I find myself with a list of random thoughts that have been sort of wandering around in my head, and none of them are thought through enough for an actual posting. They are not likely to get to that point either, as frantically busy as things have been, so I'm going to set them out before they get away entirely, in the probably doomed hope that I'll ever get around to pondering them some more.
For many years, I have struggled with the idea of "the fear of the Lord". Why on earth would I fear the Lord? He's MY Lord and I am His, I can't wait to meet Him, I get homesick for heaven. So then why is it that the *fear* of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom? Why should I be afraid? I'm finally starting to get a handle on this, at long last, as a series of teachings in the last year have made me realize just how deeply sinful I am and always will be. I have plumbed partway down the depths, and it ain't pretty down there. I have a sneaking suspicion that at the very bottom I'm about as horrible as they come. When I realize this, I also realize that God would have every right, and nearly an obligation, to squash me like a bug and throw me on the trash heap. While I dearly love Him and know that He loves me more than I can imagine, I also know that I stink. So lately I've become aware that I can't decide what I'll do when we finally meet face to face. Will I grovel at His feet in despair or throw my arms around His (figurative) neck with joy? Is it even possible to do both at once? Am I finally becoming wise?
A friend brought up an interesting point a few weeks ago, when we were discussing the age-old fact that bad things happen to good people. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the train of thought it set off in my head led me to the idea that sometimes life-altering tragedies happen because we have so many things that come between us and devotion to God.Those things are powerfully big in our lives, and we let God be very small. When those things are taken away, God is suddenly our One Big Thing, and we hopefully get some kind of perspective on the things that used to be big and now are very small.
I used to be in a small group Bible study with some people who were very well off financially. They led the group, and some other members were quite endowed with worldly goods also. At last, both the families with lots of money failed miserably in ministry and it was because of the temptations they failed to resist regarding money. Looking back, I used to roll my eyes at how frequently the teachings were about materialism. Now I can see that it was probably a case of God having a very large finger poking them in the ribs (among other places), trying to get their attentions before it was too late. So they taught about materialism because it was the subject they just couldn't get out of their heads and hearts. And for a good reason. This equates, I think, with all the powerful Christian leaders who speak for years about sexual sins and then find that their own hidden sexual sins are the ones that topple them. Maybe I should start paying closer attention to the things I feel compelled to teach about...
This last Sunday, I had an unplanned and unexpected DAY OFF. By golly, it was just really and truly a Saabbath rest. I made a conscious decision to absent myself from a regular and very worthy Sunday afternoon activity, and I am so glad. Frankly, I needed the down time very badly, and I ended up making my daughter feel better too just by my presence at home. I may do this again some time, although I'll have to resist being tempted to do it often. It was remarkably refreshing.
There is a journal in the holdings at OSU entitled "Nursing Made Incredibly Easy!". I am amused. I am also appalled, and hope to goodness that I never find myself the end user of that particular pedagogy. Oh my.
Love, Spud.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
On Being a PIA
Back when Columbus had two newspapers, I got them both. The Citizen-Journal came in the wee dark hours of the early morning, and the Dispatch arrived in time for after work reading. The CJ folded in the eighties, and I mourned for it, and the Dispatch changed to a morning paper. I dearly love newspapers. When we travel, Stu knows to humor me in my daily search for a local paper. I'll even read USA Today if there just isn't anything else. When we were newly married and even poorer than churchmice, we got $5 each pocket money every week, and mine went for the daily paper until I decided it wasn't realistic to pretend any longer that it was a luxury that didn't fit the budget. For me, the paper is a necessity, and I prefer it in paper form. Of course, in order to justify it I had to give Stu a raise to $10 pocket money a week, but I kept mine at five to be fair.
But I'm a picky old lady, and I like my morning paper in the morning, particularly in time to read it with my morning tea and breakfast before I go to work. The individual who currently delivers my paper doesn't grasp this at all. Despite a Dispatch-imposed deadline of 6:30 on weekdays and 8am on weekends, my paper shows up some time after I leave for work at 6:50, and has gotten here late enough on a Sunday that I had to finish it at four in the afternoon. Well, as a picky old lady, let me just say that this isn't sitting very well. I've had to buy one on the way to work lately (and let me just point out that I'm really not supposed to read the newspaper at work--I'm supposed to be working) thereby paying for it twice. If I wait until evening, not only is the News very Old, but I don't have time for it anyway.
So I called a couple of weeks ago and complained, but it didn't do any good. I got a woman on the phone who was deeply weary of her job, and responded like an automaton reading from a script, which she doubtless was. Reading from a script, I mean, not an automaton. Although it was hard to tell. In any case, it failed to have an effect on the paper delivery person, who continues to show up at some unknown time.
I did have this problem once before. When we moved into this neighborhood a little over ten years ago the newspaper had been carried by the same family for many years--kind of a delivery mafia. They had many children, all blonde and charming, and when one grew up and left home the route was just passed on to the next oldest in line. That's all well and good, but until it got to the very youngest a few years ago, none of them were capable of delivering on time. Some people would get offended by this comment, but I'll make it anyway--the problem seemed to be rooted in the fact that this enormous family was home-schooled, and they really had no concept of "schedule". Or at least, no concept that anybody else might have one. So I had years of late newspapers, and no amount of complaining, cajoling, or anything else did any good. I just had to wait it out until the last yellow-headed youngster left the nest a couple of years ago and an adult took over.
So this latest guy took over in July, and he appears to be an adult too (it's very dark out there, but he's a pretty good size and drives, which may or may not be an indication, and he's clearly past high school because when he does arrive it's after the bus goes). My question is: Just how much of a pain in the arse should I be over this? Granted, I shouldn't have to pay for two papers daily when I only read one, but it's my choice to do this. I could just suck it up and accept going through withdrawal like a grown-up. And it's not like I actually pay for service. The paper is the same price delivered or picked up. On the other hand, he is getting paid for providing the service, and he's not providing it in a timely manner. And on still another hand, he may have extenuating circumstances out the whazoo, in which case I would be willing to just cancel my subscription since I'm fetching it myself anyway. Or he may just be a slacker and needs a fire to be lit in an appropriate place. But I can't tell that from here, and the automaton was no help at all. And is it fair to keep calling and complaining when I didn't do that to the Blonde Mafia? I did see them in person, however, and let my feelings be known, probably a little too gently, when they came to collect. Nobody collects in person any more though, it's all done by mail.
I am well aware of my propensity to be anal about some things which are doubtless trivial, and to fail to be anal about things that probably need attention, so I'm really waffling over this. How much fuss should I make over what is actually a luxury item, even though it happens to be my personal favorite luxury item ever? I need a sense of perspective on this, and I don't have it. All I have is irritation and fewer quarters. Any advice, people?
Love and Bruxism, Spud.
But I'm a picky old lady, and I like my morning paper in the morning, particularly in time to read it with my morning tea and breakfast before I go to work. The individual who currently delivers my paper doesn't grasp this at all. Despite a Dispatch-imposed deadline of 6:30 on weekdays and 8am on weekends, my paper shows up some time after I leave for work at 6:50, and has gotten here late enough on a Sunday that I had to finish it at four in the afternoon. Well, as a picky old lady, let me just say that this isn't sitting very well. I've had to buy one on the way to work lately (and let me just point out that I'm really not supposed to read the newspaper at work--I'm supposed to be working) thereby paying for it twice. If I wait until evening, not only is the News very Old, but I don't have time for it anyway.
So I called a couple of weeks ago and complained, but it didn't do any good. I got a woman on the phone who was deeply weary of her job, and responded like an automaton reading from a script, which she doubtless was. Reading from a script, I mean, not an automaton. Although it was hard to tell. In any case, it failed to have an effect on the paper delivery person, who continues to show up at some unknown time.
I did have this problem once before. When we moved into this neighborhood a little over ten years ago the newspaper had been carried by the same family for many years--kind of a delivery mafia. They had many children, all blonde and charming, and when one grew up and left home the route was just passed on to the next oldest in line. That's all well and good, but until it got to the very youngest a few years ago, none of them were capable of delivering on time. Some people would get offended by this comment, but I'll make it anyway--the problem seemed to be rooted in the fact that this enormous family was home-schooled, and they really had no concept of "schedule". Or at least, no concept that anybody else might have one. So I had years of late newspapers, and no amount of complaining, cajoling, or anything else did any good. I just had to wait it out until the last yellow-headed youngster left the nest a couple of years ago and an adult took over.
So this latest guy took over in July, and he appears to be an adult too (it's very dark out there, but he's a pretty good size and drives, which may or may not be an indication, and he's clearly past high school because when he does arrive it's after the bus goes). My question is: Just how much of a pain in the arse should I be over this? Granted, I shouldn't have to pay for two papers daily when I only read one, but it's my choice to do this. I could just suck it up and accept going through withdrawal like a grown-up. And it's not like I actually pay for service. The paper is the same price delivered or picked up. On the other hand, he is getting paid for providing the service, and he's not providing it in a timely manner. And on still another hand, he may have extenuating circumstances out the whazoo, in which case I would be willing to just cancel my subscription since I'm fetching it myself anyway. Or he may just be a slacker and needs a fire to be lit in an appropriate place. But I can't tell that from here, and the automaton was no help at all. And is it fair to keep calling and complaining when I didn't do that to the Blonde Mafia? I did see them in person, however, and let my feelings be known, probably a little too gently, when they came to collect. Nobody collects in person any more though, it's all done by mail.
I am well aware of my propensity to be anal about some things which are doubtless trivial, and to fail to be anal about things that probably need attention, so I'm really waffling over this. How much fuss should I make over what is actually a luxury item, even though it happens to be my personal favorite luxury item ever? I need a sense of perspective on this, and I don't have it. All I have is irritation and fewer quarters. Any advice, people?
Love and Bruxism, Spud.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Oh, My Head!
I may be alone in this experience, but somehow I don't think so.
Have you ever found your head wandering away, with you or without you? I don't mean the usual gentle wool-gathering, I mean speeding down a highway where you really don't want to go. Yikes. This happened to me yesterday, and I'm still getting over it. I'd received an interesting/disturbing message from someone in the morning, and then in the afternoon I got into a small wrangle with a co-worker. Well, the morning message brought up a lot of old grievances, dating back as far as elementary school. That's ridiculous, isn't it? You're right, it is! But I went there anyway, and stayed there even as late as my morning commute. The work issue is still somewhat with me, because it really isn't resolved and I'll have to deal with it again. But this time, I'll be ready, boy! I've been thinking about it for a whole day, and I've got all my arguments lined up!
Okay, now that's just sinful. Let's face it. While I do need to be able to approach my work with logic and intelligence, there's just no excuse for the vehemence with which I've prepared my reasoning. And while the episodes of my youth are graven-in-stone history, there's absolutely no excuse for the way I have wallowed in the hurts caused by past actions of others. Get that? I may have plenty of fine REASONS, but in the end I have no EXCUSES. But my wretched head goes there anyway. Oh, what to do?
What to do is...first, talk to myself. David Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote a book about spiritual depression, and the introduction to the book ends with a marvelously insightful few paragraphs about talking to yourself. I don't remember it well enough to quote it, but the basic idea is that from the moment we wake up in the morning there are thoughts in our heads. Many of those thoughts are not God-honoring, and in fact are just downright false, and so you know where they come from--Satan and our own sinful selves. Well, as a man (or woman!) thinks, so he is. So you've just got to get your thoughts under control, and take them captive to Christ. So DML-J says that we should address ourselves most sternly, and say "Self! Get a grip!" or words to that effect. (I warned you that it would not be a direct quote!) After you've gotten the attention of your sinful old self, then talk to it! And tell it the truth. Fill your old head up with the things of God, and squash the other junk out for lack of room. Refute the falsehoods. Ha! Take that!
Secondly, is prayer. Once you've cleaned out your head, it's time to address your heart. I so often ascribe really horrible motivations to other people, and while I may be correct, I may not! Only God knows for sure, and He doesn't often let me in on the secret. So I am just wrong in assuming I know why the other person said what they said or did what they did. It may be that they were in the midst of some ancient or modern hurt of their own, and spoke and acted from their own pain. So frequently, we all just respond on auto-pilot from the grid of our own past experiences, and hurt others without intention or even knowledge that we have done so. Or maybe I have radically misinterpreted! I suspect this is the case as often as not.
Grace means that I give others the benefit of the doubt. Forgiveness from God for all my blunders means that I must pass that on to others. As freely as I have received, I have to freely give, or I become some horrible, stingy, dried-up-spiritually thing. Nobody wants that!
So I found myself in the car this morning, once again working through the process of forgiving the probably clueless person who hurt me so in the past, and giving my heart to God for yet another dose of cleaning up. I'll have to do this on a regular basis for as long as I live, I imagine, because I don't see my sinful Self going away this side of glory. But, my goodness, God really does do a terrific job of heart-cleaning once I get around to asking for it, and then I find that "time of refreshing" that was promised. Just like the clothes I wear, I find that my soul needs frequent trips through the wash. Happy am I for a God who does most excellent laundry!
Love, Spud.
Have you ever found your head wandering away, with you or without you? I don't mean the usual gentle wool-gathering, I mean speeding down a highway where you really don't want to go. Yikes. This happened to me yesterday, and I'm still getting over it. I'd received an interesting/disturbing message from someone in the morning, and then in the afternoon I got into a small wrangle with a co-worker. Well, the morning message brought up a lot of old grievances, dating back as far as elementary school. That's ridiculous, isn't it? You're right, it is! But I went there anyway, and stayed there even as late as my morning commute. The work issue is still somewhat with me, because it really isn't resolved and I'll have to deal with it again. But this time, I'll be ready, boy! I've been thinking about it for a whole day, and I've got all my arguments lined up!
Okay, now that's just sinful. Let's face it. While I do need to be able to approach my work with logic and intelligence, there's just no excuse for the vehemence with which I've prepared my reasoning. And while the episodes of my youth are graven-in-stone history, there's absolutely no excuse for the way I have wallowed in the hurts caused by past actions of others. Get that? I may have plenty of fine REASONS, but in the end I have no EXCUSES. But my wretched head goes there anyway. Oh, what to do?
What to do is...first, talk to myself. David Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote a book about spiritual depression, and the introduction to the book ends with a marvelously insightful few paragraphs about talking to yourself. I don't remember it well enough to quote it, but the basic idea is that from the moment we wake up in the morning there are thoughts in our heads. Many of those thoughts are not God-honoring, and in fact are just downright false, and so you know where they come from--Satan and our own sinful selves. Well, as a man (or woman!) thinks, so he is. So you've just got to get your thoughts under control, and take them captive to Christ. So DML-J says that we should address ourselves most sternly, and say "Self! Get a grip!" or words to that effect. (I warned you that it would not be a direct quote!) After you've gotten the attention of your sinful old self, then talk to it! And tell it the truth. Fill your old head up with the things of God, and squash the other junk out for lack of room. Refute the falsehoods. Ha! Take that!
Secondly, is prayer. Once you've cleaned out your head, it's time to address your heart. I so often ascribe really horrible motivations to other people, and while I may be correct, I may not! Only God knows for sure, and He doesn't often let me in on the secret. So I am just wrong in assuming I know why the other person said what they said or did what they did. It may be that they were in the midst of some ancient or modern hurt of their own, and spoke and acted from their own pain. So frequently, we all just respond on auto-pilot from the grid of our own past experiences, and hurt others without intention or even knowledge that we have done so. Or maybe I have radically misinterpreted! I suspect this is the case as often as not.
Grace means that I give others the benefit of the doubt. Forgiveness from God for all my blunders means that I must pass that on to others. As freely as I have received, I have to freely give, or I become some horrible, stingy, dried-up-spiritually thing. Nobody wants that!
So I found myself in the car this morning, once again working through the process of forgiving the probably clueless person who hurt me so in the past, and giving my heart to God for yet another dose of cleaning up. I'll have to do this on a regular basis for as long as I live, I imagine, because I don't see my sinful Self going away this side of glory. But, my goodness, God really does do a terrific job of heart-cleaning once I get around to asking for it, and then I find that "time of refreshing" that was promised. Just like the clothes I wear, I find that my soul needs frequent trips through the wash. Happy am I for a God who does most excellent laundry!
Love, Spud.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Just Turn At The Bink
There are two groceries I frequent. One of them is clean and pleasant and has quick and friendly customer service and relatively short lines and donates to charities with which I am involved, like Special Olympics and the MDA. It also has higher prices. The other one is pretty run down and has very long lines, but the prices are better, so I go there for many things. But you know how it goes, each store has things the other one doesn't carry, and I like the produce and the meat better at one but the milk better at the other. I go to both of them every week in order to get everything on my list.
I wondered for a while last year if I wasn't going to have to stop going to the store with the cheaper prices, because whenever I went there, I saw my stalker. Having a stalker in itself was a little surprising, and very, very creepy. The first time I saw him I was totally unnerved, and I was at the very back of the store where he had followed me, and as I went in and out of aisles I saw him peek his head around them. A few times I would go very quickly down the ends and race into a random aisle in the hopes of throwing him off, (which didn't work) and at the end I headed straight for the back again and nearly ran down a narrow aisle in the middle of the store and straight into a check-out lane. Darned if I didn't see him sticking his head up from another lane looking for me, so I ducked down and stayed that way, and practically ran to my car and locked all the doors behind me. I was seriously frightened, and wondered if it was safe to ever go back.
I did see him again, in the same store, on a couple of future occasions, but I was ready with cell phone in had to call 911 if he approached me. He never did, but I would sometimes see him looking. About this time, we befriended an employee of this store, and I confessed that I thought I was going to have to abandon that grocery. He asked what the stalker looked like, and when I told him he laughed and told me that my stalker was a plain-clothes security man, watching for shop lifters. I was shocked and a little insulted, but we soon figured out why he had pegged me as a likely suspect.
You see, I'm very organized about some things. As all my friends and family know, I live on lists. I make lists for everything, and as the holidays approach I even make a list of the lists I'll need to make. This lifestyle happens to extend to grocery shopping. Naturally, I keep a running grocery list like most people, but I have a two-column list with things I get at the cheaper store on the left and things I get at the nicer store on the right. When I write something on the list I put it in the appropriate column, and my family has learned to ask what side to write something on. Then when I get ready to go to a store, I recopy in the list on another piece of paper in aisle order. So when I enter a store, I am ready to go exactly to where I need to in order to get things in the quickest and most thorough way possible.
Well, I guess the poor security department had never seen anything quite like me. I'd go in the store, pick up a cart, and proceed briskly to the very back of the store and make my way quickly to the front, methodically plucking things off the shelves as I went. They assumed that this was the behavior of a shoplifter, because surely nobody else would be that quick and prepared. Once I had this straightened out with our new friend, I never had another problem, and never again saw my "stalker".
I just returned from that store not half an hour ago, and I had a wonderful time tonight. There was a charming young man at the door acting as greeter, and I asked him where to find the twine. He looked a little puzzled, so I changed it to "string" and light dawned.
"First," he said, "you go right down this aisle to the bink"
"The bink?" I repeated, startled.
"Yes, the bink! You know, where the money is?"
"Oh, the bank!"
"Yes, the bink! That is what I say! Then you turn up the mine aisle,"(I decided against asking) "and go to where the lawn begs and garden things are."
We struggled on for a minute, both laughing hysterically at our attempts at communication. He finally said "You got that?" I agreed that I got that, and he punched me companionably in the arm and exclaimed "You rock, seestaire!"
I never did find the twine, although I did recognize the MAIN aisle when I got there, but I grinned and chuckled the whole time, even through the dreaded check-out line. Life is good, when you can have that much fun at a grocery store.
Love, Spud.
I wondered for a while last year if I wasn't going to have to stop going to the store with the cheaper prices, because whenever I went there, I saw my stalker. Having a stalker in itself was a little surprising, and very, very creepy. The first time I saw him I was totally unnerved, and I was at the very back of the store where he had followed me, and as I went in and out of aisles I saw him peek his head around them. A few times I would go very quickly down the ends and race into a random aisle in the hopes of throwing him off, (which didn't work) and at the end I headed straight for the back again and nearly ran down a narrow aisle in the middle of the store and straight into a check-out lane. Darned if I didn't see him sticking his head up from another lane looking for me, so I ducked down and stayed that way, and practically ran to my car and locked all the doors behind me. I was seriously frightened, and wondered if it was safe to ever go back.
I did see him again, in the same store, on a couple of future occasions, but I was ready with cell phone in had to call 911 if he approached me. He never did, but I would sometimes see him looking. About this time, we befriended an employee of this store, and I confessed that I thought I was going to have to abandon that grocery. He asked what the stalker looked like, and when I told him he laughed and told me that my stalker was a plain-clothes security man, watching for shop lifters. I was shocked and a little insulted, but we soon figured out why he had pegged me as a likely suspect.
You see, I'm very organized about some things. As all my friends and family know, I live on lists. I make lists for everything, and as the holidays approach I even make a list of the lists I'll need to make. This lifestyle happens to extend to grocery shopping. Naturally, I keep a running grocery list like most people, but I have a two-column list with things I get at the cheaper store on the left and things I get at the nicer store on the right. When I write something on the list I put it in the appropriate column, and my family has learned to ask what side to write something on. Then when I get ready to go to a store, I recopy in the list on another piece of paper in aisle order. So when I enter a store, I am ready to go exactly to where I need to in order to get things in the quickest and most thorough way possible.
Well, I guess the poor security department had never seen anything quite like me. I'd go in the store, pick up a cart, and proceed briskly to the very back of the store and make my way quickly to the front, methodically plucking things off the shelves as I went. They assumed that this was the behavior of a shoplifter, because surely nobody else would be that quick and prepared. Once I had this straightened out with our new friend, I never had another problem, and never again saw my "stalker".
I just returned from that store not half an hour ago, and I had a wonderful time tonight. There was a charming young man at the door acting as greeter, and I asked him where to find the twine. He looked a little puzzled, so I changed it to "string" and light dawned.
"First," he said, "you go right down this aisle to the bink"
"The bink?" I repeated, startled.
"Yes, the bink! You know, where the money is?"
"Oh, the bank!"
"Yes, the bink! That is what I say! Then you turn up the mine aisle,"(I decided against asking) "and go to where the lawn begs and garden things are."
We struggled on for a minute, both laughing hysterically at our attempts at communication. He finally said "You got that?" I agreed that I got that, and he punched me companionably in the arm and exclaimed "You rock, seestaire!"
I never did find the twine, although I did recognize the MAIN aisle when I got there, but I grinned and chuckled the whole time, even through the dreaded check-out line. Life is good, when you can have that much fun at a grocery store.
Love, Spud.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Clowns of God
Little Trig Palin has caused a cascade of thoughts in my head, and it's not clear where they'll end--so let's just take a peek in my gray cells and see what's cooking. A stream-of-consciousness blogging! First off, no matter where Sarah Palin ends up going (or not going) politically, she will always have my personal approval for deciding to give live birth to her Down's Syndrome son--as if my personal approval mattered! It's a brave and proper thing to take what you're given and see what good you can make of it, and an even braver and more proper thing to willingly--with advance notice-- take on the challenge of a child who will, in many ways, never really grow up.
Is it possible that our sons (Mrs. Palin's and my own) are part of a vanishing society? I read that most Down's babies are now aborted, and that there will be fewer and fewer of them in the years to come. Of course, there were no signs before birth that there was anything amiss with Kevin, and I suspect there will always be a goodly number of children whose problems become evident only over time. Pete Singer would have us kill them off too, as a mercy to society if not to his own clueless self.
I once read that in Italy the mentally handicapped are referred to as the clowns of God. That name fits! There's no one cheerier of all my acquaintance than my son, who more often than not wakes up in the morning and bursts into song, or looks outside and exclaims "What a beautiful day!". It's beyond my comprehension that someone else might have decided that his happy life was not worth living. I remember when I was pregnant with our second (and perfectly normal, as it turns out) baby, discussing the value of pre-natal testing for birth defects. I said that it didn't matter, we'd take what we were given. The relief on my doctor's face was palpable. He's had an enormous soft spot in my heart ever since.
That being said, I have seen the other side. I worked in a large state-supported teaching hospital for several years, and for a short time I found myself working on the unit where, among other things, women came to have their pregnancies terminated. That was a difficult assignment. But I learned something very valuable there, because up until that point I naively and probably arrogantly assumed that all abortions were because the mother just didn't want her baby. That was wrong. Most of the pregnancies were being terminated for entirely reasonable reasons--the baby lacked lungs, or lacked a brain, or--in the case of a nurse I knew personally--because the baby was so terribly deformed that he had no functioning systems in his body. None of these children had any chance at all of surviving outside of the womb, and in many cases the baby had already perished, and it was a great mercy to deliver the baby early. I'll never forget witnessing the silent grief of a mother holding her child who had died in the womb--tiny and perfect, but not ever capable of drawing its first breath.
I still just want to have a gigantic tantrum and throw things at a world where these things happen. Pregnancy is supposed to be one of the most joyous times in the life of a family, but sometimes it just isn't. It's such an in-your-face piece of evidence that we live in a broken world full of broken hearts, and makes me long for heaven all the more. I am furious that miscarriages and other fetal deaths happen, and sad beyond measure. And I also get furious that there are women who for whatever reason decide that they don't want their babies, and extinguish them instead of giving them to any one of the hundreds of families who long for babies and can't have their own. I learned early on at the hospital to avoid reading that line of the chart--I didn't want to know which mothers were grieving and which ones were relieved that their inconvenience was gone. It was not my place, and my heart couldn't take the dreadful knowledge. I decided to give each woman the benefit of the doubt, knowing that her life was open before God, and didn't have to be open before mine. Fortunately, I didn't have to stay on that unit long before I was able to move to a different one.
So where have I ended up? With a heart newly broken, because I haven't relived that experience for some time. And with a great appreciation, no matter how I end up voting, for Sarah Palin. Bless you, my dear. God bless Trig, and grant him a happy life. And God bless any family who looks upon a baby with medical or physical problems and says "I'll keep it" and gives it a life of love and care. Your reward shall be great.
Love, Spud.
Is it possible that our sons (Mrs. Palin's and my own) are part of a vanishing society? I read that most Down's babies are now aborted, and that there will be fewer and fewer of them in the years to come. Of course, there were no signs before birth that there was anything amiss with Kevin, and I suspect there will always be a goodly number of children whose problems become evident only over time. Pete Singer would have us kill them off too, as a mercy to society if not to his own clueless self.
I once read that in Italy the mentally handicapped are referred to as the clowns of God. That name fits! There's no one cheerier of all my acquaintance than my son, who more often than not wakes up in the morning and bursts into song, or looks outside and exclaims "What a beautiful day!". It's beyond my comprehension that someone else might have decided that his happy life was not worth living. I remember when I was pregnant with our second (and perfectly normal, as it turns out) baby, discussing the value of pre-natal testing for birth defects. I said that it didn't matter, we'd take what we were given. The relief on my doctor's face was palpable. He's had an enormous soft spot in my heart ever since.
That being said, I have seen the other side. I worked in a large state-supported teaching hospital for several years, and for a short time I found myself working on the unit where, among other things, women came to have their pregnancies terminated. That was a difficult assignment. But I learned something very valuable there, because up until that point I naively and probably arrogantly assumed that all abortions were because the mother just didn't want her baby. That was wrong. Most of the pregnancies were being terminated for entirely reasonable reasons--the baby lacked lungs, or lacked a brain, or--in the case of a nurse I knew personally--because the baby was so terribly deformed that he had no functioning systems in his body. None of these children had any chance at all of surviving outside of the womb, and in many cases the baby had already perished, and it was a great mercy to deliver the baby early. I'll never forget witnessing the silent grief of a mother holding her child who had died in the womb--tiny and perfect, but not ever capable of drawing its first breath.
I still just want to have a gigantic tantrum and throw things at a world where these things happen. Pregnancy is supposed to be one of the most joyous times in the life of a family, but sometimes it just isn't. It's such an in-your-face piece of evidence that we live in a broken world full of broken hearts, and makes me long for heaven all the more. I am furious that miscarriages and other fetal deaths happen, and sad beyond measure. And I also get furious that there are women who for whatever reason decide that they don't want their babies, and extinguish them instead of giving them to any one of the hundreds of families who long for babies and can't have their own. I learned early on at the hospital to avoid reading that line of the chart--I didn't want to know which mothers were grieving and which ones were relieved that their inconvenience was gone. It was not my place, and my heart couldn't take the dreadful knowledge. I decided to give each woman the benefit of the doubt, knowing that her life was open before God, and didn't have to be open before mine. Fortunately, I didn't have to stay on that unit long before I was able to move to a different one.
So where have I ended up? With a heart newly broken, because I haven't relived that experience for some time. And with a great appreciation, no matter how I end up voting, for Sarah Palin. Bless you, my dear. God bless Trig, and grant him a happy life. And God bless any family who looks upon a baby with medical or physical problems and says "I'll keep it" and gives it a life of love and care. Your reward shall be great.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Product of My Time
There is an issue which has been distinctly troubling me for some time, and that is the whole debate over the roles of women in the church. I had laid this topic to rest some time ago, and now it's rearing its head again, and I find it's been taking up my thoughts. I've been doing a great deal of reading in the last few months (no surprise there) on Biblical topics (perhaps a little more surprising), and this one comes up more than you might think. Several writers for whom I have great respect are firm in their belief that women must not teach groups in which there are men, and may not be in leadership roles. I know the passages that this comes from, of course, but I also know that I still struggle with it! I suspect it has something to do with my being female...
Let me be clear--I have no taste for leadership myself, which is just as well because I'm not convinced anybody would follow me. I'm happy in my current roles and don't wish to change them. However, I am a teacher. Not to the large assembly in our church (which is very large indeed) but to other women and periodically to our small group, which contains both men and women. And I think that I'm not half bad at it. But I'd done so much reading on the subject that I was actually kind of unnerved--and certainly unfocused--this last week when I was leading the discussion, and fairly flubbed it. So you can tell this bothers me, and this may end up being a record-length post as a result. Sorry.
Things that make me think I should NOT be teaching: Paul said it, quite clearly, twice. There really isn't any other way to read those words except that women are to keep their traps shut in church. End of story. And no, I don't think that Paul was a misogynist, not at all, but his opinion on this is unmistakable. It's so easy to say that he was just a product of his time, and this is a cultural thing, and therefore we can ignore it. Up to a point, I do think that's true! On the other hand, it does open up a real slick path down some other slippery slopes. If you go with that, how do you draw the line and say this thing was just cultural but that thing is not? How do we know for a certainty which things were Paul's first century opinions and which things are actually from God? I'm not always comfortable making that distinction, especially over something which has such implications for what I personally do--I could be biased!
Things that make me think it's okay for me to be teaching: This list is, predictably, somewhat longer. For one, I do agree with Catherine Booth (of Salvation Army fame) that God gives gifts--even to women--to be used. I have been in leadership before, and been teaching for some time, and always get put in these positions because there is a need, and I'm able to fill it. I can see making a strong case for meeting the needs that arise if I have the skills and am asked to do so. So I have. And our small groups would suffer greatly if the women's voices were not heard. We have a fair amount of wisdom among the ladies, and I personally think God put it there.
From the cultural standpoint, Paul's prohibition in I Corinthians comes in the same letter as instructions about head coverings, or lack thereof. I don't think you could argue that those are not cultural issues, and largely passed by in non-muslim societies at this time. I have memories of seeing the Catholic neighbors wearing little tiny doilies on their heads as they went off to mass, and I somehow think that it's not exactly what Paul had in mind. It's not clear that anyone really knows what he meant with the comment about it being because of the angels, but I understand that women wore veils as a mark of their status of being married, showing their submission to one man in that relationship, and that makes sense. I guess my wedding ring serves the same function today perhaps. I do understand that the bulk of that portion of his letter to the Corinthians had to do with chaos in worship, but these days the chaos can come just as readily from the men!
And I just can't ignore Deborah. No matter how I vacillate in either direction, I keep coming back to Deborah, one of the judges of Israel. She won't be ignored! Deborah was a leader, even militarily, and was appointed by God for the task. We don't know what His justification for that outrageous appointment was, because He didn't say, but apparently Deb was the "best man for the job". There's also Aquila and his wife Priscilla pulling Apollos aside to teach him the way more accurately. Not just Aquila. Priscilla too. Is it possible that God still appoints women as He sees fit, giving them gifts and abilities to be used even in the instruction of men? I wouldn't want to be the one to tell God that He can't, that's for sure.
So I'm still pondering. I'm not willing to say that Paul was only speaking for that time in history when it came to this issue (it is included in Scripture, after all), although he most assuredly was correct about what was needed for that time and those circumstances, but at the same time I'm not willing to limit God on what He might decide to be doing in this day and age. I worry about starting down slippery slopes, because a great many people have proceeded me and made disasters that way in many areas. So what to do? I guess I'll keep reading, keep thinking, keep praying, and likely keep teaching until/unless I'm convinced otherwise, because there is a need, and I am able and have been requested to fill it for now. But I'm still troubled, because the one desire of my heart is to not be outside what God wants for me, as a wife and mother, but also as a teacher who desperately wants to handle accurately the Word of truth.
Love, Spud.
Let me be clear--I have no taste for leadership myself, which is just as well because I'm not convinced anybody would follow me. I'm happy in my current roles and don't wish to change them. However, I am a teacher. Not to the large assembly in our church (which is very large indeed) but to other women and periodically to our small group, which contains both men and women. And I think that I'm not half bad at it. But I'd done so much reading on the subject that I was actually kind of unnerved--and certainly unfocused--this last week when I was leading the discussion, and fairly flubbed it. So you can tell this bothers me, and this may end up being a record-length post as a result. Sorry.
Things that make me think I should NOT be teaching: Paul said it, quite clearly, twice. There really isn't any other way to read those words except that women are to keep their traps shut in church. End of story. And no, I don't think that Paul was a misogynist, not at all, but his opinion on this is unmistakable. It's so easy to say that he was just a product of his time, and this is a cultural thing, and therefore we can ignore it. Up to a point, I do think that's true! On the other hand, it does open up a real slick path down some other slippery slopes. If you go with that, how do you draw the line and say this thing was just cultural but that thing is not? How do we know for a certainty which things were Paul's first century opinions and which things are actually from God? I'm not always comfortable making that distinction, especially over something which has such implications for what I personally do--I could be biased!
Things that make me think it's okay for me to be teaching: This list is, predictably, somewhat longer. For one, I do agree with Catherine Booth (of Salvation Army fame) that God gives gifts--even to women--to be used. I have been in leadership before, and been teaching for some time, and always get put in these positions because there is a need, and I'm able to fill it. I can see making a strong case for meeting the needs that arise if I have the skills and am asked to do so. So I have. And our small groups would suffer greatly if the women's voices were not heard. We have a fair amount of wisdom among the ladies, and I personally think God put it there.
From the cultural standpoint, Paul's prohibition in I Corinthians comes in the same letter as instructions about head coverings, or lack thereof. I don't think you could argue that those are not cultural issues, and largely passed by in non-muslim societies at this time. I have memories of seeing the Catholic neighbors wearing little tiny doilies on their heads as they went off to mass, and I somehow think that it's not exactly what Paul had in mind. It's not clear that anyone really knows what he meant with the comment about it being because of the angels, but I understand that women wore veils as a mark of their status of being married, showing their submission to one man in that relationship, and that makes sense. I guess my wedding ring serves the same function today perhaps. I do understand that the bulk of that portion of his letter to the Corinthians had to do with chaos in worship, but these days the chaos can come just as readily from the men!
And I just can't ignore Deborah. No matter how I vacillate in either direction, I keep coming back to Deborah, one of the judges of Israel. She won't be ignored! Deborah was a leader, even militarily, and was appointed by God for the task. We don't know what His justification for that outrageous appointment was, because He didn't say, but apparently Deb was the "best man for the job". There's also Aquila and his wife Priscilla pulling Apollos aside to teach him the way more accurately. Not just Aquila. Priscilla too. Is it possible that God still appoints women as He sees fit, giving them gifts and abilities to be used even in the instruction of men? I wouldn't want to be the one to tell God that He can't, that's for sure.
So I'm still pondering. I'm not willing to say that Paul was only speaking for that time in history when it came to this issue (it is included in Scripture, after all), although he most assuredly was correct about what was needed for that time and those circumstances, but at the same time I'm not willing to limit God on what He might decide to be doing in this day and age. I worry about starting down slippery slopes, because a great many people have proceeded me and made disasters that way in many areas. So what to do? I guess I'll keep reading, keep thinking, keep praying, and likely keep teaching until/unless I'm convinced otherwise, because there is a need, and I am able and have been requested to fill it for now. But I'm still troubled, because the one desire of my heart is to not be outside what God wants for me, as a wife and mother, but also as a teacher who desperately wants to handle accurately the Word of truth.
Love, Spud.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Cherrybomb
Is there anyone who doesn't love to wax nostalgic about their first car? I certainly do--she was a real character. The Cherrybomb (Cherry for short) was a 1963 push-button transmission Plymouth Valiant which had once been bright red but was pretty faded by the time I took possession. Cherry had a wonderfully simple slant-6 engine, and even I could deal adequately with some basics, like popping the hood and manually opening the choke when she didn't want to start. She often did not want to start.
Cherry developed a strange habit of beeping all by herself at one point, sitting alone in the driveway, so my dad disconnected the horn. Poor lonely Cherry! But she got her revenge, and succeeded in getting our attention too.
My parents' house was at the top of a hill, and the town was at the bottom. Once summer day I was coasting down the hill and when I got to the bottom I put on the brakes as I approached the upcoming intersection. Or at least I tried to. Cherry had lost her master cylinder, and my foot went straight to the floor and there was no stopping to be had. It was clear that I was going to sail right through that intersection with the red light hanging over it, and I realized that I couldn't even honk to warn people that I was coming. There was no horn any more. So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned right.
That slowed her down a little, but not enough, and after a couple more blocks I got to another intersection with a light, and so I again turned right. Cherry was going much slower at this point, but obviously was not going to stop all the way on her own, so I opened the door, jumped out, ran to the front, and stopped the car with my own body. People have fits when they hear this part, but I didn't think I was in any real danger, and apparently I was right, because Cherry came to a stop and I live to tell about it.
Dad got the master cylinder replaced, and decided that it would be a very good idea if I once again had a horn. So he installed one, but you didn't honk it by pressing on the steering wheel like you would with normal horns. Oh no, instead you pressed down on a big black button in the middle of the dashboard. It was unique, but entirely serviceable. So at the end of the summer I drove back to college, where all my friends were delighted with the big black horn button, and would honk it indiscriminately just for the fun of it. Between the horn and the push-button transmission, Cherry and I were celebrities, in our own minor way.
Cherry developed severe indigestion of the carburetor during my senior year, and I finally replaced her and let her go back to my home town with my dad before my final quarter in college. He sold her, and I have always wondered how long she lasted before she pooped out for good. But I needed something more reliable for my student teaching experience, so with great sadness I let her go. (The replacement had his own interesting personality, by the way, but that's for another day.)
It's tempting, as my daughter approaches driving, to supply her with something relatively new and safe and boring and trustworthy, but where would be the adventure in that? Nope, she needs my battered old van instead. Everybody needs to start out life with a junker. You need the character-building experiences that come with a doubtful old car, and the harrowing thrills that just compel you to prayer. Besides, how else would she collect the stories to tell her children? I couldn't possibly deprive her of that!
Love, Spud.
Cherry developed a strange habit of beeping all by herself at one point, sitting alone in the driveway, so my dad disconnected the horn. Poor lonely Cherry! But she got her revenge, and succeeded in getting our attention too.
My parents' house was at the top of a hill, and the town was at the bottom. Once summer day I was coasting down the hill and when I got to the bottom I put on the brakes as I approached the upcoming intersection. Or at least I tried to. Cherry had lost her master cylinder, and my foot went straight to the floor and there was no stopping to be had. It was clear that I was going to sail right through that intersection with the red light hanging over it, and I realized that I couldn't even honk to warn people that I was coming. There was no horn any more. So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned right.
That slowed her down a little, but not enough, and after a couple more blocks I got to another intersection with a light, and so I again turned right. Cherry was going much slower at this point, but obviously was not going to stop all the way on her own, so I opened the door, jumped out, ran to the front, and stopped the car with my own body. People have fits when they hear this part, but I didn't think I was in any real danger, and apparently I was right, because Cherry came to a stop and I live to tell about it.
Dad got the master cylinder replaced, and decided that it would be a very good idea if I once again had a horn. So he installed one, but you didn't honk it by pressing on the steering wheel like you would with normal horns. Oh no, instead you pressed down on a big black button in the middle of the dashboard. It was unique, but entirely serviceable. So at the end of the summer I drove back to college, where all my friends were delighted with the big black horn button, and would honk it indiscriminately just for the fun of it. Between the horn and the push-button transmission, Cherry and I were celebrities, in our own minor way.
Cherry developed severe indigestion of the carburetor during my senior year, and I finally replaced her and let her go back to my home town with my dad before my final quarter in college. He sold her, and I have always wondered how long she lasted before she pooped out for good. But I needed something more reliable for my student teaching experience, so with great sadness I let her go. (The replacement had his own interesting personality, by the way, but that's for another day.)
It's tempting, as my daughter approaches driving, to supply her with something relatively new and safe and boring and trustworthy, but where would be the adventure in that? Nope, she needs my battered old van instead. Everybody needs to start out life with a junker. You need the character-building experiences that come with a doubtful old car, and the harrowing thrills that just compel you to prayer. Besides, how else would she collect the stories to tell her children? I couldn't possibly deprive her of that!
Love, Spud.
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