Fair is not fair.

It shouldn’t take more than a brief glance at the circumstances of life around us to know that fairness is an illusion we subscribe to, not a reality we can expect.  In a number of ways, both personal and through my friends and loved ones, I have been repeatedly reminded that life is, most certainly, not fair.  Unprepared, ill-equipped teenage mothers populate our high schools, but wonderful, responsible people with great resources and hearts full of love are somehow denied or delayed the joy of parenthood.  Wildly irresponsible drivers make it through red lights unscathed, time and again, but a young mother loses two of her three kids when her minivan is run over by an SVU while waiting to make a legal left-hand turn; somehow the other driver walks free.  Cancer, fire, unemployment, heartbreak…sometimes these challenges are brought on by our poor choices, but all too often they strike, seemingly, out of nowhere.  We shake our fists to the sky and lament how incredibly, indescribably unfair it is.

In these moments, when fairness shows its fakeness, when I glimpse behind the curtain and see how illusive justice really is, I take comfort in the story of Job.  It is a very Hebrew story, because it does not subscribe to the New Testament, strongly Christian theology that God must always be “good.”  God, in fact, gives Satan permission to decimate Job’s life.  Much is made over the fact the God doesn’t do the decimating; however, it is clear that God gives consent to Satan’s experiment.  And Job, while refusing to curse God, does do some pitiful whining.

The part of Job I turn to for comfort, however, is Chapter 38, when the Lord finally responds.

From out of a storm,
the Lord said to Job:
Why do you talk so much
when you know so little?
Now get ready to face me!

God then asks Job to account for all of creation, “Were you there when I set the earth on its foundation?  When I directed the oceans to stay within their shore?  Did you teach the lions to hunt or the birds to fly?  Are you the one keeping this whole thing going?”  God asserts that humanity, Job specifically, is in no position to judge God, to claim God is wrong, or unjust – or, as it were, unfair.

I usually prefer to claim scripture like Romans 8:28, We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose.  Such passages affirm God’s goodness and the hope that our difficulties and sorrows are actually God’s own handiwork.  God’s divine plan, carried out for our good.

But Job brings me comfort when the trials and hardships are inordinately unfair.  When there seems to be no possible good that could be worth the price I, or my loved ones, have to pay.  When the world just seems utterly unfair.  When I know that these hardships could not possibly be inflicted by a loving God.  I share, in these moments, Job’s lament; if I’ve done something wrong, Lord, just tell me what it is, so I can do better and deserve better. 

I also cling, in these moments, to God’s power and authority: God is still bigger than me.  Only God can judge what is really fair.  Only God can know how much I can take.  It is God’s prerogative to use me against Satan – to prove to Satan and humanity alike that God’s people are bigger than their hurt, that we can have a faith that runs deeper than our blessings.  Like Job, I can beg for a break, I can demand an explanation, but sometimes the lessons of this life that are sent through me, and through my friends and loved ones, aren’t even my lessons to learn.

Sometimes, like Job, you can refuse to curse God, you can conscientiously live for a higher purpose and by a higher code, and God will, inexplicably, still let Satan take stabs at you.  But unless you’ve seen the storehouses of heaven, laden with hail and snow, you’ve got to live with the reality that fairness by human standards is not fairness by God’s standards: and God’s standards always prevail.

I created both you and the hippopotamus. Job 40:15

 

Destination: Arkansas

Well-traveled as I might consider myself, I know next to nothing about Arkansas.  I’ve never seen a PBS travel show about it.  I’ve never thought, “Oh, man!  Add it to the list!  I gotta’ get to Arkansas!”  Razorbacks and Hope: that’s the extent of my Arkansas trivia.  I’m not hating on Arkansas; it has just never made it onto my radar.  At all.

So it has been with some mirth that we’ve responded to inquiries about our holiday plans this week with a chipper, “We’re going to Arkansas!”  And with even more mirth we began to pile up the incoming brochures and travel guides.  They were ordered for us by my brother, who came up with the perfect home base for our Arkansas adventure: Devil’s Den.

There is actually more to recommend Devil’s Den that you might imagine, or more than I ever imagined, anyway, especially given the name.  There’s the Ozarks, with plentiful hiking, and river activities, and even the intriguing possibility of a zip-line adventure.  There’s also a nearby Civil War battlefield to visit, and somewhere in the vicinity are some presidential relics from the Clintons.

Of course, the biggest reason to visit Arkansas this week, is Texas.  It’s a 14 hour drive from my house to my brother’s - not an impossible distance, but certainly a challenging one for our two larger families.  It has been two years since I last saw my nephews and my niece is almost a year old without my having met her.  So we agreed to meet up half way, and Arkansas was the ticket.  If the only thing I get out of visiting Devil’s Den is a three-day-long game of Skip-bo with our combined 7 offspring, I will come home with glorious memories of Magnificent Arkansas.

And that could make me become a regular.

“Say of your brothers, ‘My people,’ and of your sisters, ‘My loved one.’ Hosea 2:1

We're going boy crazy.

Picking the kids up from school recently, an exceedingly young couple was walking home together, holding hands.  They paused to hug at the corner before parting ways.  I wanted to vomit, because they seemed way too little to be “in a relationship,” but instead used their public display as the entry point into a conversation with my daughters about whether their lives or friendships are being affected by romance, yet.  In doing so, I opened the floodgates.

It has set in.  My daughters have gone a little boy crazy.  They were just waiting for me to ask.  I’m thankful they tell me so openly about their lives, but I found myself growing bored quickly when they started outlining the list of boys they like, which other girls like the same boys, which girls the boys like, and all of the various dramas that ensue.  I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, to act very casual about their interest in romance so they would hopefully keep these communication channels open, but on the inside, I was just so SO sad.  I pray their search for Mr. Right doesn’t crowd out the wonderful breadth of interests, friendships, and activities that have, up to now, brought them joy and contentment.

Their sudden excitement about boys got me to thinking about the posting and conversation trends of people I know who are single, as well as my own experiences from back when I was single myself.  Those memories were buried some sixteen years deep, but I pulled some out and dusted them off to try and relate.  I had forgotten how consuming it is, waiting for your other half to come into your life.  Every new room you walk into, “he” might be there; I remember now the daily anxiety and anticipation that goes along with knowing you weren’t meant to be alone, but not knowing yet who it is that will fill that void.

I’m sure I sometimes lost control of my senses and went a little boy crazy in those days – letting my hope for love cloud my enjoyment, possibly even my pursuit, of other interests.  I rejoice to realize all the spare time and mental freedom I have to play and learn and cook and sing, because my time and attention isn’t consumed with the quest for the One.  I can go about my business, dressed however I want, focus on what I’m after, and not care who is or isn’t noticing me.  It is very liberating, but I’ve taken that for granted since I realized my husband was "him."

As we head into the turbulent season of adolescence, I wonder how I can help my daughters appreciate that while God designed us for partnership, their lives are now; they don’t start some day off in the future when they partner up – they are beautifully complete works of art, all on their own.  I hope they will let romance happen upon them while they are doing all the other exciting and meaningful things that fill their lives with contentment and satisfaction, rather than surrendering all those wonderful things and letting their pursuit of romance become the central focus of their lives.

It sounds so basic, but I know it will not be easy.  I pray a lot.  For their self-worth, for their discernment, for the boys they’re going to fall for along the way, for the dreams I hope they pursue, and ultimately for the marriages I hope they’ll have.

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: Ecclesiastes 4:9

The chickens are going to have to wait.

Imagine the kids’ surprise on Easter morning, when we open a seemingly routine express mail package and out pop – chicks!  Downy soft and ready to eat their first meal, the three day old chicks cuddle up in their warm hands and the girls’ eyes sparkle with delight as our new adventure in hobby farming begins.

We’ve had that image in our minds since we first put an offer on this place.  With great optimism, we imagined that we’d get settled in over winter break.  We’d be hosting sledding parties in January.  We saw ourselves, as March rolled around, rearing to get out there to plant a giant garden and build a chicken coup.

Reality is reining us in yet again.  With the mildness of winter this year, we spent winter break building a shed and cleaning the garage, instead of unpacking the basement.  Old Man Winter withheld sledding until just this past weekend, when we finally got a snowfall that could cover the grass on our hill.  As the dominoes are toppling, I see that our Easter fantasy is fading as fast as my laundry pile is growing.

I am in no way deterred from the vision of what this place is going to be for us, but I am having to rethink the timetable.  We chose a smaller house, and it takes a lot longer to get organized and settled in when you have half the cupboards, closets, and garage that you did before.  My spring chickens aren’t the only thing I have to let go of.  There’s also the extra set of dishes, the spare bed, the computer armoire, that stunning teal sectional…and many, many things that are still in boxes downstairs, yet to be identified for sale or donation.

Finally breaking in the sledding hill last weekend!

We took a lot on, pursuing this vision of self-sustenance and simplicity; it may take us quite a while to achieve even a basic start to all we hope for.  But it was a gratifying moment last week, when my oldest came in after school, dropped her bag and coat by the door, and sighed, “Ahhh…home sweet home.”  Yes, my dear girl, it really is.  And whenever we do get to it, farm fresh eggs and garden vegetables will only make it sweeter.

Hezekiah, I will tell you what's going to happen. This year you will eat crops that grow on their own, and the next year you will eat whatever springs up where those crops grew. But the third year you will plant grain and vineyards, and you will eat what you harvest. Those who survive in Judah will be like a vine that puts down deep roots and bears fruit. 2 Kings 19:29-30

I'm passing on Twilight.

I know I’m going to tread on some toes here, and there is not much I can say about the series that hasn’t already been said, but it seems to me that anyone over 25 who is fawning over these movies needs an express ticket to Cougartown.

When the mania began, and the facebook posting about glittery suitors became overwhelming, my husband and I figured we should check it out and rented the first movie.  We didn’t hate the movie, but we also weren’t overwhelmed by the drama, the characters, or the acting.  Mostly we thought it was weird that a 100 year old guy would find a teenage girl remotely captivating.  As for Bella – you have some serious father-figure issues if you are trapped in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf.  Anyone with any sense would pass on both.  As a parent, I find myself rooting for her to find a guy who’s too old for her, rides a motorcycle, has gages, tattoos and a chain wallet, and chews tobacco.  It would be safer and show better judgment.

I get more annoyed with the series every time another fang-inspired romance crops up and panders to my youthgroup and kids.  Girls, you should never consider a relationship with someone who assaults you, demeans you, or might eat you.  Even if you see the characters on the Disney Channel doing it.

But, who knows?  I did only watch the first movie.  Star Wars didn’t hit their stride until Empire Strikes Back.  Now there’s a series worth a midnight premier!

I think I know where this whole vampire thing got started, though.  There is someone whose blood holds the hope of eternal life.  Maybe it is all just a misunderstanding…

But if you do eat my flesh and drink my blood, you will have eternal life, and I will raise you to life on the last day. John 6:54

I believe in fighting back.

She was pointing her finger at me and laughing at my socks.  Somehow she had noticed that I was wearing the same pair two days in a row and decided that everyone in the room should be alerted to my lack of hygiene.  My face flushed and I struggled to answer her claim.  You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just claim clearly and confidently that I had two pairs of the same socks; after all, most people do, and often they wear them on subsequent days, right?  But I completely lacked the confidence to speak up on my own behalf.  Plus she was right, and I was tongue tied by that knowledge.  I pray my own kids find lying as difficult as I did back then.

This occasion is memorable to me because a girl named Caryn swooped in to my rescue.  She had noticed that my accuser was wearing the same pair of BLUE JEANS she had worn the day before.  It was obvious, because she had acted so cool when she’d written her name on the leg in pen, in front of us all, the day before.  Needless to say, as soon as Caryn mentioned the jeans, she dropped her suit against me for my socks.

I was so grateful to Caryn.  I wondered why people were scouring my wardrobe for mistakes, but she never seemed to draw any fire.  Of course, there’s the obvious – the coolness I so notably lack and she so effortlessly emanated.  Possibly, she never wore similar looking socks on subsequent days?  No.  It was more than her fashion choices.  There have been long articles and mini-specials offered on how to avoid or deal with bullies, but the answer I eventually noticed and practiced is so obvious it’s ridiculous.  Bullies backed off and left me alone, just about for good, when I started doing what Caryn did.  I started standing up, not just for myself, but for others.

It’s one thing to put together some good one-liners, to change your route or routine to avoid problems, or to carry extra lunch money.  Those are all actions that will help with self-preservation.  But nothing seems to intimidate an intimidator more than speaking up on behalf of others.  All it takes is doing so once or twice to discover that you have all the confidence and courage you need to make a difference for yourself and others.

There are so many broken people in this broken world who exploit the vulnerable to fill their own needs, from sixth grade bullies, to bosses on a power trip, to harassers and abusers.  If you don’t want yourself or your loved ones to be a victim, then don’t let someone else be a victim.  When you know something is wrong, say so.  You aren’t just rescuing that victim, you are protecting yourself.

And if that fails, a solid punch to the stomach should buy you enough time to get away.  Jesus may have suffered in silence, but God’s going to have to call my kids with that message directly, because I’m not going to teach them to let themselves be victims.  As Michael Landon’s angel on Highway to Heaven said after taking a second punch, “Now don’t say I didn’t turn the other cheek.”  Then he kicked tail.

Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Isaiah 1:17

I hate being afraid.

I interviewed a Catholic monsignor for an assignment once.  He was elderly, very pastoral, and won me over right away with thoughtful responses to my questions that surprised me, being far from the typical theology I expected from a Catholic priest.  Our conversation ended up off-topic, as my conversations often do, and he shared with me about an experience he had as a young man, exorcising demons.  He looked me in the eye and assured me that evil is real, that it is terrifying, and that a person should never open themself up to evil.  Some people might say he was a quack, but I believed him.  The fear he expressed, and the sincerity of his warning made a strong and lasting impression on me.

That was early in my seminary career, right around the time that we had a collective experienced of evil, September 11th, 2001.  My oldest girl was two months old and I was getting us ready to go to work at the church, when I flipped on the TV to check the weather and instead found out that there was a new world unfolding.  The towers were still up, wounded and smoking.  I began to pray the people inside would know peace.  It felt so weird to look at those towers and know that people, who were otherwise just fine, were in a death trap from which they would not escape.  I pictured them, possibly huddled under their desks and in stairwells, and couldn’t think of anything else that would help, so I prayed they wouldn’t feel panic, but would be overwhelmed by the peaceful presence of the Holy Spirit.  It seemed wrong that their last moments should be overwhelmed by wasted panic and worry, I hoped they could experience peace.

If my prayers were answered, and there was any peace, I haven’t seen much of it since.  Hate and fear dwell in such close company.  One leads to the other in an endless cycle of human brokenness.  There have been moments where it peaks for every generation: WW II, the assassinations of JFK & MLK.  There are many others, but for my generation, it will always be 9/11.  In the ten years since, we’ve normalized a level of hatred and fear that I still struggle to accept.

Ten years later, we are still at war.  I tied up a yellow ribbon when it started, and it weathered for so long, as one war faded into another, I couldn’t decide what was appropriate – take it down? Replace it?  Eventually it wore out and fell off the tree.  I wonder what kind of fear and hatred our extended presence abroad might be stirring up.  Ten years later, being X-rayed and frisked is the price of travel.  As much as it frustrates us, it also reminds us of that day.  It reminds us to look around and be afraid of our fellow travelers.  Ten years later, we pay European prices for gas, and the economy has yet to stabilize.  My generation, and the one after me, is defining ourselves by our relationships, because we’ve come of age in an economy where our wealth and careers are never secure.

I know we can’t unsqueeze the toothpaste tube.  Many of the changes evoked by September 11th, like those of the Cuban Missile Crisis or Pearl Harbor, are changes we are right to normalize, because they aren’t going away.  But I’m tired of hate and fear.  If we assimilate them into our culture, we invite the evil they breed.  The scripture claims that through Christ, we have power over demons.  We can order evil to pack up and leave us.  Instead of using religion to fuel the flames of hatred and fear, I want my faith to be a tool for peace, that the love and power of Christ could prevail.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18

Pioneers are either wacky or lucky.

No one ever reads the Little House books and says, "I'd like to be Mary Ingalls." Aside from the fact that she went blind and died an old maid, being such a model of decorum and grace must have been such a bore. Like every reader, I wanted to be Laura. Imagine the freedom of roaming barefoot on the prairie, with the sky wide open above and the wind blowing through your hair. Who cares if society frowns on your tanned arms, or that you might be hijacked by buffalo wolves out there on the prairie?

On our long drive to Grandma’s funeral, my husband and I listened to By the Shores of Silver Lake. I’d checked the book on CD out for my daughters, but they quickly lost interest. We adults, however, found it fascinating to hear her first-hand account of being the very first settlers in a brand new town at the end of the railroad grade, before the tracks had even been laid that far west. It led us to ponder the motivation of the pioneers. What possesses someone to give up everything they have, to put their life and livelihood, as well as that of their children, on the line, in the mere hopes that something better might lay on the other side of the horizon? Granted, Uncle Sam was giving away 160 acre farms, but really, don’t you have to be a little wacky to take that kind of risk?

My brother works for a new kind of pioneer. He’s helping build rockets, as space exploration is becoming a privatized endeavor. His boss got rich on technology stocks and decided he wanted to go to Mars. When no one would help, he started his own company with that goal. Hence, wacky or lucky. Or maybe both.

There are things I am passionate about, no doubt. I’ve made sacrifices and worked hard for a number of different endeavors over the course of my years so far, however, I’ve never been a pioneer, by any stretch. Sometimes I dream of pioneering – finding something no one’s tried before, something about which I’m insanely passionate – and putting it all on the line to make a go of it. Maybe I’d just be wacky, but who knows? Maybe I’d be lucky, too?

I am creating something new. There it is! Do you see it? I have put roads in deserts, streams in thirsty lands. Isaiah 43:19

I don’t know what Women’s Lib even looks like.

When I was a kid, I thought the Bunkers were my grandparents. Literally. During my early childhood, on my parents’ TV each week, they appeared to be identical to my grandma and grandpa; so much so, I remember it being confusing. On visits to their house, my grandpa could be found ruling from his throne in the living room, while Grandma was always in the kitchen, making him dinner. He’d interrupt her meal preparations periodically to have her come change the channel for him, and she’d drop whatever she was doing and come flip the dial. I loved my grandparents, but I knew from a young age that I was not going to have that kind of marriage. Grandma never even got a driver’s license; she was dependent on Grandpa to take her wherever she needed to go. When I pictured my someday life, a doting, enslaved wife was the last thing I wanted to be.


 I was blessed that as I grew up, I had the chance to know Grandma better. I eventually realized that my first impression of her could not have been more wrong. The woman I first thought of disparagingly as her family’s housekeeper and cook became one of my greatest role models. My same grandma, who refused to get a driver’s license, had once hotwired a Model T with a hairpin and took her aunt on an afternoon road trip, just to spite her cranky uncle. Grandma, who served and doted on grandpa, had once assisted in his appendectomy. She likes to say she “already knew him inside out” before they dated.

Part of why Grandma had seemed so old-fashioned to me was because she was far older than my other grandparents. She was nearly an old maid, by the time she married Grandpa – thirty. She once explained to me her reason for marrying so late, “it was not for lack of opportunity,” she clarified. There was a war going on, and she wasn’t going to marry someone, just to have him go off and die in battle. Despite the pressure to conform, Grandma stood her ground. Sure enough, she married Grandpa after a short three months of courtship – once the war was over.

I also realized that if Grandma hadn’t wanted to change the channel, the TV would not have survived a day in the house. Tenacity is one of Grandma’s essential characteristics. Having waited so long to get married, becoming a mother wasn’t easily either. Her first child was a micro-preemie, born in an age when micro-preemies were miscarriages. Grandpa once described how my aunt could fit in the palm of his hand when she was born. Grandma never got big enough to wear maternity clothes. But her nurse-friends at the hospital all chipped in to get Grandma an incubator and they sent the baby home for Grandma to watch over. She pumped her milk and coddled that little baby – I believe she willed her daughter to survive. And if Grandma makes up her mind, only God can come between her and what she wants. My aunt grew up without any developmental impairments.



When the doctor delivered the news that Grandma’s second child had been born with a cleft palate, she matter-of-factly retorted that she was just going to have to love him double. Her nurse-friends came through again, with softer nipples from bottles that had already been broken in by other babies. She filled her baby’s cleft with those soft nipples, so he could suck and get the nourishment. He was another baby willed by my grandma to survival.



She kept her promise, too.  She's spent the rest of her life, loving my dad double.  And most people never guess the serious birth defect he overcame.

My grandparents, off on an adventure
 together in their younger days.

Grandma didn't become the first female astronaut or build a personal empire, but she made a way for herself, by herself when necessary.  She's been on her own again, since Grandpa died over 20 years ago.  Serving her family was a calling for her; one she pursued with all the energy and conviction she had.  She knew who she was and what she wanted and nothing would stand in her way.  I've learned from her what a gift it is to have a loving, committed marriage, and to bear and raise healthy kids - and that, as long as you have a choice, choosing to serve others is noble, not demeaning.

Grandma's 95th birthday is next month, but it looks like she'll celebrate that one with Grandpa and Jesus.  That is, of course, unless she makes up her mind not to go.

After Jesus sat down and told the twelve disciples to gather around him, he said, "If you want the place of honor, you must become a slave and serve others!" Mark 9:35

I’m Ready to Out the Tooth-Fairy

I posted a picture this week so my friends and family could see the way my younger daughter’s advancing age has ravaged her teeth. I’m not sure how she’s actually eating right now; there are so many gaps in her ragged smile. I mourn the loss of those perfect little pearly-whites that we worked so hard for, back in that first year. I remember the chipmunk smile of her first birthday and how huge those little nubs looked in her mouth.

She, on the other hand, has no such hesitation. She bounced in from school, delighted to show us the treasure box she got from the nurse when the first of her two front incisors came out at lunch time. Yesterday, she could hardly get the blood rinsed out of her mouth; she was so thrilled with the newly empty place beside the first. And this morning she woke up an hour earlier than usual to dance the celebratory dance of a new Golden Dollar. And for that, she has her father to thank.

If I were in charge of “bringing imaginary figures to life” for our family, I’d probably be sliding the golden dollar across the table and throwing the tooth in compost. At some point, we are going to have to break off this charade. A lost tooth at family camp, where no one thought to bring a golden dollar, turned into a long yarn about how tooth-fairies have different routes and we can’t be sure, but camp might be on the “Paperdollar Tooth-Fairy’s” route. No worries, because our tooth-fairy was glad to exchange that paper dollar for a golden coin the next night.

It’s the same way at Christmas with Santa. Whoever takes the role has to mask his voice and, I’m not kidding, put gray makeup on his eyebrows to hide his natural hair color. According to family tradition, gray eyebrows are the key to the magic of Santa. Santa should also have handwriting distinctly different from that of Mom and Dad.  (Of course, you can cheat at these rules, if you are desparate to get a toddler to nap.)

I’m all for the fun and games of these family traditions. It’s hilarious how the kids’ eyes light up at the magic they perceive to be happening, not just around them, but for them. I myself have helped my daughter write a note to the tooth-fairy to explain that her loose tooth fell into the toilet and couldn’t be retrieved, but could she still have a golden dollar? But there has be a point where we affirm our kids’ growing skills of reason and let them realize that this is a fun game, not the truth of how the world works. After all, if you are masking your handwriting, your kids must be old enough to read. It might be time to let them figure it out, before they embarrass themselves with the kids at school.

Maybe I shouldn’t sit them down at the table and explain that the tooth-fairy is really just Daddy. I’m sure they’ll want to realize the truth more gradually than that. But I do try to ensure that we don’t work too hard convincing them that these untrue things are true, because I don't want to sacrifice our credibility.

I want my kids to trust me, that I’m not out to fool them. It's important they know I'm not playing games when I also tell them that God came down to Earth to live among us as a human being. I tell them he died, but rose again. I tell them that living out our lives the way he told us to will bring blessing and hope to ourselves and others. They can’t actually see and touch Jesus. He doesn’t leave them money on their night stand. Their first experience of faith in their heavenly father is going to spring from their faith in their earthly parents. Maybe I take it all too seriously, but there’s too much at stake to risk leading them to doubt that the sometimes fantastic things I tell them are really true.

Then Jesus told him, "You believe because you see me. Those who believe without seeing me will be truly blessed." John 20:29

***Whine whine whine***

I hate whiners. The incessant chorus of complaining drives me nuts on so many levels. First of all, what’s the point in complaining? Don’t waste your time or mine. Get out there and do something to make things different, or suck it up. Second of all, what do we really have to complain about? Do we not live in a country with an obesity problem while 2/3 of the world is malnourished? People in Greece are still storing their TP in the trash bin to preserve the country’s fragile sanitation system, while I have fresh, clean water that comes out of my faucet on demand – hot or cold. I drive on paved roads, organized with traffic signals and colored stripes to keep me safe and well directed. I shop at grocery stores that are stocked to the rafters with a wide variety of tasty food, offered at reasonable prices. I put my clothes into a machine that cleans them for me and call it “housework.” Sure, illness, sickness, and the stupidity of our fellow humans can befall any of us at any time, making us uncomfortable, inconvenienced, or impoverished, but what does a short temper, and high pitched nasal vocalizing do to correct that? Nothing. So, please, save it.

I feel like I’ve earned my callous indifference, at least to some degree. I can handle pain – I birthed two kids naturally, with none of the crazed screaming of the lady across the hall to “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!” I hope Dad got that on video so Junior can someday enjoy the warmth of his welcome. I’ve worked hard – I took on crazy, exhausting challenges like commuting 3 hours each way to school while working the other four days a week with my daughter in my office. I’ve lived on nothing – I even got stuck on an island with no money for a week and had to subsist in a hostel, eating beans and fake peanut butter while sharing a room of bunk beds with insane homeless people. And that’s just a few examples of the stupid binds my “never say die” attitude has gotten me into. I know there are much harsher adversities out there for humans to endure, but I do figure I’ve been uncomfortable, inconvenienced, and impoverished enough to have empathy, if not compassion, for most of the whining I hear around me. But even in the midst of those experiences, I forced myself to keep it together, to make the best of it, to assume there was something better for me on the other side. I really tried not to whine.

Whining never got me anywhere, and I try not to let it get anyone else anywhere, either. My lousy attitude towards whiners has led me into quite another predicament, these last couple months. I am, at this very moment, torn between my desire to vocalize all my discomforts and the internal self-loathing that such a vocalization causes. Instead of rallying against the nausea, fatigue, and mood imbalances of these 14 weeks of pregnancy, I have found myself, instead, surrendering to them. I’ve spent more time languishing on the couch with a pile of crackers than loading up the machine so it can clean my clothes for me. I’ve been impatient with my two sweet girls, criticizing instead of nurturing them, when they fail to meet my expectations for picking up after themselves and getting their homework done. I’ve broken every rule of eating well, and living well (except for not drinking – which I would truly love to do)! I am such a pathetic bundle of WHINER!

And really – there are so many people around me who would give anything to have two such healthy and beautiful daughters. I pursue this greedy desire for a bigger family, get pregnant with ease, and then have the audacity to whine about the symptoms of pregnancy? Don’t think for a moment that I don’t realize what a horrible human being I am. I have such a deep respect for this process; I get to co-create with God! I feel such an intense love for this little person I’m cooking up. I have such high hopes for my friends and acquaintances who want to have a family and struggle to make it happen. But, at the moment, I just needed to complain a little. The fact of the matter is, and has been for weeks, I just don’t feel very good. And I hate it when I let that get the best of me.

For a long time I have kept silent, I have been quiet and held myself back. Isaiah 42:14
(I refrained from adding the next verse, but you may get a laugh if you look it up.)

Islam is not the Devil, but Mental Illness is Demons

What would possess a man who claims to follow Jesus Christ to incite anger and promote hatred, despite the opposition of fellow clergy, and the pleas of multitudes of rational people? Let me tell you, folks, this guy might be hearing voices, but it isn't Jesus or the Holy Spirit talking. What can a person do, if they have a delusional need to be heard, and no one wants to listen? They want to be heard, not to say anything worthwhile, so they pick any hot button topic that stirs up people's most passionate emotions and get themself in front of a camera.

Whether it's holding up signs that say, "God hates fags," or assaulting troubled women with pictures of dismantled fetuses, what you are seeing on display is not the love and hope that can be found in the greatest story ever told. It is the demon-possessed ranting of a small number of people with an incredibly persistent drive to be acknowledged.

Now, I realize that it is no longer en vogue to call mental disorders "demon possession." I also realize that many people are able to have their issues diagnosed and treated, or short of that, at least brought under maintenance. I am in no way arguing for a return to institutionalization and "leeching" of people whose behavior falls outside of cultural norms. But there is probably no human frailty that inspires hopelessness in me more than mental illness. It acts just like demons. Where relationships and the love of others is the strongest life line to keep each of us connected and thriving in the world, that seems to be the first thing these disorders attack. So often, by the time it is clear that there is a disorder, and not just rampant bad behavior, the victim's strongest allies in the fight have already fled to safety.

I am no clinical psychologist, but I can tell you with some certainty that church life brings me into contact with more than my share of individuals with mental issues. It feels like demons, when troubled people refuse to acknowledge their problem and get help. Imagine if your cancer attacked your brain and convinced you not to get chemo. It is also much easier to tolerate the pain these disorders inflict when I can remind myself that it is the demons, not the person, spurting ugliness; I can hate the demons and still love the person.

I sometimes feel trapped in this dilemma. Maybe someday the voices in my head will give me a solution, beyond fervent prayer and strong boundaries. In the mean time, those of you who hold a deep respect, possibly even a love, for Christ in your hearts, but choose not to express it through the institution of the church; I understand your hesitation. It breaks my heart when the Body of Christ, who reached out with love and healing to those who were marginalized, becomes known for hatred and division. It also breaks my heart that there are people out there so full of pain and hatred, who claim to know the source of deepest healing, yet somehow don't tap into it.

For now, I really wish they would quit putting cameras in those peoples' faces and giving them a voice so loud that it drowns out everyone else. I'm a behaviorist, after all: if it quit working, even demons would quit doing it.

When evening came, many who were demon-possessed were brought to him, and he drove out the spirits with a word and healed all the sick. Matthew 8:16

Saying Good Bye to Grandpa

Obituary: H. Edward Reeves - The Prescott Daily Courier - Prescott

I'm writing this ahead of time, because Friday morning, when I normally would be sitting down to share some clumsy or humbling aspect of my own humanity on my blog, I will be going into a memorial service and bidding my grandpa farewell.

The indomitable nature of the human spirit is something often written and wondered about. Through the gravest tragedies and hardest persecutions, human beings find it within themselves, somehow, to persevere. I started pondering, a while back, whether I might know first-hand one source of this phenomenon.

One version of Grandpa's story (this is longer than my original link, but the original was no longer available.  At 19, Grandpa survived a shelling, being shot point blank in the head, being severely beat, and crawling through the snow in sub-zero temperatures in the Chosen Reservoir.  All his fingers and both his feet were amputated.)

This is almost a cliff's notes version of Grandpa's ordeal in Korea. It'll give you an idea, though, of all that he survived. I grew up with this story. I can't remember hearing it for the first time. Watching Grandpa, as young kids, we were fascinated at the way he could hold his spoon in the crease of his palm. The nonchalant way that he strode around on his wooden legs never gave me a moment to ponder whether he would have preferred to have shins, ankles, and feet, like the rest of us. He didn't just survive Korea, he made it all worth it. He raced go-karts. He drove his family in a station wagon to Costa Rica for a year of mission work. He took us shooting. He played Skip-Bo. Not long ago, just like then I was a kid, he took a swim in a hotel pool with my two little girls, showing them a few things about how to get around in the water. They shared their amazement, not because of his missing extremities, but because "people that old don't usually know how to swim." Growing up, knowing Grandpa's story, and seeing how he lived each day, no one in my family could readily complain about their feet being cold.

Grandpa's story may be exceptional, but if you trace your family history, you'll find your own story. Toughness is bred into survivors and we, all of us, spring from survivors. From Noah on the Ark down to the soldiers of WWII and Korea, our culture is steeped in the stories of unlikely survivors who lived on to become our parents and grandparents. Those who gave up, whose luck ran out, or who for whatever reason didn't make it – their story is lost. It is not our story.


Without putting you to sleep with our family history, Grandpa's isn't even completely unique in my own family. There are at least three such stories of against-the-odds survival and perseverance that involved a person whose genes I share. Those stories always give me hope for my own, comparatively minor struggles. Even when things are hard, I know I can overcome it. No matter how uncomfortable it is, I know it won't kill me.

And then there's Jesus, whom Grandpa loved. Jesus bore excruciating torture to redeem us. He showed us how to overcome hatred with love, and that the power and wealth of earthly success would mean nothing in eternity. Through Grandpa's victory over adversity, I learned to live each earthly day with gratitude and hope. Through Christ's victory, I can say good bye to Grandpa with hope that this departure is, indeed, not the end.

Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about those Christians who have died so you will not be sad, as others who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and that he rose again. So, because of him, God will raise with Jesus those who have died. 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14