Getting funcky in Pennsylvania

By Editor | July 24, 2026 |

Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich

We left New York, bound for Pennsylvania. We crossed the border and entered the Horse-and-Buggy State. All of a sudden the scenery changed. We saw farmhouses, porch swings, clotheslines, and large, steaming piles of organic matter on highway shoulders that definitely weren’t left by SUVs.

We sped through Amish country on our way to meet our friend Kris at a restaurant called “Funck’s.” My wife, Jamie, was convinced the name of this restaurant was an unfortunate typo.

“That can NOT be the real name of the restaurant,” said Jamie.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because it almost sounds like a cuss word.”

“That’s not very nice. It’s someone’s name.”

“It’s NOT a real name.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Have YOU ever met a Funck?”

“No, but I’ve met plenty of people who acted like one.”

Then, I explained to my wife that this is Pennsylvania. In Pennsylvania, lots of people marry Funcks. Funck is a completely ordinary thing. Funck is a natural and normal part of life.

Then, I started thinking of all the imaginary Funck family reunions in the Keystone State, with everyone getting together for the annual Funck barbecue, with lots of happy Funck families running around. I imagined tiny brother and sister Funcks, a Father Funck and a Mother…

Anyway, we met our friend Kris at the restaurant where the hostess assured me that Funck is a real name and you are free to use this word in social settings without offending anyone. (“Quit acting like a Funck…”) They even use this name in religious ceremonies and nobody thinks twice. (“Do you, Liz Martin, take this man, Chip Funck, to be your lawfully wedded Funck…?”)

“I actually know a woman named Funck,” one customer in line offered. “We tried to convince her to name her first daughter ‘Uptown.’”

End of digression.

So, Kris arrived bearing handpicked flowers in a glass jar. Her smile was infectious. We hugged in the restaurant parking lot. Kris is a good hugger. And we ordered Funcky appetizers.

I first wrote about Kris when I met her at a book event a few years ago. She is a Presbyterian pastor from Thailand. She’s been a pastor for nearly 40 years. The majority of which have been spent in the States.

It bears mentioning that Kris is the first female Presbyterian minister I have ever met, let alone the first female Thai minister. Also, she holds the distinction of being the first minister I’ve ever met who ordered beer for lunch on a weekday.

“Would you like a beer?” Kris asked.

I replied yes, I would like a beer for lunch on a weekday. So, Kris flagged the waiter and, boom, just like that, for the first time in my life I was drinking with the Presbyterian clergy.

“When I was young, there were no women ministers coming from Thailand,” said Kris. “Many people discourage me from this career, but this only made me want it more. I would say to myself, ‘These people cannot tell me what God has in store for me.’ Nobody can tell you what God has planned.”

When I first met Kris, she attended one of my one-man trainwrecks along with a young Thai woman named Oat. I say “young” because this is how Oat seemed. Youthful. Although Oat is in her mid-forties. Oat quickly became my friend, too.

Oat’s parents were ministers, long ago. They were Kris’s dear friends. Oat’s father died in a car accident, and Oat’s mother died of cancer. Oat came to live with Kris for an extended period. Kris became Oat’s unofficial adopted mother. But now Oat is back in Thailand.

“Now that she is gone, I miss the sense of purpose I felt when she lived with me. I miss going to the supermarket and having someone besides myself to shop for. Now all I do is shop for my cats and make them fat.”

I asked what sort of work Oat is doing in Thailand.

With bright eyes, Kris smiled. “She is teaching seminary.” Then she wiped her eye and added, “Let’s order another beer.”

After our meeting with Kris, and some more beer, I staggered to the parking lot, crawled into the passenger seat, and my wife buckled me in and wiped the drool from my collar.

Soon, we were entering Lancaster County, just in time to get stuck behind a horse and buggy. The buggy was moving so slowly, we knew something must be holding it up.

So I rolled the window down and looked ahead to see what the problem was. Ahead of the buggy was yet another buggy. Ahead of that buggy was another buggy. And ahead of that one was another buggy. We were behind multiple buggies.

Thus, after surviving our first Amish traffic-jam, we arrived at our friends Shawn and Maile’s house. Shawn is an old friend whom we affectionately call “Shawn of the North.” Shawn and Maile are both authors who own a bookstore in downtown Lancaster called Nooks, where I’ll be performing for an event to deter any potential customers.

Shawn’s wife, Maile, had prepared Indian food for supper. The house smelled glorious, with scents of cardamom, coriander and ginger in the air. No sooner had we entered Shawn’s living room than we were greeted by Winnie, Shawn and Maile’s enthusiastic Yellow Labrador Retriever.

All night, Winnie was content to lie on the floor and let me rub every square inch of her body, which I did for hours. Whenever I would quit rubbing, Winnie would dutifully begin to lick my palm, sometimes going so far as to lick between my fingers and even chew my fingernails with tiny love-bites until I resumed petting.

We all had deep conversations around the table, laughing and carrying on, while Winnie trimmed my excess fingernail growth. We stayed around that table until 11 p.m., until it was time to clear off the table.

When it was time to leave we all participated in The Long Southern Goodbye Process on the porch. We are long Southern-good-byers, and there is a specific method for long-Southern-good-bying:

After saying your initial goodbye, you embrace again, laugh some more, descend exactly one porch step, then tell 312 more stories. Whereupon you then descend to the next porch step and do it all over again. This takes hours as you follow each other out to the car and climb into the passenger seat with departing guests, still telling stories and conversing as you drive away.

And as we all bid goodbye, and as Winnie licked every nanometer of my exposed skin, I got to thinking about how I’ve had life all wrong. For many years, I’ve had it wrong.

This is life. Right here. Right now. This. It might sound incredibly boring. Maybe even tedious.

But life is not about achieving things. It’s not about stuff. It’s not even about being happy, or about self-actualization, or about finding answers, or about ultimate truth or wisdom. Life is about people. It’s always been about people. Also dogs. Possibly cats. But mostly people. Because their love is the only thing you can take with you when you leave.

For our final goodbye, Shawn held his hand out to shake mine.

I declined.

“Sorry,” I said, holding up my dog-licked, sticky hand. “I’d love to shake your hand, but I can’t.”

Because my hand was all Funcky.