John grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles (which he hated), and spent his boyhood summers on his grandfather’s cattle ranch in eastern Oregon (which he loved). He is also president of Ransomed Heart, a ministry devoted to helping people discover the heart of God, recover their own heart in his love, and learn to live in his Kingdom. But we learned to wear the name with pride.John Eldredge is an author (you probably figured that out), a counselor, and teacher. ![]() Weyward, they called us, when we would not submit, would not bend to their will. It was men who marked us so, in the time when language was but a shoot curling from the earth. We did not need stonemasons to carve our names into rock as proof we had existed.Īll we needed was to be returned to the wild. Instead, the Weyward bones rested in the woods, in the fells, where our flesh fed plants and flowers, where trees wrapped their roots around our skeletons. Our ancestors-the women who walked these paths before us, before there were words for who they were-did not lie in the barren soil of the churchyard, encased in rotting wood. Why the crows-the ones who carry the sign-watch over us and do our bidding, why their touch brings our abilities into sharpest relief. ![]() ![]() That is why roots and leaves yield so easily under our fingers, to form tonics that bring comfort and healing. The animals, the birds, the plants-they let us in, recognizing us as one of their own. We can feel it, she said, the same way we feel rage, sorrow, or joy. There was something about us-the Weyward women-that bonded us more tightly with the natural world.
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