green eyes

I received this devotional from Elisabeth Elliot last week:

Although of course we lead normal human lives, the battle we are fighting is on the spiritual level. The very weapons we use are not those of human warfare but powerful in God's warfare for the destruction of the enemy's strongholds. Our battle is to bring down every deceptive fantasy....We fight to capture every thought until it acknowledges the authority of Christ" (2 Cor 10:4-6 JBP).

As I was praying this morning these words were in my mind. There were other things in my mind as well, things which had certainly not acknowledged the authority of Christ. I had been praying for months: Lord, have mercy on So-and-So. There was evidence that He was answering that prayer, and, far from being thankful for that, I found in my heart Jonah's anger. Why should God be merciful to the people of Nineveh or to this person? They didn't deserve it!
Right then and there the spiritual battle was drawn. Whose side was I on anyway? Everything that was opposed to God and his purposes had to be surrendered. I had been trying to explain to God why my own feelings ought to be considered, why his were all wrong. That, too, had to be captured, made to acknowledge Christ's authority. A surrendered mind is not one which is no longer in operation. It is, rather, a mind freed from rebellion and opposition. To be Christ's captive is to be perfectly free.

There is not much I can add to this except my own experience. I, too, have prayed for God's provision for someone I know, and have found myself envious and angry, like Jonah, I guess, when God has blessed this person in ways I don't think she deserves. Yes, I wanted some kind of provision made here, but I thought she should sweat a little more to make things work out. I thought she should suffer a little longer in order to humble her and improve her attitude (look who's talking. . . ). Then (and only then) should God have met her needs. I know people a lot more worthy than she is who have worked hard and prayed hard and never received what she has. God has been entirely too gracious here. She will never learn to be truly grateful if she gets what she wants this easily.

So there, in case you didn't notice, is the difference between God and me; the striking similarity between Jonah and me. I would rather sulk (in the shade, of course), than rejoice over God's unmerited favor shown to this (unworthy) person. It's not a pretty sentiment, but it's mine, so I might as well own it.

God's ways are not our ways, his thoughts are not our thoughts. He delights in showing mercy and lovingkindness. Too often I delight in seeing other people get what (I think) they deserve, though I would like a little mercy for myself, thank you. I am every bit as petty as the three five and six year olds who live in my house right now.

So I must "fight to capture every thought until it acknowledges the authority of Christ." I want to agree that His will is best, His plan is perfect, He knows what He is doing. If God chooses to be gracious to (other) undeserving people, I need to rejoice in His ways which are past finding out. I need to stifle, smother, squelch and suppress any jealous or envious thought which challenges His goodness or champions my own.

It puts me in mind of a familiar prayer: Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven, whether I like it or not.

a parable for Georgia

I would like to give everyone in the state of Georgia a reading assignment: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. The book is not long; most educated Georgians could probably finish it in a few days if they put their minds to it. And they should.

For anyone who has not touched the book since ninth grade English, the story takes place in Puritan New England in the 17th century. The three main characters are first, Hester Prynne, an obviously fallen woman who has given birth to a child out of wedlock and is sentenced to some jail time and the stigma of wearing a Scarlet "A" (for adulteress) on her bosom for the rest of her life. She resides on the outskirts of town and the fringes of society. She is the Puritan equivalent of the modern day sex offender.

The other two main characters are first the town minister, Arthur Dimmesdale, a shy, pious, exceedingly godly young man who has compassion on Hester. He is widely revered in the town as a paragon of virtue and mercy. He suffers from frail health and has a sensitive soul.

The third character is Roger Chillingsworth, a physician who arrives in town around the time Hester and her love child are released from the jail. Chillingsworth takes a special interest in Arthur Dimmesdale and becomes his personal physician for the purpose of learning his secrets and exposing his heart. He is successful on both counts.

As the story unfolds we come to learn several things about Hester. First, that she is truly repentant for her sin. Second, that the public censure she suffers is a severe mercy; she has nothing left to hide. Third, her outcast status softens her heart toward other sinners and allows her to be merciful, even to those who have wronged her.

Arthur Dimmesdale and Roger Chillingsworth, on the other hand, both have secrets which eat away at their souls. Dimmesdale, who is actually the father of Hester's child, has not the courage to confess his secret sin, and while he envies Hester her freedom from artifice, he cannot give up his public image and the praise of men in order to cleanse his soul. Even his feeble attempts at a general confession of sin are not taken seriously, because everyone knows he is not a sinner - he does not look the part.

Chillingsworth is scrupulously blameless. He is even, we discover, the one most wronged by the sinful Hester. He is actually her estranged husband though he keeps his relationship to her a secret. As such, he has devoted himself to taking his revenge on the unhappy Hester and her lover, whose secret he discovers. In his lust for vengeance, however, Chillingworth actually becomes the instrument of the devil, whom he comes to resemble in both outward and inward appearance.

So why should the good citizens of Georgia consider this tale? They have recently passed a law which effectively makes it illegal for registered sex offenders to live in nearly any urban or suburban area in the entire state. And they are proud of it. They don't want those kind of people anywhere near their God-fearing state. They probably wake every morning like the pharisee and thank God they are not like that man. They prefer to ignore the fact that Bureau of Justice statistics indicate that 93 - 95% of treated sex offenders never reoffend.

But you can be sure that the state of Georgia is full of Arthur Dimmesdales and Roger Chillingsworths, just like the rest of the world. The former struggle with secret sin but can never bring themselves to admit it and seek help because the cost is way too high. It is far easier to pretend to be pious than to admit that we are like "them." It is far easier to pretend that there are two different kinds of people in the world - the righteous and the perverted, rather than to face the dark reality that our hearts are perhaps not qualitatively different than those of the chiefest sinners. We don't really want to believe that there, but for the grace of God, go I. We don't like to think of the implications of the fact that over 80% of sex offenders are not strangers to the victim, but are instead family friends or relatives.

The latter, and their number is great, destroy their own souls by pursuing vengeance and retribution rather than forgiveness and grace. They vote for the laws which continue to punish people their whole lives; they believe that three strikes are enough for anyone; they are proud of the fact that our country incarcerates people at a higher rate than nearly any other country in the world. They hide their malice behind the guise of protecting children, though they can't demonstrate that demonizing offenders has ever really protected any children. They don't understand that seeking revenge is like drinking poison and hoping that your enemy will die. They have an insatiable thirst.

Are these strong words? Certainly. Which is why I recommend that Georgians read the book. Fiction can sometimes say what preaching can't or won't. Sometimes we come to understand ourselves better in the mirror of a parable than in a lecture or a sermon. Maybe if we get to know Hester Prynne we won't be so afraid of getting to know John Doe who might live down the street. Maybe if we get to know Arthur Dimmesdale we won't be so afraid to admit our own flaws or temptations. Maybe if we look hard at Roger Chillingsworth we will recognize the danger of seeking vengeance at any price. Maybe.

open house

"We must have the gift of hospitality." my husband groaned in resignation about an hour ago.
"You think so?" I asked suspiciously.
"Well we MUST!" he insisted. "Why else would this keep happening to us?"

"This" refers to the two teenagers who are spending the night tonight, the one who does not happen to be here tonight but practically lives here, the two little homeless urchins who have found shelter under our roof for the last five months, the six relatives who are dropping back in tomorrow (they were here last weekend), and the phone call we just received from friends with four children who just happen to be in our part of the country and wondered if they could spend the next two nights here. (Incidentally, we are leaving for the airport at three AM tomorrow and were not planning to even be home before 6 PM. Our company will precede us!) We have seven children of our own, a rickety old house, one bathroom and four bedrooms (two of them tiny and unheated.) So we really have no trouble stressing our house to the breaking point without any outside help, but it seems to find us anyway.

In the nearly 22 years we have been married we have shared our home with John, Bob, Greg, Todd, Jeff, Oscar, Masaki, Sally, Mayu, Eriko, Maria, Ayumi, J and S. John moved in two months after our wedding (technically still the honeymoon phase, but at least he worked nights). Everyone else followed. Our guests have lived with us from 2 weeks to 12 months. Most stayed about 6 months. Two were from Spain; four were from Japan. Some were students, some were unemployed, one was bank executive. Some paid rent; most did not. We cried when some of them left; we celebrated when others moved on.

Our guests have flooded our house by falling asleep in the bathtub with the water running, cut our dog's hair without our foreknowlege, joined us nightly on the end of our bed to watch Benny Hill reruns. (That was a Long Time ago.) One particularly hirsute young man used to walk around the house half the day in a short, faded bathrobe and dingy athletic socks, dining on leftovers annointed with ketchup for his breakfast. Others have taught our toddlers Spanish, helped paint and plaster, cleaned our house for our big Christmas Eve party, taught us to enjoy opera, served us octopus and sushi. One was present at the birth of our second son.

We have also shared harder times with our guests. One attempted suicide while he lived with us. We visited him in ICU and later in the psych hospital. My children grew to know the visiting room there well. One had a struggle he never disclosed to us, but a torn brown paper wrapping on a piece of his mail let us in on his secret. Another young man developed a serious crush on my husband and openly competed with the children and me for his attention. Another lived with us while recovering from an extremely painful divorce. A neighbor used our home as a refuge when her boyfriend choked her until her eyes were bloodshot or bruised her face so badly she could not go to work. She could have stayed with us longer, but she always went back.

All these years we have always lived in houses a real estate agent might describe as having "a lot of potential" or "perfect for the handyman." We have never had more than one bathroom. We have always had unheated nether regions. We have never had a dishwasher. It doesn't seem to matter. People come anyway. Our house is not especially comfortable, but it must be comforting. It certainly seems to be inviting.

Throughout this succession of guests we have welcomed seven children into our home. And I think it is not a coincidence that we have lots of guests and lots of children. I remember reading once (I don't know if this is historically accurate or just a nice story) that in Puritan New England new babies were given pilllows or blankets embroidered with the words, "Welcome Little Stranger." Babies are in some ways easier to welcome into our homes than full grown adults, but they require a certain quotient of hospitality, nonetheless.

It is so clear to me that God has given us this unsolicited gift. In my flesh I would never have chosen to live in a home with a revolving door! I CRAVE solitude and quiet (though I have to admit I'm OK without order!) I am never happier than on an evening at home when it's "just us." I hate bumping elbows at the table and I loathe making conversation at 7:30 AM. Nevertheless, when a new opportunity arises share bed and board, we never have to discuss it too long without coming to, "Well, I guess they could stay here." (Later we say, "What were we thinking??" but we do it over and over again.)

So, I wonder, have we ever entertained angels unaware? I don't think so, but would we know if we had? Who's to say angels don't like ketchup?

the long and the short of it

I just made my annual visit to the hair salon. Unlike many women who visit the inner sanctum several times a year, I have been to a stylist perhaps two dozen times in my life. I have never had a chatty friendship with my regular girl. No one knows just how I like my hair cut because I seldom see anyone more than once. I always feel slightly ill-at-ease when I walk in; I don't know the protocol since I am obviously not a regular.

I find visiting the salon a bit like going to the dentist, or taking my cat to the vet. "You don't floss every day?? (tsk tsk)" "You don't want the test for feline leaukemia?? (you negligent person)" "I can tell it's been a long time; just look at those split ends." I shrink down in the chair and vow to myself that I will start to come regularly, but I never do.

This is one of the parts of my life that makes me feel as if I am not really a proper grown-up; as if I am masquerading (very convincingly) as a middle aged woman, but I have never completed the rites of passage. I have never, for example, mastered the art of, or felt comfortable renting a car (homeschool moms don't travel for business very much), ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant (what are you supposed to say when you sniff the cork and taste the wine?), tipping service people, or shopping for clothes in a really nice shop where the saleswoman follows you around and checks in to "see how you are doing." The beauty parlor is definitely on the list.

But the real reason I don't do the beauty parlor well or often is that at heart I'm a long-hair girl. I don't need a trim every six weeks. My dad was a long-hair guy and I was a real Daddy's girl. My husband is a long-hair guy even though all the women in his family have very short hair. He's always liked my hair long and expects I will wear it long all my life. He's always pointing out elderly women with long, gray hair, saying, "See, you don't have to cut your hair when you get old." He is a serious Emmy Lou Harris fan and seems to think I will look like her when I finally go gray. Wouldn't that be nice?

When I visit my in-laws my hair is one of the many things that identifies me as the outsider. My mother-in-law and my husband's two sisters have always had very short, tidy hair which they have trimmed often. Their bathrooms are well-equipped with appropriate styling products and devices which I curiously examine behind the closed doors. Some I recognize, some baffle me. I feel embarrassed that I don't even own a blow dryer or a curling rod (If the truth were known, my antique bathroom even lacks an electrical outlet.) My long hair feels unkempt and slightly wild next to their neatly coiffed heads. I feel rather blowzy, somewhat shaggy, definitely unsophisticated.

It's not that I have never done anything with my hair, though I do usually fail those quizzes which ask things like, "Have you changed your hairstyle since high school?" I did the Farrah Fawcett look in college, I had the wildly kinky spiral perm treatment in my early thirties, I even tried bangs once, but it's always been long. I was raised on the doctrine that a woman's hair is her glory, and I guess I came to believe it.

So now I'm raising a house full of gloriously long-haired girls - five, to be exact. Rapunzel is our favorite fairy tale. Our drains are always clogged, our shampoo and conditioner budget rivals our grocery spending, we can never find a hairbrush though we own about a dozen. My daughters color their long locks pink and purple, they fix their hair in French braids, fish tails, chignons and upsweeps. But, like their mom, they never visit the salon.

the kindness of strangers

Our society is paranoid about strangers. Parents warn their children not to talk to strangers; we worry about stranger abduction. We have learned from the cautionary tale of Little Red Riding Hood to fear a wolf around every corner. As if that were not enough, we even inhabit physical bodies that are on alert against foreign bodies - always ready to protect against and reject anything not familiar, any foreign body.

But I suspect we all also know something about the kindness of strangers. And we all have
to rely upon the benevolence of others unknown to us many times in our lives. The experience often leaves us feeling humbled as well as grateful. We have received something we have not earned and often cannot repay. It is a kind of grace from an unexpected source.

Last week I was at the laundromat with my youngest daughter, waiting for a load to dry. I do have a washer and dryer, but sometimes I just get so far behind in my laundry that I just grab it all and take it to the Wash 'n Dry to get it over with in an hour and a half. I don't know if anyone enjoys the laundromat - I sure don't. But it's not the humidity and bleachy smell I find unpleasant, it's how out-of-place I always feel. Washing machines seem to be one of those sociological markers that connote middle class. I am always conscious of belonging to the privileged class - I'm at the laundromat because I want to be, not because I have to be. I wonder if other patrons can tell. I secretly hope I look a little different.

So, there we were, realizing that the laundromat always costs a lot more than I remembered, and we had washed more than we could afford to dry. (That sounds like it should be a cliche - like "bitten off more than he could chew", you know?) So, as we waited for two loads to tumble dry, a third sat crumpled and soggy in a basket on top of a washer. There were not many other people there, and none of us were chatting; I felt quite anonymous until a woman kindly asked, "Is that your basket?". I was afraid I had perhaps committed a laundromat faux pas and left it on top of her washing machine, but I realized she was just being helpful. "There's an empty dryer right next to mine." she pointed out.

I thanked her and admitted we had just run out of quarters and I would take that load home wet, when she began funbling around in her pockets for extra coins and offered to give me money for the dryer! I demurred, she insisted, and said, "Oh people have often helped me out when I needed it." And I realized she thought I was actually Out of Money - not just out- of- quarters- at- this- particular- moment.

I actually felt myself turn red as I accepted the coins. I knew I had a washer and dryer at home, and probably a lot more disposable income than she did. But I knew also that I would have been intolerably rude not to accept her generosity and make any explanation about why I did not really need the quarters. So she smiled and asked my little girl what her name was, offered that her own name was "Laurie," and walked out with her dry laundry.

It was an exchange that lasted perhaps two minutes, but it felt big to me. I realized what a snob I can be - that I was embarrassed to be mistaken for someone who can't afford to finish her laundry. And I was humbled to be the recipient of the kindness of a stranger.

As we contemplate moving to another culture I anticipate many situations where I will need to rely on the kindness of strangers. It has begun already - I have been emailing Malaysian homeschoolers with dozens of questions about where to look for housing, what to bring, what to expect by way of amenities. People have been so generous. I have received lengthy, detailed thoughtful replies which not only answer my questions but anticipate others I don't know enough to ask. I'm sure the authors of these letters are busy people with many claims on their time, but they took the time to respond to a stranger's request for help.

I expect to need lots of kind strangers as I try to find my way around a strange city, try to figure out how to shop in Malaysian markets, try to pay for my purchases in foreign currency, try to remember my rusty metric measurements. I am counting on the kindness of strangers to extend friendship to my children, to bear with us as we travel, to help me learn to cope with a tropical climate .

God commends such kindness to strangers, reminding us that we should not be forgetful to entertain strangers, because by doing so some have entertained angels unaware. It seems that whether we find ourselves upon the giving or receiving end we can expect to experience something of the grace of God in the kindness of strangers.

be careful what you wish for

What am I feeling this morning?? Foolish? Chagrined? I feel like a character from Grimm's Fairy Tales who did not heed the dark warning, "Be careful what you wish for."

I have been glibly detailing all I don't like about where I live, bemoaning the fact that I am not able to change the course of my life and do something "new and exciting" at this point. And then I find that Someone has been reading my blog (my mind? my heart?).

My life has turned upside down in the last week. And if that sounds like a cliche just wait. There's more. "You can't take it with you" has been running in circles through my head as well. Because it looks like we're moving to Malaysia this fall.

I, who have always thought that "tropical paradise" was an oxymoron am going to be living 200 miles from the equator for the next two years. We are leaving all I LOVE about rural northern New England for city living without central air. While I will not be starting my own business, I will be learning to drive on the other side of the road in horrific traffic. While I will not be going to law school I will be learning how to live in a completely foreign culture with five children. While I won't be taking that longed for trip to Europe, I will be within striking distance of Japan, Thailand, India, Bangladesh, Burma and Indonesia.

Man proposes, God disposes. Last fall my husband began praying about a family missions trip - three weeks, we thought would be a good amount of time. Now we have 20 months! My 15 year old daughter confessed to me yesterday that she had been praying for God to send her some hard things in her life to increase her faith and dependence on Him. I don't think this is what ANY of us had in mind, but it certainly looks like the wood has come to Dunsinane hill.

I may write sometime about how God confirmed to us that we should go - sieze the day and the opportunity, but today I am not able to settle my thoughts long enough to do that. I am scared to death, but I am also excited, I guess. I have a thousand things to do before August and I know there are a thousand more I do not even realize yet.

A question I have been frequently asked in my life is, "Did you always want a big family?" I always answer, "No, I wasn't sure I wanted any children at all. But God knew the true desires of my heart and gave them to me." I trust now that He still knows the heart of my heart - the part I may not even know, and He will give me what is best. One of my favorite Scriptures says it is the goodness of God that leads us to repentance, and it has always been so in my life. His unfailing grace in the past makes it easy to trust that this will be a good thing in my life. But it's going to be hot.

time and times

I have been in an Ecclesiastes frame of mind lately. I love the wisdom books, though Proverbs makes me feel a little inadequate, but the Psalms and the other poetic books really feel like home to me. I do love Paul's logic and Peter's unvarnished humanity and compassion, but lately I have been wallowing in the poetry of the Old Testament.

Thanks to the Byrds, most people of my generation are familiar with Ecclesiastes 3:


To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth?
I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.
He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end

Many of our times are decided for us - we have no control over the seasons, the weather, the growth of our children, the aging of our parents and ourselves. The times to weep and to mourn generally come upon us unbidden, and few of us have any say about the timing of wars. But we do choose many of the other times - the choice is often ours whether to embrace or to refrain from embracing, to search or to give up, to be silent or to speak, the tear or to mend. And this, of course, is where the wisdom comes in.

As parents we have many, many choices to make, not only for ourselves but for our children. And many of them involve timing. Beginning when they are babies we decide when to feed them and when to let them fuss a bit; later we choose when to let them attempt the stairs on their own and when to shield them from that dangerous place. We decide when to let them play outdoors alone and when to stay close enough to see everything that's going on. The Psalmist wrote of God, "My times are in your hands," and to a large extent, our children's times are in our hands.

We have much freedom as parents, within the constraints of our individual circumstances and we all choose differently. When our children were young we decided the time was not ripe for them to go to school, even though their peers were heading off to preschool and kindergarten. We kept putting off the time for school, until we finally decided to teach them at home through high school.

Some of our friends thought our sense of timing was poor. I remember one friend advising us that children needed to learn to deal with the real world, when our daughters were in first or second grade. We continued to attract the same advice from kind, well-meaning friends at every stage - middle school, junior high, and, of course, high school. "You need to let go of them"; "they need to be able to make their own mistakes"; "you can't shelter them forever" chanted the Greek chorus in our lives. So at each step we would evaluate, and re-evaluate and ask ourselves, "Is it time?"

Now that our eldest two are 17 and 18 we sense that the time has come. We are ready (a qualified term) to "let go of them," to "let them make their own mistakes," to send them out from the shelter of our home. And we are observing a curious phenomenon. Our children are much more ready to take on a challenge and spread their wings than most of their peers. While most of their friends are choosing the relatively safe college immediately after high-school route, our two are heading off to India and New Zealand - not to get away from home, but to pursue dreams and visions that have been nurtured in the safety of our home. College is definitely in their future plans, but they want to know themselves, their gifts and the world better first. They are not afraid to step outside the box - to fly outside the box!

If we made any wise choices, we owe them all to the grace of God, not our own wisdom. But I do not regret at all the years of preparation and shelter we gave our children. They have grown deep roots and strong stems which will allow them to flower brilliantly in the proper season.

Sola Deo Gloria.

When I Look at the World

When you look at the world
What is it that you see
People find all kinds of things
That bring them to their knees

I see an expression
So clear and so true
That changes the atmosphere
When you walk to the room

So I try to be like you
Try to feel it like you do
But without you its no use
I cant see what you see
When I look at the world

When the night is someone elses
And youre trying to get some sleep
When your thoughts are too expensive
To ever want to keep

When theres all kinds of chaos
And everyone is walking lame
You dont even blink now do you
Dont even look away

So I try to be like you
Try to feel it like you do
But without you its no use
I cant see what you see
When I look at the world

I cant wait any longer
I cant wait til Im stronger
Cant wait any longer
To see what you see
When I look at the world

Im in the waiting room
I cant see for the smoke
I think of you and your holy book
When the rest of us choke

Tell me tell me
What do you see
Tell me tell me
Whats wrong with me

-U2

Those Winter Sundays

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

I love this poem about fathers. It captures so well my own feelings/experience. I grew up in house of chronic angers which I lived in fear of. I also spoke indifferently to my father more often than I would like to admit. My mother commanded and got most of the attention in our house. My dad stayed more in the shadows, receiving little recognition or praise for any sacrifices he made. It was only his duty, after all.

While he did not have to get up early to make the fires, he made a lot of other scrifices for us which I never thought about growing up. (My dad did polish our shoes for Sunday. . . ) Some of my own ungrateful early morning memories involve my dad waking me with the cheerful call, "Get up Mary sunshine!" Which I despised!! I used to pretend I was still asleep, hoping he would go away.

I remember when I was older my dad getting up very early to drive me to my job on the breakfast shift at McDonalds. . . still cheerful, though I was surly at that hour of the morning.

It amazes me that I cannot remember my father ever raising his voice to me, ever being angry with me! I have never worried once about my father rejecting me or turning his back on me no matter what I did. I have never been afraid to face my father, never doubted his love and approval.

My father had two Masters' degrees but he moonlighted for many years in a factory to make enough money to support our family. He had no expensive hobbies and seldom spent money on himself, except to buy an occaisional book. He never reminded us about how hard he worked or how much it cost to raise four children on a minister's salary.

He was always my biggest fan; he would unfailingly make a big fuss over me when I was dressed up for a banquet or a concert. I can remember coming downstairs after spending hours on my hair and make-up to find my dad waiting to exclaim over how lovely I looked. I always felt like I was the prettiest girl in the room, because that's the reflection I saw in my father's eyes.

It has never been easy for me to say any of these things to my father - I have always felt uncomfortable expressing affection openly to him; I don't know why. but I plan to send him this poem for Fathers' Day this year, because it communicates so well what is in my heart.

rules for living

I hate those "All I Really Need to Know I Learned From . . . " books. Maybe, just maybe, it was a clever idea the first time, though I'm not even sure about that, but then it attained pet rock status and it was all over, real fast.

Yesterday I saw a poster at a Christian high school proclaiming, All I Need To Know I Learned From the Bible. "OOh," I thought, "the trump card!!" And I of course, did not bother to read any further, because I know all that stuff already.

The poster did bring to mind a passage I had read recently in I Thessalonians, though - sort of a list of rules for living that the apostle Paul wrote down for the church in Thessalonica. I thought when I read it, "Wow, if we could do this in our house, we really wouldn't need to worry about much This pretty much covers the bases." It looked to me like something worthy of the front of my refrigerator.

Here it is:

Encourage one another.

Build one another up.

Appreciate those who diligently labor among you and give you instruction.

Live in peace with one another.

Admonish the unruly.

Encourage the fainthearted.

Help the weak.

Be patient with everyone.

See that no one repays another with evil for evil.

Always seek after that which is good for one another and for all men.

Rejoice always.

Pray without ceasing.

In everything give thanks.

Examine everything carefully; hold fast to that which is good.

Greet all the brethren with a holy kiss!

not so vain repetitions

There is still a debate in the church today over the use of praise songs vs hymns - which I have no desire to enter or even talk about, except to say that my church uses both, so the little foster girls who live with us have heard a lot of praise songs in the five months they have been with us. They do seem to enjoy the praise songs more than the hymns - probably beacuse they are accompanied by a band whereas the poor old hymns only get the piano, because they are easier to dance to, and because the repetitive lyrics for which they are criticized are easier for them to understand and tend to stick in their little heads more than the glorious theology of the hymns. Don't get me wrong, I love the hymns. The older the better, as far as I'm concerned. But I can also appreciate (most) of the praise songs as well.

So, the little girls have learned a few words of Christian lingo living in our home, and they have also, apparently, picked up on the fact that we appreciate "Christian stuff." In their desire to fit in and be part of the family they have gradually changed the ditties they sing around the house from things like "oops, I did it again," to words and phrases (usually just words) culled from the praise songs they hear at church. Someone who had a mind to could easily use this as a basis for criticism of the vain repetitions of the modern praise song. I, however, am thrilled to hear their baby voices mouthing attempts at praise even though they clearly have no idea what they are saying. Somehow I can't imagine these untaught youngsters attempting their own version of "How Firm a Foundation" or "A Mighty Fortress is Our God."

So here are a few snippets of "Little Girls Praise Songs", recorded live and unedited this Saturday morning.

I'm a home with you
I'll die for you
My heart says you die for me

I will be for Jesus Christ
You will save me and my life

You will bower

You will say clap clap
Every single time
If I will say your name

Can I get an "Amen"??

aka our lady

I have many friends who "grew up Catholic", and several who still consider themselves devout. While I grew up thinking of the Pope as the first cousin to the antichrist, I have, happily, changed my opinion about Catholics and the Catholic Church. I have come to appreciate many of the emphases and traditions of the Catholic Church, and to admire the wisdom of many of her teachings, though I still feel more in tune with Martin Luther than the Holy Father. Some of my best friends are Catholic! (You know who you are. . . ) So, I mean no disrespect by my musings about the titles that I, as a mother, might choose for myself, were I ever to have any devotees who wished to follow in my footsteps.


Our Lady of Perpetual Anxiety - This is the big one, I'm afraid! (I love the word "perpetual" - love the sound, the way you have to pucker your lips to say it. I may write a whole entry on "perpetual" and its synonyms. ) I believe in the medical world this is referred to as "chronic," but perpetual sounds much nicer.

Our Lady of Melancholy - I was born to this title, I'm afraid. I am the woman Dickens had in mind when he wrote, "she indulged in melancholy - that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries."

Our Lady of The Kitchen Sink - The site at which I most often appear to people.

Our Lady of Constant Interruptions - Not that I interrupt others, but lots of short people are always interrupting me.

Our Lady of the Unfinished Thought - A result of the constant interruptions, I expect.

Our Lady of Infrequent Exercise - I'm hoping to lose this title someday soon.

Our Lady of The Coffee Mug - hot, cold, tepid, lukewarm, with cream, half and half, evaporated milk, whole milk, 2%, 1% but never skim.

Our Lady of the Unending Laundry - world without end, amen.

Our Lady of Unreliable Household Appliances - I can sympathize with anyone whose dryer, stove, washer, vacuum, etc. ever cause them problems. Unfortunately, I can't do anything about it.

no regrets

I was standing in the checkout line at WalMart yesterday (one of my personal fictions is that I am not the kind of person who shops at Wal-Mart, but there I was), and I caught a glimpse of the head and shoulders of a woman perhaps ten years younger than me who had an enormous tattooed dragon snaking across her shoulders and back. I was just thinking, "She will regret that in a few years," when the line shifted so I could see her midriff. Her back appeared to be covered with sayings and slogans, most of which I was too far away to decipher. But clearly inscribed in Gothic script were the words, "No Regrets," almost as if she had answered my unspoken comment.

At first I thought it meant that she did not regret the tattoos, but then, of course, I realized it was a statement about her life - and I caught my breath. Could she really mean it? Could there be person alive who truly had no regrets?

As a woman of many regrets myself, I naturally assumed she must just have never stopped long enough to really think about her life - that she was too busy drinking, cursing, smoking, carousing, riding Harleys and all those other things I naturally assumed about her. Or perhaps she was just whistling in the dark.

I, however, have never been accused of living the unexamined life - au contraire. And I imagined what I might have tattooed on my back - all the regrets of my life. But I would never do that, because most of my regrets will never see the light of day. I look at them as infrequently as possible and never lay them out for anyone else to see. They are, however, tattooed on my soul with equally indelible ink, visible to no one but me.

I imagine that our resurrected bodies will not be tattooed - that if I were to meet that woman in heaven some day her skin would be clean as a baby's, though I guess I really don't know much about glorified flesh. I wonder if my soul will be likewise clean and clear - free of the regrets of this life. I hope so.

dissatisfaction

There is truly nothing new under the sun! Shakespeare knew just how I'm feeling today and wrote it down a few hundred years ago.



SONNET 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

This man's art, that man's scope, with what I most enjoy contented least!!!

I have a friend who is editing a book as well as starting her own business, another with a thriving new business, another just finisheing EMT training - a radical change from her past life as a homeschooling mom. All these women are my age, have raised families, and are now starting something new.

I am jealous. I am "contented least" with the fact that I still have 13 more years of homeschooling ahead of me. I have a high school graduate and one about to enter kindergarten! This is exactly what I have always "most enjoyed", but today I am discontent.

And, no offense to my dear husband, no earthly consolation seems to be doing the trick today.

I need to remind myself that in the end nothing will satisfy - that I could trade one life for another, one career for another, one husband for another, one face for another, but none would ever really quench my thirst for significance, for love, for esteem. We are destined to spend our earthly lives in a longing which is never quite fulfilled, always elusive, always in the bush but never in the hand.

Long before Shakespeare the writer of Ecclesiastes felt the same angst.

"The eye is not satisfied with seeing, Nor is the ear filled with hearing. . . .

All a man's labor is for his mouth and yet the appetite is not satisfied. . .

For what does a man get in all his labor and in his striving with which he labors under the sun? Because all his days his task is painful and grievous;

Even at night his mind does not rest.

This too is vanity. "

And, of course, we all know what the Rolling Stones said about satisfaction. . . .

Sooooo. . . . .

"The conclusion, when all has been heard, is:

Fear God and keep His commandments,

because this applies to every person."

Musee des Beaux Arts

Musee des Beaux Arts

W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how well, they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

lonely hearts in a crowd

My eldest daughter graduated from high school last night. We had a big party, about 80 guests, and it rained, so we all crowded into the house while the folding chairs on the lawn stood empty in pools of water. this was definitely the most people I've ever had in my house - SRO.

It was a big day for me - a big event in my life, though it was not technically about me. It was about my daughter, but in a very true sense everything in our lives is about us - if we are there, we can't help it. There is no other way to experience life.

For me it was about a passage in my own life - nearing 50, watching my daughter shine in her nearly flawless 18 year old beauty (another mother who arrived saw the crowd of teenagers in the next room and exclaimed, "Aren't they beautiful? Every one of them.") and they were.

For me it was about being incredibly grateful for the huge number of friends God has put in our lives - people who care enough about my family to stand around in a crowd for two hours - amazed that I/we actually have that many friends, since I feel lonely and friendless so often. For me it was also about keeping the punch bowl filled, cutting the cake, picking up stray cups and plates for the garbage - mundane tasks that gave me something to do when I was feeling that I might break down if I really looked at everyone, if I looked at A long enough to fix the moment in my memory, if I thought about what was passing and what was to come. It reminds me of the scene in Our Town when the stage manager tells Emily (who I played in college) to choose a very ordinary day to revisit in her life, since she would not be able to bear reliving the important ones. It was like that; I kept a bit of a distance and did not look too closely.

I thought a lot about my high school graduation days - that time in my own life. I know what it was like for me, but I don't know what it's like for my daughter. I know what made my heart beat faster, what worried me, what thrilled me, what made me feel grown up, what made me feel small and insignificant at that age, but I don't know what it is to be be A. I know some of her thoughts - the ones she shares- but I don't know her secret heart, just like no one knows mine except God.

As open and honest and disclosing and truthful (and all those other pop-psych terms we use) as we can be, we are left with the Scriptural truth that, "Each heart knows its own bitterness and no one else can share its joy." Which I guess is why I can end up writing about aloneness (not loneliness) the morning after a lovely aprty with the people who love me most. I'm not ungrateful, I'm not unhappy, I'm just alone inside here.

I am so grateful for the comfort of the Holy Spirit, who DOES know my heart's bitterness and it's joy. Who understands my heart even when I don't; who was sent for the express purpose of comforting us, translating our wordless prayers to God; never leaving us or forsaking us, giving us good hope through grace. All I can say to that is , "Amen."

home education

I have been thinking a lot lately about child-rearing. I read the reminder penned by Anne Bradstreet over two hundred years ago that parents should be always mindful of the role the calling and election of God plays in their parenting:

All the works and doings of God are wonderful, but none more awful than His great work of election and reprobation; when we consider how many good parents have had bad children, and again how many bad parents have had pious children, it should make us adore the sovereignty of God, who will not be tied to time nor place, nor yet to persons, but takes and chooses, when and where and whom He pleases. . . "

But, that said, I have become more aware than ever of the inestimable importance of early training in the home. For four months now we have had two little girls in our home, they were 4 and 5 when they arrived, they are now 5 and 6 years old. They have lived a chaotic life - both parents in and out of jail, both struggling with deep rooted substance abuse problems, both having grown up in families that were as dysfunctional as the one they created together. The girls have had no "home" to speak of in the true sense of the word, only a series of places that provided shelter from the elements, but no shelter for their spirits.

When they arrived in our home they had incredibly short attention spans; S would ask to color and in the time it took to get out the crayons and coloring books she would have lost interest in coloring. Neither could sit through a children's video. I wondered if they had been tested for learning disabilities; clearly, I thought, they had them.

They strung words together to say things or ask for things, but often the words were not even in the correct order. They seldom bothered to search for the right word when they were uncertain of it, but just trailed off or resorted to, "you know that thing."

They had never sat through a family dinner; they understood nothing of common courtesy in a household: they would wake up early in the morning in the room they shared with two of our children and and laugh and talk loudly until the whole house was awake. Their notions of bathroom etiquette were similarly dismal.

They knew no nursery rhymes, had never heard of "eenie meenie minie moe," had never had a birthday party nor ever hung a Christmas stocking. Their language was salty, to put it kindly. My children learned a lot of words they had never heard before - much to my chagrin.

After four months here they are vastly different (though still very needy) children. They nearly always remember please and thank you. They wait to eat until prayer has been said and everyone is served. They always beg to be the one to pray. They can often play for a half hour or more on their own and can usually amuse themselves. They ask before they use things that belong to someone else. They can get up early without waking everyone else. They can finish a puzzle and at least one of them can listen to several books in a sitting.

When they first arrived in early February, S's kindergarten teacher had already decided she would need to repeat the grade because she seemed hopelessly behind the other children. She is getting ready to pass to first grade in a few weeks. She loves to help around the house and is the first to comfort someone who is hurt or unhappy. For the first time yesterday I heard her correct her own grammar when she began, "She don't, I mean she doesn't. . . " In sunday school today she asked to be "the last one to choose" in order to let others go first!

They have learned a lot in the last four months, but so have I. I honestly never understood how much of children's training is non-verbal, even implicit. I was stymied at first over how many unacceptable behaviours these little urchins exhibited - and completely baffled that so many things had to be TAUGHT them. I never remember teaching my children to not always expect to be first, to modulate their tone of voice in a public place, to refrain from whispering about people in front of them, to not just grab whatever they wanted, to sit down at the dinner table, to not monopolize the conversation, to speak respectfully to adults, to come when called, to not interrupt the person who is reading, and so on. I could not figure out why my children seemd so charming all of a sudden, and these children seemd so recalicitrant, rude, unicivilized, unkind. I found it easy to dislike them.

I realized that in a loving, well-disciplined home children just "catch" these things and, for the most part, become pleasant and easy to have around. Because these girls had never seen adults or older siblings model good behavior, because the had never been consistently rewarded for good behavior but punished harshly or capriciously for misdeeds, they had never learned clear rules or expectations, had indeed never learned right from wrong, politeness from rudeness, acceptable behavior from inacceptable, kindness from cruelty. I realized I had to figure out how to teach behaviors I had always taken for granted in children. It was almost like teaching English As A Second Language - they were clueless about what good behavior even looked like; common courtesy was a language they had never learned whereas it was my children's native tongue.

So I have worked hard at teaching, reinforcing, kindly pointing out errors and rewarding good behaviors. But the greatest thing I have done for them, I think, is allow them to concentrate on the work of children - observing and imitating, by giving them a safe place to be. In our home they have been relieved of the constant anxiety of wondering what terrible thing will befall them next, of trying to take care of the adults in their lives.

In this same context, I have been thinking about public schools - reports I've heard on NPR about failing schools trying yet one more way to fix things, but school is not the problem, nor can it be the answer. Home has a thousand times the influence of school. It's funny, that while school can be a potent influence for evil, it appears severely limited in its influence for good. It is the rare case where a child with a poor home life can be turned around by school, and that, I would venture, is usually not the influence of the program or the classes, but of a particular adult who takes an interest in the child's life or who inspires the child to rise above his circumstances.

I remember one day trying to explain to S why it was important that she tell me the truth. I explained that the consequence of lying was that she would not be trusted in the future, and why it was good to have "the big people in your life" (I could not say parents because they are not in the picture) trust you. Grown-ups, I explained, need to be able to trust their children.

It's much more important for children to be able to trust the big people in their lives to do what grown-ups are supposed to do. If they can't, the consequences are dire.