The Impossibility of Thirteen Clocks Chiming Simultaneously

A belated nod to our nation's birthday, from Walter McDougall's awesome Freedom Just Around the Corner: A New American History 1585-1828:

[T]he American republic was not the product of a spontaneous uprising of instant democrats against tyranny, nor the product of bourgeois versus proletarian class conflict. Otherwise, contemporary historians agree the colonists' anger over taxes, restrictions on commerce, colonial assemblies, and new western settlements, and perceived threats to religious liberty were all necessary conditions for revolt, but none by itself was sufficient. Nor do any of the historical theories answer two mysterious questions. The first is why colonists, especially some of the wealthiest, risked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor over a thrup'penny tax or mere point of principle. The second is how the colonists managed to set aside their provincial, religious, and social divisions so that--as John Adams put it--"thirteen clocks were made to strike together." 

Those questions cannot be answered by reference to material or legal interests alone. Or rather, they can be so answered only if one grasps that most Puritans, Quakers, Cavaliers, and Bordermen, Old Lights, New Lights, and rational skeptics, invested their material and legal complaints against Britain with moral and spiritual meaning. Was the American rebellion caused by conflicts over wealth or ideology, a backward-looking Whig mentality or a future-oriented American dream, a secular discourse of human rights and equality or an evangelical discourse of corruption and virtue? The answer is all of the above, because the whole experience of the colonists dating back to 1607--and the twin vocabularies they used to interpret that experience--made self-government, religious freedom, economic opportunity, and territorial growth inseparable. Almost everyone from Massachusetts to Georgia could agree that: civil and religious liberty went hand in hand; liberty could not long survive without virtue; an exploding population could aspire to no liberty at all if its territorial and commercial expansion were artificially choked. 

And a nod to James Thurber, who shows us in a fantastic unique tale of romance, chivalry, whimsy, and better-than-Seuss tongue-twisters how inseparable [the] Time is from impossibility. Here, two of our heroes try to start the frozen thirteen clocks:

"I cannot start the clocks," the Princess said.

They heard the sound of fighting far above. "He faces thirteen men," she cried, "and that is hard."

"We face thirteen clocks," the Golux said, "and that is harder. Start the clocks!"

"How can I start the clocks?" the Princess wailed.

"Your hand is warmer than the snow is cold," the Golux said. "Touch the first clock with your hand." The Princess touched it. Nothing happened. "Again!" Saralinda held her hand against the clock and nothing happened. "We are ruined," said the Golux simply, and Saralinda's heart stood still.

She cried, "Use magic!"

"I  have no magic to depend on," groaned the Golux. "Try the other clock." 

The Princess tried the other clock and nothing happened. "Use logic, then!" she cried. In the secret walls they heard the Iron Guard pounding after Zorn, and coming close.

"Now let me see," the Golux said. "If you can touch the clocks and never start them, then you can start the clocks and never touch them. That's logic, as I know and use it. Hold your hand this far away. Now that far. Closer! Now a little farther back. A little farther. There! I think you have it! Do not move!"

The clogged and rigid works of the clock began to whir. They heard a tick and then a ticking. The Princess Saralinda fled from room to room, like wind in clover, and held her hand the proper distance from the clocks. Something like a vulture spread its wings and left the castle. "That was Then," the Golux said. 

"It's Now!" cried Saralinda.

A morning glory that had never opened, opened in the courtyard.

Love That Never Sleeps

So Superman is just a super, nearly-three bundle of energy. He also can go to the bathroom on demand. Doesn't matter if he's just gone fourteen times in the last hour. He can always, always, always squeeze something out.

So I've been annoyed in the last few months when he gets out of bed at least once right after going down for quiet time or bedtime. "Mommy?" his little voice murmurs down the hall from the doorway. "I gotta go potty." And I roll my eyes and go into the bathroom, get him all situated, and try not to sigh in exasperation (usually because I just want to nap or get things done, and I can't until he's asleep).

This happened the other day, just as it's happened hundreds of times before. Except Superman, who is incredibly sensitive and insightful, looked me in the face. When I caught his gaze, he said, "Mommy, I love you." My heart melted. I said, "I love you, too, Superman." And then he said, "Even when I'm sleeping, I love you."

In all of his little boy innocence, Superman spoke a sanctified truth. Love, real love, never sleeps. My boy might relax into slumber with his arms stretched and mouth open, his mind and body deep in nocturnal rest, but he understands that love extends beyond wakeful conscientiousness. I can't love my own children with eternal care, but Christ can. He loves all of us with a love that never sleeps. And thanks be for His undying charity that extends even to sinful moms and restless little boys.

 

Visible and Invisible Glory

Tonight, after a lovely catch-up chat with Papa on our lovely front porch as we gazed at a lovely sunset, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd like my bike tires inflated. Short back story: Papa gave me my bike on our anniversary six years ago. He took me to church and said there was a surprise for me in the quilting room (a big storage space), and when I looked, there was a bike! It was one of the sweetest and most delightful surprises he's pulled off (the Nook might just beat the bike, though). We enjoyed riding it before the kids were born, and I've managed to ride it a little between pregnancies, but it's been a long time since I've hoisted my wobbly self onto the seat. I've been excited to take a spin this summer.

Anyway, Papa had already done the hard work of digging my long-neglected bike out of the shed last week, and at my words, he jumped up and went straight to the garage. I told him (admittedly half-heartedly) that he didn't have to inflate them now, but he did. And then I looked at the gleaming blue cycle with its oh-so-kickable kickstand and said, "Weeeeell... maybe I'll just ride around the block." Papa waved goodbye.

My ride.

I was about one hundred meters down the sidewalk when I realized that the sunset was reaching my favorite point--just when it last descends behind the horizon. The hues softening the few puffy clouds told me this was a good one, and I started pedaling fast. I was chasing the sunset.

We live a few blocks east of our town's western edge, and I like to walk over sometimes and watch the sunset from a higher point in a residential area that abuts a view of rolling cornfields, farms, and a few copses of trees as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous view. However, I had to go farther tonight to see the huge, molten day-gone sun because a new grocery store is now built, set to open next week, past the last row of houses. (I'll definitely do a post on that; it's big news out here.) I hit gravel and veered around the dirt paths that are set to be paved soon until I got to the main road out of town; I could just see the big red ball over the tops of a few trees to the north. I've got to get behind the high school, I thought.

I pedaled furiously down the little slope to the entrance of the high school. The sign flashed the time, 9:03 p.m., as I passed. Not much time. I cut across the grass to get to the library parking lot that connected to the back lot of the school, my jaw hammering with the vibrations of the rough ground. It's been a long, long time since I rode a bike. As I turned past the last corner of the school, I could see the sun, shining with muted ferocity as it sank. In the quiet, I could hear birds nesting, crickets chirping, cicadas calling, even the constant, mechanical buzz of the wind turbine. The wind whispered in the corn. The sight was so beautiful, I couldn't breathe.

 I've felt overwhelmed lately by the lists--all the things I have to do, all the things I should do, all the things I'd like to do, and the very long lists of what I just never do. I'm slowly realizing--I'm a slow learner--that there's no way in God's creation that I can actually get done everything on every list. I go through phases where I convince myself that I'm doing pretty well, that I'm "accomplishing" a lot, whatever that means. And then, when life gets busy, the kids grow and have more needs, I start feeling the pressure, like a boat that's taking on too much water. It's only a matter of time before something gives, before I get swamped. It used to be that I felt like I could "catch up" in the summers--clean out the closets, feel like I could get a fresh start to each school year. That's getting much harder--impossible?--to do.

But in the twilight, watching the sunset, I remembered that all of this life is meaningless. We chase ourselves and our loved ones around and around and die a little more each day, over and over again. The sun sets only to rise, panting. My chest heaved and my quads trembled and my soul stilled as I watched this day die, and thought of this.

But the sunset was so beautiful. Regardless of how temporal this life is, God deigned to give me--give us--this peaceful, marvelous tapestry on one evening out of the thousands, millions He has made. What a generous Giver He is, that as we struggle and as we lie burdened (esp. RAE this night), He showers us with loveliness, even little, seemingly meaningless glory in the heavens as the day ends. This is our toil, and this is yet our song.

Reb. Mary wrote today about how it's not OK, but that's OK, of the subtle temptation to think that doing certain God-pleasing acts (A) leads to certain outcomes (B). In her eloquent post, she writes:

When B does not follow, the cry of a [sinner's] heart should not be (or should not primarily be) for the Better Life: “Why, Lord? What am I doing wrong? Show me how to make it work!” Plead rather for the Better Hope: “Please, Lord. With this gift of your very life’s blood, pour into me the strength to continue pouring myself out. Enlarge my heart, that the life-giving transfusion may not be wasted through selfishly narrowed arteries. Teach me to live daily the difference of that cleansing flood, the difference between hard and hopeless, invisible to all but the eyes of faith. God grant me eyes of faith!” 

I can't see what is before me or our family. Heck, I could barely see the gravel on the shoulder as I pedaled weakly back up the hill into town. I don't know how everything important will get done. I have lots of sweating, and pedaling, and suffering ahead. This is the reality of life. But Christ makes visible what is invisible; He gives what we, the most impoverished, would starve without. I don't have to chase the sunset. He's already given it to me, and given me all the days that are before me, and given me the eternal dawn that waits for me and all believers.

On Joplin and Holes

I'm currently sitting in my parents' loft condo in downtown Joplin, Missouri, listening to the quiet hum of the AC and watching the traffic lights change over empty streets down Fourth Street. Being here with the kids for the last almost-week has been lovely--great casual, hanging out time; lots of eating (particularly many variations of chocolate); walks with strollers; shopping for things that Grandma and Grandpa like to spoil their grandkids with (thank you, Thomas the Tank Engine and Co.).

This is the one time this year we--we meaning us Olsons minus Papa, unfortunately--could make it down here. And this is the one time this year I think we most needed to be here. Yes, there's a lot of big, happy family events coming up this summer, and it's nice to have no particular reason to get together. But this is also just a few weeks shy of the one year anniversary of the tornado that destroyed about one-third of Joplin.

On May 22, 2011, at 5:41 p.m., an E-5 tornado touched down here and blew a hole roughly six miles long and one mile wide out of a residential and commercial district. It's hard to articulate what this looked like; you can look on my parents' immediate experiences with this here and Papa's thoughts after visiting Joplin here.

One of the first days we were here, Mom and I and the kids went over to Cunningham Park. It includes a neat-o playground modeled after Joplin in its early years, a pond with a zillion tadpoles in it, a memorial to the volunteers who have helped after the tornado (a big ring with "the miracle of the human spirit" showcases that part), and a memorial to those who lost their lives in the tornado. It's poignant and special, and not just because of what's in the park itself. The park is also in the tornado zone, so surrounding it are streets, new construction, a lot of bare space, a few homes still not torn down after the storm, and no mature trees. About a quarter of a mile from the park sits the ravaged hulk of St. John's, the hospital that sustained a direct hit from the storm. Its glassless windows, with curtains still swaying in the breeze, look out to a gaping hole where thousands lived and worked. It's eerie and taxing to look around and see so much nothing, and to still see such a gaping wound such as St. John's, for even though people are slowly coming back to the zone to live and work--even a temporary hospital in trailers sits near the vacant building as a new hospital is completed a few miles away--no amount of time or replacement can bring back what was lost here.

One of the many things we've done in the last month or so since I've blogged was attend the annual Vine and Branches conference in Lakefield. This year, we heard from a panel of experts about what suffering means to God's people. Where is God in the midst of suffering? How do we deal with suffering as humans? As Christians? What should we say to those who are or have suffered? A few ideas that stood out for me dealt with how we help those who suffer. One way is not to say anything, because too often, we compound others' suffering by thoughtless, foolish comments, much like Job's "friends." Basically, people need to know that we're here for them, over and over again, in ways small and concrete, like in hugs and pies. They don't need to hear our stupid explanations of why particular tragedies happen--a pointless exercise known in theological circles as theodicy, or our attempts to explain how God and bad stuff exist together. They don't need to hear us tell them how to "get over" their suffering or how to speed grieving along. They don't need us to write off their experiences so we can get back to our fast, "normal" lives. They need our presence to reassure them that they are still here, and that God is still here, after the holes have left their vacant, terrible ruptures on their bodies, hearts, lives.

As humans, we shudder when we encounter real suffering that defies easy description: the abuse of children, the physical pain of terminal illness, the wreckage of one home next door to one unscathed. How can God possibly love us when He brings "all the evil" upon Job (42:11)--and, in truth, upon us? What kind of a God would spare one child only to take another? When we see real suffering, we look upon the darkest, most difficult realities of our existence, and we in turn question our existence: who am I? Who is God? Will I survive this? Which is really another way of saying How do I even exist in the midst of such overwhelming suffering that God--yes, even God who has created me--has heaped upon me?

And we have no concrete answer, but another hole--actually three.

As they were talking about these things, Jesus himself stood among them, and said to them, “Peace to you!” But they were startled and frightened and thought they saw a spirit. And he said to them, “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Touch me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. (Luke 24:36-40)

Why did Jesus show his disciples his hands and his feet? Why not His elbow? Why, for Pete's sake, wasn't seeing His face enough to convince them that He was who they thought He was? Because the disciples knew Jesus had been crucified, that He had died. They had to see the holes to know that He who lived was actually He who had died.

We live an uneasy peace most times in our lives, busy and distracted by the mundane so that we do not have to think every second of every day about the fate that awaits us, the death that constantly draws nearer. Tragedy and deep suffering, like what the people of Joplin and so many others bear, remind us of this in ways we do not like to contemplate. Job bore the weight of God's hand in his suffering--"Have mercy on me, have mercy on me, O you my friends, for the hand of God has touched me!" he wails, telling them about the terrible burden God brought upon him (for the Devil could do nothing to Job without God's involvement).
But we who have been drowned in baptismal waters in order to live do not have to fear the reminders or even the suffering itself. We see the holes, and we remember Who lives despite them, He who lives and who promises us life eternal after the holes, He who heals our holes with His own. 

I think on this, after another train has passed nearby, its long wail the only punctuation in an otherwise still night. More trials will come here to Joplin, because trials in this life await us all. But all the holes that we have and will have, bear and do bear, rest in Christ's holes, too. And in this we trust, and wait, and know we are not alone, and never will be.

Anger Management, Small-Child-and-Lent Version

"The wisest of women builds her house, but folly with her own hands tears it down. ... Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but he who has a hasty temper exalts folly." 
~Proverbs 14:1, 29

As parents a mom an extremely sinful mom, Papa and I learn every day how little patience and gentleness we I have. (Even if Papa agrees with this, it's not fair for me to lump him in with my admissions of guilt. He can do that on his own time in his own way, which probably doesn't include blogging about it. Hence all the crossing-outing.) I have a terribly bad habit of letting my temper flare and my responses to outsize the situation. This includes circumstances that warrant a response that is carefully measured. Take, for instance, yesterday:

--In which P decided to artistically decorate the bathroom walls with the skills only boys are blessed with. I was not happy.

--In which S found a ball-point pen, pushed a chair up to the kitchen counter, climbed upon said chair and proceeded to practice scribbling on top of every professional picture of C on the counter that I had ready to go into envelopes, all while I changed C's diaper. I was beyond not happy. I was so mad I cried.

Even the Packers can't fix everything. P at two months.

Discipline usually refers to the teaching of appropriate behavior to small children. It can also refer to life-long learning of truth, from history and literature to compassion and self-control. The boys received discipline and one-on-one talks about what they did and why they had to be punished for their very-non-appropriate acts, but I also (I hope) received discipline of temperament. 


I pray I may learn to react to my children as God reacts to me, His child, as this Litany collect so beautifully states.
 
Spare us, O Lord, and mercifully forgive our sins. Though by our continual transgressions we have merited Your chastisements, be gracious to us. Grant that all these punishments which we have deserved may not come upon us, but that all things may work to our everlasting good; through Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

Postscript: Yuckiness in the bathroom can be easily cleaned, and so--it seems--can pen on pictures. After some rubbing with a clean white towel moistened with water, C's face magically reappeared, and S's practice strokes disappeared. Nothing short of miraculous. As is, when I think of it, the love God shows to us.

Scrubbing

Only in artwork and staged sets.

To other wives and mothers, in between scrubbing pots and pants and little peanuts:

Only in our "new is best" culture would scrubbing and cooking and baking and the myriad of daily tasks seem onerous. Why? Because immediately upon unwrapping whatever product/item/idea, life smacks it in all of its natural aging and wear and grossness, and then we spend our time trying to keep it livable (or make it palatable, as kitchen arts go). Our products and homes and recipes never look perfect (even if they seemingly did the first time--remodeled bathrooms come to mind). And so we bemoan all the work it takes to produce livability, when much of what we do while we live barely evokes notice, let alone grumpiness. Case in point: we don't normally lament our need to imbibe several times a day; we don't even think about using the can or relieving ourselves as anything but a matter of course. When did taking care of our homes, the very spheres that we inhabit, become things of burden? We should reject the deceptive "new is best" mentality, but we should also guard against falling into the trap of thinking that our duties as mothers and keepers of the hearth are somehow meritorious by their very repetition and drudgery. Yes, they are. But not because we have made them so. They are because God deems serving the hungry and the thirsty and the naked so, and because He served and serves us so infinitely every moment that we breathe.

Benediction

The last few days have carried an absolute cacophony of news of life and death for lives touching ours. Yesterday in the wee hours of the morning, a sweet lady, Dottie, from my home church (that is, the church where I grew up) passed away. I learned just a bit ago that one of my best friend's father, Jim, died late last night night. He was to begin cancer treatments yesterday and was instead admitted to hospice. Though I know little about Dottie's passing, I know that Jim's was expected, but not quite so suddenly. These lines do nothing to emphasize the jolting shock of death to children, to grandchildren, even when those dying are old.

In the meantime, church members we know celebrated the birth of a grandchild and great-grandchild. In an odd and humorous twist, the parents had been informed that their child was a girl. But on Sunday, they welcomed a son instead. Rowan is healthy and strong (and, presumably, not going to wear all the pink waiting for a baby girl at home).

On Friday, a friend forwarded me a prayer request for the son of her friends, who've been experiencing a tumultuous pregnancy due to their son's major medical problems. At that time, Tim and Paige expected to deliver their son Issac today, not knowing if he would live more than a few hours. Instead, he was delivered yesterday, and he screamed and peed--despite the non-existent kidney function the doctors all expected--and wiggled. His prognosis is still being discovered, but Tim wrote that when he left the hospital, "Paige was awake and laughing."

Few joys are so acute as those that are miracles of life; few sorrows are so intense as those that are losses in death. As Christians, we trust in the hope that is Christ and His resurrection from the dead for us. We look to He who tells us, "See My hands and My feet, that it is I myself. Touch Me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have" (Luke 24:39). He does--and we do--live, and will live. Issac and Rowan live on earth now until the last breath that God has ordained for them. Dottie and Jim have died on earth now and await their final bodily raising. But they are alive in Christ. They are in heaven, awake and laughing. And this helps us go in peace. 

Jobs and Labor

I've been dying to write a post with this title. It's stuffed with multiple meanings, which I'll get to, of course! But I just had to have my little post-title-party first. Thanks for your patience.

So right after our dear daughter C appeared last month, my husband's requested copy of Walter Issacson's new bio on Steve Jobs arrived at our local library. Being the good wife that I am, I immediately confiscated it for breastfeeding company. It might seem like weird reading for an immediately postpartum mama, but then again, practically all texts are, other than psalms of thanksgiving (in my humble opinion).

Here's what I learned from Issacson's portrait of Jobs:

1) Software is the stuff that goes INSIDE computers; hardware is the stuff on the OUTSIDE. (Try not to choke from laughing too hard, dear readers.)
2) The existential battle between closed and open theories of computer design is fascinating with all of its concomitant connections with art, business, and even religion.
3) Control freakiness can produce mixed-bag leadership that leads to freakishly successful products; it also can illuminate deeply rooted insecurity, resulting in constant, ongoing quests for perfection (physical and spiritual).

In sum: Steve Jobs was an extremely interesting, intimidating, often downright cruel man who knew how to win people brilliantly when he needed them and who did not know how to turn outside himself for any Truth.

All this is to say two things. First, I'd recommend the book -- it's a great insight into our culture, and particularly into the prevailing mindset of the Baby Boom generation, all loped around the person of Jobs (who, if you didn't already know, was raised a Lutheran. Once he hit teenage skepticism, he jettisoned whatever he'd learned about the church in favor of generally Buddhist mysticism, coupled with LSD usage.). Second, what I learned about Steve Jobs made me hope that I never, ever forget what laboring a child into the world is like.

Let me explain, with this caveat to women who haven't been through natural labor: I'm being honest here, which might otherwise just sound like I'm trying to scare you. I'm not. I believe in natural labor and hope all moms get the chance to experience it, if only for the great effects on your child (and because most natural labors mean Baby and Mom are blessedly healthy).

Just a little ways in--because we're both still smiling. Seven hours after this I was assuredly NOT smiling.

Anyway, unlike many mamas, I experienced a very smooth, relatively easy induced labor with P, our firstborn -- that's to say that he and I both experienced zero complications (other than he didn't have much amniotic fluid cushion, hence the induction) and, more significantly here, I generally felt that I was in control all the way through labor. I had one breakthrough moment of anguish, in which I thought, "I can't do this!" and the Holy Spirit instantly reminded me that I didn't have to. Jesus already completed all thing for me on the cross. And as glib as that sounds here, that gave me enough comfort to know that He would take care of me even all the way through labor and delivery, which He did.

In contrast, S was a roller-coaster ride: multiple trips to the hospital and midwife in the week prior to his delivery, lots of go-no-go, culminating in a 45-minute ride through dark, rain, and construction to the hospital, where S was born less than an hour later. I screamed in agony quite a bit during the last bit, and a nurse at some point leaned over and said, "Try to stop yelling. You're going to lose your voice." Which is an awesome thing to say to a woman who's nine centimeters dilated. The first concern she's going to have is the state of her vocal cords. But I digress. Anyway, that experience shook me, mainly because I realized that I couldn't control my reaction, I couldn't control the pain, and I couldn't control the fear that overtook me. This was very humbling.

And all this played into how I approached C's birth. Thank God in all of His mercy that He answered my prayer not to have a repeat wannabe-Nascar-race experience and we spent almost my entire labor and delivery in the comfort of the hospital--with our unbelievably wonderful midwife on call! These two facts sustained me heartily through the first hours of labor. (That and, erm, the humongous hamburger and french fries I inhaled five hours into labor.)

"Yeah... Room 0521 here. I'll take a hamburger--extra grease, please."

But the last two hours were, like with S, difficult. Labor is funny. No, not that kind of funny; funny in that it progresses, and you reach a point where you think, "Wow, that really hurt." And some small part of you is yelling, "You can't do this! You can't DOOOOOOOOOOO this!" But the voice is from far off, like through a tunnel; you visualize the bike riding up the hill or whatever and breathe and count through the contraction; the contraction ends, and you go from feeling like you've been kicked to feeling like a Rock Star. I made it through that contraction! Take that, Whoever It Is I'm Talking To In My Head. And then, the contractions get stronger and they get harder and the pain gets worse. Repeat cycle. Until you can't really think anymore, let alone congratulate yourself. The crux is whether you get to that point late enough in the game where you can see the finish line or you can't.

This is what I mean: I had the benefit during C's coming into the world of my terrific, terrific husband's presence and encouragement and Midwife's wonderfulness. But labor progressed the way it does, and for me that meant that for the last hour or so, I felt like I was running a marathon that would never end. Literally never end. Good thoughts would flit through: All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! "When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world!" (John 16:21, exclamation point mine).

This was before the really, really hard part. This was the hard part that precedes it. Because otherwise I wouldn't have given Papa permission to take this picture.

But every time a good thought would appear, I would instantly reject it. I would deny it. Truly, I found myself thinking--no, actually praying--that God would end it. That He would actually cause a complication so I'd have to be surgically split open so it would all be over. That He would end my life so I didn't have to suffer anymore. And even as I prayed this, I was horrified--horrified that I actually desired my daughter to have a problem just so I could not be in pain, horrified that I wanted to die and I was asking God to grant my prayer.

This experience, more than anything else in my life thus far, showed me that I am dust, and to dust I shall return. My horrible thoughts during labor only proved what I supposedly already knew: that I'm a sinner. I AM sin. I'm sick all the way to the core. And though this is the truth, I trick myself every day into thinking that I basically have it together. With one thought I "know" my wretched sinfulness and with the next I'm congratulating myself on my supreme humility in acknowledging that sinfulness. In fact, that happened during my first labor. But with C, all I could see and feel was the black pit of suffering and my complete--absolutely complete--inability to handle it. I was at the bottom, and I could do nothing to save myself.

And, incredibly, Christ saved me--again. He bore with me just as He bore all of my sins on the cross. He felt every kick (for C kicked hard all the way through labor), winced at every beginning contraction, gasped and sputtered for air with every grunt and push. He placed Himself upon me, my husband, my midwife, and even beautiful C. And He still does. This is what I never want to forget, now that I'm way past those few--because they are actually few--moments. This is what Steve Jobs never acknowledged, at least in time for the book's publication: that our incarnate God died for us because we could never do what He required--perfection.

So Jesus did the job for me in labor. He does it every day, every minute, every second. Which is beyond great--because this life involves a lot more than labor.

And He gave us a daughter, too. Richness on top of pricelessness.

Slowly Joining the Weird

Ha.

 Birth control: these words provoke instant controversy. With yesterday's news about the Duggar family's twentieth pregnancy swimming around in my head, and with Baby Three's birth fast approaching, this CSPP throwback caught my attention:


Concordian Sisters of Perpetual Parturition: Probing the Sulvan brain


{I know: the blog is linked to the right and you could always browse its awesome archives yourselves. But sometimes its little gems are so very timely (recent news, conversation, thoughts, etcetera) that I just can't resist posting them here. So, to those who have the time to read about the weirdness that has to do with birth control, here you go.}


Rebekah provides some background about her own pre-marital thoughts about birth control which I found interesting, not least because so much of her thinking reflected how I thought and behaved pre- and early-marriage. We've learned so much even in the last years about what birth control does, specifically what it can do to early conceived children. In fact, it's not so recent: I remember a relative telling me she stopped taking birth control in the early 80s because she found out that birth control pills are abortifacents; that is, they can potentially cause early, early after-conception abortions.

Even knowing this, I used birth control in the form of the Patch the first months after our marriage. For, like Rebekah, I wanted to go to school forever and have some kind of career and just enjoy marriage for "awhile" before kids. But both Papa and I realized pretty quickly that artificially preventing the possibility of children--especially when side affects such as those mentioned above were involved--wasn't what marriage was intended for. I can't even say that we had this realization due to some great theological or intellectual break-through. I truly think God blessed us with the mutual knowledge, over time, that "be fruitful and multiply" is a blessing, not something to be avoided like the mumps. 

And even now, I want to emphasize that we're not Quiverfull followers, believing unequivocally that "the more, the better" should be every family's philosophy when it comes to children. There's far too many people we know who can't conceive and who also have been blessed with overwhelming numbers to make us fall into that ditch. Plus, we're just too Lutheran: Papa always says that if someone tells you you HAVE to do something to please God, do the opposite. He says it much more lovingly and better-theologically worded than that, but it applies here. We're not Mormons, believing that we've got some heavenly obligation to procreate (and, honestly, I wouldn't want my own planet after death that's populated with just my family. Love all you folks dearly, but... :)). Nor are we Pietists, believing that by our works--even begetting children--we are saved. And frankly, it just seems stupid to me that any of us--and that includes me and Papa at times, still--make the mistake so frequently, as Rebekah so aptly put it, of thinking that "wanting is the only language of reproduction." People say, "Do you want more kids?" like they're talking about buying apples. But that's our culture and how we think. Children are consumer-friendly objects, not gifts. And people can't help talking and thinking that way, because we've been surrounded with this kind of objectification of sex and choices and, thus, family size for at least fifty years.

So that's my long way of saying that we're slowly embracing the weirdness. I won't--and honestly can't--say what our family will look like in five years, because (see above!) ultimately only God decides whether or not to gift people with children. We're just eternally thankful that whether or not He does, He's already given all of us--the many-peopled families, the barren couples, the singles--Himself. And that gift is the weirdest one of all.

Seven Things I Wish I Would Have Known Before Becoming a PW

You can see this post--and even more wonderful conversations between PWs (pastors' wives)--at this blog.

 

We've marked that sacred date known LCMS-universally as "Call Day" in the spring. Now we've heard about ordinations and installations of candidates all over the country (and maybe in your neighborhood) throughout the summer. Due to these blessed events, I've been thinking about my experiences with that stressful, awesome process and, well, some things I wish I would have known before my wonderful husband (MWH) and I headed out happily into the mission field. After a lot of head-scratching, I came up with this list.

A few clarifiers:

My husband and I (both non-pastor's kids, or "PKs" as the mostly fond acronym goes) and our growing family have enjoyed five years in a church that was his first call out of seminary. This hardly makes me some sort of pastor's wife expert to women who are married to men who are near, either direction, ordination and installation, but lots of you pastor's wives reading this have much more insight, experience, maturity, and patience than I do--so please add advice and comments below! Our sisters--future and perhaps present--will benefit.

There's no particular order to my list here. I wrote them as I thought of them, so don't take the numbering too seriously.

1. Your life as a pastor's wife is not like your life as a vicar's wife.

Our vicarage year was honestly like a year-long vacation. Yes, it held stresses and crosses, but mostly it held joy, much MUCH support, immediate and sustained friendships with people who loved us literally on sight. It was everything anyone could want in a vicarage--which is how vicarages should be; safe, learning experiences. But life at a church as a pastor and pastor's wife is very different. The timetable is different, the responsibilities (seen and unseen) are different, the stresses are far different. And this is good. It's real life! But you can't expect a replica of your vicarage. (And for those of you who had an awful vicarage, this is really good news!)

2. Your congregation needs time to get to know you...

That's "you" meaning your husband, "you" meaning you, and "you" meaning your entire family dynamic. I thought friendliness, vivacity, warmth, and learning people's names really fast would mean people would warm up to and trust me, and us, fairly quickly. For a few (like a handful), it did. For most, it didn't. After almost five years and some really, really tough times, people are starting to really open up to us. Congregations are full of--news flash!--sinners, and sinners have wildly different ways of approaching and trusting others. I've learned that most people have to see, literally, that others care, and at least in our situation, that meant seeing that we'd stick around long enough to prove that we weren't just looking for somewhere else to go. Three years is about the max for young pastors in our area, and we heard that a LOT from members and non-members. "You've been here three years? I guess you'll be moving on soon, huh?" said one local to us a few summers ago, not realizing how clearly she articulated what many people were thinking. And every congregation's time frame for getting to know you is different, too. But I'd guess it's almost always in the multiple years category, not the multiple months category.

3. ...and you need time to get to know your congregation.I'm an outgoing person, and I'll have one terrific conversation with someone and think I really "get" them. I guess this is good in its own way. But it's not great for applying the time rule. The first people who really reached out to us when we first arrived--invited us over, helped us out a lot--are terrific people. In our case, they also were the ones who wanted certain actions or acquiescence from my husband that later turned into problems and, subsequently, a much more impersonal relationship with both of us. That was hard for us, and me in particular, who thought we were all friends! At the same time, people who were friendly but a little distant to us initially have become more and more close to us over the years. And I've learned that learning about people and what they're like over time--like, YEARS--is probably best. You want to try to meet everyone anyway (if that's possible for you), and you'll need lots of time for that. And it's nice to age with your congregation. It's special. You suffer together, you joy together. But none of that happens during a 30-second commercial break.

4. Together with your husband and family, establish what formal church involvement you will have.

I heard this from veteran pastors' wives before we arrived here, and this has proved invaluable. Many wives learn to say "no" after years of struggling with too much responsibility in the parish. It's much easier if you start out with certain parameters in place--that is, you stay uninvolved for at least six months, then converse with your husband and family, then slowly begin getting involved.

The opinion of most importance in determining your (and your children's, for that matter) involvement is your husband's. This is an extremely controversial thing to say, even to traditionally conservative Lutheran women! But this is true. Your husband is the pastor. He will know the church people and the various church organizations far better than you, even if you tag along with him frequently. He also knows you! I have been blessed by a husband who, at times, has told me he wants me to do something that I don't think I want to do, but, after doing it, I realize that it is for the best. He also has told me what organizations or participation he thinks I should NOT get involved with. He has saved me from much frustration and hardship and heartache by helping me say "no." So talk to your wonderful husbands and trust them! Then you can muddle through together.

I have found, as a mother with young children, that some of my most meaningful "involvement" is not formal; it happens with the occasional visit with shut-ins, sharing conversation with people over coffee at various church events (even really informal ones), standing in hallways (or store aisles) and updating, talking on the phone. We like to entertain and have people over, which we're not able to do as often as when we first arrived, but I recognize that my involvement at church--just like my life as a wife and a mother--will change over time and with circumstances. Yours will, too.

5. Your husband needs you to be his wife (and your children's mother) before he needs you to do anything else for him.

Not church involvement, not community involvement, not continuing your education, not advancing your career. Not anything else. This is controversial--and if I'd heard a pastor's wife say it five years ago I know I would have been offended. I thought then that I could do pretty much everything in my life well if I had the chance to prove it. That was laughably naive. Here's what I've learned: if you desire your husband to be faithful, to be dedicated, and to persevere through hardship, he needs you to be his rock at home. My husband says he does not regret that I went back to school almost as soon as we moved here and that I spent our first three years in the parish immersed in a graduate program. I can't change it now (and I'm not going to give back the fancy piece of paper I got for it, at any rate). But I look back, and for many reasons, I wish I would have waited. The most important reason I wish I would have waited was because I think my husband missed receiving my full support because my energy and focus were divided between him and our life at church and my own studies and teaching. Maybe other women can balance this successfully. I know that he, and actually both of us, lost opportunities in those years to talk and support each other in our marriage. Now I realize that my life revolves around my husband's need for my support--which has already changed over the last few years as he's learned a lot!--and our family. If God wills for me to pursue a career outside the home at some point, I pray He makes it really obvious to me and to my husband. In the meantime, I know He is strengthening our marriage by drawing us closer together as a family. And that can only benefit us--and the church!--in the long run.

6. Life is now in a fishbowl. Therefore, get a father confessor--for your sake and your husband's sake.

Vocations cross now in ways they don't elsewhere. It's not just that people can see what you do and judge you accordingly; you will be held to higher standards that can be unfair. It's also that your own individual lives get bound up in your husband's vocation as pastor. You can't go anywhere--especially in a small town--without knowing you'll be seen as a (or "the"!) pastor's wife. This is a sacrifice of individual autonomy for you that's inevitable. And you will resent it at times, and this comes out most often as resentment and frustration toward your husband--for not having enough time or energy for you or your children, for not making enough money, for not being in a field that gives you "me" time, whatever. And because of this, you need to find a father confessor, a pastor you can talk to or call to confess your resentment, frustration, selfishness, and all those other sins and receive forgiveness without having specific spousal issues get in the way.

My husband and I have relied sporadically upon a pastor that served as a mentor for my husband before his seminary days as a father confessor. We both have called him at different times; he's listened to our confessions and given us absolution. When we are in his area (he's in another state), we visit with him and his wife. I think a more regular pattern would benefit us, but for now, this is what we have and it is a blessing.

7. Be patient and pray for contentment.

I hate this one, because I'm impatient and a control freak. But God is teaching me patience over time, and in the process He is drawing me closer to Himself. Here's how it might play out for you:

You might love your congregation and want to stay forever--and God might call your husband elsewhere right when you think everything is how you want it. You might want nothing better than to move one thousand miles away--and God might want your husband to serve where you are for years--maybe a few decades. You might wonder why your husband doesn't seem to be doing as a pastor what you think he should be doing. You might wonder how your husband can be working so hard and trying so hard to pastor people and they don't seem to want his service, care for it, or accept it unless it's on their terms. But God wants your husband and you in this particular place. You might not know why now or ever, but He does. He also knows how much you both can handle, and if you are struggling with burdens that seem unbearable, He will guide you out of them. Sometimes this happens with time, or with another call, or with a resignation and a life elsewhere.

A very real truth little known or understood in the "outside" world is that many pastors and their wives suffer from depression. I understand now why the percentage of ministers and families who suffer from this is so much higher than in the general population. And I thank God He provides us with loving friends, experts, and resources to deal with this. Depression and its iterations are not weaknesses borne by the less-than-stalwart among us. They are crosses God, in his mysterious, infinite wisdom, that try our patience, test our commitment, and ultimately draw us closer to Him. And we can be thankful, even with the awfulness of mental illness, that He walks with us in this, too.

God also gives us joys as pastors' wives that far outweigh the burdens. The burdens can be hard, extremely hard. But you will witness countless examples of Christ's love from members to your husband, to you, to your children and maybe even your extended family. You will be privy to baptisms, catechizing and confirmations, weddings, funerals of saints called to glory. You will see Christ loving people from conception until death. Real life, real, intense, overwhelming love from our Savior to your dear congregation. And you get to witness it every week, every day. This is a miracle. Few people share this perspective--and those who do, like other pastor's wives, understand what you suffer and what you joy. And we are here for you!

***

A pastor's wife enjoys a wonderful vocation. For those sisters struggling in this vocation, take heart. Christ has already overcome the world for you. For those sisters just starting in this vocation, take heart. Christ knows the plans He has for you, and your husband, and your family--plans to prosper you and not to harm you! I, and so many others, am excited for what lies ahead for you. May God keep you in His wonderful grace always!

Whew! That's a Relief!

Now we don't have to worry about Satan's lair and all that. Go ahead; thank us. You can sleep at night now.

But WOW,
this is very sad...
Christianity is no longer under attack about whether the Bible is God's Word. It is instead a battle about whether the Church herself is God's creation or an institution made by man.

Just to sell a couple more magazines and books at Easter...

Yes, again.

This is especially for you, R!

 A week ago last Thursday night, March 31, I took a little test.


It was positive.

It's hard to articulate how life can change forever in a few seconds. From the short walk from the bedroom to looking down at a little purple plastic strip on the bathroom counter. From two to three. From blessed to blessed again.

I'd realized earlier in the week that, stupidly, I'd not really been paying attention to certain biological signs. So I picked April 1--insert fool's jokes here--to wait to see what happened and then take the test. I told Papa this over supper on Thursday, and he said, "Why torment yourself? Just take it now." I need his common sense so badly.

So I took it just before bath time for the boys, and there we were, Papa and I, grinning at the purple strip and each other and hugging and hyperventilating (me) because, well, even if you're pretty sure sure of something, there's nothing like actually knowing. Papa's memorable quote at the moment of knowing: "Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Wait--should I say, 'Oh, girl'?"

We plunked the boys in the bathtub, and as I lifted little S into the tub I found myself crying, sobbing. Papa asked me if I was okay. I managed to say, "Yes. I just realized that he isn't my baby anymore." It's not that I want S to stay a baby forever, or even that we didn't pray for another baby after him. We did. Perhaps it's just that our family right now will never be the same again, and that is a beautiful reality. But it reminds me that our children will never stay young, that we must cherish each moment with them.

So I needed a few minutes to myself later, and I got it by--what else?--visiting the bathroom again. I wanted to pray something appropriate. "Is there a psalm that speaks to motherhood?" I wondered. Oh, well--I grabbed our Reading the Psalms and turned to the bookmark. The end of Psalm 22:

²⁷All the ends of the earth shall remember
   and turn to the LORD,
and all the families of the nations
   shall worship before you.
²⁸For kingship belongs to the LORD,
   and he rules over the nations.
 ²⁹All the prosperous of the earth eat and worship;
   before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,
   even the one who could not keep himself alive.
³⁰Posterity shall serve him;
   it shall be told of the Lord to the coming generation;
³¹they shall come and proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn,
   that he has done it.


Families. Posterity. Coming generation. A people yet unborn. "He has done it." He has done it, indeed. Praise Him!

Making Identity

And you thought I was just a TOY...I'm YOU!

So sit down and don't read this if you're easily grossed out. How's that for an intro! :D (Thanks to Rebekah for bringing this to our attention on CSPP!)

In "A New Way to Be Mad," an Atlantic article from 2000, Carl Elliott writes about acrotomophilia, a disorder/desire for amputation. Yes, amputation. Elliott's article is fascinating, not least because he takes the discussion farther than the physical ramifications--bleeeech!--into psychology and cultural analysis. Ultimately, he notices how the human body itself has become an identity-creating sphere, even to the point of people cutting off limbs to attain what they see as their "real" identities.

What it suggests is that an identity can be built around a desire. The person you have become may be a consequence of the things you desire.

...
And to be honest, haven't surgeons made the human body fair game? You can pay a surgeon to suck fat from your thighs, lengthen your penis, augment your breasts, redesign your labia, even (if you are a performance artist) implant silicone horns in your forehead or split your tongue like a lizard's. Why not amputate a limb?

I'd expand a bit further. Why not engage in lots of premarital coitus because sex with numerous partners defines your identity? Why not abort your child because a child does NOT define your identity? Why not carry someone (or sometwo) else's child as a surrogate because giving others the gift of father/motherhood by using your body as a (as Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban put it) "gestational carrier" defines your identity?

Elliott's analysis shows that with the aid of modern science, not much of anything is off-limits if people can explain their desires as a form of identity creation--or get doctors to sign off on their desires as a recognized form of psychosis.

In each case the true self is the one produced by medical science.

At first I was inclined to think of this language as a literal description. Maybe some people really did feel as if they had found their true selves on Prozac. Maybe they really did feel incomplete without cosmetic surgery. Later on, however, I came to think of the descriptions less as literal than as expressions of an ambivalent moral ideal—a struggle between the impulse toward self-improvement and the impulse to be true to oneself. Not that I can see no difference between a middle-aged man rubbing Rogaine on his head every morning and a man whose discomfort in his own body is so all-consuming that he begins to think of suicide. But we shouldn't be surprised when any of these people, healthy or sick, use phrases like "becoming myself" and "I was incomplete" and "the way I really am" to describe what they feel, because the language of identity and selfhood surrounds us. It is built into our morality, our literature, our political philosophy, our therapeutic sensibility, even our popular culture. This is the way we talk now. This is the way we think. This is even the way we sell cars and tennis shoes. We talk of self-discovery, self-realization, self-expression, self-actualization, self-invention, self-knowledge, self-betrayal, and self-absorption. It should be no great revelation that the vocabulary of the self feels like a natural way to describe our longings, our obsessions, and our psychopathologies.

Of course, it's no great leap to see that all of this "vocabulary of the self" echoes our culture of self-idolatry, and self-idolatry is--quite literally, in so many forms--self-destructive.

It puts a whole new meaning into the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

"Do it again!"

Back in December I was driving south on 75, going somewhere with the boys (I don't remember now where). It was mid-morning, the sun was brilliant on the snow (blinding, actually), and the sky gleamed a deep, pristine blue. The light and brightness coming through the windows was enough to raise my spirits, but something else happened that gave me a joyful memory I hope I always remember.

P loves Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." Almost by accident he became acquainted with it, thanks to that widespread Youtube video of the flash mob in Canada busting it out in a mall food court. He could watch it over and over, mesmerized, saying after each viewing, "Let's do it again!" Luckily, just hearing a recording of it was enough after a time, so we left the Messiah recording parked in the car player throughout Advent to turn on whenever we wanted.

So I turned it on in the car as we were driving. And, per usual, we heard the Chorus once and P said, "Do it again!" I hit repeat. And as we drove along, I gazed out across the glistening snow, sparkling with billions of reflections of sunlight, and I thought of heaven, and I looked in the rearview mirror and watched P's face, rapt, as he listened. "The kingdom of this earth is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of His Christ, and of His Christ." And suddenly it dawned on me that P's insatiable love for the Chorus is nothing like the cute, tolerable obsession of a toddler we often viewed it as. It was everything like what we will be in heaven, when we shall see God clearly and not through a glass darkly. And we will never, ever get enough of Christ reigning. "And He shall reign forever and ever." Our joy will be continuous--as though our souls would cry, "Do it again!", except there will be no need, because the song will continue, and continue, and continue.

I'd cherished this moment to myself until tonight when I happened across a quote by G.K.Chesterton that reminded me of this.

A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but He has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

Read more: http://www.touchstonemag.com/archives/article.php?id=24-01-034-f#ixzz1Dcdt5bg4

Thank you, G.K., for saying so beautifully what P reminded me. May God give us the faith of children, that we might rejoice and sing hallelujahs always to Him who "exults in monotony."