Battle Fatigue From the Start

Trump was elected two weeks ago. I've been pretty quiet since then. The loud cacophony of voices filling the last two weeks rendered my tired voice pretty useless, I felt. I'm weary of the whole thing. In fact, I'm probably going to take a December fast from social media. (The fact that I'm not sure I can even do that shows me that I desperately need to do it.)

But before I go, I'll say a few words -- to those who voted with me. Whether you voted with enthusiasm or, like I did, with heartache.

The temptation may be to breathe a sigh of relief. "Now the nation is safe from those dastardly liberals wanting to impose their socialist, atheistic agenda on us. We're good. The battle's over."

Not a chance, cupcake. The battle is just starting.

We should take no pride in this victory. We put a man in office who has a very good chance of shaming his position and shaming the country.

"But . . but Hillary . . . but . . . " Oh, hush. She's out of the picture. Now we have to deal with the abominable mess that we created when we decided to play games with the political process during the Republican primaries. He's there, he's got potential for MANY problems, and we're the ones who have to stop them.

First, acknowledge the fear that marginalized groups feel in this country. Yes, it feels to us like it's over-the-top (like the black boy my pastor encountered the day before the election who had been told that if Trump were elected, all the black men would get put in jail -- ??!?!!?). But honestly, it's no more over-the-top than the rhetoric we would have heard about the country turning into Cuba if Clinton had won.

The man has said and done some atrocious things. Don't defend or belittle them. Don't give them cause to think he represents us in that. Acknowledge the atrocity of it, and stand firm that freedom still reigns in this country because the people make it so, no matter who is the president. The people angry enough to put him in office will be angry enough to get him out if that's what it takes. Nobody needs to fear for their civil liberties on our watch.

Second, don't get all joyful about Obamacare being repealed and such. Obamacare happened because Republicans ignored the healthcare crisis for so long that the people were willing to try something radical, just so something -- SOMETHING -- was getting done. (Kind of like the exasperation that swept Trump into the White House, really.)

Repealing Obamacare will not solve anything. We've got to come up with something better. And it really has to be BETTER -- not just different. Don't get on the anything-but-Obamacare bandwagon. Make this a debate that actually leads to something good for our country.

Third, don't act like the man is a Christian and is going to protect our religious freedom. Maybe he is; maybe he isn't. God knows his heart; we only see his behavior. I see nothing in his behavior yet to give evidence of his submission to God -- much the opposite. That said, I don't think we can safely expect him to keep any promises he made during his campaign. We have to stay on our toes.

Yeah, yeah . . . he's seemed a bit more subdued and presidential the last two weeks. He also took to Twitter to make some idiotic, rash comments about the Hamilton cast's manners. Whether or not you agreed with him, the man just needed to shut up. He has bigger fish to fry. (Seriously, somebody just take his Twitter account away!! And take some of his billions and buy him some thicker skin.)

The rancor and division in this country are getting to me. I wish it wasn't. I wish I could have faith and move on. But I'm tired.

You know what I want? I want both sides to sit down and be quiet for a while. I want both sides to admit that those who disagree with them are not necessarily evil incarnate. I want people to start looking for what we can agree on and working toward that. Compromise. Peace.

I also want to weigh what I did when I got married. I have no optimism for either prospect. Just pass me the caramel popcorn and turn off my Facebook account.

On Hope and Wisdom and Fathers

My father was a deeply intellectual and profoundly faithful Christian man. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease when I was twelve . . . retired from teaching when I was fifteen . . . was in a nursing home when I was twenty-one.

Which means that by the time I was old enough to recognize the wisdom I wanted to glean from him, it was no longer there for the gleaning.

This has been a regret of mine. I have several times over the years mourned the lost lessons I could have learned from my father. This week is one of those times. Today, I wish I could ask my father this question:

How do you maintain hope?

My father had very high expectations and strict morals. I remember him telling me, with disgust, about the students in his college years who attended school dances -- such things were quite inappropriate, in his mind. I can only imagine the horror he felt at the moral decay he saw happening as a professor on his college campus during the 60s.

He was a naval officer in the Pacific in World War II. I can only imagine the frustration he felt at the anti-war protests of the 60s and 70s.

And I specifically remember his spitting out the label "crook"  when referring to Richard Nixon.

Between the sexual revolution, government corruption, civil rights violence, and Vietnam, it had to feel to him like the country was imploding. Going to hell in a handbasket.

Just like it feels to me now.

How do you maintain hope, Dad?

Intellectually, I can know God is in control. I can know that the country has been through worse and survived. I can know that God's plan and purpose are bigger than our country.

But I'm tired of feeling sad and hopeless.

Did Dad feel like God was judging the nation, like I feel? Did he cry out to God for mercy for a people who never deserved the grace He has shown them, like I do? Did he sit and think that there must be something to be done . . . something he could do . . . some answer to the crises . . . and feel lost when no answer came to him but pray, love, pray, speak truth, pray, pray, pray . . .

. . . like I do?

We need wise fathers today. Wise mothers. God grant us mercy, and grant us wise fathers and mothers. And grants us ears to hear them.

Reading "The Hiding Place"

One of the things about teaching English is that you have to read all of the books you assign to your students. And when I'm in the first year of teaching four different levels of English (6th, 7th, and 8th grade at my school, and my 10th grade daughter and a couple of her friends at home), that means I have to do a lot of reading to keep up.

My daughter and her friends were assigned – by me – the autobiography The Hiding Place to read a couple months ago. If you're not familiar with Corrie ten Boom or her story, you really must read this. She and her Dutch family were sent to a concentration camp (where her father and sister died) because they hid Jews from the Nazis in a secret room in their home, along with a great deal of other dangerous work they did for the Underground in the Netherlands.

I mainly chose this book for the kids because I wanted them to read at least one biography/autobiography this year, and they covered the Holocaust in history that month, so it seemed appropriate. (Yes, my daughter also read Night by Elie Weisel, in case you literature buffs are wondering. She wrote a fascinating essay comparing the two stories: how Elie lost his faith in the camps while Corrie found hers.) And I constantly heard great things about Corrie ten Boom and her book when I was a child.

The hidden room in the ten Boom house.

So, of course, I had to read it first. And now I understand what the fuss was about.

Oh, my gosh, this book.

I would read one chapter and then have to stop and think and pray. So many things God had to teach me through the reading of this book.

For example, I was struck by the character of Betsie, the author's sister. She was almost too good to be true. In fact, my daughter mentioned that she thought it was a good thing Corrie wrote the book and not Betsie because the reader could relate more to Corrie and her struggles and doubts. Betsie's faith was so rock solid. Her compassion, even for her enemies, was unfathomable. Upon hearing the name of the man who betrayed them to the authorities, she said, "I pray for him whenever his name comes to my mind. How dreadfully he must be suffering!"

Oh, Lord, give me Your love like that, to desire the best for others despite what they've done to me.

I will probably never forget the story of Betsie leading Corrie to thank God for the fleas in their new barracks – because scripture told them to give thanks in all things. And of course, not until much later do they find out that the fleas kept the guards from coming into their barracks, which allowed them to hold Bible studies in there, among other things. A valid reason to be thankful for them.

Lord, give me that kind of faith, that everything in my life is ordained by You and deserving of my gratitude.

While I read, I kept thinking, I could never do this. I could never be this strong or this brave. I could never put myself on the line like this. But then I read how, at the end, when she was released from the concentration camp, Corrie tried to go on working for the Underground and couldn't. She was seized with fear on her first "mission." That's when she realized that the only reason she and her family had been able to do what they had done was because God had empowered them with the strength and courage to do it. Now, He had different work for her, and so the power for this particular work was not there anymore.

Lord, help me always remember that I don't have to fear whatever trials my future may hold, because You are already empowering me to face them when the time comes. Fresh manna for each day . . . with none to save for tomorrow.

I really need to read more biographies. I never seem to put them down as the same person I was when I picked them up.

Really, South Carolina?

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
Whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
Of whom shall I be afraid?

Thus begins the 27th Psalm, which my pastor preached on yesterday and which I have memorized in the past. I was glad for reminder of the precious words in this passage last night because I have new fears as of Saturday evening.

I'm afraid of Trump being the Republican nominee for president. More than that, I fear a Trump presidency.

I'm thoroughly stunned at how this has progressed. The man infuriated me from the moment he entered the race, but my husband kept assuring me that there was no chance he would get the nomination. It just wouldn't happen. He's not that reassuring anymore.

But you know . . . I'm not so sure that my greatest fear is what will happen to the country. Frankly, I accepted the pending demise of our nation long ago. As much as it will sadden me, and as much as I will fight it, I have no doubt that the America I knew -- and certainly the America my parents knew -- will not be here for my children. And I can accept that as God's sovereign will here because I know that America is not integral to the kingdom of God. In the vast scope of eternity, America is a blip on the radar. There are far more important things than "the American dream."

No, that is not what distresses me. What distresses me is that Donald Trump won the evangelical vote in South Carolina. The church, the people of God, the body of Christ on earth looked at this arrogant, selfish, petty, vindictive, manipulative man and believed him to be worthy of the most powerful political position on the planet -- deemed him the best hope for our nation among the alternatives. What could they POSSIBLY have been thinking??

In light of the results of the primaries so far, I am less concerned about the future of America than I am about the future of the American church. Have we truly become so blind? Have we truly become so short-sighted? Have we truly become so deceived?

Because America is not the hope of the world; Christ is. And if the body of Christ on earth is thinking and behaving so abysmally, we are all quite lost.

And so I return to the 27th Psalm, grasping for hope, just as the Psalmist was. Hear my voice when I call, O Lord. Have mercy on me and answer me. . . Do not hide your face from me. . . Do not reject or forsake me. . . although we deserve it. Although we've turned from your face. Have mercy, Lord.

I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
In the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord.

Be strong, take heart,
And wait for the Lord.

Why I'm Angry

A young man in our lives just moved himself to Texas. He has little or no family support; he's here on his own, trying to get a new start on life.

He drove here in a car he spent a long time earning the money for and fixing up. And within a couple weeks of his arrival, a hit-and-run driver ran a red light and totaled that car. Because he could only afford liability insurance, our young friend just completely lost that car he worked so hard for.

So, he worked more to earn the money for another car, which he bought from a local guy in his home. He later realized that the title of the car only has the man's signature -- his wife was co-owner and needed to sign the title, too. But the man now insists that our friend never paid him; he won't let his wife sign the title until he gets paid for the car again.

Soon the car's registration will run out, and he can't get it legally registered without the title signed. Our friend's only recourse, it seems, is taking the man to small claims court -- which, of course, costs money he doesn't have.

But the immediate issue is getting the car back into his possession. While parked overnight in his apartment complex -- with his parking decal sticker in the window -- the car was towed by the towing company (Bexar Towing, for you locals) that the apartment complex hires to monitor its lots.

After a bunch of rigmarole to get them to give him access to the car (because his proof of ownership was in the car), he showed the towing company employee the parking decal in the window as they walked to the vehicle. Hmm, the guy said. Well, let me talk to my manager and get back to you.

And the next day, they produced a photo from the man who towed the car -- a photo that shows our friend's car with no parking decal. How did this happen, our friend asked, when you yourself saw the decal in the window when you finally gave me access to the car?

Oh, I didn't see a decal, the man says. You must have put that there after I let you in.

(Again, Bexar Towing Company, people. They have an F with the Better Business Bureau . . . many complaints for similar issues . . . they have more complaints than any towing company in the county . . . they were fined $19,000 by the state a couple years ago. In other words, we believe our friend.)

Again, the only apparent recourse is taking them to court. (Unless he wants to pay the $200 plus $20 per day for every day the car has sat in their lot while they gave him the run-around.) And again, going to court costs money the boy doesn't have.

Two observations here. First, this is why so many young men from troubled backgrounds become thugs. They are targeted, taken advantage of, and have no resources to protect themselves or fight back. They quickly learn that to survive, they have to get the "bad guys" (whoever they might be out there) before the bad guys get them.

And secondly, this is why the church needs to be the church. The Biblical admonition is to help widows and orphans, but the principle there is to stand up for those who can't stand up for themselves. Bear each other's burdens. This is a burden our friend can't bear, and luckily a lawyer at our new church home has offered to help him out. (We don't yet know the extent of that help or the cost, but it's a start.)

I'll add a third observation: I'm angry. So angry. Our young friend is trying to be responsible, trying to get his life together, trying to do everything right . . . and he keeps getting screwed over. I can't stand it anymore.

Giving My Doctors a Break

I have such mixed feelings about the medical community these days. On the one hand, I have genuine appreciation for people who dedicate their lives to caring for and healing the sick. I have friends who are nurses and I know how hard they work and how exhausting it is, physically and emotionally. I'm sure it's the same for doctors. I couldn't do what they do, and we desperately need people to do these things.

On the other hand, I find my dealings with the medical community to be consistently frustrating. Most of it is the "bureaucracy" around them, I suspect. It's probably a lot like public education. The required paperwork and red tape and hoops to jump through make it all an ineffective circus; if teachers could just TEACH, for crying out loud,

I have friends with medical problems that nobody seems to be able to find an answer for. And I've experienced some of this, too. In the five years we lived in Sioux City, I saw seven different physicians trying to find answers to my sleep problems and never did. My husband has some kind of sinus and drainage issue that doctors have been working on for years to no avail. My regular bronchitis I get with any cold -- no doctor can ever give me anything that makes it better.

It drives me insane sometimes that we can spend all the time and money and hassle and never get answers. First, we go through the necessary processes to get a diagnosis -- which may involve lab work (which takes time to get results from) and imaging (which you have to make an appointment for elsewhere for AND takes time to get results from), and we usually have to harass the doctor's office to find out if they've received those results and then make another appointment (which we pay for) to go over the results.

Then the doctor makes his hypothesis about what is actually wrong (because that's all a diagnosis is, really -- an educated guess based on the evidence in front of them) and suggests a possible treatment. Said treatment will involve prescriptions (to be picked up at another place, and often waited for) and behavioral modifications (snort this stuff up your nose three times a day) and will, of course, require time to see if it is working or not. Once we've established that it is NOT working (which seems to be the norm for us), then we have to make another appointment (which we again pay for) to have them come up with another possible treatment and go through the whole process again.

In the end, when nothing is working after several weeks of continued misery, we end up revisiting that hypothesis and judging whether it was incorrect in the first place . . . and coming up with a second hypothesis requiring a whole different set of treatment options . . . yada yada yada. SIGH.

I have to really fight the frustration I feel at my doctors. I like my doctors, usually. I particularly like my current primary doctor. But it is really tempting sometimes to feel like they either have no idea what they're doing, or aren't trying very hard, or perhaps are even stringing us along to keep us coming back to make more money off of our misery. (I don't think that often, but . . . )

However, as I said, I try to fight those frustrating feelings. The truth is, fixing a human body is not like fixing a machine. Machines are simple. If you know how a machine works, you can repair what is not working pretty easily. (And yet, how often have you found mechanic types who get stumped at what's wrong with, say, your car? Or your phone?)

The human body is NOT a simple machine, as much as we'd like to think so. Medical science learns more and more about how our bodies work every year, but there is still SO much they don't understand. But even if they knew everything about our physical workings, we are not just physical beings. We are spiritual beings. And our spiritual lives -- our thoughts, our beliefs, our emotions, our wills -- profoundly affect how our physical bodies function. I don't think medical science will ever be able to get a complete grasp on that, because science, by definition, is limited to what is observable.

So, it really shouldn't surprise me so much that doctors can't figure out why I don't sleep well. And I should stop expecting the answer to be as easy to find as a broken timing belt in a car engine. Even my car stumps my mechanic sometimes -- my body is an even greater mystery.

The Cornelius Decision

So, who else is watching "A.D.", the TV series? I rarely read any comments about it on FB, even from my rabid Christian friends, so I wonder.

It hasn't grabbed me and addicted me (like other shows I'm having to wait until the fall to see again . . . grrr), but it's interesting. Some folks are probably upset about the "extra-biblical" material, angles on the story that were not in the original text. The traveling Ethopian eunuch was involved in a plot against the Romans? James arranged with Caiaphas for the Jesus-followers to be accepted into the temple again? And John the disciple as a black man . . . I understand the desire for ethnic diversity here, but that's really stretching things.

I'm not necessarily bothered by these angles, though. It concerns me a little that the biblically illiterate will watch this and think this is all in the Bible, but because none of it that I've seen yet is contradictory to the important message and spirit of the text, I'm okay with it so far. In fact, as a Bible student and script writer, I'm pretty fascinated by the background stories they are supposing here, based on the sketchy details we are given in the book.

We just caught up yesterday on the episode we missed on vacation. And this was an episode I've been waiting for. From the beginning, when Pilate sent his top centurion out to do some violence and called him Cornelius, I've been waiting for the soldier's conversion -- because I knew this HAD to be that Cornelius. And it was. Great idea to have such a crucial character to the gospel story involved in everything from the start, even though in the Bible he pops up pretty randomly and isn't heard from again.

So, yesterday, Cornelius met Jesus. And he is then immediately called in by Pilate to lead his squadron of soldiers to bring the golden statue of Caligula into the Jewish temple . . . and to kill every Jew that tries to stop them. He's a soldier; he's been given orders, orders he must obey or he will be killed himself. Peter asks him what he will do. Cornelius responds that he will pray that the Holy Spirit shows him what to do. Good answer.

So, Cornelius marches his troops with the offensive statue to the gates of the temple, where he politely asks (there's a change right there) the high priest to step aside so he can fulfill his orders. In answer, Caiaphas offers his throat -- kill me if you must, I won't allow you to desecrate God's temple. Cornelius must decide which master he will obey: his earthly master or his heavenly master. And he must decide in a very public way, with EVERYONE watching. He hesitates.

And in that moment, the mob behind him attacks his squadron, and he is left alone kneeling and praying with his new Christian brothers, while the battle rages without his participation. And his soldiers don't seem to notice.

The episode ended before we found out if there will be consequences for Cornelius not obeying Pilate's orders. I suspect there will be. But isn't it interesting that this episode aired now? An episode that deals with the question of what do I do when doing my job, when obeying governmental authority, goes directly against what I know is God's will?

I'm anxious to see how this will play out in "A.D." I'm even more anxious to see how it will play out in my country.

Benedict and Daniel

These new pictures of Bruce Jenner make me sad. The effusive praise coming from his supporters makes me sad. The hateful spite coming from his detractors makes me sad. The whole flippin' situation . . . sad, sad, sad. I grieve over what is happening in our country.

I posted an article on FB yesterday about a movement that's apparently been around but I'd never heard of: the Benedict Option. Here's the gist of it. America is going the way of ancient Rome, morally imploding. For the past few decades, religious social conservatives have believed themselves to be the majority and tried to get everyone to band together and vote the right way to protect and maintain their beliefs. It is becoming increasingly clear that they are no longer the majority (if they ever were) and that they are, in fact, becoming social pariahs. The Moral Majority approach will no longer work. We need instead to follow the example of St. Benedict who, when Rome was falling, created small communities where truth was taught and maintained. We need to "cultivate and preserve a robustly Christian subculture within an increasingly hostile common culture."

Interesting, because I've kind of been thinking along those lines for quite a while now.

Benedict created monasteries -- and that kind of cocooning is not what is needed now, I don't think. (Not sure it's even feasible in this day and age.) But I've thought for a long time (and have written about it here) that the Church in America is going to soon have to start taking a Daniel approach to ministry.

Daniel was one of the Hebrews carried away to Babylon during the Jewish exile. Because he was upper class and well-educated, he was brought to the court, probably with the hopes that they could re-educate him to their beliefs and he would be an asset to their side. Instead, he stood firm on his own beliefs (recall the lion's den story) and ended up influencing the king himself. Others in exile were like him, and they preserved the Hebrew faith until they were allowed to go home.

I heard a speaker once talking about starting a church in Salt Lake City with a Daniel approach, as opposed to a David and Goliath approach. Rather than storming the place to conquer the enemy (which seems to have been the way of the American Church lately), he entered as a guest in a foreign land, living out truth quietly and peacefully (whatever the consequences), praying for an invitation to give a reason for his belief.

This is the future of believers in America, I think. My principal spoke once of the fact that we are called to raise a Daniel generation. Amen.

No coming after the giants with rage and defiance. No hiding away in monasteries. Live quietly and peacefully within the hostile land. Live out the truth, whatever the consequences, and pray that others look at your life and want to have what you have. Quietly, peacefully, and lovingly.

Because Christ said his disciples would be known by their love. Not our politics . . . not our morals . . . not our rhetoric . . . by our love.  And Lord knows, that is NOT what the American Church is known for these days.

The One About Vomiting

I couldn't remember the last time I had thrown up. I have no memories of doing so in our house in Sioux City, so it must have been before we lived there -- possibly a decade or so ago.

But my streak was broken Monday night, about five minutes before the pastor and his family arrived for dinner at our house. (Fabulous timing, o stomach of mine.) I suspect the leftover quiche I ate for Monday's lunch was the culprit. It had all the signs of food poisoning. Just a 24-hour thing.

Vomiting . . . what a phenomenon. I had forgotten how repulsive and miserable it is. And yet, what a blessing that our bodies have this automatic mechanism in place to protect us. I could almost hear my inner systems screaming, "TOXINS! TOXINS! Eradicate them immediately!! Stat!" (I don't know what "stat" means in this context, but we've all deduced from medical dramas that it implies urgency, and this situation was apparently urgent.)

Goodness, the violence our bodies inflict to purge us of poison! The thoroughness of the purging! EVERYTHING goes that may have entered with the offending party. No traces of the toxin may remain. Every other non-essential system in the body shuts down so more energy can be put toward the cleansing (which explains the exhaustion that my daughter was surprised at -- "why would food poisoning wipe you out so badly?").

So, in the moments of calm between violent purgings, I was able to experience some genuine appreciation for what my body was doing for me, painful and gross as it was in the experience.

And I was able to consider how beneficial it might be if we had systems in place to purge us of other toxins we encounter in life.

So, when a poisonous idea enters our minds, our mental systems would scream, "TOXINS! DANGER! Eradicate that immediately! Before it infects and spreads!" Followed by a violent purging, which would necessitate a day or two of gentle meditation to recover. I might even be willing to lose a bit of short-term memory in the process if it meant being protected from thoughts that would be ruinous to me in the long run.

And when a toxic person enters our lives, our systems would scream, "DANGER! POISON! Get them outa here! Go! Go! Go!" I'd hope I could re-establish the healthy relationships that might be lost in the violence of eradicating the toxin, but sad as it might be, that sacrifice would be worth the price.

Yes, such purgings would be painful and disruptive and costly in many ways. But oh, the costs they would save us in the long run! And how much more cautious would we be about the various poisons we encounter in life if we knew each of them would knock us out of commission for a couple days like that.

In case you're wondering, I'm feeling much better this morning, thank you. And my daughters did a fabulous job of greeting our guests and serving dinner Monday night. A good support team is critical in such a dangerous world as ours, with its perilous ideas, risky companions, and questionable quiches. I'm thankful for mine.

Mainstreams and Margins

Our Sunday School teacher used that phrase yesterday. Mainstreams and margins. Our society tends to refer to "majorities" and "minorities," but I think these terms are more accurate. You can be a statistical majority and still be on the margins of society. It's not about the numbers.

In the context of our discussion, the teacher asked us to consider situations in our lives when we have been in either camp. When have you been in the margins? And when you were, what were your thoughts and feelings about those in the mainstream? Conversely, when you've been in the mainstream, how did you think and feel about those in the margins?

We were examining passages in Acts about conflict resolution -- specifically Acts 15, when the Council in Jerusalem had to make a decision about circumcision. Do Gentiles who trust in Christ have to become Jews before they become Christians? Is Christianity just a new branch of Judaism, or is it something else entirely?

At that time, the Jewish Christians were the mainstream. Gentile Christians were the margins. Kind of interesting, when you think about it.

In the United States, Christianity has been the mainstream since Europeans began settling the land. And most people will insist that it still is. Look at all our churches. Look at all the Christian holidays we celebrate. Look at all the surveys indicating how many people identify as Christians, believe in God, attend Christian worship services, etc.

But you see, that's about majority. I'm talking about mainstream. And I contend the national waters are started to flow down a different stream.

Oh, I don't think churches are going to start disappearing right away. Blatant atheism isn't going to be running rampant around here anytime soon. But I'm convinced we're headed the direction Europe has gone. I haven't ever been to Europe, but from what I understand, churches are mostly historical artifacts around there. Very few active members. And very few churches that are serving as salt and light in the dark worlds around them.

John Piper said in a recent sermon, "The Christian Church in America suffers from about 350 years of dominance and prosperity. . . this has deeply ingrained in us a massively unbiblical mindset, namely, a mindset of at-homeness in this world and in this age." It has been easy to be a Christian in America, and that easiness has created a feebleness that will be our downfall.

I vividly remember the words a couple decades ago of a missionary from a country in the Eastern block that had been freed from Soviet control and was experiencing new religious freedoms. His believing friends in that nation were bemoaning to him, "Why did God take away the blessing of persecution?" Easy Christianity was making for weak Christianity. Ineffective Christianity. Faux Christianity. What makes us think our faith was supposed to be easy?

The blessing of persecution. Dare we ask God for that blessing upon our nation? I'm coming to suspect that the Church was always meant to stand in the margins rather than float in the mainstream.

My Future With Dementia

Yesterday, a friend posted on FB a link to a news story about Alzheimer’s disease (which you can see here). The reporter experienced a simulation created to give you an idea of how life is for victims. It was fascinating to watch.

My father died in 2001 after a 21-year battle with Alzheimer’s. His three sisters have all been diagnosed now as well. (His three brothers haven’t shown any symptoms that I’m aware of.) Since there is a genetic component to this, I've known for quite a while that there’s a chance that I may be afflicted one of these days.

I think that should disturb me more than it does. Maybe if I watch more videos like this one, it will. And maybe as I get older (Dad was diagnosed in his mid-50s), it will. But right now, I surprisingly seem to take this in stride.

I've made it clear to my family that I want them to have no hesitations over putting me in a nursing home when it is time. Please do the work to be sure it’s a good nursing home (I may even do some care-shopping myself while I’m capable). And please keep an eye on me and visit me frequently. But don’t think you’re being heroic or loving by keeping me in your house when I reach the point of being dangerously debilitated. Put me where I’m safe and you’re safe, too.

I've also made it clear that I want them to appreciate the humor in the situation whenever they can. Seriously. I remember once visiting my dad in the common room of his care center when a fellow patient wandered into the room. She looked around curiously, and then announced loudly to everyone present, “I gotta pee!” And she dropped her sweatpants and undergarments to her ankles. The four care workers in the room came diving from their various corners, calling in unison, “Noooooo!!!!”

I tried SO hard to stifle my laughter. It was hilarious. Please don’t judge me – if that had been my dad, I would have laughed, too. It was funny, people! If I get to where I’m doing crazy stuff like that, I want my family to feel free to find some enjoyment in it. Life will be hard enough at that point; you gotta see the humor where you can.

The editor of World magazine once wrote about his mother's Alzheimer's experience. She had apparently had a miserable, difficult life and was generally a very unpleasant, miserable person to be around for most of it. Until she got dementia. Then she forgot all the old resentments and hurts -- every day was new and bright. He said her last three years of life were probably her happiest. Sometimes there is a blessing in forgetting.

I don't expect that to be me -- I don't think I have horrible resentments that will bring bliss when they are forgotten. But I have been making a point of trying to change my general mental state. What I have noticed about people as they age (including my parents) is that they don't really change in personality; they just lose their ability (or desire sometimes) to put on the mask that they are expected to wear in polite society. They say what they really think. They act how they really feel. They stop playing the "nice" game, and usually not by choice. 

This being the case, I want to be sure that I'm genuinely nice, that my thoughts and feelings are full of grace and love, so when my filter is gone, I'm not spouting venom to the world that serves to isolate me from the world. My best preparation for old age, I think, is submitting myself wholeheartedly to God changing me from the inside out, so I'm as much like Him as possible. 

Which, really, should be my goal in life anyway, right?

Busy, Stressed and Tired -- and Kidding Myself

I'm a Busy Person. By this, I mean that busy-ness is part of my identity, part of how I label myself. By extension, I am also a Stressed Person . . . and a Tired Person. And I'm sure I am a member of a vast company.

I've come by these labels legitimately. Even from high school, I got much too involved in things and had way too many tasks sitting on my plate. It has taken many years and much maturity to learn which tasks I'm good at and should say yes to, and which tasks I can bless this world with by saying an emphatic NO. But my BSF teaching leader made a little side comment last night that slapped me in the face.

[Isn't that how it often happens? You're listening to a speaker who has Points A, B, and C to communicate to you, but in the course of this communication, they make a passing remark that hits you square between the eyes and convicts you to the depths of your soul . . . and you very likely completely miss Points A, B, and C.]

I still self-identify as a Busy Person. But the reality is, I'm not that busy. Oh, I have plenty of things to do -- and I have more things I could be doing that aren't getting done -- but I'm certainly not rushing around all the time, with never a moment to sit and relax and think (as I have been at other

periods of my life). 

Yet, if someone were to ask me How my life is these days? (one of those dear friends who you know actually wants to know how life is and isn't just hoping for a pat, polite, small-talky response), I think my automatic response would be something to the effect of, "Oh, life's a little crazy, as always!" 

But my life is NOT a little crazy these days -- "as always." My life is pretty good these days. But it is my default mental state to think I'm Busy, Stressed, Tired Person. 

That was my slap in the face.

Because if my Busy-ness is merely a habit of thinking, is it possible my Stressed-ness and Tiredness are also? Is it possible, that, even when I have been genuinely busy, I could have born it all without stress and exhaustion if I had thought I could do so? 

Is it possible that, as the Bible teaches me, the Spirit really is my strength and He really does empower me to do all things He's called me to do if I relax and let Him do that? 

And is it possible . . . no, forget that. I am quite certain that I -- and probably many, many other women out there -- have nursed this self-image of a Busy, Stressed, Tired Person because there is, strangely enough, some female-induced peer pressure to do so. Because Busy, Stressed and Tired seems to also mean Productive. And Accomplished. And Worthwhile. And Someone Who Matters. 

We assume that being Someone Who Matters can't feel any other way.

But if scripture is to be believed, it not only can, but it should. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light, Jesus tells us. Is it possible that he's telling us the truth?

Sharing Our Riches and Our Poverty

I'm not a big fan of Dennis Miller. Even when I agree with his opinion on a topic, I usually think he is unnecessarily harsh and snarky in expressing his opinion. But he said something the other day that I liked.

He was saying that, if he's going to give all this money to the government to help poor people get by and get back on their feet, he wishes that all of his money could go to one person in particular – so that he could at least go out to dinner with this guy once in a while and shoot the breeze with him.

I think he meant it as a joke. In fact, if I remember right, he specifically said he was joking (but even then, with him, I'm not always sure).

But I would say the same thing and not be joking at all. I would love that. I would love for all of the money I pay in taxes that is going to be designated to programs to help the needy to be given to me, along with a name of a local person who is in need of help from that money.

I want to take this person out to dinner and talk about his situation. I want to hear his story – to know what his goals are, what his dreams are, what the obstacles are that are standing in the way.

And I want to tell him my story. How our family got the money we have, the struggles we've faced, the obstacles we've overcome, the lessons we've learned, the battles we're still fighting.

Then I want to come up with a plan together to use that money to get him out of his situation of need. A specific plan. A personalized plan that takes into account all the relevant factors that apply to him and may not apply to others.

And then . . . I want to walk through life with him. Not shove a check in his hand and walk away. I want to hear how school is going. I want to take his kids for an evening when he and his wife need to get out for a night alone. I want to pray with him over bad medical tests results. I want to rejoice with him over job promotions. I want to actually live in community with this person and have him live in community with me – see each other's struggles, hear each other's pains, commiserate with each other's failures, and celebrate other's victories.

I want us to each see each other as human beings made in the image of God and not simply as money-dispensers and money-devourers.

Somehow, it seems like that's more like what God had in mind when He said to care for the needy. A mutually caring relationship. 'Cause we all possess our particular brand of riches . . . and we all suffer our particular brand of poverty . . . and God designed things so we need each other. 

The Praises of the Street People

Whenever I'm worshipping God with the homeless congregation at Church Under the Bridge downtown, I'm struck by a few things.

I'm struck by the lack of body odor. For 150-some people who live on the streets in a hot July in San Antonio, they don't smell bad.

I'm struck by the respectfulness of nearly everyone present, whether they're there to genuinely worship or just going through the motions to get a meal.

I'm struck by the flood of people who go forward to put money in the offering plate during the last song. People living on the streets, who of their own choice -- no coercion involved -- give back to God some of the limited finances He's given them because they feel so blessed by His goodness and want to thank Him. It shames me.

And I'm struck by how loud the music is. Usually, I just suspect the mics and background tape are just turned up an extra notch beyond where I would set them (plus there's a little more shouting than singing going on). But last night, it wasn't the sound system. During the bridge of "Manifesto", the mics were turned off and only the voices of the people were heard singing through the words of the Lord's Prayer.

"Singing", I should say. Chanting, really. OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN HALLOWED BE THY NAME THY KING-DOM COME THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN . . .  

No discernable pitch. Much discernable emotion. Imagine an exclamation point after each word and a fist pump after each syllable. GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAI-LY BREAD AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES AS WE FOR-GIVE THOSE WHO TRESPASS AGAINST US . . . 

And if you know the song, you know how it builds in intensity: . . . AND LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION BUT DELIVER US FROM EV-IL FOR THINE IS THE KINGDOM POWER AND THE GLORY FOR-EEEVERRR!!!!

People with no job, no money, no place to sleep tonight, standing with their arms raised, shout-singing their prayer to God: AAAA-MEN!!!!!!!

The musicality is horrid. The spirituality is glorious. And again, I am shamed. I need my homeless friends to teach me what worship is.

Thank You for the Despair?

My mother died unexpectedly four days after my youngest daughter was born, and between my grieving and my post-partum state, I dove into a wicked depression for many, many months. One Sunday afternoon, I was in my bedroom with the door locked because I was afraid my husband would walk in and see me sobbing on the floor in this pit of despair and be at a total loss for what to do – which would frighten me even more. I finally realized, I couldn't stay there on the floor; I had to do something. And for some reason, my pastor came to mind.

He only lived a few minutes away, so I called and asked if I could come over and talk. I'm not sure what I expected to get out of this – I'm sure he didn't either – but I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Talking in Pastor Jeff's living room, I finally revealed to him the thought that was haunting me: I KNEW God could lift this depression if He wanted to, but He wasn't doing it – it was like He wanted me to feel this way.

“Well,” said Jeff, “what if He does?”

I thought, what the %($*# kind of question is that?!?? He went on to talk about giants of the faith who have struggled with depression, and my brain just turned off for a while. I couldn't deal with this crazy idea.

But later that night, and the next day, that crazy idea started to take some form and resonate with me. What if God really did have a reason for allowing this pain?

I downloaded a book the other day called The Anxious Christian, and the subtitle is, “Can God Use Your Anxiety for Good?” What a thought. What if this thing that we view as a curse . . . as a sign of abandonment . . . as a sign of our weakness or sinfulness . . . as something to be avoided or denied or eradicated at all costs . . . what if it is actually a tool God has given us if we're willing to accept it?

I've skimmed the book and need to read it again more closely, but the author seems to be saying that, in his own life, at least, God uses anxiety (and his was long-term and debilitating) to signal to him a need to move forward in boldness and lean on Him more. If we didn't feel that anxiety when change is pending, we wouldn't recognize how stuck we are and how badly we need the change. If we didn't feel the fear of failure, we wouldn't be driven to rely on God.

Something like that.

I never came to fully understand that day exactly why God would want me to experience such overwhelming despair. But I did come to understand that the despair wasn't going to destroy me (or God wouldn't have allowed it). And I've increasingly come to see my sad and fearful and angry feelings not as something to avoid, but as something to listen to and read and interpret . . . and walk in the midst of.

And maybe, just maybe, they are gifts. What a thought. Gotta think on that more.

Lean On Me

A number of years ago, there was a family in a certain group of friends we were in who was going through some serious struggles. Major illnesses, job loss, hospitalizations, financial setbacks . . . serious struggles. Our group rallied around them in every way, providing emotional, spiritual, and material support as best we could.

Ultimately, there came a point where it was clear that their financial needs were going to continue for a while and were going to be beyond what we friends could help them with. That's when one of the group approached the couple, suggesting that they ought to look into some government assistance until the situation turned around.

They refused. They had no intention of being on welfare, they said. Their friends tried to change their mind – you would not be taking advantage of the system or of anybody. You've paid into the system over the years. And you are exactly the kind of people in exactly the kind of situation that these programs are intended for. Still, they refused.

This is pride, and not the good kind. This is not a demonstration of independence and self-sufficiency – this is a demonstration of foolish stubbornness. A person who refuses the help available when they are in genuine need of help thinks too highly of himself. He thinks he should be above the kind of interdependence that God has designed us to live in.

Yes, you just heard a conservative Republican say that: we are meant to be dependent on each other. The stereotypical self-made lone-ranger American is not a biblical model for living. On the contrary, the model we are given in scripture is that of a body, where each part does its job and subordinates itself to the Head, which is Christ. Arms need feet, and livers need eyeballs, and they all need the Brain . . . which interacts with the world through the other parts. As good as it may feel to folks to be able to say they don't need anyone else when times get tough (or even when times are good), they are distinctly out of the will of God when that is the condition of their heart.

What's more, such an attitude of self-sufficiency will send you straight to hell. Consider what this person is (consciously or subconsciously) saying to God. “Yes, Lord, I hear you telling me that I can't put myself right on my own, that you want to do this for me as a gift of grace. But see, I don't take charity. If I can't do it myself, I'd rather just do without. I'll muddle by as best I can on my own efforts. That's good enough for me. Give all that grace to someone else who needs it more. I'm good. Thanks anyway.”

You're not good. When it comes to your righteousness and salvation and eternal destiny, you're absolutely, positively not good. You're in desperate need of God's intervention, whether you realize it or not. And maybe creating us to be dependent on each other is part of the humbling process that brings us back to Him.

God, teach us that balance of interdependence and personal responsibility in our social realm . . . but teach us how to be child-like and completely dependent on You in every realm.

Letting Gratitude Win

We have an injured one in the house today. Our youngest was at a camp retreat this weekend with the junior highers from her school and fell off a Blob. What's a Blob? Apparently a large inflated thing that you jump on to knock another person off the other end into the water. Great fun -- if you jump to land on your bottom. Kiddo apparently missed those directions.

The good news is, it looks like it's not a terrible injury. The swelling went down pretty quickly, so it's likely just a sprain or something and not a fracture. We're hoping we won't need to get an x-ray today.

The other good news is, the incident prompted her to say, "I have such good friends!" They rallied to her side when she was in pain and having to miss the fun. One friend packed her stuff for her. Others made her laugh to distract her. She does have good friends. So glad God brought us to Summit.

The bad news: she hurts. At least she did for a while. The doctor at the camp gave her ibuprofin and she was quite comfortable on the way home. When that wore off later in the evening, however, she was in serious pain. And the first pain-killer we grabbed out of the cabinet was acetaminophen. Not the same stuff at all, apparently. It did little or nothing to curb the pain. Poor girl was absolutely miserable all night until we figured out our mistake the next morning. Ready to eliminate the Tylenol from all of our bathroom cabinets. Worthless stuff.

The other bad news: she can't walk. We're hoping that won't be for long, but it is for now and it is a huge aggravation for her. I sympathize so much. I had surgery on my foot several years ago, and I vividly remember the pain (they finally gave me happy drugs that made me wonderfully loopy and entertaining) and the hassle of trying to live life on one foot.

You can't carry anything when you're using crutches. You have to slide on your butt up and down stairs. Going to the bathroom is a hassle even. She said yesterday that a couple days ago, she would have loved the chance to do nothing but sit on the couch all day . . . and now she was dying to get up and go someplace else.

That's one of the lessons I learned in my time on crutches: gratitude. Gratitude for the little things. Just being able to put weight on two feet is a little thing we all take for granted, but it's huge. How difficult life gets when you can't do so, even for a short time.

Our daughter is learning that gratitude now. I was feeling it in full force from the minute I got the phone call from camp. It's a minor foot injury. Hallelujah! It could have been terribly broken. She could have broken her whole leg. She could have whacked her head or landed funny on her spine and shattered something there. We could have spent Saturday evening sitting around her in an emergency room, praying desperately. Such visions floated through my head when I was listening to her principal tell me over the phone, "Eastin's had an accident . . .

But it's only a minor foot injury. Hallelujah!

Gratitude and aggravation. I'm joyfully letting the former win out in my heart. But then, I'm not the one on crutches today.

Still Coughing . . .

I'm quickly losing faith in the medical profession. I mean, yeah, I'm sure these are good people, and I know they work hard at what they do, and I assume they have the best of intentions . . . but I'm not convinced they know what they're doing half the time.

This cough I've been talking about for a few weeks? This is typical of me. I get your basic common cold that everyone gets, and it cycles through all its symptoms ending with the cough. And the cough gets stuck in my chest and stays there. For weeks. I can't get enough air into my lungs. I can't yawn at night when I'm tired without coughing. I can't exert myself in any way without coughing. It's exhausting.

It's been this way for years. And it can't be something in my environment (like an allergy) because it happened in New Jersey, then in Sioux City, and now twice already in the short time I've been here. But no doctor seems to be able to figure it out. Usually, they give me an antibiotic (just in case) and some serious cough meds -- occasionally an inhaler of some sort. Eventually the cough stops, but never as quickly as they tell me the meds should take care of it.

Last week, I went to my new doctor here (whom I really like so far), and he decided to try zapping the nasty thing with cough suppressants and two different inhalers. Which worked! At first. When I went to Wicked over the weekend, the cough seemed to be almost licked, and I was thrilled.

But as the week has progressed, it is coming back. I have a doctor's appointment again this morning, but I'm not optimistic he's really going to be able to take care of this thing.

It was the same way with my sleep problems for so many years (which still aren't really licked, I don't think -- I just manage them sufficiently to get by). It's the same with this post-nasal drip problem my husband has. They go on and on and on . . . no doctor seems to be able to figure out how to FIX them. We can put a man on the moon (as the saying goes), but we can't stop my cough.

Which all just goes to show you, I believe, that Man is just not as smart as he thinks he is. At some point during the Enlightenment or something, Man decided that he was capable, eventually, of understanding all the mysteries of the world, and therefore controlling it all. We can heal every disease . . . prevent every catastrophe . . . end every conflict . . . cure every ill. We will eventually have the knowledge and ability to create a heaven on earth if we want it badly enough.

Only we will never have all the knowledge. And we can never have all the ability. And truth be told, we don't want it badly enough. I could never survive as an atheist. If I believed the greatness of Man was the hope of the world, I would be in total despair.

Standing and Continuing to Stand

My youngest is reaching that age.  That age where she is realizing what a broken world we live in.

I remember when my eldest reached that age, and it was kind of a sad thing to watch. Of course, she has such anxiety issues that my biggest concern was that the realization would cripple her with fear. The youngest isn't necessarily experiencing anxiety -- just distress and disappointment.

It is disappointing, isn't it? When you've grown up in a safe, loving home and the only bad guys are pretend people on TV and in the movies who all either get their dues or come around to the good side in the end, it's a bummer to find out that bad guys are real. And they sometimes flourish. And they sometimes hurt the good guys in big ways. And they sometimes go to your school.  Live in your neighborhood. Even in your house.

Even in your body some days.

And it's distressing to find out that even when you are a good guy and do all the right things, you are going to suffer. Everyone suffers in some way in their lives.  Sometimes it's the consequence of our own wrongdoing, sometimes it's the backsplash from someone else's wrongdoing, and sometimes it is just a seemingly random thing . . . cancer is no respecter of persons.

As I write this, a couple friends come to mind -- friends who I know simply dote on their children and cry with every milestone that comes along to remind them that these younger years are moving swiftly.  They have made every effort to shelter their children from any evidence of evil or suffering in the world, because they see the childhood years as an idyllic time to be innocent and carefree. And I think most of us have that image of childhood in mind (although these moms take it a bit to extremes). Santa Claus, lollipops, playgrounds, toys, friends, happy, happy, happy . . . this is what childhood is supposed to be.

Only maybe it's not.

I fear that we might -- just might -- be doing a grave disservice to our kids by protecting them so much from the harsh realities of the world. I wonder if maybe -- just maybe -- reality coming as such a shock is a sign that we have totally failed to prepare them for reality.  And perhaps -- just perhaps -- that was our job as parents after all.

When I taught honors sophomore English, I noticed that I had two types of students.  One type believed that if they worked their butts off now, when they were young, they'd be able to get a good job later, make a lot of money, and then they could relax, have fun, and enjoy life.  The other type were convinced that when they grew up and got jobs, life would be nothing but miserable hard work, so they needed to enjoy themselves now, in their youth, while they had the chance.

It was hard for me to convince them that they needed to learn to balance both the work and stress AND the rest and fun because life -- all of their life from now until the day they die -- consists of both.

Both pain and fun. Both suffering and joy. Both evil and good. Like learning to control both of the wayward water skis strapped to our feet that want to run in separate directions, we need to learn to stand on both extremes and continue to stand.

And maybe -- just maybe -- the reason we do such a lousy job of teaching our kids how to do this is because we do such a lousy job of it ourselves.

Just Hang a Caution Sign Around my Neck

You may not know this, but I'm a dancer. Yessiree. I took classical ballet for many years when I was young . . . performed in “The Nutcracker” seven times, among other things, and on pointe, no less. I took dance as an adult in Hutchinson and in Sioux City, adding to my ballet repertoire some tap, jazz, modern . . . graceful as a swan, I am.

Which makes the last few days that much more aggravating.

I injured myself walking into my closet Saturday. I'm not even sure exactly how. I was looking in the bathroom mirror at something and walking toward the closet door; when I got close enough to go through the doorway, I turned my head toward where I was going and ended up whacking the left side of my body on the doorframe. My left hand was raised, for some reason, and so the edge of the door frame hit squarely on the back of my hand, leaving a good bruise. Seriously. I walked into a door frame.

But that's nothing on my earlier stunt. My youngest and the new dog were in the kitchen with me where I was getting some stuff done before lunch. I turned around, and there was the dog at my feet . . . only I didn't see him. I felt him, the fulcrum over which my body tipped as I face-planted on the tile of my kitchen floor. My knee whacked the floor good, and I had to sit with a bag of frozen broccoli on it for a while. No internal injury there, I don't believe, but it's darn painful, and it's gonna look good and ugly for a few weeks, I expect.

And no, the dog was not injured. Thanks for asking.

But even that has nothing on my stunt a couple days before that. I was bringing down the dog's crate from my youngest's bedroom where he has been sleeping (and sleeping well now – again, thanks for asking). Our stairway has a curve to it, and I was carefully manuevering so as to not bump the corners of the crate on the wall.

“Do you need help, Mom?” the daughter asked.

“No, I've got it – thanks,” I replied. Because I did.

Until my foot missed the edge of a step and I went sliding. Or actually, kind of lurching. I sort of fell forward onto the top of the crate – the bottom of which was on my foot (yeah, I'm not sure how that worked either) and the corner of which, or course, went right through the stairway wall I had been so deftly avoiding just seconds before.

Both girls came running, of course. They took the crate, bemoaned the gash in the wall, and worried over me appropriately, asking if I was okay. Yes, I'm fine, I told them. I just need to sit a minute.

I think I passed out. For real. The next thing I remember was my brain feeling like it was swimming and having no idea where I was or what was going on and feeling rather panicky. Seriously, folks – I fell on the stairs, didn't even hurt myself enough to bruise or anything (although I was a little achey for the morning), but I passed out? What's the physiological mechanism behind that?

But yeah – I'm a ballerina. Graceful as a swan when I dance. Just don't stand too close to me when I try to WALK.