Grateful Daughter

The Elves in the Hood

2009-09-20T22:23:00.001-07:00

I really should be cleaning or here's a novel thought...sleeping. It is afterall the wee hours. But, these little gear-turning elves in my brain will not quit working. Guess we know they're not with the Union.

Many of you (like I'm talking to a crowd here) know that I teach a teen girl's Bible study in one of the local projects here in Huntsville. It's been about six years now and I finally feel as though I've won the trust of most of my students, which trust me, is no small accomplishment. One even calls me her godmamma. They are the reason I can't shake the elves tonight.

They live hard lives in broken-down homes, daughters of disfunction. Most of the fathers are gone. They want to do what is right, but they have so few examples to live by. Sometimes I feel like they are broken cisterns and every week I come with Living Water. I pour the water into the cisterns, but because of the cracks and fisures the precious water leaks out and, by the next Sunday, they are completely dry again as though water had never passed through them. It is frustrating to the point of clothes rending or hair uprooting. But, I love them as Jesus loved the woman at the well.

Right now, two of my girls are pregnant. Both due in February. One is 17. The other is 12. No that was not a typo. She is actually the second 12-year-old students I have had who has found herself pregnant. I can understand the 17-year-old, at least a little bit. So far, her boyfriend has stuck by her. She is a realist. She knows babies are hard, wake-you-up in the middle of the night, keep-you-from-having-fun work. I wouldn't say she's ready. What first mom is? But, she's got a good head on her shoulders and she'll do all right. The 12-year-old. Well, she's 12. And that, in the strange economy of the inner city, makes all the difference. Her mother plans to raise the child as though it were her own, while pretending that the baby is her daughter's sister. It's certainly not the best scenario. I would prefer that she place the child for adoption. But, it's not about what I prefer.

This all brings me back to the elves and the endless acrobatics my mind does to try to get to the bottom of it all. Why do the father's leave, act like they were a million miles a way when the deed was done? Why do the women allow themselves to be treated in such a base, inhumane manner? Why is poverty acceptable? Why do they pass around their babies like they're blue jeans? Why isn't education the great bridge out of poverty like it was for me?

I'm no anthropolgist (though I wish I was), but I've been conducting my own little anthroplogical study these last few years, filing away little bits of information here and there hoping for a break through. I've read that some theorize that the prevelance of male infedility in some black communities can be traced back to the days of slavery, when a married slave could be sold to a plantation 100 miles away from his family. He might never see his wife again, and so would be left with no choice but to be unfaithful to the first and take on another. Well, that may be so. But let's be honest. That happened 150 plus years ago. And unless you believe in some sort of Clan of the Cave Bear race memory garbage, it's just not okay to right off the generation-destroying behavior of a large segment of society because of the mindless mistakes of men who have been dead for five generations. Others would say that the tendency to sample several women at once goes back much further to their ancestors' African, tribal days when poligamy was a symbol of status and prestige. And again, I say, rubbish. Do descendents of slave owners seek to preserve the tradition of soul-owning today? Do the great-grandchildren of the Nazis have a right to unfurl the Swastika and shreak, "White Pwer!" How about the many tribes of Papau New Guinea who were totally into canibalism? Would you excuse them for trying to barbecue your mother because it's a tradition they've known for generations?

No! You'd say cut the evil thread. Be gone with it. Bury it in the deepest pit in the deepest cave in the deepest ocean. Look to the Truth that fills the pages of the Bible and start your new life there. Do not use what some mindless master did to your great-great-great grandaddy ruin you and those around you. Do not use culture, or tribal traditions that fly in the face of God's commands as a crutch. I cannot tell you what a difference it would make if just five men in the community where I work would bend their proud knees before our merciful God. Their example would shine like the chrome on the tripped-out, lime-green 1976 Chevy Impala I saw crusing through the neighborhood the other night. Lives would be forever transformed. Souls saved. Girls valued. Cisterns mended. Elves silenced. Oh..that it would be so. Father hear my prayer.

Turning into Grandma

2009-09-09T23:20:00.000-07:00

I figured if I waited long enough to post, the fall background on my blog would once again be in season. And so it is, almost fall...and I haven't posted since, ugh...March? What is wrong with me? Oh, I know. For the last five months or so I've been totally void of inspiration and since I'm really weird about my writing, I just didn't want to post a useless, "this is what's going on in Sarah's mundanley busy life." But, the guilt is crushing. I just hear the word "blog" and a choir of accusing voices assemble in my head, crying out in one shrill voice, "why haven't you blogge d lately? What's the matter with you? Don't you have anything to say to the world?

Well, yes. I have lots to say and that's the lion share of the problem. So much to say, so little time to make sure what I say is actually backed up by facts and is semi-coherent.

But the voices must be silenced so I can go to bed. And if I have to write out my schedule for tomorrow, by golly that's what's going to end up in the blogosphere.

Maybe a little update on my life wouldn't be so awful? Everyday, I feel as though I becoming more and more like my Grandmother. All-in-all that's a good thing. My Grandma Virginia was my favorite person in the whole world while I was growing up. She wasn't like today's Grandma's with their trendy haircuts and boot cut jeans. No, my Grandma was of the blue-haired breed. She didn't really have blue hair, but she did have it set every week at the local beauty shop and never washed it on her own. At night, she protected her unchanging, perfectly rounded curls with a silky-pinky cap she called a Babushka. Like her hair, the cap never changed. That was probably why I loved her so much. She was imovable, predictable--the exact opposite of life with my mom. But, that's another story. Let's stick with grandmothers. Polyester was miracle material according to my grandmother, an expert washer-woman who favored anything you could spray down with Stain Guard. Virtually indestructable and completely unbreathable, designed in the zootiest patterns imaginable, my grandmother's entire wardrobe contained a hefty dose of the stuff. And I promise you that the same pair of pants she wore to my Baptism, she was still wearing the year I graduated from high school. Unchanging, I tell you. And we loved her for it.

Grandma was also really frugal. I say frugal and not cheap because she was generous with her church and family, which tells me that she wasn't at all cheap, she just knew the value of a dollar. Something that I'm sure was forged in her as a young girl growing up in the Great Depression and a quality completely missing in today's generation. She could find 101 uses for a used cottage cheese containter and heaven forbid you ever throw out a pair of snagged panty hose in her presence. You might as well be throwing away a rosary! She was also a voracious coupon clipper. And heaven help the clerk who argued with Grandma over an expiration date or product description. They might as well get out the white flag, because she wasn't backing down. Which, finally brings me back to this feeling that I am turning into my Grandmother. No, I haven't quit washing my hair or started dumpster diving for used panty hose, but I have been clipping coupons. I know, my "dork factor" just increaded a thousand percent. But, it's actually theraputic. Just knowing that I'm doing something tangible to help save our family money makes me feel a little more like that impossibly perfect chick in the Proverbs. Afterall, I have no idea how to make coverings for my family and I wouldn't know the first place to look for wool and flax.

The best news in the world

2009-03-23T21:50:00.000-07:00

Today, when I woke up, it felt like any other day. The alarm clock blared, the baby fussed, Cameron jumped into bed stealing my covers, and my bladder insisted I get out of bed or else...Just another normal day.

Until, I sat down to check my morning email. I gasped. There was an email from Bob.

I've not written much about my trip to the Far East. I suppose, I didn't know where to start. There were so many memories, details, lessons learned, emotions. But, with the arrival of Bob's email and the precious news contained within it, I guess it's time.

After 30 hours of mind-numbing travel, we had finally arrived at our destination--an airport of sorts on the outskirts of one of China's greatest industrial cities. Our mission was subtle. Make friends, build relationships, and then, share the gospel. I was a bit leary at first. How do you just drop into a country, that speaks a language of which I nor my teammates knew nothing, and buddy up? It was actually much easier than I would have ever imagined. We had two things working for us--we were American and we spoke English. Everybody, it turns out, in this buzzing city of dark-haired humanity, wants to know more about life in America and how to correctly pronounce their "v's".

Within two days of simply standing in the stairwells of the 30,000-student University and a few nerve-racking speaking engangements in packed-out classrooms, we had friends aplenty. People wanted us to name them American names. I exhausted all my favorite names and had to revert to doling out the names of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Some asked us to name their siblings too. Some who had chosen odd names like Tree and WalMart we felt obligated to rename. As the days slipped by, a few friends began to nuzzle their way into our hearts. We spent hours half speaking, half signing with them in the parks, all of which reminded me of Gorky Park, in the amazing restaurants where eight people could eat well for $18, on the steps of their ancient temples, and in the streets as we walked from shop to shop.

At the end of the day, Kristie and I would retire to our efficient, little hotel rooms to wipe away the sand swept into our nostrils and ears by the ever-approaching Gobi desert. We would talk like school girls about the people we had met and how God was working in this person or that person. We were amazed by the "openess" and "eagerness" of those we encountered and we hoped that they would have ears to hear and that the Spirt of God would shape our words into arrows that pierced through the language barrier and into hearts. Everyday we awoke to a new adventure and the annoying clanging of the local junk collector beating on a garbage can lid.

There is so much more to tell. But, I better bring things back to Bob or I'll never quit. I met Bob about four days before we were scheduled to leave. His friend, a medical student, introduced us in the massive three-level cafeteria at the University. Over fried bean curd, we talked about America and my boys. Of his family and his grueling studies which only allowed for a few hours of sleep each night. He was from the south, near Shanghai. He asked my why I had come all the way from America to such a far-flung city. I told him I had brought good news with me, of a Kingdom without end, and a Savior who loved him so much He died for him. He responded that this Jesus of which I spoke was not for Easterners, only Westerners. I assured him nothing was further from the truth and reminded him that Jesus was born in Bethleham, in the Middle East, or better said--the middle of the world, where east and west meet. This made him exceedingly happy as did the entire gospel.

From that point on, we spent as much time together as his studies would allow. I came to see him as my little brother. Like so many in China, he was an only child. A sister is something he had always longed for and I was glad to step in, even if it was just temporary. As the days passed, he began to share more of his personal life. On our last day together, he shyly leaned across the table and whispered in my ear, "Did you know I like boys?" Yes, I knew but my heart sank all the same. I was glad he felt who could share his darkest struggle with me. But, I knew this would be a great stumbling block for him. The words of Jesus flashed through my mind, "If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, take up his cross daily and follow Me." Would he be willing to crucify that sin, his most beloved on the cross? Or would he be like the rich young ruler and go away from the Source of Life grieving because the cost was just too high to count?

Our last day pounced on me like a lion. Where had ten days gone? How could I possibly leave this place and the people I had come to love? What would happen to Bob? We spent our final day picnicing with a legion of friends--30 or more. As we walked to our destination, another Gorky Park, we picked up food from the outdoor markets that lined the streets. In keeping with Chinese tradition we would buy enough to share and in that way, have a potluck of sorts once we got there. Some brought their insturments. They wanted to sing Christmas songs and Aaron, a North Korean, began to play Oh Susanna on his clarinet. It was all very sureal and I almost started crying right then and there. "Oh Sussana, don't you cry for me, I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee." How did this boy, who grew up under the iron gaze of Communism learn Oh Susanna or Silent Night, for that matter? We sang along and then, slowly dispersed, exchanging hugs, emails, and promises to keep in touch. But a few special ones remained. Those who had been with us from the beginning. Saying good-bye to them would be much harder. They wanted to see us off at the train station, but our host family said it would only make it harder.

Already, I was a ship wreck and I still hadn't said my good-byes to Bob, who had to be in class during our going-away picnic. We would eat one last dinner together. Our waitress insisted that we hadn't ordered enough vegetables and wouldn't turn our order into the chef until we did. But even that, didn't make me laugh. I don't remember much about what was said that night. Instead I was keenly aware that time was slipping by and that I may never see my precious friends again. What would happen to Bob when I was gone. Would he keep reading the Chinese Bible I gave him, would he go to church like I told him to? Or would he be one of those seeds Jesus spoke of, choked away by the cares and riches of the world or burned by the scorching sun?

I cried big, wet, snot-inducing tears as we drove away. Kristie assured me, "Bob is in good hands." I wasn't ready to let go, but really I didn't have much of a choice. After-all, I did have a family at home who I loved dearly and needed me. And besides, Kristie was right. The Chinese church survived beautifully during the Cultural Revolution, without a single outsider. God didn't need me. He could have reached Bob in a million different ways, but He loved me so much that He allowed me to be part of His plan. I was, for a moment, his sacred vessel through which He poured out life-giving water to a thirsty soul.

Read on just a few more moments to see where we are in the story. I'd say it has a happy ending, but it's not an ending at all. It's really just the beginning...

Hi Sarah:
I’m with great happiness to write to you here--Harbin of China and I hope you can read this overdue letter. I have been longing for hearing from you, yet I didn’t try to connect with you about which I feel ashamed and I wish that it can offset our long time isolation.
It happened just like yesterday that we met in a party-like forum and become ocean spanning friends. What impressed me profoundly is not only your kindness face and warm heart but also your sayings about our great Father and the precious Holy Bible which you give me. It is you, Sarah, who grow the field in my heart with the great seed of God’s life. I really appreciate that a lot.
A great piece of news which I can’t wait to tell you is that I believe in God at last. In fact, I accept God as my Father in the end of last year when two very nice aunty send me the gospel and make me touched.
Things taken place afterward are plentiful and wonderful. I take part in meetings regularly with a great many siblings, all of whom are God’s offspring. Communication is momentous and I have been experiencing a lot in Father’s family. I began to introduce our Father to others who are still living in Satan’s world. Reading the Book of Books makes my holy life stronger and I believe that it sure will be strong enough to overcome Satan and live in God’s kingdom at last.
Sarah, I miss you and your lovely boys very much. Praying for all your families every single second and looking forward to your writing back soon!

P.S A few of my recent pictures and more later. Bob

Laundry Day at Grandma's

2009-03-22T07:52:00.000-07:00

I think, if it were not for guilt, I would never get anything done. Like say...updating my blog. I have my gradmother to thank for the guilt complex. She was a master at it and wielded vast and well-planned guilt trips on even the youngest members of her family.

Speaking of Grandma. I've been thinking a lot about her lately especially since I'm about to finish up this year's writing class by having my students write their family history, or at least parts of it. Not wanting to be left out, I thought I would blog about one of my most vivid childhood memories. It involved Grandma and laundry.

Mondays were always the same at Grandma's house. That was one of the things I loved most about Grandma Ginny. She was as predicitable as the ten o'clock news. And Mondays, for time immemorable, had been laundry days at the white-sided house on the hill where Grandma, Grandpa, and their two youngest boys lived.

The morning started early, around sunrise give or take a few minutes. She would let me sleep until Sound Off aired on the AM station that constantly blared from behind a pile of empty cottage cheese containers in her cluttered kitchen. When I heard Gordy, the host of Sound Off, come on the radio I knew it was time to wake up. After downing a bowl of Total doused in sugar to make the cardboard flakes tolerable, we would go from room to room gathering up wayward socks, grass-stained baseball pants, Grandpa's sweaty old thread-bare undershirts, Grandma's polyester work pants, and countless pairs of underwear into an old wicker basket so frayed I was sure it would fall apart if she added one more dirty item to the pile. But, like the sandals that didn't wear out for forty years while the Israelites roamed the desert, that laundry basket endured throughout my entire childhood. If she had another laundry basket, I never saw it. It was, in my mind, almost miraculous.

After the laundry basket was full, we would trudge down the perilous, open-backed wooden stairs that led to the basement--an odd mix that included a well-worn pool table, my uncle's extensive beer can collection, a working fruit cellar, a toilet that I was terrified to use because it stood in the corner completely exposed to the rest of the basement, my Grandfather's tool room, and in the middle of it all sat three enormous, white enamel wash basins. Of course, she had an automatic washer and dryer, but they usually sat neglected in the shadow of the great enamel tubs. Grandma insisted they didn't get the laundry clean and avoided the new-fangled contraptions at all cost.

She would start by taking the hose from the wall and filling up the first tub. I would stare into the pooling water, anxious for the first tub to fill. Sometimes, Grandma would trust me to move the hose to the next tub. I hoped that today would be one of those times. As the water approached the ancient water line inscribed around the tub, I would timidly ask, "Grandma, I'll be careful can I move the hose?" With a nod, she would answer and I would carefully slip the hose from one basin to the other taking care to spill as little water as possible. Waste was a mortal sin in my Grandmother's eyes.

Once all three tubs were full, Grandma would pull the worn Ohio Wash Company washing board out from behind the first basin where she always kept it. To the untrained eye, Grandma's basement was an out right mess, but she knew where everything was down to the last tack. Then she would walk across the room and pull her secret weapon off the shelf--a candy box filled with homemade soap. With her cracked, red hands she would break off a chunk of the honey-colored soap and return the box to the shelf. The chunk was no bigger than a strawberry. Surely, I thought, that little bit wouldn't clean all of the dirty clothes moldering in the laundry basket.

First, Grandma would dump the entire basket of laundry into the soak tub. In my five year-old-mind, it seemed unseemly how Grandma's enormous brazziers and Grandpa's stretchy, old underwear would mingle together in the murky water. With a determined glint in her hazel eyes, Grandma would reach down for the first offender--one of Grandpa's greasy old undershirts-- yank it up with a snap, and slap it onto the rusted washboard. Then she would call for me to come hold the board, my least favorite part because it shimmed and moved so that I had trouble keeping it in one place. My Grandma would clutch the soap in one hand and plunge the garment deep into the water with the other. After she was satisfied that she had drowned a satisfactory number of germs, she would slide the shirt onto the board where it would get the real treatment. Methodically, almost angrily, she would slide that shirt up and down the ridges of the board paying special attention to the yellow sweat stains under the armpits. Her soap didn't lather much, but it was powerful. After about three minutes of intense scrubbing, slapping, sloshing, and examining, she would fling the shirt into the rinse basin and set her determined eye on the next victim in the soak tub. All morning long this went on, until it was time to wring out the laundry or if you are German like Grandma was, it sounded more like "wrenching."

This was the highlight of laundry day for me for I was the one who would stand on the other side of the wringer--two moving rollers that squeezed every last drop of moisture out of the clothes--and catch the flattened garments and place them into the wicker laundry basket. I must have been ten years old before I figured out that no one actually had to be standing there to catch the laundry--that gravity would have done its work just fine without me. None-the-less, I spent five years of grandious bliss, catching laundry and lovingly setting the distorted pieces into the miraculously resiliant laundry basket.

It was time now, to lug the basket outside and hang everything to dry on the clothesline. But, that's a story all of its own.

Conference Notes: Repentance

2009-03-01T22:38:00.001-08:00

Here we go again. I have background issues--I can't seem to remember how to change mine! So, leaves it is, probably until next fall when they'll be appropriate again. Why does this stuff have to be so complicated? Two posts in a day may seem a bit ambitious, but the last one was really for fun and this one is more of a compilation of other people's ideas. People, far smarter and theologically-inclined than me. The rest of the post comes from the preaching at the True Church Conference, which took place last weekend at Grace Life Church in Muscle Shoals, AL. Speakers included, my most favorite, rock-the-pulpit preacher of all time, Voddie Baucham, Jeff Noblit, the African Spurgeon Conrad Mbewe, David Miller, Irish-fireball John O. Sims and the slightly scary Paul Washer. Being the obsessive compulsive note-taker that I am, I am pretty sure that these highlights are accurate and rightly interpreted. The overall theme of the conference was genuine, God-wrought repentance. We'll start with Voddie, who spoke of brokeness. Brokeness, he said, is the appropriate response to sin because sin stains and scars. Throughout his message, he referred to Psalm 51--David's time of brokeness and restoration after his sin with Bathsheba. Although the whole message rocked, the main thing I gleened from it is that sin creates memories that stay with us, which is actually a good thing. We are not created to forget our sin, as many in Christendom would like us to believe. He likens forgetting our sin to someone who has forgotten that fire is hot. He et such a thing would go around burnt to a crisp. He gives three reasons for remembering our sin. One, if we forgot our sins we could never testify to the grace and mercy that God showed us when he forgave that sin. Two, we wouldn't have a warning system to remind us not to do that particular sin again and finally, we'd have no way to rejoice in our victories because we wouldn't have any idea what we were rejoicing about. It is important to note at this point, that we shouldn't dwell on our past sins either. There is a tremendous difference between letting the past rule your life and letting it guide you and encourage you when temptation arises. He also got all bent out of shape at the way some in the Evangelical church portray Jesus today, and rightly so. He castigated the Shack, and what he called "the sissified, needy Jesus" painted by preachers at the pulpit, so-called Christian authors, and contemporary Christian musicians. Instead, he said he preferred the Jesus described in Revelation 19:11-16 who rides on a white horse to judge and wage war. On his head are many diadems, out of His mouth He wields a sharp sword so as to strike down the nations, and He treads the wine press of the fierce wrath of God. On Him is written a name no one knows except Himself and on His robe and thigh is tattoed: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS. Quite a contrast between the squishy, wishy won't you please be my friend Jesus and the One who promises to return some day soon to take His children home and then tread the winenpress of God's fierce wrath. Somebody's theology is messed up. Care to guess whose side I'm taking? He went on to explain that brokeness is the right response to sin because of it what it cost Him. "How could God crush His own son on the cross and let you slide? It's UNTHINKABLE." Many years ago as a young believer I struggled to accept that there was only one way to God, or at least I questioned its fairness. But, after realizing that God killed his only Son, so that miserable sinners like me could not only be redeemed, but also be adopted as a daugther into God's family, it seemed perfectly reasonable. It's His world, His sacrafice, His offer--to question Him or worse, to have the audacity to say you don't like His way is foolishness. He also pointed out that if we are not broken over our sin, it hinders true God-worship. Anything short of brokeness is akin to the Israelites in Isaiah who burdened the Lord with their vain offerings and displays of iniquity in His solemn assembly. And possibly my favorite jewel: "Without brokeness all we have is an apeasement of the tyranical old man" (or old woman depending on your gender). Mine is such a wretched nag and I will be so glad to be rid of her one day. Okay, this took a lot longer than I thought, so I will add more when I can grab a few of those elusive moments.

SNOW!

2009-03-01T09:22:00.001-08:00

Sometimes you gotta love the South. Sometime during the wee hours, a light dusting of snow fell upon our city. As we awoke, news of accidents and cancellation blared on the radio. From the sound of it, a blizzard of Siberian proportion had descended. Church was cancelled. If people could make it to Kroger, I'm sure they'd find all the milk and bread had disappeared. The children woke up in a state of glee, quickly throwing on a mis-match of gloves, hats, and the warmest shoes they could find. The saucer sleds we had pilfered from family in Iowa, were pulled off the highest shelves and they were off to play in a half of inch of snow.

They scraped the snow off of the patio furniture and pool lining, anywhere it could be found, and wadded it up into snowballs. After they literally scraped our yard clean, they ran to the neighbors for a fresh supply. I thought, with pity, my poor ones, they are so happy with so little, at least in the snow department. They listen in rapt attention as I tell them of my childhood when we would burrow tunels through snow drifts, make snowmen six feet high, and play king of the mountain for hours on snow hills pushed into place by mighty snow plows.

The sun has melted our morning fun. We thank God for the dusting and a day off from the busy-ness of life.

Crazy Obedience

2009-02-16T20:28:00.001-08:00

So, I've pretty much lost my mind. Ha! you say. She lost it long ago. That may be so, but this time it's really gone. Read on....

About a week ago I received an email from my childhood friend, Holly. We've known eachother for three decades and in a lot of ways I feel like we're sisters. She's not a spiritual sister yet, but I'm waiting for that beautiful day. In the email, she shared that her oldest daughter was about to fail the 7th grade and was quickly slipping into complete rebellion. I've known this for a while. I can see it when they come stay with us during the summer. Holly is a single mom trying to hold her family together while she works three jobs. She is flawed, but she loves her girls. What options does she have? Private school? Sorry, no vouchers for her or the tens of thousands of other parents in this country who need options. Homeschool? When would she work? Girl's Town? If there's such a thing, I think you have to be really bad before they'll put you there.

After a few more email exchanges, an unwelcome thought began to form in that witless brain of mine. You say you love her. Would that be the agape version of love, the one we're called to have in Galatians 5:22 and I Corinthians, among other verses? The kind, as I just taught in my girls Bible study two weeks ago, that gives without expecting anything in return, the kind that looks out for other's needs above my own, the kind that makes you do things you would never do in your right mind? Ugh...I hate it when God throws my Bible studies back in my face, as if to say, "you talked it up now can you walk it?"

Well, I thought, searching for an excuse to say no, I'll pray about it. Give it a little time and He'll let it go. And if all else fails, I'll ask Joe. He'll put his foot down and that will be the end of it. Afterall, I have to submit. But, wouldn't you know it. God just would not stop harassing me about the whole thing so I had to revert to Plan B and bring it up to Joe. And you know what he said, "I think that might be a good idea." Gasp...what? You're not going to say, "no way! Are you crazy woman? Don't you already have enough to do?" No, there was none of that. All my manipulative tricks came to naught.

So, here I am staring at the very real possibility of bringing a rebellious, foul-mouthed, angry little girl into my home. I think that the whole thing is crazy. I don't do girls. They whine a lot and use up all the hot water. I have managed to run a Hannah Montana, Ambercrombie & Fitch-free home for 12 years now. What will come of us?

What always comes from obedience: suffering, trials, hope, joy, perseverence, growth, life....Here we go. Stay tuned.

Misteps and mis-sayings

2009-02-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

I am suffering from a a severe case of blog guilt. In other words, I feel bad that I have neglected the "throng" of people that read this blog and so feel compelled to write something no matter how silly or irrelevant....

So, here goes. A compliation of "funnies" spoken by either myself or my children at some point in history.
Cruising down the road....
Dad: Honey, don't forget the appraiser is coming on Tuesday.
Cameron pops up from the backseat and asks, "Who's Keith Razor?"

After a baseball game years ago...
Eric: Mom, can a shoulder blade cut a dill pickle?"

Last week, while Mom was attempting to do way too many things at once....
Mom: Cameron come here so I can change your batteries, I mean your bandage!

A couple of days ago, while Eric and Cameron were playing a mean game of chess....
Cameron: Ha, I got your push-up.
Mom wonders, I don't remember buying any push ups.
Eric: Here take my push-up, he's not that big of a deal anyways.
Mom figures it out. A push-up equals a bishop.

Seven years ago in the Pastor's office at our old church....
Pastor: Josiah, why do you think you should be baptized?
Josiah: Because, I'm a good swimmer?

Ten or Eleven years ago during my kick-boxing phase....
Sarah is exhausted and has already fallen asleep. Enter Joe, a few hours later. He leans in to give Sarah a kiss and she promptly gives him an upercut he'll never forget.

Six years ago on a mission trip in Central Asia....
After making fabulous peanut-butter cookie shaped camels for all the MK's to help tell the story of how the Israelites left Egypt annd slavery behind on, among other animals, a bunch of camels. The thought suddenly comes into my head, What if someone is allergic to peanuts? I grab one of the missionaries and exclaim, "I hope no one goes into profalactic shock!"

At Eric's football game, this summer....
After several exagerated field injuries, I watch Eric collapse under a tackle near the endzone. Irritated that he hasn't gotten up, I yell at the top of my lungs, "What do you want? Your mommy to sew you a dress?" After a few more seconds of scrutiny, I realize to my horror, that the child splayed out on the ground is not Eric at all.

Going to do some gardening now....

T

what idiot said??

2009-01-24T08:28:00.001-08:00

Let's play a game. Who said, "An abortion is a decision between a woman and her God?" If you guessed, our newly-inagurated and much-celebrated president, Barack Obama, then you are right. But, who else said it? I did. Yep, you read that right. I did, long before the Champion of Change swept the polls, as the Editor of my high school newspaper. It appeared in the final paragraph in what I was sure was one of the best written editorials in Ram News' history. How odd, I thought, when I heard my words come out of President Obama's mouth.

Coincidence? No, I don't believe in them. Rather, I think that the language is strikingly similar because it came from the same author, that wicked spirit who Paul says is working in the sons (and daughters) of disobedience. Ageless and wonton, his murderous message has not changed. It was the same in the days of the Kings of Israel when they made their little ones pass through the fires of Molech. It whispered to me back in 1991, convincing me not only that abortion was a humane choice, but that I should use my influence to convince others to believe the same. And yes, that same monster is speaking to our president, whispering lies about woman's rights and calling into question the value of even rice-sized human life.

But, Halleluia, while I was an enemy of Christ, self-righteously writing lies about His most precious ones, He died for me. One will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love for us, in that while we were yet SINNERS (God-hating, death-loving, lieing, filthy-minded, wretched fools), Christ died for us. Here I was railing against all that was good and instead of wiping me out, He saved me. And that, has made all the difference.

Brothers and sisters, if God can change me--once the biggest, ugliest feminist you'd ever want to meet, he can change our President. Pray that He does. And pray for the thousands of crisis pregnanncy centers throughout our country that have been quietly, lovingly, and effectively changing the hearts of coutless abortion-minded girls and women.

Good trees and bad fruit?

2009-01-11T20:16:00.001-08:00

God has this endearing way of making us learn things we didn't even know we needed to know. Case and point. For the last two months, I have actively sought the Lord for direction on what to teach during my Sunday night Bible studies in the city. I was quickly coming to the end of a brief study on the early life of Christ. Actually, it was supposed to cover His whole life, butI couldn't seem to laso that one in. From past experiences, I knew I couldn't just go pick up a Bible study at the local Christian bookstore. They never seemed to work. The writers always seemed a million miles away from the situations my girl's faced. Plus, those studies are someone else's words and experiences. How am I supposed to teach that? The Bible isn't like Math or Biology. I guess, in a lot of ways, it's non-transferrable. And besides, there are no Bible studies geared toward this type of ministry anyway. I could say a whole lot about that, but most of it would fly in the face of the little lessons I've learned while preparing the latest study.

I don't know at what point, "The Fruit of the Spirit" popped into my head, but as soon as it did, it seemed the obvious choice. Personally, I wanted to spend the next 90 days or so drilling the merits of abstinence into their heads, but apparantly that will have to wait.

So, I snuck away for an hour, after a particularily trying day of school, and nestled myself into one of those super-cushy chairs at Starbucks and began to alternately slurp my Mocha Frapicino, write a few thoughts, cross reference a few verses, whip out a commentary, slurp some more. Well..you bet the picture.

Finally, after talking to the nice FedEx guy, who came over to see what all the slurping and page flipping was about, I had completed my magnum opus on the first Fruit of the Spirit--LOVE.

Today, as I hurried to reel in any wayward words or missed thoughts, a seed began to sprout in my mind. "A good tree," I read in Matthew, "cannot bear bad fruit." Oh yeah? I can bear some pretty big stinkers. How is that? The question hung there in my mind, unanswered all day.

Until, I began to teach tonight. Suddenly, I knew. It is true I can and do, bear some awful fruit at times. Spend a day homeschooling with us and you'll see. But, that fruit doesn't come from the Spirit who dwells inside of me. No, the bad fruit I so shamefully exhibit comes from my flesh, which is alway and anon making war with my Spirit. Anything that the Spirit does through me will be good. So maybe the good tree in Matthew 7 is not so much the Believer but rather the Holy Spirit who indwells us? The only fruit the Spirit can or ever will produce is good. The only fruit the flesh produces, will be phoney and ill-motivated at best, and worm-ridden at its worst. That is why Jesus says that a bad tree produces bad fruit. Even, when an ungenerated person does good (think Gandhi) God recognizes their fruit for what it is--something rotten, stinking of what He knows produced the fruit in the first place--vain glory, alterior and selfish motives, social expectations, personal agendas, and the list goes on.

Actually He's taught me a lot more, but I want to go read my book, so hopefully at a later time...we'll continue the discussion.

Paintball Mama

2009-01-08T20:04:00.000-08:00

Moms of boys end up doing the strangest of things. For example, before I had my four sons I hated football. I thought it was brutish and infantile and rather pointless to boot. Of course, now after Josiah (the oldest) has played for five years I have become a football fiend. During on game last summer, I actually caught myself yelling out to Eric (who had just been splayed out just short of a touchdown) if he wanted me to sew him a dress? I haven't painted my face yet or dyed my hair blue and gold (their team colors). I guess I'm saving those embarassing "mommy theatrics" for high school.

It's the same with another one of my sons' loves. Never in my wildest, or for that matter, scariest dreams would I have imagined going paintballing, but yet there I was looking all cammando in my thrift- store army jacket and face mask last weekend. Tucked under my arm was a rented Pirhana. I wieled it like a Tommy Gun. I have to say I felt like saying something tough like, "you feel lucky, punk?" But, Josiah's football buddies were there and I knew that he could only stand so much embarassment.

Everything was going so well. Isn't that how it is right before disaster strikes? Sure, I had taken a paintball shot or two. The one to my inner thigh wasn't too pleasant, but I figured that compared to labor a few pings of exploded paint was nothing. I had even managed to shoot someone. Never mind that he was the biggest and slowest of the targets. No offense, Lee. You played with gusto.

Our team (the ones with the yellow strips hanging from our masks) was about to take a fort from an elevated position. Our enemy (the non-yellow ones) lie in wait, 300 yards downhill. Joe and I decide to flank to the right. Others would invade up the middle and to the left. We have it in the bag, I think to myself. The horn sounds and were off, running full speed through the uncut woods. Brambles and thorns tug at my jacket and threaten to knock the Pirhana out of my hands. I haven't run like this since I was a kid. The unfamiliar sensation of adreneline coursing through my veins, drives me onward. Twigs whip across my mask. We've almost made it to some cover when bam! I'm facedown in a pile of dead leaves. A root growing out of the ground in the shape of an arc, snagged my unsuspecting foot. My knee pounds and my shin throbs. My shoe is missing. Joe is trying to put it on. I push it away, afraid my ankle might be sprained. About a hundred feet away, I spot my neice. Out of pity, she waits to shoot me until I call all that "I'm okay." There's no glory in shooting a woman while she's down. I hobble to the nearest shelter to nurse my wounds, all the while thinking what I won't do for those boys of mine.

Even though my knee still aches, I'm grateful. It, like anything, could have been far worse. I could have sprained or broken any number of essential bones. And, it allowed me to enter into my boys' world. Someplace, I often dare to tred. They are so very different from me. As they should be. And, I guess, that is one more thing for which I am grateful.

Tis the season for everything to break...and to be thankful for it

2008-12-27T18:50:00.001-08:00

Everytime I visit someone else's blog I come down with a severe case of "blog envy." For example, just the other day I visited my friend Shawna's blog and what has she managed to post? Her whole wedding album! I don't even know where my wedding pictures are! And to add insult to injury, here it is two days past Christmas and my blog is still covered in fall leaves because I can't remember how to switch my background.

But that's not at all what I want to write about. I just had to get that off my chest. Really, I think Shawna's wedding album is beautiful and someday I plan on kidnapping her and forcing her to show me how she managed such a feat.

You know how Paul says, "give thanks in all things? I am going to attempt to do just that, despite the fact that this has been a very broken season.

Rewind one month. Imagine this. Our family, along with three others rent a picturesque cabin in the Great Smokies. The fall air is crisp, the autumn leaves still hang on the trees. The cabin is spacious. There is a TV in almost every room. The one downstairs is set in an alcove above the fireplace. This is the kid's room. Mom has worked all day preparing a pot of chili for 12. The baby is napping blistfully in the next room so she decides to relax for a moment. She fixes herself a piece of strawberry cheesecake and settles into the lazy boy. Up goes the leg rest back goes her head and then BANG! A scream of terror sounds from the floor below. Mom flies out of the armchair and runs down the stairs to find the TV and all of its accesories lying facedown on the floor. The nine-year-old is obviously guilty. But how? Mom demands an explanation. Nine-year-old is speechless. Mom screams louder, in front of the other three families, mind you. Nine-year-old begins to stammer out something about a lost DVD and not wanting to bother relaxing mom upstairs. Piece my piece we recreate the scene of the crime. He stepped on a suitcase so he could reach the TV, he moved it to the side in the hopes of retrieving the DVD that had slipped behind the set, when bam he lost control. The TV came hurdling to the ground, narrowly missing the seven-year-old. It was dead. All attempt to revive it failed. Mom and Dad were out $320. Nine-year-old is sentenced to three years without an allowance, plus menial labor. How to be thankful for this one? Well...if the baby had been down there he could have been crushed. Or it could have been one of those rediculously over-priced flat pannel deals instead of a $300 WalMart special.

Then one day, not long after the falling TV incident, the garage door made this mournful whirring sound none of us ever had heard before. The next time we tried to open it, it refused to budge. It too was dead. And how you ask, might we be thankful for this one? Well...we can be thankful for the garage and its willingness to shelter all our junk. For the extra refrigerator and deep freeze that faithfully cool our surplus food, the piles and piles of camping equipment that keep us entertained in the spring, the seven bicycles and baby trailer that keep the flab off our legs, the widgets and fidgets Dad uses to keep our house from falling apart, and the countless other extras that find shelter in our garage.

A day or too after the garage door bit the dust, a friend pulled the door handle off of my van door. Mind you the door on the other side was already broken. So now, I have two broken sliding doors. One that can be accessed if you reach your arm through the driver side door and unlock it manually from the inside, the other which is hopelessly stuck shut. This of course, makes for much seat scaling on the boys' part, which always leads to dirty seats, knees in noses, random kicks as one boys climbs over another and general mayhem. Of course, this one is easy. At least I have a vehicle that starts and stops when its supposed to. I can't tell you how many women I know in the housing projects who would work if they just had a car that ran.

Now this last one. This one was a biggie, at least for me in my little housewife world. It was two days before Christmas. My mother-in-law was already here, her husband was on his way. My mom and brother were due as well. The turkey was thawing nicely on the deep freeze in our faithful little garage. The ham slept peacfully on the bottom shelf of the extra fridge. The trimmings, though not yet made were floating around like pages of a cooking magazine in my head. I wanted to get a running start so I could relax a bit on Christmas Day (remember where relaxing got me last time?), so I decided to start baking. Non-chalantly I walked to the cabinet above my oven where I stored my army of cookbooks. I reached above the stove top to grab a few favorites when out of the corner of my eye I perceived a crack in my glass-top stove. No, it was more than a crack. It was a crevace, a great yawning maw and nearby lay the guilty flashlight that had plummeted off the nearby refrigerator on to the stove. I gasped in horror. Visions of a stuffing-less turkey and gravy-less mashed potatoes flashed through my mind. Christmas was ruined! How could I cook without a stove? This was too much. I refuse to be thankful for this one, Lord. But here too, gratitude was found. After several phone calls to the cooktop experts of Huntsville, we discovered the uncracked burners were useable until the top could be replaced. And even that wasn't going to cost as much as we first thought. Christmas was saved thanks to a little ingenuity with a skillet and some crockpots.

"Now may the Lord of peace Himself continually grant you peace in EVERY circumstance."
2 Thesalonians 3:16

Oh...what a year

2008-12-10T21:49:00.000-08:00

After my latest misadventure, I decided it would be fun to do a year in review of Sarah's dummest moments. Plus, I thought some of my friends out there could use a good laugh. There has been much sorrow in my circle lately and as I recall, laughter makes the heart glad.

Let's start with Monday night. My friend Kristie and I drove all the way to Birmingham to here a dear sister working in dark places speak of her ministry. After driving around the church several times, harriedly looking for a parking place while, at the same time, trying not to drive down the wrong way on a one way, we decided the Budget car rental lot located behind the church building would be as good a place as any to park. We drove through the open baricades, glanced inside what we thought was a darkened office, and pulled, nonchalantly into a space toward the back of the lot. We got out, locked up, and headed to the church.

After a couple of hours of hearing how God is using one single, devoted woman to bring the gospel and medical care to some of the most hopeless people in the world, we headed out of the church, rejoicing and hungry. We hopped in the car and headed out the way we came. That's where things started going south. Where there was once a wide-open, welcoming space there now stood a mennacing, 3 ft. tall barricade. A little surprised, but not yet frantic I backed up and calmly drove around the parking lot looking for what was sure to be another exit. None was to be found. The thought sunk in. We were trapped!

A bit embarassed, but determined not to have to drive back the next day to retrieve my trapped car, I bit my lip and headed back into the church for some manly help. Thankfully, the church also functions as a sort of half-way house for men trying to transition back into society after getting out of jail, so finding a way to remove the barrier that held my helpless, little blue station wagon hostage, was well...right up their alley. One brought a crow bar, the other a hammer. They weren't going to let a little padlock stand in their way. Who knows what locks they had broken in their past? But, this time, they harnessed their skills for good and with each crash of the hammer the lock steadily gave way until...pop, it opened. I took a deep breath, thanked them profusely, and got the heck out of Dodge. But not before Kristie offered to pay for the lock, which miraculously, had not broken after all and could be replaced, as though we had never been there at all. I'm sure there are several spiritual lessons embedded in that whole, convulated tale, but I am way too tired to dig them out.

And then there was the time, late in the summer, when I decided that I would fill the unsightly hole my sons had dug in the backyard (boys are a lot like dogs that way) with a pond. Those of you who know me, know that the words "Sarah" and "pond" should really never be spoken of in the same sentence. But, I was undeterred. I imagined myself relaxing peacfully on the back porch gazing contently at my lily-padded pond. Like I ever sit on my back porch. But, I was sure the pond would change all that. I purchased, what the lady at Home Depot promised me was an all-in-one kit. Let me just say, never trust a woman in an orange apron. I had to buy a cleaning pump, dechlorinator and baskets to hold down the wayward lily pads, which by the time I was finished, just about doubled the cost of my all-in-one prize.

Finally, after digging and positioning and digging some more we got the thing in the ground. And oh, how my heart soared when we filled it with water and turned on the tiny fountain. Why I had my very own Buckingham fountain right in my own backyard. I proceeded to fill my peace-inducing water utopia with several, carefully chosen water plants and two lovely koi. At this point, however, I had not figured out that my all-in-one pond needed a cleaning pump and so after a few short days, my pond morphed into the Slough of Despond. Toads took up residence in what I'm sure they thought was the newest swamp in town. The koi dissapeared in the murky mess and I, to my shame, let the pond go. Everytime I would walk by the bubbling mess, I swear I could hear it choke out the words "clean me". Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. Resolutely, I grabbed our wet-dry vac and marched to the pond, orange extention cord trailing behind me. I would suck the muck and yuck out and start fresh. I banged on the edges of the pond, giving the toads fair warning that there eviction was about to begin, and then I thrust the hose into the murk. Plugging my nose, I waited for the drum to fill with heaven knows what, when I caught a glimpse of something orange darting through the water. The koi! Desperately I grabbed at the hose and yanked it out the the water. Did I suck him up? Who could tell? The water was murky as ever. With great trepidition, I slowly began to unscrew the lid on the drum of the vacuum, all along praying that he somehow escaped the vacuum of death. I leaned in, sloshed the bucket around a bit, and then ever-so-slowly, I began to pour the water out of the drum down the side of the hill, watching for a glimpse of orange. He wasn't there! He was alive! Our little koi had survived over a month in a slimy pit, and because his owners thought he had died long ago, the only food he had came from the water plants. What a little trooper. I cleaned up the water, fed him heartily, and skipped back to the garage thankful my little fish had survived such a cruel fate. Too bad the cat ate him the next day.

Of course, I can't forget the time I tucked my cell phone into the top of my swimsuit, so I would be sure not to miss any calls. I jumped in the pool and felt something bump up against my toe. Was it my long lost koi? No, it was my little pink Razor, sinking into a watery grave.

And then, last week, I tried to steal a man's coat. You see, we were all leaving church after a lovely fellowship meal. Absent-mindedly, I slipped on my wool, black coat. I'd know that coat anywhere. Gathering up my unruly little brood of boys, I proceeded to try to slip out the door when a kindly man of about sixty or so set his hand on my shoulder. "Excuse me," he said. "I think you're wearing my coat." I looked at him, my thoughts shifting quickly from unbelief to embarassment. I slipped my hands into the pockets searching for the familar rip on the right side. It wasn't there. My hood, that would prove whose coat this really was. But alas, there was no hood either. The truth was crumpled up in his hands. There rested my coat. Quickly, I unbuttoned the coat that I was so sure was mine, and meekly returned it to its rightful owner. Now, I will be forever seared in his memory as the "Sunday-morning coat thief."

So I had a mishap or two or three or twenty this year. They just remind me of Who is really in control and that though I can make a royal mess of things, He is always there taking my ashes and turning them into something beautiful. Oh...what a Savior.

2008-11-25T20:21:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow we leave for our annual, 12-hour haul to Iowa to celebrate Thanksgiving with my lovely, if-not-a-little quirky step-family. The bags are packed, the cooler stocked, and the GPS programmed. But, I wonder, if I'm ready. My four blessings have behaved like anything but all day long and I am bone weary. Satan, I see, is doing what I so often allow him to do--destroy my testimony. If you could have seen a replay of today's events you would understand. Suffice to say, Mama was on the war path.

Now, I will arrive in Dubuque spiritually drained; too ashamed to minister to my lost friends and family for fear of being a hypocrite. How do I tell them of "the straight and narrow" when I'm currently lying in a ditch?

But, praise be to God...His blessings are new every morning and we'll be driving through a whole lot of morning tomorrow. I can only pray that the next 24 hours will be better than the last and that some how He will be able to use me, however battered I may feel. The gospel power He has given me, is afterall, made of the same stuff that raised Jesus from the grave.

If you catch my post, please pray for me and my family as we venture into "Pop Country". There is a great darkness there. They need the light of the gospel desperately.

Blessing upon blessing to you all as you celebrate Thanksgiving.

A whisper of revival

2008-11-08T21:24:00.000-08:00

I know I should be writing about the election or provide some sort of concluding comments on my fast, but I just don't feel like it. Obviously, things did not turn out as I hoped. I can't seem to sort out the conflicting emotions broiling inside. On the one hand, I am so incredibly proud that this Nation founded on that great ideal that "All men are created equal" has finally, after centuries of opression and cruel prejudice, elected a black man to the presidency. If only the great freedom fighters Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglas, and Martin Luther King Jr. could have seen the day. If only the countless slaves who died in anonimity, beaten down and used indifferently by their thoughtless white masters, could have caught a brief glimpse of the hope to come. At the same time, I wonder, how someone like Harriet Tubman, a devoted follower of Jesus Christ, would have felt about Obama's stand on abortion? She who fought to free the opressed and protect the abused? I daresay she and the others would be sorely disappointed in his ideology, as am I. So, although I can rejoice that perhaps this election is a sign that racism is taking its last rattling breath in this country, I cannot rejoice in the ideas this man brings to the White House.

So, as I said before, we are all called to trust and pray. Do I think God gave (not just allowed, passively) Obama this highest position of the land? Absolutely. To say anything else calls into question God's sovereignity. The end of the book has been written. This is merely a chapter amongst many and Obama a ruler amongst many. Will God use Obama to judge America? I hate to say it, but I believe that's why God gave him and not McCain the victory. Our country is killing 4000 babies everyday. One of of every five junior-high students say they have had sex. Gracious--my oldest is in junior high. If that statistic is accurate, then four of the boys on his football team are no longer virgins! That makes me want to hit something. Child exploitation is everywhere. The Internet is clogged with filth. Thirty-thousand human slaves are living (if that's what you want to call it) in this country, right now as I type. Songs like "That Baby Don't Look Like Me" have become the battle cry of dead-beat dads everywhere. Marriage is constantly under attack. And the schools, well...I don't think there are enough gigabites on this computer to contain all the problems with that crumbling institution.

Suffice to say, that the next four years are going to be difficult. They will be hard for us Christians as well. Judgement has a way of overflowing its intended boundaries. We should be prepared for tough times. But as we all know trials are also a gift from the Father, sometimes they are the most precious gifts of all. When we are tried we are troubled and when we suffer we run to our Daddy for comfort and care. Though the days ahead may be bitter, I can't help but believe that the One who is always spinning evil into good, will take our bitterness and turn it into sweet fruit. And what of this fruit? I shall call it revival, because that is what I think is to come.

No fireworks this time

2008-11-03T19:53:00.000-08:00

Woohoo...I'm on a role now. I finally, after weeks of fretting and unreasonable bouts of jealousy, figured out how to change the background on my blog. I was beginning to dislike some of the more talented blog designers I follow. You know who you are with your fancy pictures and flashing widgets...

And I would have never gotten this done if I hadn't been fasting. Less time eating equals more time for work and I needed a little distraction. The leftover lasagna stuck to the baby's highchair tray was looking mighty tempting, as was the cat.

This fast hasn't turned out exactly as I expected, as though anything ever does. I guess I was looking for fireworks, but it's been fairly tame. Aside from my rumbly tummy, I haven't even struggled that much with hunger. Why I can't accept that as a good thing, I don't know. Perhaps it has something to do with a previous fast.

Several years ago, God called me to fast for a much longer period of time. I'm not even sure why. I guess whatever I thought it was, wasn't all that important. I've debated whether or not I should blog about it, but since the current food strike isn't providing me with much inspiration what the hay? What happened on the fifth or sixth day of that fast changed me so profoundly, I count it as the most significant day of my life; above the birth of my babies and even the day I married the man of my dreams.

So what was it that so shook my world? Let me make a few things clear before I share. I do not believe that Jesus makes it a regular practice to appear to people and talk to them. I also think we must test every spirit, since Paul makes it clear that Satan can appear as an Angel of Light. I would also point out that anytime a human being had an encounter with the ressurected Christ in the Bible, there one and only response was complete and total on-your-face humility. With that said, let me share what I can recollect from that evening.

I was sitting at the diningroom table lamenting over how desperately hungry I was and how I wished I never agreed to do such a fool-hardy thing, when I felt led to open my Bible. I don't think I had gotten in a single verse before I was overcome by a crushing need to pray. And so I began, listing off petitions; crying out for lost loved one; repenting profusely until I came to a point where my words could no longer keep up with the thoughts pouring out of my mouth. I wondered, is this what happens when the Spirit intercedes on our behalf with groanings too deep for words? Please, understand, I was not speaking in tongues. I could still could understand the words flowing from my mind, I just couldn't mouth them fast enough.

Then, all of a sudden the room fell silent and I felt drawn to the stereo system across the room where I found a Michael W. Smith CD sitting in the changer. Absent-mindedly I flicked it on, and Agnus Dei began to fill the room. Allleluia....Alleluia...Alleluia...the Lord God Almighty Reigns. Holy....Holy....is the Lord God Almighty....Worthy is the Lamb...Worthy is the Lamb. Carried away by the worshipful-ness of the tune, I lilted back to my seat (no one was there to see so I felt free to lilt all I wanted). Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold and glimpsed a black mass of shadows fleeing in terror to the exterior room of our home. What was this, I thought? And then I sensed Him, standing in front of me and I fell to the floor, prostrate. I wished that the floor would swallow me. How could such Perfection behold such filth? But, He would have none of it. Lovingly, He beckoned me to stand up and dance with Him. And so, if you had a wide-angle lense trained on my living room that night, you would have seen me dancing a gentle waltz with My Savior. Of course, your camera wouldn't have picked up His image, I didn't see Him either. But, He was there just the same and I have never been the same.

And, I find myself longing for another visit. Perhaps that is why I have felt that this fast has been such a letdown. No fireworks, as I said. But heavens! That wasn't the point. I seem to recall my primary motivation was to show God just how serious I was about this upcoming election. When Sarah gives up food, you know things are getting serious.

By the time I blog again, we will more-than-likely have a new president, barring some sort of tie or other voting debauchle like we had in 2000. And, no matter who wins, I will trust that my Father put Him there for His purposes. I do not have to understand any of it to know that He's taking care of all of it.

As the results start pouring in tomorrow night, dwell on this: "Every person is to be in subjection to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those which exist are established by God." Romans 13:1

Day 2

2008-11-02T20:16:00.000-08:00

okay, for some reason, beyond my understanding, my latest post just got dumped. And, I am way too tired and HUNGRY to repost. Please continue to pray for me. I can tell you have been as I have managed not to have assaulted anyone so far! But, most of all pray for the upcoming election. Pray! Pray! Pray.

It's not over, even though the secular media would have you believe it is. I'm sure the devil was dancing with delight right up until that stone rolled away.

Twas the night before the fast...

2008-10-31T20:32:00.000-07:00

As the hour of my fasting time draws near, I am at peace. The fact that I am, as I type, stuffing my face with a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup might have something to do with that. But, in all seriousness, I know the Source of my strength. He will not fail me, even if I falter. He promises that though I may stumble, He will not let me fall.

I go into this fast boldy, trusting my Sovereign. I know I am not alone. Word has come my way that many have been called to fast in one way or another. There is a sense of urgency sweeping the land, as slumbering Christians are finally waking up to the fact that America is in grave trouble. And, the fact of the matter is, only Christians are going to be able to turn the tide. Second Chronicles says, "If MY people humble themselves, and pray, and turn from their wicked ways then I will hear them from heaven and heal their land." It's all on us. We must be the ones to pray, the ones to put away our pride, and yes...to stop our wickedness (women who refuse to accept their God-given roles at mothers and keepers of the home, pornography, willfull ignorance, materialism, sports-worship, imodesty, compromise, innnapropriate television shows and movies, and the list goes on). Then and only then, will He answer our cries for help. We must do this as united members of the Body of Christ, if we want our broken and beloved country to be healed. There is no other way.

Thank you for keeping me accountable. I hope to post everyday until the election. To God be the glory, great things He has done and will do.

Fast and Pray with me...

2008-10-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

I was much more inspired this afternnoon, but I couldn't seem to get anywhere near my computer today. Such is the life of a homeshool mom.

But, I didn't want to go to bed without encouraging those who read this blog (all five of you) to join me in a time of fasting and praying during the three days leading up to this year's election. I've only been around for a little over three decades, but I have never felt this kind of apprehension about the future of our country before.

The poles seem to indicate it's a done deal and that not only is the country about to elect the most radically liberal president in history, we may also be looking at a fillabuster-proof Democratic-controlled House and Senate. Now, I'm no political scientist, but I believe that means that they're basically going to have it their way all day long.

No matter where you lean politically, this imbalance of power is a fearful thing. It is in desperate times, that God calls His children to not only pray, but also to fast. Again, I am no expert on fasting, but past experience tells me that when I fast I am driven to my knees, compelled to pray, not in abreviated bursts of frustration or convenience, but in groanings often too deep for words. Hunger reminds us of what could be and what is a reality to so many who spend their lives suffering. It removes distraction. It clarifies. And it cleanses.

The first day is always the worst, as you fight off the temptation to just give in. Usually about this time visions of fried chicken legs begin to dance about in your head and inevitablly, someone will stop by with something homemade and nearly irrestiable. By the second day, the pounding headache begins, begging you to restore your sugar levels by busting into that plate of brownies that just happened to appear yesterday. All along, you are faced with the choice: give up or cry out to Him. In this way, we grow closer to the Father. We are hunrgy and He has spiritual food that will satisfy if we trust Him to bring us through.

By the third day, your stomach feels as though a very agressive washer-woman has wrung it from the inside out. It grumbles angrily, demanding sustenance. But, now you have two days behind you. Already you can look back and see the hand of the Lord working actively in your life, something you may not have seen for a very long time. And suddenly, you have a testimony. A foundation so solid that not even a seven-course dinner prepared by Emeril himself could tempt you on this, your third day.

I wrote of three days, because that is how many days I plan to fast. I will begin the fast November 1st, Saturday morning. I will break it after I vote on Tuesday, November 4th. During the fast, I will specifically focus on repenting personally from my many and sorted idols, and then I will begin to repent on behalf of this nation, whose sins are many. I will beg our Father for forgiveness and mercy, for it is mercy that we need above all else. And, I will ask Him to change the hearts and minds of the many Christians who plan to vote for Obama, and I will be so bold as to pray that God would turn the tide, confound the poles and bring McCain victory.

I do not know what God will do. I am simply trying to be obedient to his Word. If Obama is elected, this too will be God's will. And I fast with this in mind. I want to be prepared for the trials that will undoubtedly accompany this wicked man's presidency. I want to be found faithful in a faithless generation.

Please pray for me....I do like food, you know.

Another Sunday Night in the City

2008-10-26T20:55:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know, I teach a Bible study in one of the low-income housing neighborhoods here in Huntsville. I don't quite know why I started. I suspect, looking back at that self-centered time of my life, that I did it so I could add another bullet to my good-girl resume'.

How noble, I thought it would be to be able to say, "I teach inner-city kids. You know, the ones nobody wants?" Then I would piously add, "Where else are they going to hear the truth?" As if I held the only banner in town.

The first four years were tough, especially since I was relying on myself most of the time. Actually, it's still really tough. Constantly-ringing cell phones, smart mouths, wiggly bottoms, snide comments, angry outburst, threats--they are a normal part of our Bible study. They are broken girls, born of broken women. Not to mention the fact that there lies between my students and I, this devlish barrier called race, which in Biological truth doesn't even exist. As Christians we believe we come from the first parents, Adam and Eve. Melatonin is all that seperates us, but yet this wall; you would not believe how impenitratable it is.

Sometimes, I chip away at it. I know I do, when they share something private, personal. Like the day, one of my girls told me how she had been raped on the way home from school. I'm one of the only white women they know and believe you me, I've had to earn their trust a thousand times over. What they know of "my kind" is dirtied by words like slavery, segregation, opression, discrimination. They are not wary without cause. They have a history I cannot even begin to understand. I make concessions to it. I don't mind, if it means that one day they'll trust me.

I can't explain why I love them so. Even now, I can feel the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. Perhaps they remind me of what I once was--fatherless, poor, often rediculed for my hand-me-downs and my mother's odd assortment of boyfriends. I did not know hope until I met Jesus when I was 19. And I am convinced, beyond any doubt, that He is their only hope. Anything else is a band-aid on a gaping wound.

I suppose it is this God-given love that draws me back every week. It's certainly not a big, fat list of souls saved. I haven't seen one girl genuinely surrender her life to Christ. Not one in five years. Now, that's failure with a capital F. But, then I think my friend Elizabeth who works with a people group in one of the most hostile parts of the world. This group of 3 million, claims only three Christian converts, all of whom are now in glory. I consider her a hero not a failure. Sometimes, it is not for us to know or to see, but for us to trust. And so, I will go back next week, and the week after, and the week after that....trusting that one day us seed-sowers will catch a glimpse of the harvest.

Bringing in the sheets?

2008-10-21T20:19:00.001-07:00

Joe, Eric (number 2), and I attended Deeper a Bible conference that actually teaches the Bible this past weekend. It was in a word...deep. No fluffy marshmallows here. Instead of having baby formula poured down our throats as the trendy worship team sang the same sappy lyrics over and over, we actually got to knaw on a big side of meat while listening to some meaty hyms. It was refreshing and convicting all at once and I hope to post some of the awesome truths I gleaned from the conference in the future. But for now I want to talk about sheets.

What I loved about this conference is that they didn't just talk about evangelism and how great and neccessary it is, they actually provided a way for us attendees to go out and evangelize. Gasp! Actually do what we were taught? But, but, but....I'm scared. I don't want to talk to complete strangers about Jesus. They might look at me funny or ignore me or make fun of me. Me. Me. Me. That is what it comes down to, isn't it? I'm a selfish-prideful thing who doesn't want to inconvenience the great and powerful ME.

But, alas, somehow I managed to shut the ME up for a while and headed for the streets of Atlanta with an army of other tract-toting evangelist. Now, here's where the sheets come in. Before we jumped on the Marta (Atlanta's spotless subway system) one of the team leaders exhorted us by quoting Psalm 126:6. It goes like this, "He who goes to and fro weeping, carrying his bag of seeds, Shall indeed come again with a shout of joy, bringing his sheaves with him."

This propelled me back to the early days of my Christianity when Joe and I were newlyweds living in a tiny condominium on the southside of Chicago. The washer and dryer were located in the basement, so I would have to trudge up and down three flights of stairs to do our laundry. It was during this time of house-wifery that I would sing that famous hymn of old, Bringing in the Sheets, until one day Joe overheard me. "Did you just say sheets?," he inquired with a laugh. Proudly, I told him I was singing a hymn I had heard on the Christian radio station. "I think it's about missionaries," I replied. Images of dedicated missionary wives, pulling billowing sheets off the clothes-line strung across the barren backyard of her African hut filled my mind. She like most missionaries, I reasoned had to hang and then subsequently, "bring in the sheets" because they didn't have access to modern conveniences such as a clothes dryer. Of course, my husband burst into racious laughter. "Sheaves!" he managed to say through bouts of laughter. "It's sheaves, honey, not sheets!"

I am ashamed to admitt I did not know what a sheave was at that point in my life or why on earth you would want to bring one in. After a few hours of sharing Jesus and His gift of salvation with the wayward folks outside of the B.E.T. hip-hop awards, I was reminded that the sheaves are the harvest we are promised when we spread the seeds of God's truth--sometimes weeping, sometimes in fear, but never for naught.

Pray for Leon who wreeked of alcohol, but yet carried a worn Gideon's New Testament around in his pocket. He wept as he heard the gospel, a message that the enemy has snatched away many times. Pray that this time he would hear and obey the Saviors words. Pray for Ronda, who seemed to be milling outside the award ceremony in the hopes of "being discovered." She knew the gospel well, even when tested, but her behavior was not in keeping with the Bible. Pray the two men Joe witnessed to outside of the B.E.T. awards. One, again, knew much about Jesus, but was not living the life of a converted man. As soon as we started talking with him, you could see conviction setting in. Pray that he would be convicted all the way to the cross. And finally, pray for Marcel (I think that was his name), who couldn't get past his feelings on the subject. Pray that the Lord would use our 45-minute conversation that we had with him, to drive him to stop relying on his heart and seek the truth in God's word.

Change for the sake of change....

2008-10-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

I've been reading Chesteron again, and what's worse I've been doing it late at night. Fuzzy brain and one of the great thinkers of the 20th century don't mix. But, when else is a busy mom of four going to get alone with a guy like him? As I muddle through the first few pages of Orthodoxy I can actually hear the synapses in my brain coming to life as light floods the dark, unused corners of my mind. No one talks like this guy anymore, except maybe Ravi Zacherias, whom I happen to adore. Ravi, if you ever read this, please adopt me!

As I read Orthodoxy, I feel as though I'm privy to the theologically-robust, culturally-aware conversations that Chesterton once shared with his colleaugues in a smoke-filled, leather-chaired study. Great tomes line the walls, as the men banter over the foolishness of Neitzsche or some other bombastic philosopher bent on killing God. And there in the corner I sit, silently hanging on every word, waiting for something great and profound to steal away back to the 21st century.

As it happens, I found such a morsel last night on page 28. I had just finished watching the latest presidential debate, where change seemed to be one candidate's mantra. And it got me thinking. Change isn't always necessarily good. Change a diaper, yes. Change the air pressure in the International Space Station, not so good. Change your underwear daily, absolutely. Change one amino acid on a chain of DNA, and look out. We ought not embrace change until we have all the facts. What exactly are we going to change and how are we going to go about it?

Chesterton, of course, says it far better than I ever could.

He writes, "It is true that a man (a silly man) might make change itself his object or ideal. Sound familiar? If the change-worshipper wished to estimate his own progress, he must be sternly loyal to the idea of change; he must not begin to flirt gaily with the ideal of monotony. Progress itself cannot progress. It is worth remark, in passing, that when Tennyson, in a wild and rather weak manner, welcomed the idea of infinite alteration in society, he instinctively took a metaphor which suggests an imprisoned tedium. He wrote------

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

"He thought of change itself as an unchangeable groove, and it is. Change is about the narrowest and hardest groove that a man can get into."

It seems, it times of trouble, that change is the only solution. And it may very well be. No sense in putting on the same pair of jeans if time and time again they make you look fat. But, we must not be swept off our feet, by charming change, if he has nothing more to offer than change itself. Nor should we be swift to change the foundational things which have made and contine to make America great. Capitalism, for all of its worts, still work a whole lot better than socialism, or her evil step-sister communism. Life is, the last time I checked, still preferable to death. Taxes, to folks like us who although we make a modest living probably won't be part of the blessed 95 %, should only be changed if the change involves a reduction.

See, I'm all for change as long as were talking about things like underwear, bloated beauracracy, out-of-cntrol pharmacutical companies, over-priced health insurance, government over-spending, protecting life from the uterus to the grave, putting an end to genetically-modified food, ending rediculous farm subsidies to monster companies like ConAgra, and so on and so forth.

You're not going to throw that away are you?

2008-10-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

I used to puzzle at my grandmother's inability to throw anything away. It was a quality, I assumed, that was unique to all old people. She saved everything and I do mean EVERYTHING. Row after row of cottage cheese containers lined the walls in her storage room from the floor to the ceiling. Milk cartons were sawed in half with an ancient knife she also used as a back scratcher and converted into compost pails. She promptly turned my uncles' whitey tighties into dish rags once they got a hole or two. Aside from her unreasonable fear of throwing things away, she was equally mortified by the thought of some unsuspecting paramedic or emergency room nurse encountering a pair of dirty, holey underwear should any of her sons ever get into an accident. She had a reputation to protect. Pantyhose, after undergoing several repairs with clear nail polish, eventually went from hugging my grandmother's spindly legs to hugging bulbous onions and garlic. Newspaper were saved and used as landscaping fabric. Cold cream bottles became jewelry boxes. Slacks were patched and the patched again. She wore shoes that were older than me. And she could get more life out of a platic babushka then most would get out of ten. Disposable was a dirty word to my Grandma. I won't print this particular feminine item, but she reused them too. Before you get too grossed out, they were cloth. Which brings me to diapers. She, of course, never got near a Pamper. Oh...and she refused to use the dishwasher one of my uncle's gave her for Christmas. It was new-fangled, a water-waster, and she was sure, that it couldn't possibly get the dishes as clean as she could. Instead she stored winter clothes in it. The dog never ate dog food, but instead feasted on leftovers from her eldest son's restaraunt. That too was stored in a sawed-off milk jug. And maybe the strangest of all--when they needed a TV-stand for their new TV, they hollowed out the old console and shoved the new one inside. It was the talk of the neighborhood.

I was a teenager by the time I figured out her pack-rat-i-ness was born out of a childhood lived under the opressive shadow of the Great Depression. She never spoke of those lean days. Maybe it was too painful. What I do know is that her caretakers, a kindly aunt and uncle who had no children of their own, lost their farm in the Depression. They were forced to leave home and land behind and move to the city to find work. Her good uncle took odd jobs which provided a pittance compared to the bounty their thriving farm once provided. I have to think that they looked back on better days and regreted the half can of potted meat they once threw away, or those socks that really could have beenn darned one more time. How good that meat would taste now, how cozy those socks would feel on work-worn feet. If only we hadn't thrown them away.

In a year, I may, like my Depression-era ancestors, regret the wastefulness that has ruled my life. Leftovers so easily disdained today, could fill a stomach tomorrow.

2008-10-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

Obviously, I'm getting lazy. Here I am posting other people's stuff for the second post in a row. Unthinkable! But this one is such a magnificent answer to the rediculous, clumsy lyrics that make up the featured song in my last post. What have they--NOW and ERA--built? Angry, cursing women bent on destroying the tenderest and most helpless of their kind. They claw away at the very foundation that this country is built on--children. They tell us go...work, make something useful of yourself. We'll take care of your children during their most impressionable years. We'll line them up high chair to high chair and spoon feed em' the party line. Never mind their tears, or yours. This is what they fought for and now you better fall in line.

Not this mama. I will be content to be invisible. To build my four cathedrals in obscurity. For some day, my Father promises, that my reward will be great.

Read, sister mamas, and be blessed....

> Invisible Mother......> > It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of> response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room> while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.> > Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on> the phone?'> > Obviously, not.> > No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or> sweeping the floor, or> even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can> see me at all.> > I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a> pair of hands,> nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you> open this?> > Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a> human being. I'm a clock> to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite> guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney> Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around> 5:30, please.'> > I was certain that these were the hands that once held> books and the eyes> that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum> laude - but now> they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be> seen again. She's> going; she's going; she is gone!> > One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating> the return of a> friend from England . Janice had just gotten back from a> fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel> she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the> others all put together so well.> > It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I> was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a> beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you> this.'> > It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I> wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I> read her inscription:> > 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of> what you are building> when no one sees.'> > In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And> I would discover what would become for me, four> life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:> > No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no> record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives> for a work they would never see finished..> > They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The> passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the> eyes of God saw everything.> > A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came> to visit the> cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman> carving a tiny> bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the> man, 'Why are> you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam> that will be> covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the> workman replied,> 'Because God sees.'> > I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into> place.> It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I> see you, Charlotte. I> see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one> around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no> sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is> too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building> a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it> will become.'> > At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it> is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for> the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote> to my strong, stubborn pride.> > I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great> builder. As one> of the people who show up at a job that they will never see> finished, to> work on something that their name will never be on. The> writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals> could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few> people willing to sacrifice to that degree.> > When I really think about it, I don't want my son to> tell the friend he's> bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom> gets up at 4 in the> morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a> turkey for> three hours and presses all the linens for the table.'> That would mean I'd> built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to> want to come> home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his> friend, to add,> 'you're gonna love it there.'> > As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be> seen if we're> doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the> world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at> the beauty that has been added to the world by the> sacrifices of invisible women.> > We never know what our finished products will turn out to> be because of> our perseverance.

Not this mama. I will be content to be invisible. To build my four cathedrals in obscurity. For some day, my Father promises, that my reward will be great.

Songs NOT to live by

2008-10-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

Is there anything you can't find on the Internet? I couldn't help myself. I had to publish this little ditty from my childhood. Take amoment now to imagine, me--ten years old and piggy-tailed sitting Indian style in my tiny bedroom clutching my record player and singing along with all my might....

I pulled into the loading zoneFeeling nervous, I was all aloneUnloading my equipment before the showI started wheeling it down the hallTill I turned, hearing a young man call"Can I help? That must be heavy I know..I've been looking forward to your show.""Cause my mom's a feministSo I understand. That's why I'm here todayI've come to lend a hand. I was raised on equal rights. And furthermoreShe helped me seeThat equalityis a goal worth fighting for."

CHORUS

She decided she could do some goodRinging doorbells in the neighborhoodNot for the Girl Scouts, but for ERASometimes she takes her friends aloneShe's only 10, but she's already strongShe's a move and a shaker well on her way. When they ask what she's doing, this is what she'll say.
CHORUS

Different questions in the classroom nowYoung seekers asking howThings came to be, and how they can changeBecoming women and becoming menMay not ever be the same againBut the new ways won't be quite as strangeWhen the people they trust help them get it arranged.

CHORUS

Because we're feminists, so we understandThat's why we're here today, we've come to lend a hand. We raise them on equal rights, and furthermoreWe help them see that equalityIs a goal worth fighting for. It's worth all the time you take. What a difference your time can make For the new generation still coming along. If our movement is to lastWe must see that the torch is passed. And today's young people will grow up strongAnd thousands more will sing this song

Cut from the same cloth

2008-09-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

In times of economic crisis, I take solace in simple things, like my browsing through some of my favorite cookbooks. Food has that inherint ability to comfort, even if your just reading about it. Especially when you stumble upon an old gem like the Holy Trinity Parish cookbook compliled by the good women of Luxemburg, Iowa.

This spiral-bound compilation is one that survived the many moves that eventually brought me to Alabama. And in it, is a treasure of honest, farm-house recipes that no nothing of cornbread or okra. What you will find sandwhiched between the hand-drawn Smurf dividers (those little blue guys were all the rage when this book hit the presses) are clues to a time gone by, when LaCreme gave Cool Whip a serious run for their money, Jello was the miracle dessert, and women still had the grit to prepare steaming pots of sauerkraut they would tend to for weeks before they were ready to be stored for the year, pork blood sausage, and my personal favorite: Tripe. The first ingredient: two pig heads. The first sentence in the directions: Cook heads until done. You are thinking--how creepy. I'm thinking, wow...what a woman.

I'd like to think I'm cut from the same cloth. Able to prepare a meal for my family no matter what the pantry presents. These ladies didn't bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. Many of them; however, did kill the bacon and eventually manage to get the thing into the pan. They came from a time when housemaking was still considered honorable, even desirable. I long for that. If we had never been fed the lies that motherhood was a bore compared to the exciting world of corporate manuevering, I like to think I could be proud of who I am--a mommy and a wife. But I grew up listening to songs like "My Mom's a Feminist"--no joke. My mom actually brought me back a vinyl 45 featuring this song from a NOW rally she attended in the organization's heydey. I thought stay-at-home moms were repressed and unfulfilled. I wish I would have known some of the ladies who wrote the cookbook that I now consider my recipe bible.

They were not ashamed of the thread-bare aprons they wore day in and day out or their work-worn hands. Their recipes speak volumes about their confidence in the kitchen. They assume that those reading their recipes will know the difference between a dash and a pinch, how to use a cookie press without providing detailed instructions, and that you just ought to know how many apples you'll need to can 7-quart jars. Could they even imagine a time, when most of their treasured knowledge would be lost or buried under by years and years of disuse?

I like to think that perhaps the economic depression sure to come will help return homemaking to its rightful place--an honored and terribly neccessary profession.

Sinner vs. Saint

2008-09-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

When I want to post, I can never seem to get within ten feet of my computer. And when I do have a spare moment, usually late at night when the mess mice are fast asleep in their messy little beds in their even messier rooms , I've forgotten what I wanted to say. Or, I can't seem to lasso in the words.

None-the-less, I feel compelled to try. The other day, as I was mindlessly driving down the road to pick up my mom for school (she helps me three days a week), I was having a grand ol' time beating myself up. Yes, I know. We're not supposed to do that. I know all my titles--new creation, the daughter of the King, a beautiful and spotless bride and so on. With a resume' like that, I should be gliding on the clouds. But, if the truth be known, I've never been fond of the Stuart Smaley approach to life. For those of you who have never been defiled by Saturday Night Live, he's this incredibly dorky guy who stares into a hand mirror while reciting the mantra, "I'm smart enough, I'm good enough, and darnit, people like me." I've heard Bible teachers say, you can't live the abundant, overflowing Christian life without embracing your "idenity" as a child of God. That may all be true. But, when push comes to shove, and the harsh morning light has exposed my already compounding pile of daily sins, claiming that "I am a friend of Jesus" is about as helpful as an umbrella in a hurricane.

What I need, and what I got the other day, was a good dose of who He is and how worthless I am without Him. You see, apart from His restraining Holy Spirit, I become a raving lunatic when one of my children so much as drops a pencil. Apart from His daily dose of life-sustaining grace, I would curse the very children he entrusted to me. If He did not pray for me, I would disinigrate. If He did not convict my wandering soul moment by moment, I would surely walk away. If His Spirit did not direct me, whispering gently to turn to the left or to the right, I would be hopelessly lost. If He did not intercede for me, the Devil would have me. If He did not die for me, and if I could not claim His precious blood upon my worthless, filthy soul I would be destroyed daily and eternally. No, my success as a Christian has little to do with who I think I am, but everything to do with who He is.

I just need to remind myself that His strength is perfected in my weakness. When I struggle, I must cry out to Him to deliver me. When I want to punch the WalMart clerk in the kisser, I must pray that His love take over. When I want to berate my children for leaving their stinking, festering socks on the kitchen table for the ten thousandth time, I must pray that His infinite patience be manifested in me. When I venture into the projects to teach a weekly Bible study, I must pray that His words replace my stumbling, useless ones.

Some say we should replace the old adage that "we are sinners saved by grace" with the more self esteem friendly saying that "we are now saints who were saved by grace." Call me a fuddy duddy, but I still prefer the first because I know me. You see, I know I'm still a sinner in desperate need of daily deliverence from myself and there is no amount of sweet talkin' in the world that could take the place of that.

Lighter Fare

2008-09-11T21:02:00.000-07:00

I teach a writing class. I know that may strike some of youas ironic considering that I misspelled "daughter" in the very first thing you see when you visit my blog-THE TITLE!! But, as I tell my students, content is far more important than mechanics.

Now as I was saying, I teach this wonderful little writing class attended by incredibly eager young people destined, I'm sure, to win the Pulitzer Prize for Literature. All sarcasim aside, they are a sharp bunch of kids and they keep me on my toes or fingertips, as the case may be.

There first graded writing assignment was to describe a place. To prove to them, that I was fighting the word battle right alongside them, I wrote a little preview piece for them. I hoped it would inspire. But, I also wanted to connect with them. Expose a little so that they might see me for who I am, a real person who happens to adore words and wants to pass that love onto the next generation before the media swallows them whole.

So here it is...a little glimpse into the childhood of a little girl from Iowa who loved nothing more than to snuggle up to her hair bonnet-clad grandmother on a a frigid winter night.

Waking to the smoky aroma of frying bacon, I snuggle deeper in the crisp-clean sheets, blown dry by a brisk Iowa wind. Early morning light filters through the metal blinds casting horizontal shafts of light on the cold cream bottles and costume jewelry strewn haphazardly on the antique dresser across the room. I hear the nasally voice of the radio announcer as he begins to recite the day’s obituaries, a daily highlight in this small-town household.
Turning onto my back, I struggle to untangle the flannel nightgown that had tightened around my legs in the night. The kindly faces of Mary and Joseph whom I had recited my goodnight prayers to just a few hours before look down on me as if to say, “Wake up child, it’s a brand new day.” Reluctantly, I drag myself out of the safety of Grandma’s bed, wincing as my bare feet touch the icy linoleum floor. Drawn by the promise of crispy bacon and toast slathered in margarine, I stumble groggily into the kitchen.

Until next time...

The Mystique of the work-at-home mom.

2008-09-04T20:49:00.000-07:00

Heavens! This is the third time I've tried to get this one out. Everytime I start someone interrupts me and since I am a technological moron and can't figure out how to retrieve my saved drafts, I keep having to start over. Maybe, it's just God's way of saying those other ones stunk.

I think we're all a little bit stuck on Sarah Palin right now. The fact that her name and mine sound an awful lot alike may have something to do with my obsession with her as well. But, her nominantion as VP, has sure stirred up a hornet's nest annd I for one, am buzzing along with all the rest.

One thing, which I commented on, maybe a little vehemently in my last post that Sarah has brought to the forefront is the issue of whether or not a woman should work outside of the home. As a believer in the inerrant and unchangable Word of God and as a devoted stay-at-home mommy, the answer is no mothers shouldn't work outside of their home. They are as Paul writes to be, "keepers at home" and as the created order ordains, "submissive to their husbands." Boo, hiss...I can hear that mouthy little feminist in me fume. But God's word trumps all, even her.

The sobering truth is that what "ought to be" isn't always "what is." Remmber we live in a fallen world where a growing number of mothers must work because they have been abandoned by godless, self-centered men who have fogotten their place in the created order--as protectors and providers. What do we say to them? Starve? Go on welfare? Turn to the church? The last option is the ideal. It is exactly as James commanded when he declared that, "this is pure and undefiled religion. To visit orphans and widows in their distress." But, the church building like the rest of the world, is crumbling and this uncomfortable command is rarely considered. I know several women in this very position, who believe with all their heart that their place is in the home. Some have moved in with other families to lighten the load so they can continue to homeschool. Others work before or after school starts to put supper on the table. Are these women disobedient? They are after all not keeping it all in the home, as some would suggest they do.

And what of this idea that it is okay to work as long as it is done within the comfortable confines of the home? That is afterall, what many in the "stay at home camp" promote. For once, I feel as though I actually have enough personal experience in this area, to actually have something insightful to say. For the first five years I homeschooled my oldest son, I worked out of my home as a freelance writer. I tried to pass myself off as a true Proverbs 31 chick, able to keep my home and maintain a fulfilling career. Secretly, I knew that wasn't the case at all. I couln't keep up my home and whenever I had a deadline, school work came to a screeching halt. Everyone knew the universal symbol for "shush" when mom was interviewing someone on the phone, ofte while taking notes on a napkin while driving down the road. And woe to he that interupteth mom while she was trying to pound out a particularily stubborn story. A child could loose a limb in that sort of climate. Eventually the Lord put an end to what clearly had become a great sin in my life. I hope to share more about that later, but I digress.

Now, I'm sure some women who work out of their home do it with far more grace, than I ever could. But, I don't care whether you're writing a book, stuffing envelopes, making homemade cookie mixes, or raising poison tree frogs for their antivenom there will come a time when your "home-based job" will keep you from your responsibilities as a wife and mother. And if you're anything like me, it will get in the way a lot, a whole lot. Looking back, my family would have been much better off if I had left my comfy little house for a few hours a day and gone to work!

I was a hypocrite, self-righteously looking down on friends who either didn't have it together enough to pursue a career from the comfort of their own couch or those who selfishly put their little ones in daycare or the public school system so they could pursue a career. It took me long time to figure out that it isn't just women who work outside the home who want to have their cake and eat it too, those who work from the home also have quite a sweet tooth.

Inner feminist vs. Stay-at-home Mommy

2008-09-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

The blogosphere is afire with McCain's out-of-the-blue VP pick and has left many, including my confused self wondering if, a woman should indeed take on such a position. When I first heard that he had picked Sarah Palin, my inner feminist rejoiced. The sound of shattering glass could be heard far and wide as the proverbial glass ceiling recieved it's final blow.

But then, the mommy in me silenced the feminist choir by asking the oh-so, un-PC question, does she really belong in the White House? What about her family? Doesn't the Bible clearly state that a woman's priority is God first, husband second, children third, and everything else fourth, fifth, sixth and so on?

A brief foray into the world of homeschooling bloggers revealed that homeschoolers really are a judgemental lot. Why wouldn't we be? It takes a pretty opinionated person to think that they can actually educate their child, children, or small army apart from the benevolent beast known as the public school system. By nature, we hold strong opinions, which we often feel must and should be brought to the attention of anyone who happens to be passing by or in this case, blogging along.

What I found actually shocked me, and trust me it's hard to shock a mother of four boys. There is a segment of homeschoolers/Evangelical leaders who think that women should never work outside the home, that women should be silent in the church, and yikes--that they shouldn't even vote. Down inner-feminist, down! Of course, they think Palin should fold up her fancy duds and go back to her Alaskan homestead where she belongs. They dismiss Deborah (the prophetess and Judge of Old Testament fame) as nothing more than a consequece of man's refusal to accept his God-given mandate to rule righteously. That may be so. But the Scripture leaves no doubt that God used her and lots of other folks who may not be in the center of His will or even saved to carry out His plans. Why would we expect God to do anything less with this woman?

Aside from her anantomy, she is ideally suited for the job. Pro-life to the enth degree, she put her money where her mouth was not once but twice. How easily could a woman of her stature and connections quietly gotten rid of her down syndrome baby or her 17-year-old's unexpected pregnancy? I do not pretend to know Palin's inner thoughts, but I'm guessing it never even crossed her mind. And yes, I'm sure she employs quite a payroll of nannies and housekeepers, but she obviously loves and values children since she kept popping 'em out. Her plans to lasso in our out-of-conrtol foreign oil spending are balanced and sane and she seems to have a knack for cleaning house.

The same camp concludes that it would be wrong to vote for the McCain/Palin ticket because they represent the "lesser of the two evils." So, their suggestion is to not vote at all or vote for the third party candiate whose name escapes me (and the rest of America, I'm sure). This would translate into a nicely packaged vote for Mr. Obama- the most liberal, pro-abortion, socialist I ever did see. Call it pragmatism, but it's clear that if we allow Obama to take over our beloved nation, homeschooling, capitalism, free-speech, religious freedom, quality health care, and our very right to govern our own homes will become a faded memory. No...the feminist nor the stay-at-home mommy in me could stand for that. And thankfully, I have a husband who is on board with the whole Nineteenth Ammendment thing.

Sarah Palin, V.P.vs. Sarah Pavlik, H.M.

2008-09-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

Just a few letters seperate me, an Alabama housewife, and the future VP of the United States (hopefully). How similar are we? Let's compare.

Sarah Palin--possible Vice President of the free world
Sarah Pavlik--present Vice President of a rowdy bunch who will some day help lead the free world?
Sarah Palin--mother of five
Sarah Pavlik mother of four, but mine are all boys so that really counts as eight
Sarah Palin--former beauty queen
Sarah Pavlik--I know how to apply eyeliner
Sarah Palin--Graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in Journalism
Sarah Pavlik--me too
Sarah Palin--Cleaned up the corruption in the Alaskan legislature
Sarah Pavlik--cleaned up two poopy diapers, three toilets, five loads of laundry, and one potty mouth with a bar of Ivory soap all in one 24 hour period
Sarah Palin--Pro-life
Sarah Pavlik--ALL THE WAY. Love those babies. Love 'em!
Sarah Palin--hires professional nannies to care for her brood
Sarah Pavlik--hires mom to help homeshool brood
Sarah Palin--hunts with husband
Sarah Pavlik--hunts for husband (he's always missing when the baby needs a bath!)
Sarah Palin--some like it cold
Sarah Pavlik--I like it hot (we're talking geography here)
Sarah Palin--excellent public speaker
Sarah Pavlik--I spoke to an Awana group once
Sarah Palin--ultra-fahsionable
Sarah Pavlik--I make sure my shoes always match (eachother).
Sarah Palin--featured in Vogue Magazine
Sarah Pavlik--I danced the Vogue once (long, long time ago when Madonna acted her age)
Sarah Palin--bounce back body after baby
Sarah Pavlik--bouncy body after baby

Quite uncanny how similar the two "Sarah's" are isn't it?

Die! Self, die!

2008-04-27T20:02:00.000-07:00

I forgot where my blog was (I really would loose my head if it wasn't attached) so I ran a search on my name. Apparantly there's another Sarah Pavlik out there who is an expert quilter. Wish I could do that. And one at Florida State. And here I thought I was the only one. Anway, as I was trying to track down my blog, I came across a bunch of my old articles and it reminded me of my love-hate relationship with writing.

I think what it was, is that I enjoyed finishing. It was the process that killed me. So, does that mean I liked the alcolades but not the work? How shallow can a girl get?

Reading over some of my old stuff, stirred up something in me. Something that has been knocking around in that over-taxed brain of mine for quite some time. I want to write again. But, not like I used to. See, I used to spout off all this dribble about writing for the glory of God and such and it was just a flimsy excuse to do what I wanted, while still feeling good about myself. But, this time around, I think I might actually have good motives.

You see, I had hyperemisis the entire ten months (you know you actually carry a baby 40 weeks, which works out to ten months, not nine!) I carried my last son. Some days I was so sick, I would throw up 20 times! The day I finally went to the hospital, I was vommitting every seven minutes. Yes, I timed it as odd as that may seem. I tell you all this, so that you'll see how completely desperate I was. Imagine having the WORST stomach flu of your life everyday for 250 days. That's basically what hyperemisis is. My whole life shut down. A friend agreed to homeschool the boys so I could hug my toilet all day long.

Most days I would lie in bed keeping track of the creeping hours by the television shows that came on. I knew the line up for every major station and it wasn't pretty. I could't sleep at night, because the nausea would wake me up, so my doctor gave me a sleeping pill. After that I spent everyday, looking forward to nine o'clock when I could drop that precious little pill down my throat, and wait for the only relief avaialable--a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I was, in a word, pathetic. And like all pathetic people, I wanted to know if there was anyone else out there like me. You know the saying, misery loves company. I looked everywhere for articles and books about hyperemesis and found shockingly little. I ordered one book, that was no help what-so-ever and then and there, determined that someday, when I could actually lift my greasy, unwashed head off the pillow again I would write an article about it. I desperately needed the spiritual support of someone else who had traveled this road, and there was nothing. So, that's a really long explanation as to why I think that this time, I really do want to write an article that will both glorify the God, who brought me through the struggle and help other women dealing with it today.

So, that's my plan this summer. To get the whole thing down on paper and then do all the yucky research that goes with these types of articles. If it's of God, it will go. If not, I guess I still have issues.

If you think the title is a little incongruous, it is. I didn't write a single thing about what I intended to write when I first sat down.

Why I entered the blogosphere

2008-04-03T22:15:00.000-07:00

After hearing that all my friends were doing it (why does this sound like the time I nearly passed out after trying to smoke a cigarette when I was 9?), I sucumbed to to the overwhelming chick pressure. And so here I am, typing out my first little installment while the rest of my family sleeps peacefully.

Actually, the chick pressure thing is pretty much a ruse. I've been looking for an excuse to pound the keys again, and since God has made it abundantly clear I'm not allowed to write for money at the moment, this will have to do. I'm sure I'll have more to say about that little stipulation later.

So for now, I really don't have anything profound to say. I just thought I would get things rolling. But, don't you worry, I'll have plenty to say later, like any good Yankee woman (I may live in Alabama, but I hail from Iowa where folks just tell it like it is).