It was late summer, just before I was entering fifth grade. The corn was high, lush, and green. A big cattle truck from the sale barn delivered some newly-bought young Texas Black Angus calves. They were wild and full of energy. They danced in the pasture, excitedly kicking their feet. The green grass and fresh Ohio air stirred their spirits. Their big problem was the confining fence of our small pasture. Two days after their arrival, a frisky calf attempted to jump the pasture fence. The straight wire fence was bent low, leaving an escape route. Luckily, Dad saw the bent fence. He temporarily fixed it, planning a better repair job the next day. 

Who knows what happened later that afternoon? Was it a simple accidental push against the fence? Was it another attempted escape that succeeded in knocking over the fence? Something happened that enabled freedom for all the calves. 

Most times, with the help of a few neighbors, escaped cattle are easily rounded up. These calves were off and running. Lucky for them, the corn hid their location. Dad’s friend Ron and his son came with their horses. They started making their way through the nearby cornfield. Soon, some calves were rounded up. By the next day, most of them were safely back in the pasture behind a secured fence.

Two weeks later, four calves were still missing. The whole county seemed to be talking about the missing calves. Word reached Glen, a local hobby pilot with a small plane. He contacted Dad and offered to fly over the area. He was sure they could spot the runaways with an aerial view.

Lucky for me, there was room on the plane for an extra passenger. Dad said I could go along. I had never been inside a plane.

There were two seats in front where Dad and Glen sat. I was in the back right next to a small window. The plane’s engine was noisy. The whole passenger compartment smelled of fuel. None of that stopped my excitement. 

Everything looked different from the air.

“The cars look like tiny toys! The barns are so small!”

“It’s a pretty amazing view,” Glen responded.

“There’s deer.”

“Keep your eyes open for calves,” Dad added.

We hadn’t been flying long before Dad shouted, “There, in that cornfield.” 

They were hard to see. You had to carefully watch. The corn provided the perfect cover. The young calves blended in with the dark spaces between the rows. Glen flew lower. We could just make out the well-hidden Black Angus calves. The four of them had stayed together. We were 15 miles from home. 

Dad contacted Ron. He and his horse along with a crew of neighbors arrived that afternoon. They managed to surround the cattle and move them out of the cornfield. They carefully herded them onto a truck. Once loaded, they were brought safely home. The cattle returned well-fed, thanks to a stranger’s cornfield.

I loved flying in Glen’s small loud plane. The fresh view was exciting. I felt powerful as we soared high above the world. There was excitement in searching and finding. 

I discovered how different things look when viewed from an unfamiliar place. With a different perspective, I saw things I wasn’t looking for and missed what I had set out to find. 

I look back on my adventures and travels, I realize how I’ve looked for freedom from unnecessary fences. I see how I’ve searched for Mennonites that I can call my herd. Did I know what I was looking for – or did I find unexpected things I wasn’t searching for?

In today’s world, certain flavors of Mennonites can be hard to spot since the women don’t wear coverings or even the updated head doily. Their clothes and cars look normal. You can fly over the world and never spot a Mennonite – unless you run into one by some chance conversation.

Flying over my past experiences, I see the many interesting Mennonites I’ve spotted, Mennonites of different flavors, Mennonites who provided a fresh view, an unexpected image, and sometimes an unsettling perspective. They inspired me to see the world differently.

My parents had chosen the town church, the more liberal and educated church. It didn’t make sense. A church split happened when I was six years old. Later as a young adult, I tried to get my parents to explain why they chose Zion Mennonite. Dad responded.

“I liked Phil.”

“But most of your rural friends stayed at Central Mennonite.”

“Not all of them and I wanted to support Phil.”

Phil had a part-time job as a cattle buyer at the local livestock auction. At that time Mennonite ministers were not paid a salary. Phil’s job gave him an in with farmers. Dad and other farmers sat and visited with Phil while they watched livestock sell.

 It’s hard to sort out the issues that caused the church split. One conflict centered on the fact that Phil’s brother was divorced. Could he stay in the church? If he stayed, could this wayward divorced brother share communion bread? Could he teach? 

In many ways, the overarching division had to do with who made the decisions. Who has power, the bishop, the preacher, or the deacon? The bishop’s role was to oversee a number of churches. In this case, he was trying hard to hold the line against innovations. Some of the issues now seem rather trivial. Are flowers allowed at funerals? Are musical instruments allowed at weddings, even when they aren’t allowed during regular church services? Could people have life insurance? The preacher and deacon pushed back against the bishop. Who decides which outside influences Mennonites accept? (For more on the church split, see the Church Split of Zion and Central, Marlo Kauffman, History Seminar, 1978, available at The Mennonite Historical Library.)

Allowing Phil’s brother to remain part of the church was a difficult decision. It was problematic and many saw it as the final spark that split the church.

It made sense that my family ended up at the liberal church because Dad liked Phil. A possible unstated reason could also have been because the liberal church tended to be more honest and kinder about people’s flaws. People make mistakes, like Phil’s brother’s marriage failure. If any family failed the perfection test, it was mine. Why not go to the imperfect church that acknowledges its defects?

On to college, where I discovered Mennonite varieties were as abundant and varied as the weeds in our ditch. The diversities were wide-ranging. One Mennonite dormmate inspired me by simplifying her closet down to three outfits to show solidarity with the poor. Three doors down was a Mennonite who painted her toenails as a way to celebrate God’s gift of beauty. I argued with Mennonites who supported Nixon. I met Mennonites who called Nixon’s law and order rhetoric racist. Sorting out the many voices landed me on a journey of searching for something beyond society’s gullible nationalism, beyond society’s addictive consumerism, and beyond pious emptiness. It was a search for Mennonites flavored by a radical faith, flavored by convictions different from a wearisome world. Could they be found? 

It was a tumultuous time. Women, African Americans, Native Americans, and other marginalized people were pushing for equality. Many joined the protest against the continuing Vietnam War. The times seemed right to look again at sixteenth-century Anabaptists who had upset the status quo. They had pushed against church-as-usual by separating from the state church. Times were right to dream of a peace church, a church raising its voice against militaries, a church where women were empowered, a church that was more than a building. Attempts were made. Communities formed and glimpses of new ways of forming churches appeared. You had to keep your eyes open to spot what was happening.

After college, I headed into the unknown. Unexpected adventures were hidden in the wide space ahead. The confusing world of more pious Mennonites came into view on my unforeseen Pennsylvania adventure.

I had met a few Mennonites from Pennsylvania. They were the ones brave enough to attend the liberal Mennonite college in Indiana. I was not prepared for these unique saintly-flavored Mennonites. To this day when someone speaks of waiting for the Lord’s return, “if the Lord’s willing and if He tarries,” it sounds pious. I cringe. 

How did I end up in Pennsylvania? A Mennonite high school was asking for an art teacher. One of my art professors encouraged me to apply. They had never offered art. Art was a little suspect, a little too frivolous.

I headed to C. Norman Kraus’s office, my trusted bible prof, to ask about the school.

“What should I do? I won’t fit in.”

“Here’s what I think. Go for the interview. Be honest. Tell them what you think. If they hire you, try it for a year. It might just be good for you. It could be good for them.”

It seemed like reasonable advice. 

The interview was all men, in plain cut coats, sitting around a long table in a small room. Certain flavors of Mennonites require men in leadership to wear coats with no lapels and buttoned to the throat. They weren’t about to be conformed to the world.  The room smelled of formalities and stiffness.

“Are you sanctified?”

It wasn’t a question I had planned on. “Sorry, I don’t know what sanctified means.”

“Sanctified means you are set apart from the world. You are Holy,” answered the stern man leading the interview.

“Oh, yeah, I’m set apart from the world. The world believes in military might instead of peacemaking. The world believes in accumulating wealth, and I hope to share resources. The world believes style is important and I ignore the latest fashion.”

“You’re not wearing a covering. Would you wear a covering if we require it?”

By now I realized I wasn’t getting the job, so I didn’t care what I said. I had long ago given up my small white net head covering. 

“I think coverings are a way to keep women in their place. If you’d require it, I would see it as a school uniform and take it off the minute the school buzzer sounded at the end of the day.”

They kindly thanked me and I returned to the safe Mennonites in Indiana. I was sure they wouldn’t offer me the job. I was sure I didn’t fit inside their fences. I had twisted their ideas of sanctification and insulted the covering.  Then – they offered me the job. 

I asked C. Norman, “What should I do?”

“It’s your chance to be an ambassador.” 

“Right. I don’t think it will work. I’m not sure I want to be an ambassador.”

“I have confidence in your honesty, and more importantly in your compassion.” 

Thus, it happened. I was off to teach in a foreign culture. I did love the students. It seemed like the troublemakers and marginalized students found their way to my room. After lunch, they just started wandering in. 

“What can I do? Mr. G. hates me.”

“Can you get me out of detention? I could come and clean your chalkboards.”

“Do you think I’m going to hell?”

There were always questions. I tried to use C. Norman’s method and ask them questions back. 

“What makes you think Mr. G. hates you?”

“Can you use detention as a time to study?”

“What’s got you thinking about hell?”

It was a hard year. Maybe I’m sorry about some things. 

Yes, maybe I’m sorry I didn’t turn in the student who gave me his marijuana. He was under pressure to behave. His family had just become Mennonite, and it was a cultural shock for him. He didn’t need more trouble.

Yes, maybe I’m sorry my sweater was too tight, but you could have discussed tight sweaters in private. You didn’t have to bring them up in a faculty meeting. 

Yes, maybe I’m sorry I wore jeans to see a church movie, but the fellow who asked me to go along didn’t tell me the movie was playing at a church and not a theater. How was I supposed to know? And on top of it all, I didn’t appreciate the movie’s use of fear to save people. 

Yes, maybe I’m sorry I hugged C. Norman in public after his chapel talk, but I was just so glad to see him. 

Ironically, hidden among the Pennsylvania Mennonite terrain, I found Myron Dietz. Dietz taught social studies and church history. He was Old Order River Brethren. This particular flavor of Anabaptists had unsalaried preachers and met in homes. Not only did he wear a plain cut coat, but his branch of Anabaptist required a beard.

We found common ground. We didn’t want to see Mennonites drift into worldly evangelicalism and nationalism. He lived with an aura of simplicity and generosity. I liked to get him talking about how the world was influencing Mennonites.

 “Are Mennonites becoming too flavored by evangelicals?”

“What are you worried about, Jane? Mennonites joining the military? Mennonites using fear to save people? Mennonites becoming too proud of being Americans?”

“Maybe all of those.”

“Just keep asking questions. Questions keep us thinking.”

“And like you always tell the students, ‘Don’t ever let your education interfere with your learning.’”

Dietz saw beyond our differences. He didn’t have to agree with me to discuss faith and life. He wasn’t about to let differences limit conversations. 

One year in Pennsylvania was enough. I headed back to Indiana, where I was invited to live with some friends above Partly Dave, a coffee house. I worked at the coffee house for food, rent, and a small stipend. 

Partly Dave‘s upstairs bedrooms were small, but the living room was large and looked out onto the main street of Elkhart. One corner of the living room served as an office space. The small kitchen located off the living room was crowded if more than two of us tried to prepare a meal.

The downstairs contained a small stage that opened onto a large area crowded with round tables made from old wire spools. At one end was a small closet-like area where snacks and coffee were prepared. 

In its day, ‘Partly Dave’ was the center of the sixties’ revolution. Folk singers performed to crowded audiences. In my years, it had become more of a place for the marginalized.

Partly in the name represented the many-sided goals. An early brochure read:

 “Partly a place … where friends meet … where questions are asked … where opinions are heard … where God’s love is witnessed … where troubles are unloaded …”

In the beginning, the Mennonites running the place were viewed by some as going too far into the messiness of the world. Partly Dave evolved. It became a place where patrons were viewed by many as outcasts who rebelled against cultural molds and fences. Along with this, it got a reputation for being a hangout for druggies. 

Partly Dave started within the context of disillusionment with church structures.  It raised questions for Mennonites. What did mission look like? Did mission mean you went to another country? Did mission require relating to the marginalized? What role did current issues and the changing world have to do with mission? The instigators and staff felt Partly Dave was mission, but for some, it was too different from traditional outreach. They weren’t ready to support it. 

I found faith and community in a varied staff who worried more about caring for people than whether sweaters were too tight or coverings were worn or how long the Lord would tarry until His return. 

The flavor of Mennonites I found in my co-workers was inspiring. They didn’t take themselves too seriously, but they did care about the people who came for coffee and conversation. They were there out of compassion, not for accolades. 

Days at the coffeehouse were for cleaning and staff meetings. There was enough flexibility that in time I could take a couple of seminary classes. A Mennonite seminary was just across town. I found I liked the challenge of thinking theologically. At seminary, I met intellectually-colored Mennonites.

Weekend evenings were spent selling snacks and chatting with whoever dropped by. The main coffee house room was dimly lit and filled with the smell of coffee and candles. Conversations ranged from trying to convince never-sober Gabe he needed help, to discussing the advantages and disadvantages of anarchism with Tom. 

One evening, I had a rather heated argument. This fellow was concerned with the persecution of good people. After the conversation, a smiling co-worker asked,

“Do you know who you were talking to?”

“I know he was pretty adamant and a little crazy.”

“Well, Jane, you were talking to the Grand Dragon of Indiana.” 

“What? I thought the KKK was long gone. I had always imagined a Grand Dragon looking much grander.”

“Sorry, Jane, Indiana’s Klan is one of the biggest north of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

I preferred naivety and thinking the Klan was gone. I found it sad and ironic that this Grand Dragon used Christian rhetoric to make his racist points. Religion, politics, patriotism, and racism were all deeply twisted together in gnarled, toxic ways. 

The coffee house was closing. I was off on another adventure. I considered seminary but felt the battle for a woman studying theology was more than I wanted. My family gave me no encouragement. 

I headed to South Bend and began studying architecture, a way to combine art and math. 

South Bend was a ferhoodled (Pennsylvania Dutch for messy) time. Life became a mix of Catholic and Mennonite. Like combining soda and vinegar, it caused some interesting effects.

I attended a Catholic University during the week while living near my Sunday hangout of Community Mennonite Church. Community Mennonite was a mission church in a section of the city haunted by poverty. 

Take away the German/Russian heritage and Amish ancestors, what flavor Mennonites do you have? There, among the boarded-up houses and unsafe neighborhood, I found Minnie. Two of her sons were in jail. Her teenage daughter was pregnant. A favorite saying of hers was, “I just tell Dr. Jesus my troubles.”  This sounded way too sentimental and pious for me. Still, her love was welcoming and her heart was warm. She lived just two blocks away from me and we shared the same date for our birthdays.

After church, she’d say, “Jane, stop by sometime.” 

“Ok.”

I’d get too busy, but she kept inviting me. Our deep cultural differences didn’t seem to bother her.

One Saturday I headed to her house and carefully climbed the broken steps. Her young adult son came to the door and stared at me. The hate was visible. It didn’t matter who I was, I was white and at his door. It was a time when racial suspicion filled the air. I heard Minnie’s voice yell at him.

“You go on now.”

“Jane, come on in. Sit on the couch with me and tell me about your family.”

“Only one sister.”

“I bet your mom misses you.”

Mennonites don’t need to talk Dutch or have certain ethnic roots. Did Minnie and I see Mennonites as the same? Mennonites had become her neighbors and she accepted their love. She wasn’t concerned about their theology. 

Later someone mistakenly told me, “You can tell a Christian by their well-kept yard and their nice porch” – I knew they were full of crap. It’s hard to spot the faithful when we’re looking at the wrong things. Minnie’s porch and house were in danger of becoming condemned by the city, but her heart was filled with love. 

A young Black Mennonite preacher came to replace the white missionary. Good intentions took on disconcerting overtones. He was critical of the couple who had invested time, energy, and love into the church. 

“But they had good intentions,” I told him. 

“Good intentions are not enough. Meet me for coffee, and I’ll explain.”

It sounded more like a dare than an actual conversation invitation. We did meet. His anger spilled into the exchange. 

“What do you do when good intentions are paternalistic and condescending? Why are so many songs European Mennonite?”

“But I thought the singing was a mix.” I tried to insert a little optimism into the conversation. 

“Why are the neighborhood people only given token jobs at church?”

“Aren’t there ways we can work together?”

Here was someone excited about Anabaptist theology but impatient with Mennonites. He was correct in many of his observations. Like my childhood church, the issue seemed to be about power, about who makes decisions, who chooses the fences that hold us together. 

Community Mennonite failed in many ways, but it wasn’t without merit. People crossed lines and began to understand each other in new and hopeful ways. 

There was the neighborhood women’s group. We mostly did crafts and baked cookies while chatting. The group included neighbors from the Pentecostal church along with women from the Mennonite church. It was a clashing of The Quiet in the Land, as Mennonites think of themselves, with the loud praisers of the Lord. 

“Jane, we got special meetings. Come along to church.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No thinking. It’ll be fine. We’ll stop by for you. We’ll walk together. You need a little more soul.”

How did I let them talk me into going along? I was the only person of my race. I was the only person who didn’t know movement was part of worship. We laughed together at my awkwardness. 

I saw things I wasn’t looking for and began to understand culture in ways that made me uncomfortable and hopeful.

While I was experiencing the disadvantaged neighborhood, I was also experiencing the advantages of wealthy Catholic students. I didn’t know much about Catholics except my childhood biases. They elevated Mary too high, played bingo for money in their church basements and wrongly held to a just-war theory. My learning curve was high. 

I probably impolitely stared. Everyone had dirt on their foreheads.

I reached class and sat next to a friend.

“OK. Excuse my ignorance but why does everyone have dirt on their foreheads?”

“Mennonites don’t do Ash Wednesday?”

“Ash Wednesday?”

“It’s the beginning of Lent. The priest puts ashes on you to remind you that you are ashes. And we also fast or at least don’t eat meat and we confess our sins. There you have it.”

“Can I get ashes?”

“Only if the priest thinks you’re Catholic.”

I decided to forgo pretending I was Catholic, but throughout the day, I did try to be aware of my shortcomings. 

There was an ROTC group on campus. They wore their uniforms and stuck out worse than I did in my habitual Amish denim jacket with its hooks and eyes.

One of the ROTC fellows was in a class with me. One day I went from discussing homework to asking why he joined ROTC. 

“I’m curious. Can you explain how your faith fits with joining ROTC?”

“Ah, nothing to do with faith. It’s money. I’m not as rich as some of these privileged pimps.”

Having once met Jay, a real pimp, I didn’t think his fellow students were worthy of the label. I let the comment pass, while the image of towering Jay with his jewels and gun floated in my mind.

“Do you ever worry about killing someone?”

“Nope, I try not to think of it. I’ll be an officer and just tell others to kill. Then I’ll get out as soon as I can.”

“And it won’t change you, make you someone you don’t want to be?”

“I guess time will tell.”

“When is a war just?”

“What are you? Some kind of spy sent to interrogate my loyalty?” He laughs and leaves.

We kept discussing Mennonite pacifism and Catholic just war. It had nothing to do with our structural engineering homework. 

“Hey, Jane. I got an invitation for you to be on a panel, and you can’t say no. ROTC is discussing just war theory and they want a pacifist on the panel. I suggested you.”

“But I’m not a theologian.”

“You do pretty good arguing with me.”

“That’s different. You aren’t a panel.”

“You can do it.”

There I was on a panel with four other people with varied ideas on when war is justified. We sat at a table in the front of the room. I looked out over the rather small audience. It was filled with too many ROTC uniforms.

I tried to make a case for how the just war theory should rule out wars, not justify them. Will war do less harm than the evil it is trying to prevent? Would Jesus ever justify war?

It was a trip into foreign territory. 

Living in South Bend taught me much beyond my architectural classes. I thought I grew up poor, but I grew up rich and privileged, even though my hometown was confused about my family’s status. I had thought Catholics had it all wrong, but I saw passionate ones, even a couple of Irish Catholics whose call for justice echoed what I was looking for.

Living in South Bend taught me Mennonites can disagree and still find ways to show love. 

Leaving South Bend behind, I headed into married life. My partner was a friend from college who had always kept in contact. After a few more years in Indiana, we headed to Michigan where he took a job at a university in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where Mennonites didn’t exist. There were some interesting Finnish Lutherans and a host of non-denominational evangelicals. 

Finnish Lutherans looked similar to conservative Mennonites, but they had different fences. They smoked in public and ate rubbery Lutefisk and Yooper pasties. Pasties were a good find. They were vegetables, including potatoes and rutabaga, plus meat, wrapped in a small package of pie crust. A friend showed me how to make them.

Even though I made Finnish Lutheran friends, we were ethnically different enough we didn’t fit in with their church herd. 

A neighbor invited us to the Christian Church. The sermons made me slightly uncomfortable, but no one is perfect. I decided to get more involved.

“I heard you need a Sunday school teacher. I’m willing to help.”

“Now your background is Mennonite?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not very familiar with them. Do they immerse when baptizing?”

“No, they are more of the pouring variety.”

“I’m sorry, if you want to teach, we require immersion.”

“Oh. I’ll give it some thought.”

 This baptism fence sounded odd to me. Does the amount of water really matter? 

Phil had baptized me, and although I had mixed feelings about my home congregation, I did respect Phil. He had been made fun of during WW1 because he refused to wear a uniform and carry a gun. Phil’s sprinkling baptism seemed good enough. I decided not to teach Sunday school. I soon became a dropout. 

Just when total cynicism was about to set in, we found a small Quaker group. At first, their silent meeting was unsettling, but it became a refreshing change from sermons echoing a nationalistic, pious, patriarchal faith.

Quakers taught me to relax about fences and worry more about centering. Quakers pulled up the fences. They didn’t worry about who was a member or who was on the edge doing unholy actions. When John, an opinionated skeptic, started attending, no one seemed concerned even though at times he was rude. He seemed to enjoy pointing out the stupidity of people’s faith. 

Curious, I brought it up to the clerk, the person appointed to close the meeting and oversee the monthly business meeting.

“Can anyone attend meetings? Do you ever ask someone to tone down their sharing?”

“It’s not our job to limit who can join Meeting.”

“What if they cause trouble or divisions or try to confuse people?’

“Is John making you nervous? We trust something bigger than ourselves to work in people’s lives and hearts. Sounds like you’re trying to keep John out.”

“Maybe I’m being too Mennonite and wanting clearer boundaries.”

She chuckled. “Mennonites may need fences, but Quakers don’t worry about it.”

“Do you ever worry about not knowing who you are?”

“I’m not sure fences help people understand their center.”

John soon tired of harassing attendees and dropped out. I kept pondering centering versus fences.

Some at the Quaker meeting were involved in the local active peace group. Among this milieu, I spotted people whom I considered part of my herd. 

One more area to fly over. We headed back to Iowa. I had missed Mennonites, but I wasn’t ready for the rural Iowa variety. Maybe I had been with Quakers long enough not to worry about maintaining fences. Maybe I had been away from traditional Mennonite churches long enough to forget how ethnicity and politicking can flavor congregational life.

I found many Mennonites still liked fences. Their fences differ from the Amish, their related religious cousins. The Amish know exactly what women should wear, the style of your buggy, and who is in and who isn’t. Mennonite fences are looser when it comes to dress, vehicle choices, and the wild use of electricity and telephones. Still, some Mennonite fences are charged with emotional electricity. LGBTQ inclusion is a passionately disputed fence. 

It was after a soccer game. I had recently written an article for a Mennonite publication on how loving neighbors comes without limiting fences, fences that label people as undeserving of love. After the game, the mother of one of the players on my son’s team came up to me. She had read more between the lines than I had clearly stated. She had made assumptions, as we all do.

“Jane, why take a chance? Why walk so close to the fence? It’s safer to stay away from what might be wrong. Fences keep us secure.”

“What if worrying about fences causes us to lose our way?”

“Some fences are clear.”

“Clear to who?”

“Clear from the Bible.”

It was an awkward conversation. It ended with her saying, “I will pray for you.”

Great. Prayer can’t hurt. I could tell she cared about me. I walked away feeling like I’d be happy to talk to her more. This isn’t always the case when people disagree.

Fence-moving projects must be carefully implemented. Sometimes change just seems to be pokich, which is Pennsylvania Dutch for slow.

Fences can offer safety, but they limit movement. Cattle need fences or they can wander onto a road and get hit by cars. They can end up lost and there is no one to care for and feed them. When are fences helpful? And when do fences become detrimental and limit our vision? 

Spotting Mennonites takes you inside and outside different fences. Sometimes you find a herd that welcomes you. Sometimes you welcome the safety fences bring. Other times fences seem to get in the way of reckless love.

Copyright © 2026 by Jane Yoder-Short
Read Jane Yoder-Short’s essay Letting Off Steam.
Photos courtesy of Ida Short and Randy Fath, Heather Doty, Ethan Currier, Chris Bair, Marek Studzinski, Konstantin Shmatov, Vitaly Gariev, Cody Otto, Hana Fleur, Clay Banks, May Lawrence, Artis Kančs, Annika Gordon, Navy Medicine, Julia Michelle, and Haberdoedas on Unsplash.