Hellfire and Damnation

I’m sure, in my 6+ year history of blogging, I’ve mentioned the frustrating (and for a time, wounding) experience I had while in university, being accosted by a street preacher.  It was my non-Christian friend, of all people, who had to pull me away from the man with the megaphone who was shouting at me that I was a Jezebel who would burn in hell.  I tried to reason with the preacher and tell him I was a sister in Christ, but he would have none of it, and hollered at me — at point-blank range, still through the megaphone — that I was lying.  My friend, meanwhile, growled at the preacher that he had “got the wrong girl” as he dragged away my offended self.

Ah, memories. 

That event, oddly enough, really cemented my heart in commitment to the Vineyard church.  With its emphasis on much-more-subtle (and practical!  and never emotionally-damaging!) activities like servant evangelism, it just seemed much more in line with what Jesus would truly do (and this, my friend, was way before the WWJD phenomenon).

Recently, I have decided to read through the book of Acts.  My pastor very often uses passages from Acts in his weekly messages;  they’re very practical for the everyday life of a Christian, for he is nothing if not practical.  So, I feel like it’s a book with which I have a good acquaintance.  And I tend to concentrate my Scripture reading in portions of the Bible that are less-familiar to me.  Nevertheless, I decided to read Acts for myself…  to reacquaint myself with what the early Church was doing, and to re-prioritize it in my own life.

Most days, I only read a few verses, before cross-referencing, word study, and contemplation take over, not to mention little girls waking up early, wanting to snug.  Yesterday, however, I read the whole of chapter three.  In it is the account of Peter healing a man who was 40+ years old of a lifetime of being lame.  The thing that really struck me, though, was the tenor of Peter’s sermon on the matter, and its effect.

Consider:

• “But you disowned the Holy and Righteous One, and asked for a murderer to be granted to you, but put to death the Prince of life….“
• “…I know that you acted in ignorance…“
• “Repent therefore and return…“
• “And it shall be that every soul that does not heed that prophet shall be utterly destroyed…“
• “God raised up His Servant, and sent Him to bless you by turning every one of you from your wicked ways.”

Not exactly the world’s most touchy-feely sermon, eh?  But what was the fruit of it?  What was the result??

But many of those who had heard the message believed;  and the number of the men came to be about five thousand.

Peter, the street preacher, with his megaphone, so to speak, delivered some really scorching words to the hearers.  And what happens?  Conviction!  Salvation!  Church growth!

His hellfire and damnation sermon WORKED.

Wow.

I suddenly have some compassion for my own street preacher — which I have never previously felt, in the twenty years or so since it happened!  Perhaps he was just trying to follow Peter’s lead, expecting the same result.

This morning, pondering it further, I was reminded of George Müller, whose amazing life is a profound testament to prayer, faithfulness, and God’s redeeming power, not to mention vast social change*.  If I am remembering correctly, when George first became a believer, he took his university Divinity education, and tried “pastoring” simple German farming folk** with high-falutin’ sermons, even copying, word-for-word, some of the most sophisticated ones he could find, in hopes of impressing those who heard.  The result was that he impressed them, all right, but he didn’t pastor them, nor bring any closer to knowing and loving Jesus, because they couldn’t understand what he was saying!

In other words, it may have been the right words, but it was at the wrong time, to the wrong audience.

The greater difference between Peter in Acts, and the megaphone-toting, hellfire and damnation New Orleans street preacher, though, may be this:

1. Peter was filled with — and controlled by — the Holy Spirit.
2. Peter’s words came after some serious manifestation of “signs and wonders“, which, in and of itself, made believers out of non-believers.

In Acts 4:23-31, directly after this event — Peter healing the lame man and being detained by the religious leaders of the day for it, and for preaching the resurrection of the dead in Jesus — the believers gathered to pray for further boldness!

I need that.  I need all of that:

1. The right timing,
2. being filled with the Holy Spirit,
3. participating in the miraculous,
4. and more boldness.

I really don’t want a bad experience with someone who had only one of those four in operation — the boldness part — to… well… I don’t know how to put it.  I think what I have done for the last twenty years, is mostly be afraid that anything I say or do out of boldness will have the same negative effect on others that my own experience had on me.  Until now, I really haven’t pieced it all together that it wasn’t the boldness, per se, that was wrong.  It was not having the REST of the package in concert with the boldness.

Having all of it together is the difference, I now believe, between wounding others and revealing the true heart of God to them.

As I re-read what I’ve written above, it sounds like a no-brainer.  “Duh.  Of course you need the Holy Spirit in order to be effectively bold.”  But, I guess that’s what a revelation is all about:  Really sealing things that you may have heard a million times before, and to which you can make a quick mental assent, into a true thing that goes deep in your heart of hearts, so that it’s really REAL, in a way that it never was before.

So.  Now.  Instead of tentatively praying for boldness, afraid of what would happen if God actually GRANTED that prayer to me, I will not just pray for boldness, in and of itself.  I will pray for His timing, His presence, and His power to accompany that boldness, continually in my life.

It’s a good recipe, I think.  And may it bear, oh God, the same fruit that Peter and the apostles did.***

———————-

*To my mind, no two men did more to change the way orphans were treated in Victorian England — and to this day — than Charles Dickens (who raised awareness in a socially-palatable way) and George Müller, who actually DID something about the horrid state of orphanages.

**George hadn’t moved to England yet.

***Might as well start now with the bold requests, eh?? 

Thoughts on Christmas. Of course. And dreaming. And poetry.

I am really excited about Christmas, especially the presents, which is a switch for me.  I’m a terrible gift-giver.  I just never can think of what would be “just right” or the only thing I can think of is a bizillion dollars, or it would have taken a month to make and I’m out of time, or whatever.  It’s a lack of intuition plus inadequate planning, I guess.  Add to that the constraints of staying ON BUDGET, and it about wipes me out.  However, this year, we set aside some money well in advance.  And I’m excited about what I have planned for my family.  Although, also in the back of my mind linger the unpleasant memories of gifts that I thought were going to be AWESOME and they turned out to be a total bust.  It’s so much easier to remember the failures than the successes for me.  Something wrong about that….  Anyway.

I had my children make Christmas lists, which I don’t often do, as I think it’s a bit tacky and self-serving and can get their hopes up for that ridiculously over-priced Really Cool Present that they will never receive, like the CELL PHONE on my 12 year old’s list.  I know there are younger children with cell phones, but I looked at him and asked, “Really??” with the Mom Look:  One eyebrow arched, head tilted to the side, lips pursed, a heavy sigh written all over my face.

However, I need to let my children dream…  I’ve been convicted about that lately.  I caution them and prepare their hearts so well about our family’s values — which have a lot to do with Jesus and very little to do with materialism — that I caution them right out of dreaming.  I’ve specially noticed that about my oldest son, who is 14.  He is afraid to even have dreams, lest he be disappointed;  he doesn’t want to fix his heart on the impossible.  That’s startling, partly because that’s just like ME, and I have to fight just to allow myself to have dreams… and frankly, it’s not a super-healthy place to be.  I read “Hold Fast Your Dreams” by Louise Driscoll to him yesterday and suggested that it was a good poem for him (though “The Metal Checks“, also by Driscoll, is much more striking, as poems go, it wasn’t appropriate for the lesson at hand…).  And, I let the cell phone stay on Grant’s list.

Mine is almost identical to this one, mustache bridge and all. An upgrade from $50 firewood. In related news, pretty much all of our guitar-buying has been pre-1997, when we started having children.

For my younger two boys, Wes (age 10) and the aforementioned Grant, I’m having them memorize Luke 6:27-38, in light of the commercialization of the American Way to Have Christmas, and due to the fact that there has been way too much of, “Hey, that’s mine!  Give it back!” which makes me want to poke out my eye with a fork.  I slowly went over each verse with them, explaining that in God’s economy, if you give up something willingly, you always gain back in greater quantity and quality than what you yielded.  I used as an example:  In April 1994, I semi-unwillingly gave my $50 guitar — which was just this side of firewood — to my roommate who had, in my absence, started taking lessons with it.  It was hard, but I was intentional about being generous.  I got married in November of that same year, and my dear husband greatly surprised me with a Taylor guitar (815C model — jumbo with a Florentine cutaway) for our first Christmas!  I hadn’t even dared to hope — to dream — about my own super-fabulous guitar.  It was enough to play my husband’s.    Come to think of it, that was the first of many instances where my husband goes above and beyond where I dare to dream, when it comes to buying me presents.

Anyway.  I also explained to my boys that Jesus was blowing the minds of his hearers.  The Jews already had an unusual law forbidding lenders to charge interest.  Jesus was taking it one step further telling His followers that they were to give anything to anyone who asked, and not even expect repayment of the principle, let alone interest!  This is challenging, to be certain.  Very challenging.  But, it’s required.  Even for kids.  No more, “Hey, that’s mine!  Give it back!”

And, it must be mentioned, that the former roommate is now a professional musician.

“But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, ²⁸bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. ²⁹ If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. ³⁰ Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. ³¹Do to others as you would have them do to you. ³² “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ love those who love them. ³³ And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ do that. ³⁴ And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ lend to ‘sinners,’ expecting to be repaid in full. ³⁵ But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. ³⁶ Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful. ³⁷ “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. ³⁸ Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

Faith, redeeming my Pentecostalism, and “trusting birth”.

I am a recovering Protestant.

My pastor calls us “empowered evangelicals.”  I like that.  Yes, I’m evangelical — I want to tell others about the beauty and love of Jesus — but there’s the power of the Holy Spirit behind it.  Or, rather, the Holy Spirit is in all things I do (that’s the goal, anyway).  God is the focus, the motivation.  His love compels me.  In 20ish years of reflection, now, on my childhood church upbringing, I feel that there was too much “show”.  In other words, speaking in tongues was THE goal.  Prophecy was THE goal.  Exuberant worship was THE goal.  Faith was THE goal.  It very well could have been the immaturity of my perspective;  I was 18 when I left my childhood church, never to again return.  But, somewhere in the mix there of all the hyperactive religion, the Lord Jesus Himself was lost.  I somehow missed that the GOD OF ALL CREATION IS THE GOAL.  All that other stuff is a means to that end:  Jesus.

So, with that in mind, I have been challenged so far this year, and have felt the breath catch in my throat on more than one occasion in my small group.  As a worship leader, I’m assigned a weekly group.  I don’t necessarily get to go where my friends are, or get to choose the leader who I feel most speaks to where I’m at, and does so in a way that communicates clearly to me.  I go where I’m assigned.  So far, that’s been a really good thing.  And, only three weeks into the “season” of new small groups, it’s really too early for thorough assessment.  But, more than once, the leader has mentioned that faith is going to be a focus of his teaching.

Having grown up in said Pentecostal church, where the idea of “name it and claim it” was (for real) taught, I feel like I have had more than my fill of teaching on faith.  And any time someone says that they are going to focus on faith, little warning bells and red flags start chiming and waving in my mind.

“What are you doing, God?”  I wonder.  “Where is this going?  Is my leader really going Pentecostal on me?  Because I don’t think I could handle that for nine months.  Am I overreacting?  Am I here to balance out any ‘name it and claim it’ junk that might crop up?  Do you have me here to test me somehow?”  Round and round my thoughts have gone.  What I have come to, though, after three weeks of concern, prayer, and a wee bit of hyperventilating, is this:  God wants to redeem my concept of what faith is.  It’s time.  It’s time for me to no longer be afraid of the word “faith” and to be rid of the negative connotations it has for me.  It’s time for that history to be sifted, and for the good, solid, true, right aspects of it to remain in the sieve, and the chaff and dust to be shaken out and done away with.

Which brings me to, yet again, the idea that one of the best things about God, and one of the most uncomfortable things about Him is that He doesn’t allow me to just stay, if where I’m camped is harmful.  He doesn’t allow me to remain in patterns of sin or even thought patterns based on misunderstanding.  He, by no means, is a static God.  He’s active.  He’s methodical, but not in a plodding way;  He is purposeful.

So.  Anyway.

(The following kind of jumps around a bit;  I hope that, by the end, it’s tied together coherently.)

I’ve been reading the epistle of I John lately, and this morning thought, “You know, I’ll be happy when this book is done.  It’s so challenging and meaty, and I really just need some love and comfort, like from the Psalms or the late chapters of Isaiah.”  Hahaha!  Such maturity.    Although, the Holy Spirit spoke to me in that time, “Take note.  Your children can also only handle so much correction and instruction before they need a serious break filled with love and comfort.”  OK, God.  Point taken.

Then, I came to this:

For whatever is born of God overcomes the world;  and this is the victory that has overcome the world:  our faith.  I John 5:4

The first thought that came to me, upon reading that verse, was about the process of natural childbirth.  Among the natural childbirth community, especially for those espousing unassisted birth (that is, birth at home* with no attending physician, nurse, midwife, etc.) there’s a saying:  “Trust birth.”  When I read the verse above, I thought, “Rather, I should trust the GOD of birth.  Have faith in the God who created birth.  He has overcome all the junk in the world — sin and death and pain and crappy doctors (and nurses and even midwives and friends and family and whoever else) who are antagonistic towards the beautiful, arduous process of birth.  I must have faith that He’s a good God and that though the path is difficult, His purposes in it are right and true and good.”

I hope that makes sense.

What I’m saying — though it’s kind of tangential to the point of this post — and I realize that this may be a wee bit inflammatory, is that trusting birth is idolatrous.  It’s having faith in the creation, instead of the Creator.  My faith, and any woman who claims Jesus as Savior, needs to be in the One who originated the process, the God whose infinite mind conceived such an amazing process, and in His goodness and His right-ness in doing it in the way He did.

Those thoughts (faith, birth, Creator) led me, this morning, to progress to one of my favorite concepts EVER, found in Romans 1:20

For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.

In other words, as the songwriter Kevin Prosch coined it, “The natural things speak of the invisible.”  I ABSOLUTELY ADORE IT when I gain a better understanding of my God when He reveals more of His character, His heart, His nature, His abilities, His wisdom, et al, through something I can see, touch, or experience.

Birth, clearly, is an experience.  However, there are a lot of variables in the process.  There are a lot of emotions.  There are many unknowables.  With every birth, but especially with a first-time mother’s birth, it really is like diving into the unknown:  jumping off of a diving board into an empty pool with the hope that it’ll be filled by the time she hits the water.  There is a lot of FAITH that needs to be employed.

Backing up just a few verses, Romans 1:17 tells us, “…the righteousness of God is revealed from faith to faith…”  I pondered that for a few minutes.  I re-read it, “The right-ness of God is revealed from faith to faith.”  We as people, and especially we as Americans, don’t like that concept.  We want to try before we buy.  We want a test-drive.  We are wary of anything that can’t be sampled.  However, that’s just not the way of God.  He calls me to trust Him, to have faith in His right-ness, and as I do that — after I do that, perhaps even as a result of my faith — His ways are revealed as solid, good, true, and trustworthy.

Does that make sense?  I have to have the faith FIRST.  It’s only after I’ve gone through that exercise of applying faith, and applying faith, and applying faith, that His ways are revealed as right.

So, getting back to the natural speaking of the invisible…  As further pondered where God has me, I realized that as I study my God, and as I study the process of birth, I am ever more convinced that the process of birth is a microcosm of the nature of God.  Birth is the marriage of:

• The concrete and the abstract.
• Science and emotions.
• The rational and the transrational**.
• The absolute and faith.

After I recovered from my reverie this morning (well, I’m still not quite recovered;  I’m still in awe), I became filled with thankfulness.  My God knows that I struggle with the idea of faith.  Thankfully, I’ve been a Christian for long enough to see God move in amazing, powerful ways, and in truth, my day-to-day relationship doesn’t require much faith.  He is.  He is real to me, as real as anything I could hold in my hand and stare at.  But, He is also faithful to illustrate to me the value for something that I gaze at, with sidelong suspicion:  faith.  And He did so in a way that makes sense to me, utilizing something for which I already have value:  the process of birth.

God is so good
God is so good
You reign on high in majesty
And the widow’s heart You cause to sing
You hear the cry of the fatherless
And the depth of Your love who can comprehend

For the natural things
Speak of the invisible
Look around and see
Who could deny the wonders of His love
(From God is So Good by Kevin Prosch)

————————–

*Well, usually it’s at home.  I actually birthed my third child, Wesley, all ten pounds of him, unassisted, because the nurse didn’t believe he was coming, and wouldn’t return to the room when my friend Stephanie called her back, “I just checked her and she was at an 8.  I’ll come back in 20 minutes or so…” and when she came back, I’d already pushed Wesley into the world.  Unassisted hospital birth:  that’s gotta be rare. 

**My dictionary is telling me that this isn’t a word.  However, I love it as a word-concept, even if it’s not truly a word:  “Transrational” is that which is outside of my understanding.  It doesn’t mean that it’s irrational or untrue;  it’s just something that cannot be quantified by cold, hard facts.

From the boy who hates to write…

I know I’m biased, but my 14 year-old son Ethan wrote something this week that brought tears to my eyes.  It was jaw-droppingly gripping and well-written.  We got done reviewing it together, and I asked, “Can I post this on my blog?”  He laughed, “I knew you were going to ask that.”

Ethan says that he hates to write.

Toward the beginning of last year, his 8th grade year, I assigned him a “mini” research project.  We went through the process of deciding on a topic, learning the construction of research papers, crafting an outline, procuring the appropriate books, doing the reading, learning how to use the books to get the best info… on and on.  Well, his three-page project grew into five pages.  Then ten.  Ten and he still wasn’t done.  He kept writing more, but with absolutely no joy, and only when I twisted his arm to write.  I was desperately and unsuccessfully trying to get him to rein it in;  he would get so bogged down in the details, it was like he was trying to write another book…  His actual writing is excellent, but his self-editing skills were nil.  And with a paper so long, of course there were many opportunities to discuss better grammar, or spelling, or sentence construction, or topic sentences, or better vocabulary choices, and on and on and on.  And, any time I had a correction for him in the process, well… we’d both end up in tears, because he’d get SO discouraged.  I felt like Bad Homeschool Mom.

The paper, I’m ashamed to say, never got done.  It was mostly my fault, because the whole thing had just ballooned into an awful scramble of flawed teaching, sensitive adolescent feelings, and LOTS AND LOTS of words.  At some point, toward the end of the year, I just decided that it wasn’t worth it, and we’d tackle writing next year.

“Next year” is now this year.

This year is only one week old… but on Sunday evening, as we discussed in greater detail what his freshman year would look like, to his great disappointment, I told him, “You’re going to do a lot of writing.  But, you’re going to do it in much smaller chunks, so that neither of us gets bogged down.  It’s my goal to encourage you greatly, because you really ARE a good writer, but you so dread the process that it hangs like a sword over your head.  I want, by the end of the year, for you to become a confident writer, who writes with relative ease, and isn’t frightened by the writing process.  And I will stay on top of it, helping you along the way, and not giving up.”  He seemed only nominally assured.

The Newbery Honor book by Patricia Reilly Giff

Ethan is doing Sonlight’s Core 200 this year, and really enjoying it.  I’m glad that he found the first assigned novel, Pictures of Hollis Woods, so interesting, because his writing assignment was based on the book.  The book is a compelling story of the history of a foster child.  Each chapter begins with a word picture, painted from a memory of the main character, a girl named Hollis.  The writing assignment detailed:

What is your favorite picture from Pictures of Hollis Woods?  Why?  What qualities make it your favorite? …  Using that picture as an inspiration, write a picture of your own… make sure your picture reflects the same qualities you value in your favorite.

Though the assignment was only asking him to think about it, I suggested to Ethan that he write out his reflection on his favorite portion of the book, describing what it is about it that made it so striking.  Then, for him to pick ANY memory of his own that stands out like a snapshot in his mind, and to note various things about the memory:  what was happening, how he felt, what the weather was like, why it stuck with him, etc.

His notes were:

I think I would say my favorite picture expressed in this book is the thirteenth picture.  However, it is not my favorite because it’s funny, or pleasing, but very sad.  Now, I do not mean to be morbid in any way, but this picture really provoked my emotions more than any other contained in this book.  It just really got me thinking, “Wow, how could this happen.  How could a girl, an orphan at that, be so hard-hearted to the one and only foster father who truly loves her.”  And just the way this book is written puts you smack dab in the middle of this clash of emotions that really seems to make the characters come alive, it’s just stunning and it makes you feel like you’re standing right there the entire time.

Notes:  Arizona Snowbowl
on ski lift
traveling up
about 8? (years)
11 – 2 (time)
tingly feeling
bundled up
very cold
legs feel scratchy from blanket

And here’s what he wrote:  (I very lightly edited it with him, altering a few points of punctuation, and crossing out a total of seven words, adding five that he chose from my suggestions… )

He was tired of looking through the wreckage of this house.  He decided to look in the last room of the house then leave for good.  The man did not enjoy the findings of this particular abandoned abode;  the only thing of use that he found was a thick folder full of paper.  He sighed, thinking, “Only good for starting fires.”

Later, at his camp, the man spread out his findings of the day before him:  a rusty kitchen knife, four cans of food, some ammunition, three burnt and water damaged books, and the folder.  The man was intrigued most by the folder.  He picked it up, but it crumbled in his hand, spilling papers all over.

One caught his eye, different from the others.  It wasn’t just a bunch of letters he couldn’t read, but a picture seemingly drawn by a child.  It was a family, a mother and three young boys, riding up a mountain on some kind of lift.  The mountain was spectacular, hundreds of feet tall, grey, and covered with pines and what stuff the man determined was snow, based on what the family was wearing.  The sun was high in the sky, making the ground glisten, and the man quickly lost himself in his imagination.

He found himself looking through the eyes of the oldest boy, cold, but wearing a strange fuzzy sweater with a hood attached.  He was also wrapped in a blanket that looked itchy.  The man felt a strange, excited, tingly feeling inside and opened his eyes back to the world around him.  He sighed, looked down at that wonderful picture and gently folded it, putting it in his pocket.  “More precious than all the fire starters in the world,” he thought.

Is it just me??  Or is that not REALLY GOOD?  Mystery, unanswered questions leaving the reader wanting more, very evocative, very creative.  He inserted his own memory into a really compelling fictional account.  A short-short story.  I thought it was awesome.  Plus, I was so excited that he (we, really) got through the assignment with triumph.  I didn’t have much to do with the story at all, but it still felt like an accomplishment.

It was a good first week of school.

So, maybe He wasn’t trying to kill me after all…

When I was 27 years old I was fairly certain God was trying to kill me.

I was reminded of this upon recently reading about an old acquaintance’s plans to adopt a baby after two birth children, but not perhaps as you might initially be thinking as you read this account of the hardest season in my married life — a season that lasted, oh, about five years.

Reading the adoption-plan story also made me consider my standard response to the numerous people who ask me whether or not my husband and I are having more children.  For a canned response, perhaps it falls under the category of “TMI”, but it encapsulates my thoughts on the subject,  “Well, we’re not planning on it, but we’ve done nothing permanent to prevent pregnancy, nor will we do anything permanent, and two of our five were conceived when we weren’t ‘planning on it’, so you never know what God has in mind.”

Back to when I was 27:  I had a one-year-old boy and my oldest son was three.  My second son had been a surprise:  I had decided, after one, that one was more than enough, and I privately extended grace to all the mothers of “only children” over whom I had stood in judgment.  I also — seriously — asked the Father for forgiveness for my wrong attitude, rooted in abject ignorance, over how difficult mothering is, and how one child can truly feel like plenty — very fulfilling.   So, there I was with my two boys, and daily, I felt like I was barely, barely, barely keeping my nose above water.  Literally, every day, I felt like I was drowning, only to just survive another day.

Then, I found out that I was pregnant again.

I remember laying on my back on the floor of the family room one night, early in the pregnancy, after everyone else — including my husband — had gone to bed.  I was weeping, laying it all out there before God, in ugly and brutal and heartbroken honesty.  I told him that I was sorry I didn’t want the pregnancy, sorry that I was having great difficulty accepting His choice for me, sorry that I was even having those thoughts, and so on…  I had to lay there  — a position of my choice, being entirely vulnerable, before Him –  and in all seriousness, confess to Him that if He was intending for this to literally kill me, that He was going to have to help me trust Him on that, too.  It was just… too far beyond me to consider that this pregnancy, and the resulting baby, could be for my benefit at all.  So, I considered that maybe that God wanted that baby’s life so dearly, for such a specific and important purpose, that He would need to sacrifice mine in order to bring that little one into existence.  I’m not being melodramatic.  I was completely serious, and that was the best I could come up with:  That the baby needed to be alive, even if it killed me.  Even if God killed me.  “Though [You] slay me, yet will I trust in [You]…” reverberated in my mind, alternated with, “Lord, I believe;  help my unbelief!“

Teaching (or, should I say, “teaching”) your children (and yourself) Scripture

Luke Holzmann, over at SonlightBlog, posted recently about teaching children the Bible.  He asked readers how they handle it, and offered his own suggestions, including, “Read commentaries, talk to friends and teachers, consider the context and the rest of Scripture, look up articles and, again, read the passages themselves.”  My comment got kind of out-of-control long, and when I got done, I thought, “That would make a pretty good blog post in itself.”  So, here it is:

My mother read two chapters from the Bible every night (except church nights — Sunday and Wednesday) to the four of us siblings for my entire life, while I was living at home.  She’d finish Genesis, then on to Matthew.  Then Exodus, then Mark.  And so on.  I knew the Bible better than just about any kid I knew because of it.  She never offered any commentary, but she would answer questions when they came up, and, in retrospect, I think she did a bit of editing on the fly for some of the stickier bits.

I will never forget the day when I was 16 and a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door.  No one else was home at the time.  There was a man who did all the talking, and a lady who hung in the background, who looked increasingly ill at ease as I countered the man’s statements, suggesting to him that he was wildly (but craftily) misquoting virtually every verse.  In exasperation, and with an air of condescension, he finally said, “Fine.  You know so much?  You find it in your Bible and show me.”  I asked him to hold on, fetched my Bible (which had a concordance), and did just that.

Although I really enjoy conversations with my children — scriptural topics included, I think that, most of the time, if we just keep exposing our children to Scripture, that, eventually, it will sink in, as maturity unfolds, and as God’s Spirit speaks to our children’s spirits.  They will get to know His nature and His ways, if they just READ, and/or if we read to them.

I don’t read a lot of commentaries.  I do appreciate good Scriptural exposition, and can get some good, meaty info out of Greek/Hebrew word studies.  I also enjoy historical studies, which lend a deeper insight into one passage or another…  But, still, I predominantly let the Scripture stand for itself, asking Him, as I start to read, “What is it You want to tell me in this? Please don’t let me miss anything.”  I see the Bible as, in essence, a love story, with God revealing Himself to us, Jesus’ bride and the Father’s children.

I TOTALLY think that God and Scripture can stand up to scrutiny, and sometimes, it can be really helpful to unpack a particularly troublesome verse.  However, it is my observation that too many people — Christians included — get caught up in dissection, instead of simple contemplation, led by His Spirit.  Then, reading the Bible becomes simple knowing ABOUT God, instead of KNOWING GOD, Himself.

It’s a fine line.

It has sprung, in the Sonoran Desert.

This last week, the acacias started blooming.  For me, that’s always the mark of springtime.

Here in the Sonoran Desert, the three major flowering trees are the sweet acacia, the palo verde, and the ironwood.  They bloom in that order:  sweet acacias in late February or early March, palo verdes in March-April or so, and ironwoods in late April or early May, usually.  Acacia blooms are dark orangey-yellow little ½” puffballs, and have a very distinct, cloying, powerful scent.  Palo verde blooms are usually (depending on the variety) bright, bright yellow, blanketing the entire tree with delicate flowers.  Ironwoods are more subtle, a very light lavender color, among the grey-green leaves.  Neither palo verdes nor ironwoods have much scent.

acacia farnesiana

acacia farnesiana, seed pod and bloom

I cannot stand the scent of the acacia.  Ugh.  When I was a kid, my mom took my sibs and I, weekly, to the Phoenix Library.  Each branch of the library is named after a native plant.  We usually went to the Acacia Library.  In the springtime, I remember taking a giant gulp of air while still in the car, then sprinting up the acacia-lined path to the entrance while holding my breath, to avoid smelling the nearly unavoidable fragrance.

The palo verdes to be found around the Phoenix area are typically either the Blue Palo Verde, parkinsonia florida (which is NOT native to Florida), or the Mexican Palo Verde, parkinsonia aculeata.

parkinsonia florida bloom, close-up (beautiful!)

parkinsonia florida

I didn’t know until now that the palo verde is an invasive species in many places, worldwide, especially Australia.  I was about to post something preachy about landscaping with only native species, but remembered that, while my front yard has only native plants, my backyard has several non-natives, including the Australian tipu tree.

Anyway.

My fave desert tree is, by far, the desert ironwood, olneya tesota.  Part of it is just because I like purple;  so many native plants around here bloom yellow and only yellow.  Part of its appeal is just because I like the shape of the tree.  And, I think it’s cool that the wood is so beautiful, often burled and two-toned,  not that I think one should go around chopping down ironwood trees.  The wood is so dense that it will sink in water.

A couple of years ago, I looked into visiting the Ironwood Forest National Monument, established by Clinton only days before he left office.  There wasn’t much info on it, especially on the hiking trails I sought, so I called the Tucson field office of the BLM, which administers it.  Well, it turns out that the Ironwood National Monument is a MAJOR illegal immigration corridor, and I was vehemently advised to stay away, especially as I had small children.  Golly.  The field officer blamed the situation Clinton, who had established the monument, but had given no funds for its development or protection.  Hm.  I still want to go, but maybe we’ll wait a few years.

An evening in the life of a honest-to-goodness Mommy

So, my dear husband came home from work tonight with a monster headache — migraine-y, wanting to lay down and hold his head very still, lights off…  Perhaps only the second migraine of his life.  I gave him some Tylenol and water, and hurried him off to bed.  Distracted, I was, by dinner preparations…  Minutes later, as I was feeling badly for not being very attentive to my hubby’s needs and pain, I went into the bedroom to check on him.  Audrey was standing by his side, and had put the Kleenexes next to his head — just in case.  She had the idea to get the ice packs for his neck, as that was hurting as well.  She had already prayed for him — her idea — and as I stood there, she kept a gentle hand on his head…  Gave me hope, that did, for that crazy, rough, rowdy, smart-as-a-whip, loud little four-year-old.  It made me remember when I was 36 weeks pregnant with Fiala and ill, and Audrey took care of me by covering me with her favorite blanket and commanding, “Now, suck your thumb!“

I sent a text to Martin’s small group leader, letting him know that Martin would likely not be in attendance tonight.

Martin borrowed Ethan’s old MP3 player which has some great worship music on it, and plugged in.

About 45 minutes later, Martin staggered out.  Either prayer, Tylenol, worship, a profound sense of responsibility (he’s the worship leader for his small group), or a combination of those allowed him to rouse to his feet and head out the door, our 13-year-old, Ethan, carrying the guitar.  (The small group meets at the home of one of Ethan’s friends;  he accompanies Martin most weeks.  Ethan and his buddy play video games pretty much nonstop during their “time together”.  The ideas about what constitutes relationship are much different between a mother and her teenaged son.)

A short time later, I put dinner on the table for myself, Fiala, Grant, Wesley, and Audrey.  Fiala had been fussy all evening, but that’s common after a late nap, as today’s had been, as we had been at a park with a number of other homeschooling families, during what would normally be Fi’s nap time.

Early into the meal, it became apparent that Fiala would rather go back to bed than eat, so I gave the other children some instructions, and went to put Fiala down for the night.  She kept saying her tummy hurt.  “Uh oh,” I thought.

I returned to the other three children, and fielded a somber report from Grant that, in my absence, Audrey had been speaking something so dastardly that he could not repeat it.  After assurances that Grant would not get in trouble for repeating what Audrey had said, and more than a little curious, I asked him to divulge what had happened.  “How bad could it be?  She’s four,” I thought.  I won’t write it here, but suffice it to say, it was startlingly crude, disrespectful, and downright ugly, and all of it had been apparently directed at me.

I was hurt and disturbed, and decided that Audrey needed a spank.  (Yes, we spank on occasion.  Wooden spoon.  One to three whacks.  Then, kisses, forgiveness, love, and reassurance, restoring the relationship.)

After I spanked her, we sat talking.  I felt a need to know what was going on in her little mind, why she could say what she had about me.  She started out by telling me that her brothers had made her say it.  I knew it wasn’t true, but I just kept calm, kept my voice gentle, made sure I was motivated by love and concern for her and for our relationship. It turns out that she had had a bad dream about me the previous night, and in her little heart lurked offense, hurt, and even fear over how I had treated her, in the dream.  Saying yucky things about mom behind her back was her way of “getting back.”  I gently assured her that I would never, ever, ever do what I had “done,” in the dream — tossing her bodily out a window, telling her that I wouldn’t keep her any more, and that I didn’t love her.

We were both in tears, Audrey apologizing with sobs, and me holding her close and loving on her, making a mental note that perhaps she needs more attention from me…  Since I do structured school with the boys, and Fiala is the “baby,” honestly, Audrey gets short shrift many days.

Audrey, who thinks she is the bomb, quite certain that her external prettiness is the trump card that allows her to do anything, only very, very rarely acknowledges her sin — not too surprising for a four-year-old.  She then leveled me by telling me that she was afraid the dream would come back because her heart was “crooked” and her crooked heart would tell her brain what to dream, and her brain would tell her thoughts, and that she would dream the bad dream again.  We then had the most heart-to-heart talk ever, about how only Jesus can come in and heal crooked hearts and make them soft and kind, and that He can bring His goodness to her brain and her thoughts, and that He LOVES it when little girls ask His forgiveness, and that He delights to come in and fix crooked hearts…

Part of me wanted to assure her that her heart wasn’t crooked;  it breaks my heart to think of a preschool-aged wisp of a beautiful girl bearing anguish over her “crooked” heart.  However, I fully remember when I was four, and one Sunday morning, somehow, in an instant, becoming aware of the blackness of my sin, and feeling the weight and the depth of the guilt of it, and knowing that I needed salvation.  Though I was only four, the absolute tearful, distraught conviction I felt needed a true… release, a true healing, and I’m so glad that my Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Hammons, took me very seriously, and tenderly took me onto her knee and led me in prayer confessing my sin and asking for Jesus to come into my heart.

I just knew that Audrey didn’t need reassurance from me.  She needed Jesus.

It was beyond touching, how very sincere she was, and how she obviously felt the depth of her error, and how she acknowledged that it was beyond her, and how relieved she honestly was, that Jesus would come in and heal her.  She prayed a sweet, simple, heart-felt prayer, asking Jesus to forgive her for saying ugly things about her Mommy, for lying (she even threw in a bonus confession for another lie I didn’t know she had told), and asked Jesus to heal her crooked heart.

Then, as Audrey and I tearfully clung to each other, from the other side of the house, Fiala started throwing up.

I wrapped up things as quickly as I could with Audrey, ran past the boys at the kitchen table, wiping my eyes, and burst into the girls’ room, where, sure enough, there was my little two-year-old, in tears and muck, saying that she had “hiccuped yuck.”

I got her cleaned up, and Audrey sat with Fiala, singing sweet songs to her while I changed Fiala’s sheets and started the load of laundry…

Twenty minutes later or so, after I had tucked both girls in for the night, and re-prayed for both of them, I left the room with a sigh and a prayer of my own for their sleep to be peaceful in every way.

I stepped back into the living area of our home, and my 11 year old, Grant, piped up, “Can Wes and I take turns playing on the computer?”

Deep breath.

Not, “How’s Fiala?”  No, not a word of concern for either sister…  just looking for the computer time he always feels is “due” to him.

I had to work hard to keep my voice even-keeled, as I expressed to him that I understood that though he has a hard time with empathy for others,  he needs to understand that absolutely no empathy is really not acceptable, and that if he can’t bring himself to care about others who are spanked or crying or throwing up, the least he could do is just keep his mouth shut.

Perhaps I over-reacted.  I was just gob-smacked that, after coming up from the depths of emotion and deep spiritual issues and tears and throw-up, Grant’s first thought was, “I want computer time.”

~sigh~

Still, I think it was a good night.

Now, I’ll go eat my dinner and read a book.

Tears, prayer, power, and courage (and a foot pump, too)

I remember, not long after my first son was born, someone said to me, “Karen, you used to be so cold.  Since you’ve become a mother, you cry at everything!”  I think she meant it as a compliment, like I’d come so far in such a short time.  It stung, and obviously, 12ish years later, it has stuck with me.  But, I think perhaps it is true.  Was true.  Whatever.  I’ve never been mega-highly-emotional, at least not in the classic sense of the Emotional Woman.  But, motherhood has definitely softened me.

Maybe it’s genetic.  My sister, who gave birth to her first child on August 1, said in response to a friend, “It’s true, I was not the one we thought would be all about “blessed motherhood,” but here I am, and I am indeed very blessed. Not sure how that happened, exactly.”  That made me so happy.

Ah, I’m getting myself off-course.

What I meant to talk about was crying about something yesterday.

Being that I’m still me, who thinks about things way too much, I’ve thought about it, and have concluded that the thing I cry most over is this:  People for whom I can see freedom.  I can see courage.  I can see a life that God has planned for them.  I can see their future.  Hope for them wells up in me.  Expectation, even joy over future events, or at least potential future events.  It comes to me in a instant.  It’s a feeling, a knowing, and I sense it very strongly.  It happens to me often when I’m praying for others.  I think it might be a prophetic sense of that person’s potential, given to me by the Holy Spirit, which enables me to have immense faith as I pray for them, because I can SEE what God has in mind for His dear child.

BUT, here’s where I cry:  They’re not walking in it.  The life I see for them, they’re not living.  They are depressed.  Or angry.  Or discouraged.  Or fearful.  Or frustrated, locked up, eyes closed.  Lacking in hope.  Any or all of those.

I can cry right now, thinking about a few people.  Weep.

I get so angry — SO ANGRY — at the enemy, angry that he’s successfully sold them a bill of goods.  Angry at his deceit.  Angry at his lies.  Angry that he’s been able to squash that precious person under his thumb, and keep them disabled from being the person who God has called them to be, and living the life God has planned for them.

It makes me angry and sad, but I also feel that hope of what is possible, because all things — ALL THINGS — are truly possible with our mighty God, creator of the universe, of things both infinite and infinitesimal, and a happiness, joy wells up in me, a profound sense of the Father’s love, and I cry.

I pray, with a growl in my voice, a growl of conviction, of feeling, of intensity, for the power of God to come wipe out the enemy’s plans for that person, and for God’s plan, and His power, and His love, and His hope, and His peace to reign instead, that His plans would triumph, and that the enemy would be given a swift and hard boot.  I pray with the thought, with the picture of me, as the intercessor, plucking things from the heart of God, and depositing it into the mind and heart of the person for whom I’m praying, pulling it from God’s heart, and placing my hand on their chest, which then fills with His heart… an impartation.

I got a picture, yesterday:  It was of one of those foot air pumps, and the person for whom I was praying was like a deflated air mattress.  I just asked that I be allowed to be the person who steps on the pump, and that His breath, His life, His courage would pour into the deflated person, that their life would fill with His life, and that this would bring the person to effectiveness and fulfillment in Him.  (Not that anyone really longs to be an air mattress, but everyone DOES long to have purpose in their life, and to do whatever it is that they are called to do, and that their lives be meaningful and count for something — and a deflated air mattress is not doing what it was “created” to do.)

But, even as I prayed, I was aware that He created the pump (so to speak), and He created the mattress, and He gives the power to man the pump.  Everything is from Him, and through Him, and to Him — to God be the glory forever.

My own mini-blog carnival. Because I can.

Six things that have struck me or interested me in recent weeks, with no theme:

1. For those of you who asked me, via comment or e-mail, for the reading list of recommendations from my friend Kathy, it’s here!  (I mentioned it in a post where I lamented the state of current teen fiction.)  My precious friend Kathy posted an intro to her list of 100 or so pre-teen and teen books, as well as a handy, printable pdf, with title, author, and a wee commentary on each one!!  (from the P14 Ministries blog)
2. For those of you, like me, who have been alternately intrigued and frustrated by the recent upsurge in Gluten-Free Everything:  A great (and fairly lengthy) look at the pros and cons of the recent trendiness of the gluten-free diet.  (from the Triumph Dining blog)
3. Please read this beautifully written paean to family and the Midwest entitled Has the Mail Gone? by Cloth Mother upon the passing of her beloved 94-year-old grandmother.  As I was reading it, I thought, “This woman must have lived in Illinois.”  I pulled out a map Google-mapped a town name, and sure enough… right in the heart of the farm country in which my parents were raised.  When I took my children to Illinois 3½ years ago, on our way back to the airport, from Quincy to Chicago, I purposefully avoided large highways and instead, meandered, taking every teensy two-lane blacktop, passing through small town after small town, treasuring the scenery and the ambiance of the land that tugs so at my heart.  Of all the hamlets through which we passed, my favorite was a little spot called Henry.  I could easily imagine myself there, raising a family in a century-old two-story on a sleepy, tree-lined avenue.  It took a considerable amount of strength and a sharp intake of breath to drive away from Henry…  Henry is only about four miles up the Illinois River from the author’s town of Lacon.  Feeling a connection there, and because the piece was so beautifully written, I felt like I had to comment.  But, I didn’t.  The story was so personal, and all the commenters knew Grandma Florence.  But, reading the story will make you wish she had been your grandmother, too.
4. I must confess that I am not particularly emotional.  I mean, I have emotions, but I don’t cry easily, and I don’t really enjoy crying.  However, I simply wept at this post by Nicole Deggins, and I absolutely did not regret it.  Nicole, a certified nurse midwife, wrote a searingly honest account of her unexpected pregnancy, then the loss of her hours-old baby daughter, whom she nicknamed Peanut, birthed at 24 weeks’ gestation.  (I have loved Nicole’s blog for more than a year… two years?… and am angry, actually, that an organization which has a copyrighted name similar to that of her blog, sued her, and now she has to disband the blog.)
5. I have recently felt compelled to stop lamenting how few ingredients that my 22-month-old daughter can eat, and stop using that as an excuse to not be creative with Fiala-safe ingredients in the kitchen.  When most grains, corn, rice, potatoes, most fruits, a great many vegetables, most meats, dairy, and even most herbs and seasonings are off the ingredient-list, I’ve found it too easy to resort to the few things that I know she can have, like blueberry oatmeal with cinnamon and farinata with fresh rosemary, each of which she has virtually every day of her life.  This post by Kimberly at Affairs of Living really inspired me.  It’s for grain-free Chocolate Pumpkinseed Bread.  Now, Fiala can’t yet have either chocolate or pumpkin seeds (and yes, I’ve tried both).  However, reading about the bread, and looking at the scrumptious results of the recipe — not to mention her link to the corn-free baking powder recipe — really kicked me in the culinary rear, so to speak… it got the wheels turning, and I’m starting to look at what is POSSIBLE on Fiala’s diet, rather than just biding my time until she can eat more.
6. I have been a reader of Living and Learning for a couple of years.  Sue is a homeschooling mother of four, married to a native of Japan.  She blogs with beauty, honesty, graciousness, and a bit of whimsy.  I find myself refreshed by her writing.  I had never had much interest in visiting Japan before reading her blog…  However, I find myself very compelled by her photography of the flora and landscape of the area around her home, not to mention the stories of her family.  This Summer Check-In post is typical:  filled with lovely photos, family togetherness, and things of interest — even peculiarity — to an American who has really no other acquaintance with Japan.

Click and enjoy!