It is impossible to describe the chain of thoughts that led to this post, because I have no clear remembrance of the path they took, but here we are. And just a warning, this gets a smidgen PG-13 at the end. Not that I expect Sammy is reading this or anything, but you never know. He's awfully smart.
Back when I did a study of Hebrews with some ladies last winter, I was tremendously helped along by a post by Ben Witherington on covenants. You can find it at http://benwitherington.blogspot.com, and the post is called Cutting a Covenant When The People Can't Cut It, from 10/27/2007. The extremely simplified version is that God's OT covenant with His people was typical of other covenants of the time between a suzerain and his subjects, which involved a blood sacrifice to open the covenant and both blessings if the terms are kept and curses if the terms are not. If you look at the last few chapters of Deuteronomy, this is exactly what it looks like. Well, needless to say, Israel spent many centuries of history not keeping the terms and therefore reaping the curses.
The bit that sends cold chills of "WOW!" up and down my spine is the part about Jesus exhausting that covenant by taking all the curses upon Himself, so is it no longer in force, and simultaneously, by being the blood sacrifice, inaugurating the new covenant in which we live today. Let me just say again--wow. It certainly shed new light on the book of Hebrews, let me tell you.
So where's that PG-13 part?!?!? Okay, here it is. Somehow, my thoughts wandered over to marriage. Maybe because I have one, maybe because my daughter is 15 and she may have one in the next decade also; who knows? But the fact is that Christian marriage is indeed a covenant relationship. All you have to do is to read the vows to see that this is true. And Dan Phillips makes the valid point that many marriages could be rehabilitated by people simply reading through those vows they made in front of God and their spouse and repenting of where they have failed and beginning to keep them. A wise man, Dan.
It occurred to me that one reason (among hundreds) that you marry as a virgin is that breaking the hymen is the blood that inaugurates that covenant. See? How often are you going to read THAT in a blog?! But it makes a lot of sense. And then you have sex with only that one person for the rest of your biological lives because that's in the covenant, and the curse sanctions are coming your way if you don't. If you have pre-marital sex, as most young adults do in our current hook-up culture, then you have already made that blood sacrifice with somebody else--not your spouse. I think the ancients knew this, and the knowledge was passed down through the centuries without the reasoning behind it. There are still come cultures today which require display of the wedding-night sheets to prove virginity, and if there is no blood then the marriage is invalid--the covenant is not in effect. It may still even be true here in America that non-consummation is a reason for annulment of a marriage. Can't say I've needed to look into that one!
Marriage is designed to be a reflection of our relationship with God, and to that effect we Christians are corporately called the bride of Christ. God is ever faithful, and we are called to imitate Him in this. There are probably lots of ways to continue this thinking, not only being faithful to our earthly spouses but faithful to God in opposition to all the things that try to pull us away from Him like full schedules, technology, cool new "spiritual" paths, whatever. But that's for another day, and for all His people to contemplate.
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
For the Big Red Dude
Eighteen years ago today, at 23 minutes past midnight, I gave birth. It had been a textbook pregnancy, resulting in Kevin appearing on his due date, and the first indication I had that he had arrived was the nurses exclaiming "Look at that red hair!". It was a little while before anyone thought to mention that he was a boy-- that glorious hair took all the attention.
Should I have caught on at the hospital? He had an unusual cry--like a tiny sheep's bahhhh, and I could always tell when his bassinet was being wheeled down the hall towards me. He had ear tags, a glioma, and a lack of ability to suck--not a good thing in a newborn who really can't take nutrition any other way. After we went home, it wasn't long before Kevin developed his very first infection and raging colic. Oh boy. Colic. Six months of screaming, four months of going in to work with very little sleep in my history.
Then one morning, I awoke in the morning to the sound of silence and the realization that I had not been up in the night. Horrified, I ran into the nursery, convinced that my baby had perished in the night, for what other possible explanation could there be? No, Kevin had just been sleeping, and he woke up then and smiled at me. Glory be!
Colic had fled, but within a few days the constant illnesses began. My dad had videotaped Kevin on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart to watch them now because you can almost see Kevin go downhill as infection followed infection. At nine months I began to say to the pediatrician "There's something wrong here", but it wasn't until his second birthday that anyone else agreed with me. Every weekday off for years was spent in the office of one doctor or another-- the pediatrician, specialists, hospital clinics-- and there were times when I didn't think we'd get to keep him; surely one of these infections, one of these seizures, one of these weeks of fever would take him away, surely more than seven years of intestinal issues would take their toll and his body would give up.
Kevin is a little over six feet in height now. He's goofy, happy, sunshiny, and (except for the whole progressive neurological disease thing) quite healthy. The bright red hair still shines, his eyes twinkle, and he has friends wherever he goes. I am frequently astonished at the number of people who really deeply care about Kevin and what happens to him, and profoundly grateful too. He will never drive, never get married, never have that independence which we all wish for our children. There will always be caretakers, appointments, and "durable medical equipment".
So to all the therapists, audiologists, doctors, nurses, case managers, social workers, special teachers, teachers aides, Sunday school teachers, camp counsellors, friends, relatives and even perfect strangers who have given time, help, and love to Kevin, we give our deepest thanks. You'll never know what a difference you've made.
And to Kevin--Happy Birthday, sweetie. You are my sunshine indeed.
Love, Spud.
Should I have caught on at the hospital? He had an unusual cry--like a tiny sheep's bahhhh, and I could always tell when his bassinet was being wheeled down the hall towards me. He had ear tags, a glioma, and a lack of ability to suck--not a good thing in a newborn who really can't take nutrition any other way. After we went home, it wasn't long before Kevin developed his very first infection and raging colic. Oh boy. Colic. Six months of screaming, four months of going in to work with very little sleep in my history.
Then one morning, I awoke in the morning to the sound of silence and the realization that I had not been up in the night. Horrified, I ran into the nursery, convinced that my baby had perished in the night, for what other possible explanation could there be? No, Kevin had just been sleeping, and he woke up then and smiled at me. Glory be!
Colic had fled, but within a few days the constant illnesses began. My dad had videotaped Kevin on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart to watch them now because you can almost see Kevin go downhill as infection followed infection. At nine months I began to say to the pediatrician "There's something wrong here", but it wasn't until his second birthday that anyone else agreed with me. Every weekday off for years was spent in the office of one doctor or another-- the pediatrician, specialists, hospital clinics-- and there were times when I didn't think we'd get to keep him; surely one of these infections, one of these seizures, one of these weeks of fever would take him away, surely more than seven years of intestinal issues would take their toll and his body would give up.
Kevin is a little over six feet in height now. He's goofy, happy, sunshiny, and (except for the whole progressive neurological disease thing) quite healthy. The bright red hair still shines, his eyes twinkle, and he has friends wherever he goes. I am frequently astonished at the number of people who really deeply care about Kevin and what happens to him, and profoundly grateful too. He will never drive, never get married, never have that independence which we all wish for our children. There will always be caretakers, appointments, and "durable medical equipment".
So to all the therapists, audiologists, doctors, nurses, case managers, social workers, special teachers, teachers aides, Sunday school teachers, camp counsellors, friends, relatives and even perfect strangers who have given time, help, and love to Kevin, we give our deepest thanks. You'll never know what a difference you've made.
And to Kevin--Happy Birthday, sweetie. You are my sunshine indeed.
Love, Spud.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Daddeeeeee!
Well, all right, that was a little more than a week. But after it was over I had to get ready to leave town, and then we went out of town, and then we came back and I had to deal with all the mess which results from having been out of town, and so here it is ten days later. Such is life.
My son has made a recording on his cell phone of my home-coming from work one day lately. First you hear his voice:
"Mommeeeeee!" and then you hear mine:
"Kevinnnnnn!" And all sorts of good cheer breaks loose, because Mommy and Kevin are both home.
I've heard this recording a lot, because it makes my son very happy, so he plays it for me a great deal. So it has become this curious combination of tedious and heartwarming, but I do understand why he plays it again and again. This is love and joy and security to him, and I am so pleased I can give him that. There are so many things that I can't give him; I'm grateful for this one.
This last Thursday, our Bible study group had a discussion about the fact that we bring God pleasure. Personally, thinking about myself, I tend to find this unlikely! What on earth about me could bring God pleasure? The Bible says that I do, and that I am his workmanship, but it really doesn't seem reasonable to me most days. I know myself too well, and all my little dark parts.
But then I got to thinking about my kids. You know, don't tell them, but they are just chock full of faults. They are imperfect in multitudinous ways, just as I am. In a sense, they got that from me! There are times when they drive me just straight up the wall. But I have to admit, even on their very worst days I still love them to pieces. Why? I guess because they are mine, and my husband's, and I am committed to them, come what may. But mostly because they are mine.
Tomorrow, I will study John 20 with a couple of friends. Reading this passage to get ready for the study, I came across the part that always always brings me to tears. It's when Mary of Magdala, her eyes full of tears and her heart full of deepest sorrow, is looking for the body of Jesus. She pours out her sadness to He whom she supposes to be the gardener, and then a very sweet thing happens. He says her name. And she instantly knows it is her Lord. Oh goodness, I can't even imagine the joy she felt, in extreme contrast to the sorrow of the moment before. Jesus must have put a wealth of love and all the joy of heaven in that word "Mary", and sometimes, when I read it, I can hear a little chuckle too, because He knew how it would affect her, and how radically her life would change. In fact, how radically everything had changed, for everybody, Jesus' death and resurrection altered history on so many levels that I can't even comprehend it; it certainly altered my history!
That one word moves me, every time I read it. It's just a name, and a common one at that, but I think I may finally have a handle on why I get so emotional about it. It's related to that phone recording--it sounds like love to me. Jesus must have called me by name, because at one point I heard Him and recognized His voice, and I follow Him. When I read about Him saying "Mary" in that chapter, I can hear Him say my name too, and I rejoice, just like that faithful woman long ago, because my Lord lives and loves me. So I go where He leads me, like a good little sheep.
And that's how I think I bring God pleasure, just by answering His call. I am His!
Love, Spud.
My son has made a recording on his cell phone of my home-coming from work one day lately. First you hear his voice:
"Mommeeeeee!" and then you hear mine:
"Kevinnnnnn!" And all sorts of good cheer breaks loose, because Mommy and Kevin are both home.
I've heard this recording a lot, because it makes my son very happy, so he plays it for me a great deal. So it has become this curious combination of tedious and heartwarming, but I do understand why he plays it again and again. This is love and joy and security to him, and I am so pleased I can give him that. There are so many things that I can't give him; I'm grateful for this one.
This last Thursday, our Bible study group had a discussion about the fact that we bring God pleasure. Personally, thinking about myself, I tend to find this unlikely! What on earth about me could bring God pleasure? The Bible says that I do, and that I am his workmanship, but it really doesn't seem reasonable to me most days. I know myself too well, and all my little dark parts.
But then I got to thinking about my kids. You know, don't tell them, but they are just chock full of faults. They are imperfect in multitudinous ways, just as I am. In a sense, they got that from me! There are times when they drive me just straight up the wall. But I have to admit, even on their very worst days I still love them to pieces. Why? I guess because they are mine, and my husband's, and I am committed to them, come what may. But mostly because they are mine.
Tomorrow, I will study John 20 with a couple of friends. Reading this passage to get ready for the study, I came across the part that always always brings me to tears. It's when Mary of Magdala, her eyes full of tears and her heart full of deepest sorrow, is looking for the body of Jesus. She pours out her sadness to He whom she supposes to be the gardener, and then a very sweet thing happens. He says her name. And she instantly knows it is her Lord. Oh goodness, I can't even imagine the joy she felt, in extreme contrast to the sorrow of the moment before. Jesus must have put a wealth of love and all the joy of heaven in that word "Mary", and sometimes, when I read it, I can hear a little chuckle too, because He knew how it would affect her, and how radically her life would change. In fact, how radically everything had changed, for everybody, Jesus' death and resurrection altered history on so many levels that I can't even comprehend it; it certainly altered my history!
That one word moves me, every time I read it. It's just a name, and a common one at that, but I think I may finally have a handle on why I get so emotional about it. It's related to that phone recording--it sounds like love to me. Jesus must have called me by name, because at one point I heard Him and recognized His voice, and I follow Him. When I read about Him saying "Mary" in that chapter, I can hear Him say my name too, and I rejoice, just like that faithful woman long ago, because my Lord lives and loves me. So I go where He leads me, like a good little sheep.
And that's how I think I bring God pleasure, just by answering His call. I am His!
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Could I Be Related to Typhoid Mary?
If there's anyone actually reading this thing, it will be silent a little bit longer. Due to an interesting little variety of illnesses, I am the only one of four staff people in my office this week, and for once I am busy! I love it! But it means I don't have a lot of time for other things, like making postings. So come back in about a week, and I'll see what I can do.
Love, Spud.
Love, Spud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)