

While there is some thought that tatting has nautical origins, it is a relatively new lace-making technique that materialized a little over two hundred years ago and briefly trended in women's magazines and ladies' parlors. It is resurging, threatening to become as popular as it was in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

Tatting is great on public transit. I can keep my lace and shuttle in my skirt pocket, pull it out and work on it for only a stitch or two if I like, then quickly shove it back into my pocket.

Tatting was always an aristocratic pastime. Regular women had no time for sitting around to make lace. It was the 19th-century equivalent of the "fidget spinner" for women who hosted parties with fancy tea-things and was especially suited for chatty women who liked to keep their fingers preoccupied.

Keturah Hickman

Aristocratic fidget spinner

One of my most prized possessions is a bookmark that was supposedly tatted by my great-great-great-grandmother, Mary Ann Wheeler. It was given to me by my maternal grandmother, who taught me to tat about four years ago when I asked to learn. It took me nearly three days to be able to make only an inch of lace. After that I made about ten yards of cotton lace edging for a quilt I sewed by hand.

Shuttle tatting does indeed feel similar to a fidget spinner for me, except I feel good after "spinning" when I have something — lace — to show for it.

Keturah Hickman

Keturah Hickman

Shuttle diplomacy

I've been living on the road with my husband out of our backpacks for the last few months. Tatting stores better than knitting or crocheting might — it is light and needs little space. I'm even able to keep a few extra shuttles on me to give away whenever I meet someone who wants to learn.

It is great on public transit. I can keep my lace and shuttle in my skirt pocket, pull it out and work on it for only a stitch or two if I like, then quickly shove it back into my pocket.

Tatting is difficult to master if you have not already learned other handicrafts. It involves making a series of knots with either a shuttle or straight needles and requires perfect, taut tension in order to flip the knots from one thread to another so that the knots slide instead of stick. The size of the lace is determined by the needles when needle tatting and by the weight of the thread when shuttle tatting.

Needle tatting is a good option if you have hand or finger disabilities. I personally prefer shuttle tatting simply because the shuttles are very pretty and fun to use. Shuttles can come in all sorts of sizes for holding more or less thread. They are traditionally made of sterling silver but can also be found made of bone, shell, wood, steel, or plastic. Often one tats with a thin thread, but it is possible to tat with any sort of string. I have used embroidery floss and yarn.

Time to tat

One can make all sorts of things by tatting. I made all my wedding dress lace with silk yarn. I've also made barefoot shoes, earrings (my own ears are unpierced, but earrings sell well on the road), bookmarks, collars, lace edgings, and doilies. There are various Instagram accounts selling tatted jewelry.

Keturah Hickman

Lace cuffs and collar combos are also popular. While little old ladies are best known for their doilies, they also used to make beautiful lace edgings for priests' vestments. I have ambitions of making a lace parasol. The beautiful thing about tatting is that once you master it, it doesn't take as long to make lace as one might think.

When I hosted the girls' immersive program "The Living Room Academy," I did not teach tatting because it simply takes more time to master the basics than any other general skill, and I did not consider it a "necessary" skill to prioritize along with sewing and baking. However, if you feel that you simply want to make lace for the fun of it, it is worth the time and effort to learn tatting.

My husband has joked that we should open a tatting shop next to a tattoo parlor, and I could offer "tats with no regrets." There's just something about a piece of lace. Perhaps it was an aristocratic fad at one point in history. But now ... now we all have time to make a little lace, if we want.

Keturah Hickman

How to thrive without a Social Security number



There's an X account that is the polar opposite of my own. The user is she/they, has short spiky hair, is an avid gamer, and states, "I am real and legally exist and cannot be contained by cults."

Because I have talked to her, I know that by "legally exists," she means she signed up for a Social Security number. She is your stereotypical example of a sovereign citizen kid who has gone woke.

My family don't identify as sovereign citizens, either. We never 'opted out.' We never 'opted in,' either. We're just your run-of-the-mill pre-1930 Americans.

It's a misconception to think that kids who are raised like I was, or this X girl, are raised to a disadvantage. Tara Westover's 2018 memoir "Educated" propagandized that religious upbringings lead to abused, traumatized youth. Her book vindicates victim mentalities, but I was nonplussed.

Cult status

Westover's father was a tyrant; mine was not. And yet "Educated" seems to assume her experience applies to anyone raised at all unconventionally. This does a disservice to the many families, like mine, who manage to ignore mainstream expectations without turning into the Duggars.

I blog as the "Girl Who Doesn't Exist" and study and write about cults and religious communities. My "credentials" are my eleven younger siblings and 60-plus cousins. I am third-generation homeschooled and fourth-generation without a Social Security number or birth certificate.

However, I have not been prevented from doing anything I set my heart on doing: I have lived in Germany, traveled extensively, operated my own business for 10 years, and worked as a professional seamstress, specializing in wedding dresses.

I have plenty of aunts and uncles who are convinced that they were raised in a traumatic cult. They can't get why my siblings and I don't seem too keen on signing up to pay taxes nor why we aren't interested in getting a piece of paper to "prove" we exist.

No complaints

My family don't identify as sovereign citizens, either. We never "opted out." We never "opted in," either. We're just your run-of-the-mill pre-1930 Americans. We are honest and hardworking, and we don't pay income taxes. Oh, we give Caesar what is his. But we don't give him anything more than that. We certainly don't give him anything that's God's.

We are very uninterested in pronouns and in whining about difficulties. Everyone has hard times, but not everyone handled them as well as our family did. Or so we pride ourselves. We aren't ashamed of how we were raised. In fact we're proud of our ingenuity and independence.

I could have easily ended up another Tara Westover or angry blue-haired she/they feminist. The statistics are against me, after all. I was delighted in my life, though, and wasn't tempted by what the world had to offer me. I sure didn't need the DMV telling me who I am. Instead, I paved a path for my siblings to follow, a path my aunts and uncles had been unwilling to pave for me.

Getting away with it

I learned how to exist in a world that said it was impossible for me to thrive without a Social Security number.

I succeeded in finding my own balance of living in the modern world without handing over my autonomy and identity rights to the government. I learned that if I were pleasant to interact with, I could get away with just about anything. Also, if the illegal immigrants could do it, why not me? And I'm at no risk of deportation. Instead of being envious and jealous, I decided to take notes from the best.

Raising free children

I have since been asked for a bullet-point blueprint. Unfortunately there really is no such thing. Unless you want to become a state national or a sovereign citizen, there's no good way to get rid of your Social Security number. However, you can give your children a chance at living a life empowered out of the system simply by not giving them Social Security numbers or birth certificates when they are born.

It really doesn't matter if you have a midwife or a hospital birth; either way, you should be allowed to opt your child out.

If you have a midwife, make sure you can trust her and that she won't just file the paperwork anyway. While a few good midwives remain, many midwives are now pro-big-government and are often disinterested in unconventionality. If you go this route, choose wisely.

If you have a hospital birth, don't worry about having any real conversations. Your best bet is to be likeable and invisible. Play along, don't be weird, and be respectful. When it comes time to take your child home and the staff wants you to fill out the paperwork for the baby, just say, "Oh, we'll just take it home and do it later." More than likely they'll never follow up, not how a midwife might.

Homemade birth certificate

Once you have your child at home, I feel it's best to do a few things just to make it easier for the child to work and travel later in life. First, if you have a family Bible, write down the child's birthdate and name. This is still considered legal documentation and can be used to get the child a passport later.

You can also make a homemade birth certificate and have it notarized. After those things are done, you can begin the process of applying for a passport for your child. This process is very easy when your child is under two years old if both parents are legal U.S. citizens. You'll have to write a letter stating that your child doesn't have a Social Security number or birth certificate due to religious beliefs. You don't have to clarify these religious beliefs; it is not an argument or debate. You are entitled to your beliefs.

Getting a passport

You'll want to put all 0s on the passport line and include a photocopy of the family Bible. Also ask for witness affidavits and affidavits of birth at the passport agency. These will be filled out by family members and friends and notarized at the passport agency. You'll want two or three copies of each form — four to six signatures from family members and friends. You should get your child's passport easily and without many hiccups.

Then you can later use your child's passport number to open the child a bank account at select banks, especially small banks or banks that cater to business with immigrants.

With these two things ensured, your child is set up to live a rather successful life for whatever future we're heading into. Best-case scenario: Everything stays as it is currently and the child is able to travel, bank, and work. Certain places may still not hire the child because of wanting a Social Security number. But the child won't want to work there anyway.

Being your own person

At the end of the day, being your own person is more valuable than being tax chattel for the American government. And if you teach your children to think creatively, they will find a way to do whatever it is they want without a Social Security number, as I and my younger siblings have all done.

This will look different depending on one's drive. All I wanted to do was become a wife and a writer and to be able to travel. I feel as if my life is a raging success. However, many of my brothers are nerds and were more interested in tech, so they learned how to do crypto and get credit cards (things I have no passion for and could tell one little about).

Either way, the point stands. You will find a way to achieve whatever you feel it is you must achieve, and you'll do it on your own terms. What could be more American than that?

The joy of spontaneous hospitality



There are many words that might be called magical, but I think spontaneity might be at the forefront of the list.

I should be socially awkward. I'm the oldest of twelve children. We were home-educated, and when I was a teenager, we lived with the Amish for three years. All my best friends were pen pals. I didn't do sports or sleepovers — I went to work days and butchered countless chickens or canned applesauce and okra pickles with Amish girls.

The home has turned into a stage for Instagram portraits. I want to reclaim it as a sanctuary ... as a step toward the kingdom of heaven.

I never learned the words, "Text me first."

In those days, we didn't have phones; my mom had one, but it was always dead. So people just dropped in, and when they did they would stay awhile ... a couple of days, a few weeks, a month or two. We were stunned if they came just to leave right away without having eaten with us. There was always plenty to share, and nothing was ever planned.

Sometimes girls my age would drop in and spend the afternoon with me. I couldn't stop doing my chores just because a friend had shown up. So we would plant broccoli together while chatting, or make eggnog and popcorn for everyone, or work on the pile of mending. I never simply sat and visited — still can't. There's something about being able to look at something you're working on that eases out the awkwardness in conversation lulls.

Eventually I had my own home, my own schedule, and a phone. I still didn't live within cell range, so the words "text me first" remained an unprogrammed part of my vocabulary. I met a lot of friends at literary and music events. I would give them my number but tell them, "Don't call me," and proceed to give them directions to where I live. Many would show up, always when I thought, "Tonight will be quiet."

Sometimes I would have to swallow down a moment of "I wish for some peace tonight." I was glad for the unexpected visitors once I hugged them and asked them to sit down for a cup of tea and we started talking. I would forget myself and my supposed needs and feel that God was blessing me, my home, and these guests. They would leave, saying, "Coming to your home is like having a break from the world. Thank you so much for keeping your door open."

I want friends — and strangers — to enter my home and find what they've been searching for at church. I want them to be seen and heard and to be fed and nourished. I want their doubts to have a space to be aired. If I see them fidgeting with their fingers, I want to offer them some knitting needles: "Would you like to learn?"

The home has turned into a stage for Instagram portraits. I want to reclaim it as a sanctuary ... as a step toward the kingdom of heaven. A place where someone can get relief for a cold, a sore heart, a raging appetite. Home is where the heart is, they say — and a beautiful heart is always open.

I don't believe this is a work for a select few. I believe we are all called to spontaneous hospitality. The gospel doesn't divert for the extrovert or introvert. It remains the same for all of us. It matters not if your home is clean — clean it after your guest leaves.

We are all called to make sacrifices, to love our neighbors — and all men are our neighbors — and to be waiting, always waiting, with open arms, saying "Thy will be done," living by faith, not fear, for whatever and whoever God brings to us.

There is nothing more sweet than opening your door to find a friend standing there, to allow them inside, offer them refreshments, and invite them in on what you were currently doing ... be it deep-cleaning under the upturned couches, finishing a batch of bread, or clearing away a pile of papers so they have a place to sit. It doesn't matter if you feel ready, or if the floors need to be mopped, or if there's nothing substantive to eat.

A wondrous thing about becoming spontaneously hospitable is how it blots out all imperfections and pride and makes a way for the gospel to thrive within our neighborhoods, and those who might never have gone to church get to experience the power of the Holy Spirit after all.