Thank You Note for a Senator

Dear Senator Davis,

I want to give a hearty thank-you for your filibuster of the Texas omnibus pro-life bill, SB 5.

If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be able to burn my baby to death by saline injection.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be able to slice her out of my body piece by piece by D and C.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be able to crush her skull with forceps to remove her annoying little body from mine.

What kind of knuckle-dragging troglodyte would come between a woman and her right to kill? And what's their problem with Comfort Care? If the unfortunate little soul still happens to be alive after all the burning and dismemberment, she gets put on a steel cookie sheet and covered with a blanket until she has the decency to die. I think that's just precious!!!

But thanks to you, SB 5 failed to pass. Every time I saw your little blond head bobbing up and down and your big 'ol mouth droning on...and on...and on...well, it just made me proud to be a woman. Yes ma'am, way to keep the ultimate child predators safe and legal!!!

When I become a senator, I want to be a minion of the Powers of Darkness, too!
Just.like.you.

Hugs,
Ditzy Chick for Choice

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As I looked, thrones were placed, and the Ancient of Days took His seat.
His clothing was as white as snow, and the hair of His head was like pure wool;
His throne was fiery flames; its wheels were burning fire.
A stream of fire issued and came out from before Him.
A thousand thousands served Him, and ten thousand times ten thousand stood before Him;
The court sat in judgment, and the books were opened. Daniel 7:9-10

Philosophers and Fools

So I had this class back in college. I can't remember the title exactly, but it was something like "Communication Rhetoric." Being at that time only a twenty-year-old, future homeschooling mom, I wasn't familiar with the term 'rhetoric.' But it was a head-banging, frustrating study of modern 'philosophers' who poured all their energy into talking about precisely nothing. If it wasn't required for my major, I would have dropped it. As the only believer in the class, I just couldn't figure out what anyone else found so compelling in all this navel-gazing...

...which brings me to Sophie's World by Jostein Gaardner.
Well.
That was painful.

What I have a problem with is not the study of philosophy. That is a worthy pursuit for people who want to understand the course of our culture, who want to love God with all their mind. What I have a problem with is a study of philosophy which is not grounded by Truth.

But first, let me tell you about the other problems I have with Sophie's World. As a novel, it falls flat. The plot is so bizarre, it feels like something from the Twilight Zone. The characters are dislikable. Sophie is bratty, disrespectful, and rabidly feminist. Alberto is supposed to be mysterious, but he's just moody and strange, with a disturbing infatuation for the UN and one-world governments. Sophie's mother, the only authority figure, is daft and out of control of her household.

Alberto takes Sophie on a trip through history, highlighting major philosophers along the way. In fact, the book covers everyone from Democritus to Freud. (Just shoot me now.) He serves up every philosophy with equal respect, as if every philosophy has an equal shot at being Truth. I guess that's what one should expect from a book on philosophy written in a post-modern age.

This is ghastly stuff. And ghastly stuff needs the grounding of God's Word. Sophie's World has the wrong starting point. Don't get me wrong; there are a few bright spots in this history. Socrates gave us the Socratic discussion. Aristotle gave us classifications. The Reformation responded well to the humanist Renaissance. Descartes argued for an innate understanding of a Supreme Being. There's also Kant's Categorical Imperative. (But, um, I think Jesus got that one first.) Then we head downhill again with Hegel, Marx, Darwin, and Freud.

That's the story from the ground.
But from 10,000 feet and a God's-eye-view (thanks to the Scripture), we get another picture.

Man has always wrestled with the questions, "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" But the answers are already there for us. We have the general revelation of Creation and Conscience; we have the special revelation of Scripture and the Holy Spirit. And the real 'lover of Wisdom' will go where the wisdom actually resides. Almost to a man, the philosophers in this book resisted real wisdom: beginning with the fear of the Lord. These men aren't lovers of wisdom; they are fools.

When Darwin tells us we all came from a common ancestor rather than a sovereign Creator, he denies Imago Dei. And we should understand that abortion and euthanasia are just Darwinism taken to its logical conclusion. When Hume says that we should let experience define reality for us, we should respond that the heart is deceptively wicked above all things. When Freud tells us to blame our environment rather than our depravity, we should remember that it was in a perfect Paradise that Adam fell, and the entire human race with him. When a man like Pablo Picasso paints a picture and culture calls it 'art,' we have the hopelessness of nihilism to thank.

How does one arrive at a place of understanding about who we are and why we are here if we don't acknowledge Him who is the First Cause and the Final End? We don't. And they didn't. Centuries of philosophy and they are no closer to Truth.

As ironic as it may sound, I'm more interested in my children learning to love Wisdom because, in the end, I don't care if they can identify a 'fragmented world view' nearly as much as if they can identify a fallen world, corrupted by sin, and redeemed by the Cross.

In the end, I'm looking to raise REAL philosophers, not fools.

"For the wrath of God is revealed from Heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness, suppress the truth. For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For His invisible attributes, namely his eternal power and divine nature have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse. For although they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks to Him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools..." Romans 1:18-22
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*For a grounded study of philosophy, I recommend:
The Consequences of Ideas by RC Sproul and
Understanding the Times by David A. Noebel

Plumb

When Rob Bell commented recently that "I have gay friends who are serious followers of Jesus," I wasn't surprised at all. Bell, who masquerades as a Christian pastor, has always pushed the envelope when it comes to Truth, challenging orthodox Christianity on just about every important point. But his choice of words is very telling: 'followers of Jesus."

I hate that term; I really do.

But "Christ-follower" has gained lots of traction in the past few years, mainly among the thirty-something set. And, for a large part, these are actually genuine converts who say this. (Set aside for a moment today's definition, which can be used in the context of 'following' someone on Facebook or Twitter or National Enquirer, meaning we find them interesting and like to keep up with their news--as if the Kardashian gals' latest boob job makes our world go 'round.) More than that, the unfortunate implication of being a follower is that it's optional. And I might opt out as painlessly as I opted in.

I prefer the term 'convert.' Convert implies change; obliteration of a former state; a complete and total transformation of heart, mind, and direction. Think of food entering your body and being converted to energy. Once acted on by the body's metabolic processes, the change is permanent. Today's beet juice is tomorrow's five-mile run. And there is no going back; it's a physical impossibility.

So there is no doubt in my mind that Rob Bell has gay friends who are serious followers of Jesus. What he'll never be able to say, though, is that he has gay friends who are converts. Never.

While I'm never surprised by Bell's religious games, I admit I was a bit taken aback by Pope Francis' May 22, 2013, claim that moral atheists will go to heaven...doh!...because I at least had a modicum of respect for the recent popes (very, very serious doctrinal questions aside) who have been rather staunch supporters of a Biblical morality. Then this latest pontiff makes this really dumb comment. And I am stunned. At least pretend to have some respect for the Gospel, will ya?

" 'I don't believe, Father. I am an atheist.' But do good; we will meet one another there." 

Then the Vatican spin doctors went to work.
But all God's people said, "Holy crap."
Because that is precisely what that was.

The standard does not change. The Bible is not a living, breathing document that bends with the times. And God put it in writing for a reason. So what's our job as believers, as citizens of Heaven who are submitted to this written, unyielding contract with the Truth?

It's simple, really. We point to the Plumb Line.
We listen to exegesis and sermons with a slightly critical ear. We observe behavior, our own and everyone else's, or read books and blogs with a slightly critical eye. And everything we hear or see, we hold up to the perfect Standard. We look carefully at the Level. If it's off plumb, we ditch it. No one gets a free pass. No one.

Warning! This Plumbing business has a cost. I know.
A number of years ago, I held up the Plumb Line. And all hell broke loose. I was a bad friend; I was a legalist; I was judgmental. And despite the fact that lots of time has since passed, I was still surprised when my husband came home from a meeting not long ago to report that there's a certain part of our community who still do not trust me--all because I pointed to Plumb during a crisis. I was shocked really, that this simple act could still be reverberating around me.

I stared at him blankly. Really??? People are talking about me???

He could see it in my eyes. "Noel," he gently interjected, "these women who are gossiping, since when is--"
"--their good opinion worth the earning?" I completed with him. "It's not," I assured him with a sideways smile.
"Right," he affirmed. "You did the right thing. You were the only one being the friend."

More recently, my older children have had to learn that lesson, as well. They have learned that yes-men coddle and validate and lie to each other, saying, "It's okay. God's not mad. He understands when you mess up."
The friend, meanwhile, points to Plumb and says to one he loves, "Beware! It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!"
And the cost? The evan-jellyfish becomes the new inner circle, and the one who was the real friend rides off into the sunset alone.

Sad. But there's a valuable lesson to be learned here, and one to pass on to our children. We want to surround ourselves with those who will spur us on to love and good deeds. We want friends, and we want our children to have friends, who love Plumb, who live by it, who measure goodness by it. We want to shun fakes, be they pastors or popes or people we know, whose lips desire it but whose hearts disdain it.

Funny thing about living Plumb. It brings blessedness and happiness. Happiness is, after all, what we all want. Rob Bell wants his gay friends to be happy. The pope wants atheists to be happy. We all want our friends, even the prodigals, to be happy. Yet therein lies the contradiction. Dr. Martin Lloyd-Jones, in Studies on the Sermon on the Mount, says:

"Whenever you put happiness before righteousness, you will be doomed to misery. That is the great message of the Bible from beginning to end. They alone are truly happy who are seeking to be righteous.  Put happiness in the place of righteousness, and you will never get it."

Living Plumb is the thing, the only thing, that will bring happiness and blessing. It divides the sages from the fools.

Plumb.
It's the measure of maturity.
It's the stuff of friendship.
It's the sure foundation.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Matthew 5:6

The End of a Courtship: One Mother's Perspective

Step back in time for a moment to your college biology class.  You were a good student. You read the text; you attended every class; you took notes, despite the prof's hypnotic drone. You were going to rock this class.

Then you went to the lab. And try as you might, you could find nothing under the microscope that even remotely resembled the beautiful drawing in the book. The TA rolled her eyes at your stunning ignorance. You responded, with an indignant hand on your hip, "Not even Isaac Newton could locate the paramecium on this slide!" The textbook was one thing; the lab was another.

Enter the World of Courtship. There are some mighty fine textbooks out there (Her Hand in Marriage by Doug Wilson, What He Must Be by Voddie Bauchum, Boy Meets Girl by Josh Harris...). But even Doug, Voddie, and Josh can't accurately predict your experience.

Courtship is not scientific; it is organic, and it involves organic creatures. Above all the lessons listed below, the overarching, number one lesson we learned is that no two families will have the same approach to courtship. And that is perfectly okay; it just never occurred to us. No one has written The Book on courtship because every courtship is as individual as the individuals involved.  So, too, I cannot here document The Truth about courtship; I can merely share the lessons we've learned this time around.

Welcome to our Lab.

1. "Goldie, do you love me?" "Do I what?!?!"
If the mantra in the real estate industry is location, location, location, the mantra in courtship should be chemistry, chemistry, chemistry. We know--and we tell our kids--that any godly man and godly woman can make a godly marriage. But we also know that any godly marriage is hard work, and it would be helpful to not put our kids in the position of Tevye, who, even after twenty-five years of marriage, feels compelled to ask his wife Goldie,"Do you love me?"  Looking for chemistry between two people means we're not going to settle for, "They'll grow to love each other." If the couple starts with lots of agreement, if their perspectives fit together like pieces of a puzzle, then they have the kind of solid foundation that can handle the occasional difference of opinion. But if the prospective mates start with too much difference in their perspectives, they will struggle to find points of agreement. We need to look for mates for our children who will be that puzzle piece that fits together with them to complete them and make one beautiful picture. You can't make pieces fit. You can't make chemistry happen. It's either there, or it is not.
Lesson #1: Little chemistry, even between a godly man and woman, is a show stopper.

2. That Little Check Should be Telling You Something
As parents, we want to be reasonable. These are marriage-ready adults, after all. And in an effort to honor them, we have refrained from manipulating their feelings.So when we have a check niggling around in our heads or our hearts, we don't want to knee-jerk. We want a reason, a word, a definition. Honestly, though, sometimes it looked more like:
"I guess I thought there would be more something-that-eludes-me..." or
"I always assumed there would be less I-can't-put-my-finger-on-it."
At a time like this, go with your gut. Communicate asap with your child what you're thinking. How surprising yet confirming when you find s/he's right there with you.
Lesson #2: That undefined check IS the check.

3. Be Conformed to Whose Image?
We need to resist the temptation to enroll our son's sweetheart (or worse--her parents or siblings) in the Adams Family Sanctification Plan. She already has a spiritual health care provider in the form of her parents, her elders, and her church.

Of course, there is room for discipleship. And in the event of marriage, discipleship will be a life-long opportunity. But strictly speaking, vetting is a simple up-or-down vote. We would never advise our child to marry someone because our child could change them. Likewise, we should not give a thumbs' up to a person whom we cannot approve 'as-is.' Still, we forty-something parents who are vetting the prospective mate must keep in mind that these twenty-somethings are twenty-something...and we should be looking for a twenty-something level of sanctification. Think about it. Have you, parent, matured since you were twenty years old? If we don't keep that in mind, the vetting process can take on a whiff of the tyrannical. We never want to go there as parents; we never want our children to be subjected to that in a courtship.

We marveled this week at this timely piece of advice for our family:

Even the wisest parents make this mistake: They expect Wisdom to look a lot like them.  They've come to know her under their own peculiar circumstances, over the course of their own history. She has been good to them, and they desire that she be good to you. For that to occur (they think), it's probably best that you [sic] look like them. As much as possible.

But true Wisdom finds you where you are, and takes you beyond.

For wisdom to be truly wise, she must talk with you--meaning, you have to talk back. This can lead to disagreements with your parents or family friends or teachers or anyone you've grown to respect--and sometimes with Wisdom herself. Those disagreements should be mostly about appearances, because She doesn't look the same to everyone; her face, her clothes, the terminology she uses will vary. But not her heart; at heart, she never changes for anyone. Ironically, the best way to learn what abides is by discovering what's different. 

"Challenge authority" is a popular piece of commencement advice. Question everything. As pernicious as that counsel can be, there's a grain of truth in it. Wisdom must be challenged, and truth must be owned: studied, felt, experimented on, tested and approved, each individual for himself. Truth can stand up to this--that's one reason it's truth. But don't just challenge Wisdom. Talk with her. (Cheaney, World Magazine, Vol 28, p.22)

If you have raised your child to debate ideas, if s/he is allowed to disagree with you, to own truth, then you have raised a healthy adult. And your child might just 'talk back' during the vetting process. If that happens, don't censure his/her character; celebrate his/her pursuit of wisdom!!!
Lesson #3: If it becomes as important that the young man/woman be conformed to your image as to Christ's, that is a show stopper.

4. The Power of the Parental Blessing
Our children know that the parental blessing offers protection. And we very much want to give it to them. But this time around, we learned that the most freeing words your child might hear from you are not, "We give our blessing," but "We cannot give our blessing." We know this; we saw it with our own eyes.
Lesson: #4: As odd as it may seem, your independent, adult, marriage-ready son/daughter might be depending on you to be the eyes and ears and discernment that sets him/her free. 

5. Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
They both saw the inevitable, and they handled it with mature grace. This wasn't a lesson learned so much as a reason to be thankful at an otherwise difficult time. This young man and young woman who had been steadily moving towards engagement demonstrated honor, dignity, and love, despite the show-stopping differences they could no longer ignore. Their parting was sad but necessary. And their behavior was commendable. The sweetness and respectfulness of the goodbye confirmed to us that our son is, indeed, ready to be married.

And that's the story of our first foray into courtship. It brought an end rather than an engagement. And some might think that would turn us against courtship.
Au contraire.
This experience confirmed to us that courtship works. Two wonderful kids were protected and are wiser for it. They needed other, more objective, sets of eyes. They needed that parental niggle. They needed a sanctification check. And they needed us to either affirm or protect.
Whether a courtship ends in engagement...or just ends...it did what it was supposed to do.

Get Him! In Defense of Justice

Alex was all of five years old. Her sibling had done something to her, I don't remember what, and she was scandalized. She pointed up the stairs where the hardened little criminal had disappeared, and she looked at Brett, her eyes blazing fire. "Get him!"
He was 'got.'
And that was the end of that.

I keep waiting for a hero to emerge amid all the gore and the horror and the wickedness of the Kermit Gosnell story.
Maybe a mother who sat up and said, No.
Maybe a co-worker who stepped between him and the baby and said, No.
Maybe a repentant Gosnell who fell to his knees and said, No.

But no. Not one person came forward to defend the children. Every party in that room was a violent aggressor against the life of one defenseless human being.

Put aside for a moment that there were no heroes in that room. Put aside the fact that Gosnell, to be strictly fair, was merely the hired gun. Put aside for a moment this fuzzy sense of right and wrong which divides the aggressors into the Heinous and the Hurting. Put aside for a moment the fact that no one in that room at any time was compelled to be there--no one, that is, except the child.

Put all of this aside because this is as close as I dare get to this line. Put all of this aside because, while few of us know anyone who earns their keep as a hired gun, many of us have friends who have done the hiring. And we are not so naive that we don't understand that for every precious friend who has found repentance and reconciliation, there are ten more who have not.

Put all of this aside and just stick to the facts of the trial straight up:
Kermit Gosnell is the Philadelphia abortionist who is on trial for murdering abortion survivors by snipping the tops of their spinal cords. In other words, he beheaded them.  Babies. He beheaded infants.

Now I'm making the same demand Alex made. Get him!

I only regret that Gosnell has but one life to give.

And that is the travesty of justice here. If justice were swift and sure in this country, Gosnell would have been executed after his first murder. (And let's not quibble over the location of the murder; inside or outside the womb makes no difference to God. As one friend put it, that's merely a matter of geography.) But justice was not swift. And Mr. Gosnell went on to kill who knows how many people.

So let's say I was an optimist. Let's say the judge in the Gosnell trial did not pre-screen jurors to get rid of pro-lifers. (He did.) Let's say this trial is not full of anti-child irony. (It is.) Let's say the jury returns a verdict of guilty (they won't), and the judge gives Gosnell the death penalty. (He won't). He will still only die once. Justice will not be served. But it's what we'll have to settle for. The place, the only virtuous place, where we can rest in all of this is that God is just. He will not be mocked.

But hark! What is that sound? Oh my stars, it's the Mercy Brigade, sounding for all the world like a chorus of frogs. Yeah-but. Yeah-but. Yeah-but. They're the ones who positively twitch when I say, "God is just."
Yeah-but. Mercy triumphs over judgment.
Yeah-but. God is merciful.
Yeah-but. While I was still at enmity with God, Christ died for me.
True, all.
And yet, God is just. Let it be. Stop twitching. Add nothing.

God
is
just.

King David knew about justice. He and Alex shared much of the same understanding. Here's what the simple five year old and Man-After-God's-Own-Heart both get about justice.
1. There is wickedness in the world which requires a justice that gives no quarter.
2. We do NOT have authority to exact that justice ourselves. (Remember David's stricken conscience when he cut Saul's robe?)
3. Someone does have that authority: our Father.
4. We may appeal to our Father, who will respond because He is just.

Alex said it the way a five year old knows how. "Get him!"
David, the poet-psalmist, was a mite more articulate:
"Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God" (139:19)
"Pour out your indignation upon them, and let Your burning anger overtake them."(69:24)

To be sure, imprecatory prayers must be approached with caution and humility. I admit that I don't trust my indignation and my anger to be purely righteous. I admit I have cried furious tears over this. I admit I have to daily do a heart check. But I also admit that while some of my acquaintance may feel compelled to pray for Mr. Gosnell's soul...my heart is just not there yet. I realize I risk what you think of me when I say this. But this is the place where I am right now. When I think of those who are oppressed and in need of mercy in this case, I think of the babies.

And for the sake of the blood of the babies which cries out from the ground for justice, I am praying on their behalf. I will be their voice before the Throne.

"Let them be put to shame and dishonor who seek my life!
Let them be turned back and disappointed who devise evil against me!
Let them be like the chaff before the wind, with the angel of the Lord driving them away!
Let their way be dark and slippery, with the angel of the Lord pursuing them.
For without cause, they hid their net for me;
Without cause, they dug a pit for my life.
Let destruction come upon him when he does not know it!
And let the net that he hid ensnare him; let him fall into it to his destruction.
Then my soul will rejoice in the Lord, exulting in His salvation.
All my bones shall say, O Lord, who is like You,
delivering the poor, from him who is too strong for him, the poor and needy from him who robs him?"
(Psalm 35:4-10)

This intercessor prays fervently for her family.
This intercessor prays compassionately for the sick and the hurting.
And sometimes this intercessor prays with a fire in her belly and a blaze in her eye over the wicked.
Kind of like David.

The Good Life

We went to a party today. And when I say party, I don't mean the sanitized Christian kind where there are...Christians. I mean PARTYYYY party. One of Brett's old co-workers had turned 50, and she was throwing a big bash out at the lake house. She even invited Brett and me--and our whole family. She loves our family.

So, we went. It's always the kind of outing I have to mentally gear up for. I mean, I love her; I really do. But the crowd is not made up of our people. It's 'them.' 'They' are mostly aging yuppies, every family comprised of two immense professional salaries and precisely zero children. Zero. They drive two fabulous cars, live in 4,000 square foot homes in the most coveted parts of Austin, and jet-set around the world when they're not working hard at their very top-tier positions at major corporations.

And then, there's us. We drive the fifteen passenger Blue Whale. When we open the door, children spill out like ants out of an anthill.  We look like Ma and Pa Grape driving up in our jalopy and arriving in that queer little scene from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...the one where they ask, "Where are all the children?"

The live band is playing cover tunes from Clapton, the Doobies, and Skynyrd...and I know all the words. I start 'dancing. and singing. and movin' to the groovin' and Brett laughs. The kids are watching all the adults dance with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Non-plussed, they make a bee-line for the pool, where I let them get in as far as their shorts' hems will let them. The almost four-year old gets soaked anyway. While most of the grown-ups stick close to the band and the booze, our family actually takes advantage of the activities. Brett plays boccie with the littler ones while Eliza and I do the bean bag toss. And I don't mind telling you this is not a bean bag toss for the faint of heart. We fail miserably and collapse on the back deck, where I serenade Eliza with Margaritaville. (Hey, I didn't start it; I'm just singing along with the band.)

It's fairly noticeable to me--and I think to all the guests, but maybe I'm being overly sensitive--that our family is lurking together on the outskirts of this party. We can't even get the kids close enough to the birthday cake because it has some, uh, 'visuals' we don't want the kids to see. So we stay back far enough to not offend innocent eyes but close enough to join in the birthday well-wishes. (Isn't that the line we always try to toe with the world? Stand back far enough to protect whom we're called to protect...but get close enough to bless whom we're called to bless...)

So, who are these people? Well, we go way, way back with a few of them from Brett's days at IBM. One of them even came to our wedding almost 25 years ago. Brett's known some of them longer than he's known me. We've seen them through multiple last name changes. Our host babysat for us back when we had a modest family of four, and she was between husbands. She is one of the few who has children, two of them, and Brett knows the both of the fathers. Simply put, there is nothing, just nothing, we have in common with these people.

And yet, they are very kind to us. We get warm hugs from the ones we know. They compliment us on our 'beautiful children' and ask earnest questions. They know we're a little odd. They know we homeschool, and I don't work, and we don't agree with President Obama. They know we're Christians, and we go to church. Still, they invite us to birthday parties and summer parties and New Years' Parties. They ask us to come sailing with them, and then they spend time teaching our kids the ropes. They make sure they have ice cream sandwiches on hand for the littler ones. I mean, they are really, really kind to us.

But there's something a little sad about it all. At one point, while Brett was mingling, Eliza and I took the kids to the play scape. I filled her in on who was married to whom, who used to be married to whom, who came to our wedding, who Brett worked for and with at various times. And she said, "It's kind of sad. They have lots of stuff but no kids. They think they're living the good life. But we're really the ones with the good life."

Out of the mouths of babes...

We left a little early. The almost four-year-old was a bit tweaked because the band was still playing and, therefore, the party wasn't over--and I have no doubt there was a lot more partying to come. Alas, we had to get kids home and bathed and ready for church in the morning. I waved across the party to get my host's attention while she was dancing. I blew her a kiss, and she blew me one back.  And that was the end of that.

The good life. God has given us such a good life. And I'll take my Blue Whale over their imports; I'll take my ten kids who make my life full over their jet-setting; I'll take our frugal spending over their two incomes. Most of all, I'll take the gift of rest that comes with knowing what Jesus has done for us over being consumed by the cares of this world. We are living the good life. I can't think of a better one.

We prayed for them tonight. As I tucked each child in bed and prayed, I was overwhelmed with this thing called the good life. And I was overwhelmed by how much I want these friends to have it, too. I want them to find rest in salvation. I want them to come to the Cross and find the Good Life.

Maybe that's why we keep going to these things. It reminds me to pray for them.

For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance of death to death, to the other, a fragrance from life to life...2 Cor. 2:15-16

Mystory

At first glance, I lead a rather boring life. Wife. Stay-at-home mother. Then I add a few more details. Wife--to pastor. Stay-at-home, homeschooling mother--to ten. Now, I'm no longer boring; I'm weird.  But I've always considered my life somewhat of a blessed adventure. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Even so, I wonder if there will be a time when I settle down and try on 'normal' for a while...like maybe doing a stint as White House Press Secretary...or as a professional golfer. And just as I begin to see 'normal' on the horizon, I hit this bend in the road. 'Normal,' it turns out, if for other people's stories.

I live in a home populated largely by little folk. And my home shows the signs of this wee population. My walls, normally a cheerful yellow, have taken on a hazy dinge from about four feet down. My crisp white woodwork is neither crisp nor white. The worn carpet on my stairs has done battle with a legion of sippy cups. My fingerprint-plastered windows are an FBI dream.

That's okay, I keep telling myself. Life is getting normal now. Our youngest child, on the verge of his fourth birthday is getting taller, smarter,...cleaner. Soon we can replace carpet and paint.

Our possessions are simplifying, too.  After twenty-one years, we finally said goodbye to diapers. (You've probably noticed a dip in your Pampers stock. And I was on the verge of urging you to move your money to Matchbox.) I'm down to one napper, no diapers, and exactly one plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plate.  That kitchen petrie dish, commonly known as the high chair, has long taken up residence in the attic--you know, for the grandkids. I have no burp cloths or boppy pillow. And somewhere in the dark recesses of the garage,  I think, there lurk one playpen and the dilapidated remains of a stroller. I think.

Then there is my typical day. My homeschool time is spent less on ABC's and more on discipleship. I spend my free time reading, blogging, volunteering at speech club, being a friend to my adult children, studying theology, and worrying about politics. In our last family photo, every member of the family is standing on his own two feet.

My peers are in the 40-55 year range. Most of them have graying hair, kids in college, and hot flashes. None of them have little plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plates.

And then there's me.
Moi.
I have graying hair, too.
I have kids in college, too.
But my uterus apparently had a neon sign flashing, "Vacancy!" And suddenly the world is moving in super slo-mo, and I'm staring at that telltale horizontal line on the stick (you know the one) with my mouth hanging open.

Uhhhhhh....

I'm 45, and I'm going to have a baby. Wow!
Early signs of pregnancy are already setting in. My steel-trap brain has turned into a colander, and I'm dropping all kinds of balls.
My hair has taken on the delightful texture of a wired-hair dachshund.
At some point, I'll need to buy new maternity clothes because the ones I have left are circa 1800. And the hottest thing out right now are maternity skinny jeans.
Nice.
So my choice will be to either look like Laura (yawn) Ingalls or Beyonce.
Pregnancy in a Pringles can. Yippee skippee.

I'm tempted, of course, to look at my story and start comparing it to my friends' stories. But then I start listening to their stories.
One had a complete hysterectomy at 33. No more children. Ever.
One had fertility problems.
One had a seven year window in which she could conceive. That window is now closed. Forever.
I have two friends who always have to have C-sections.
Three more have lamented to me that they wish they could conceive now, too.

And I am humbled into 'Who am I?' Who am I that I've never had a C-section or a miscarriage? or a less than perfectly healthy baby? or a problem breastfeeding? Who am I that I have a hardy womb at my age when my peers have long been done?

Most important, who am I to compare my story to their story...as if my story has anything to do with their story? as if God who created the Universe was suddenly obligated to work from one blueprint? No. My story has nothing to do with their story.
My story is His story.

I cannot make predictions about the future. I cannot tell you how this pregnancy will progress, or who this child will be. But this bend in the road is history.
And it is His story,
His story for me.

So we'll log some more time with spots on the carpet.
And little black fingerprints.
And diapers and potty training and plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plates.
And baby smiles. And tiny fingers and toes.
And first words. And first steps.
And leading another little one to God.

Still, I falter when I wonder if I have it in me to parent vigorously for another eighteen years. I waiver when I think that I cannot be weary in well-doing, that this new little one needs, even deserves, every bit as much energy as my first did. I stand at this bend in the road and wonder what God was thinking, making me a mother again at the same age my mother became a grandmother.

I'm going to be a 50-year-old with a five year old.
I'm going to be 63 when I finish homeschooling.
I'm going to be 90 when this child hits my age; my own parents haven't even broken 70 yet.
Yes, I've spent a fair amount of time doing the math.

For whatever reason, He is saving me from my plans and to His plans. The math tells me that this is going to require daily dependence on Him for wisdom and strength--but then, that's no different from anything else He's called me to.

I saw a picture today. I had caught myself doubting one more time about normal and asking God, "Are you sure..." questions. And then I saw the picture. Another friend was holding her little surprise caboose, whom she had just birthed yesterday. It all came back to me...the smells, the warmth, the feelings, the amazing miracle, the new relationship.

Forget normal. I'm not called to 'normal'; I'm called to 'radical.'
My story is not about normal. It's about Jesus.
And He's got this.

The adventure continues...