You know what I hate? When someone promises you a blog series and then disappears for over a month. I hate that.
The children have been sick for weeks. Make that months. One disease would pass through the family, and as soon as they were over it, there would be another. They've had the flu, ear infections, eye infections, scarlet fever (we think - doc wasn't sure), ringworm, and until yesterday, an unidentified, explosive gastro-intestinal virus. I did not know we could be sick so much. The doctor started ending our visits with, "Hope I don't see you next week!"
Today two of them have colds, but that feels like nothing.
So here I am, slowly digging out from under the pile of laundry (OH THE LAUNDRY) and poking my head up to say hello. Now that life feels less like struggling through waist-deep mud (or even less appealing substances), I hope to be back and writing soon.
See you then.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Why I Am Reformed
The other day Sherri Edman called me the nicest Calvinist she knows. I smiled at that, because I've known Sherri and Peter long enough by now to hear a little subtext to that description. It's one of those statements that is not entirely a compliment.
It's not unusual. When people talk about "Calvinists" or "the Reformed," there is often a tinge of suspicion. My non-Presbyterian friends direct certain expressions of bafflement my way. It's somewhere between "Gosh, you're smarter than I expected for a Nascar fan" and "I never expected anyone as pleasant as you to torture small animals for sport."
One of the lovelier consequences of Reformed theology is that you don't have to be concerned with changing people's minds. Very freeing. But since I am trying to get back into the swing of blogging regularly and I am casting about for subjects, it occurred to me that a series of posts about why I 'm Reformed might shed some light on a subject that you've wondered about.
So if everything you know about Reformed theology comes from your high-school reading of The Scarlet Letter and you're wondering how high our congregation's pillory is, or if the word "predestination" sends fatalistic chills up your spine and you can't reconcile that with the way I'm always jabbering on about love, stop on by for the next week or two. I'll try to put a friendly face above that Geneva collar.
It's not unusual. When people talk about "Calvinists" or "the Reformed," there is often a tinge of suspicion. My non-Presbyterian friends direct certain expressions of bafflement my way. It's somewhere between "Gosh, you're smarter than I expected for a Nascar fan" and "I never expected anyone as pleasant as you to torture small animals for sport."
One of the lovelier consequences of Reformed theology is that you don't have to be concerned with changing people's minds. Very freeing. But since I am trying to get back into the swing of blogging regularly and I am casting about for subjects, it occurred to me that a series of posts about why I 'm Reformed might shed some light on a subject that you've wondered about.
So if everything you know about Reformed theology comes from your high-school reading of The Scarlet Letter and you're wondering how high our congregation's pillory is, or if the word "predestination" sends fatalistic chills up your spine and you can't reconcile that with the way I'm always jabbering on about love, stop on by for the next week or two. I'll try to put a friendly face above that Geneva collar.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
More than being right
Pick one:
A. God is good.
B. Look at those people over there who don't believe that God is good. We must resist them before they ruin everything.
I spent some time reading arguments in the blogosphere this week. This is the junk food of Christian theology. Chest-thumping, testosterone-fueled debates in which clever people try to convince you that those people over there are threatening everything. They will be the downfall of the church! I almost stopped being a Christian because of them! Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party!
I used to think that this style of faith-as-conflict was strictly a male phenomenon. God, in his mercy, used the internet to correct my sexism. That tricksy God. Won't even let me keep my smug little prejudices.
There is a particular bent to these arguments, reflected in the choice above. You can say a true thing, or you can portray a war in which you, brave warrior, are marshaling the forces of good against the forces of evil. The particular occasion of the conflict almost doesn't matter. What matters is that people observe you leaping into the fray, being right.
There are people who love the truth, and there are people who love being right. While anyone who has ever been married knows that sometimes we can belong to either group, the nature of internet arguments often encourages one over the other. One makes better theater than the other.
One of the reasons I love Ann Voskamp's blog is how thoroughly she refuses to engage in option B. Her faith is expressed in the small particularities of an incarnate life, not in trouncing designated enemies. It is lovely, and ultimately does more to create a solid sense of the good than the endless wrangling of the arguers ever accomplished. It has been an example to me more than once.
The argument I read this week was over the Problem of Evil, an irresolvable debate if ever there was one. How can a good God allow evil to happen? Why do good people suffer unjustly? The attempts to resolve this are no more successful than they've ever been. One group redefines evil to mean good, apparently believing that will let God off the hook. The other redefines God to be something smaller and less responsible, an affable spirit buddy who means well, but can only do so much. Nobody solves the problem in the terms given, because no one can.
But there is no passion like the passion of someone convinced that their inadequate solution is better than your inadequate solution. Grab the popcorn, watch the fireworks. Call him a sociopath and call her a sinner in rebellion. Bronze your humilities and mount them on the wall; point at them to show you're better than your opponent. Someone must surely win (won't they?) and it's important it be you. Everything depends on it.
Job lost everything, and he cried out to God. His friends argued for days, certain that the rightness of the world was threatened by Job's questions. But their arguments blew away on the wind, and the answer to Job's cries - the only satisfaction - was the presence of God.
I don't have an answer to the problem of evil. But if Job was answered by the presence of God, then the only thing we can offer is to be the presence of God in someone's life. The quiet, loving friend, the tender mother, the faithful wife. It doesn't solve the insoluble, and it won't make anyone applaud you for being right or winning a war. Nobody becomes president of a seminary or makes the best-seller list by holding the hand of someone in pain.
But it says that God is good. Here, here is goodness: baked and covered in this casserole dish, shining in this stack of clean laundry, ringing in that phone when you're lonely. God is good, my letter says, even if the words aren't printed on it. God is good, I hear in that familiar joke from a much-missed friend, who suddenly stopped by. Not watch me win, but God is good.
That's all I want to say.
A. God is good.
B. Look at those people over there who don't believe that God is good. We must resist them before they ruin everything.
I spent some time reading arguments in the blogosphere this week. This is the junk food of Christian theology. Chest-thumping, testosterone-fueled debates in which clever people try to convince you that those people over there are threatening everything. They will be the downfall of the church! I almost stopped being a Christian because of them! Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party!
I used to think that this style of faith-as-conflict was strictly a male phenomenon. God, in his mercy, used the internet to correct my sexism. That tricksy God. Won't even let me keep my smug little prejudices.
There is a particular bent to these arguments, reflected in the choice above. You can say a true thing, or you can portray a war in which you, brave warrior, are marshaling the forces of good against the forces of evil. The particular occasion of the conflict almost doesn't matter. What matters is that people observe you leaping into the fray, being right.
There are people who love the truth, and there are people who love being right. While anyone who has ever been married knows that sometimes we can belong to either group, the nature of internet arguments often encourages one over the other. One makes better theater than the other.
One of the reasons I love Ann Voskamp's blog is how thoroughly she refuses to engage in option B. Her faith is expressed in the small particularities of an incarnate life, not in trouncing designated enemies. It is lovely, and ultimately does more to create a solid sense of the good than the endless wrangling of the arguers ever accomplished. It has been an example to me more than once.
The argument I read this week was over the Problem of Evil, an irresolvable debate if ever there was one. How can a good God allow evil to happen? Why do good people suffer unjustly? The attempts to resolve this are no more successful than they've ever been. One group redefines evil to mean good, apparently believing that will let God off the hook. The other redefines God to be something smaller and less responsible, an affable spirit buddy who means well, but can only do so much. Nobody solves the problem in the terms given, because no one can.
But there is no passion like the passion of someone convinced that their inadequate solution is better than your inadequate solution. Grab the popcorn, watch the fireworks. Call him a sociopath and call her a sinner in rebellion. Bronze your humilities and mount them on the wall; point at them to show you're better than your opponent. Someone must surely win (won't they?) and it's important it be you. Everything depends on it.
Job lost everything, and he cried out to God. His friends argued for days, certain that the rightness of the world was threatened by Job's questions. But their arguments blew away on the wind, and the answer to Job's cries - the only satisfaction - was the presence of God.
I don't have an answer to the problem of evil. But if Job was answered by the presence of God, then the only thing we can offer is to be the presence of God in someone's life. The quiet, loving friend, the tender mother, the faithful wife. It doesn't solve the insoluble, and it won't make anyone applaud you for being right or winning a war. Nobody becomes president of a seminary or makes the best-seller list by holding the hand of someone in pain.
But it says that God is good. Here, here is goodness: baked and covered in this casserole dish, shining in this stack of clean laundry, ringing in that phone when you're lonely. God is good, my letter says, even if the words aren't printed on it. God is good, I hear in that familiar joke from a much-missed friend, who suddenly stopped by. Not watch me win, but God is good.
That's all I want to say.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Malingering
The flu doesn't die easy. I told my feverish five-year-old a few days ago that there was a war going on in her body. She had been invaded, and her white blood cells were inventing weapons that very minute to bash the bad germs. Soon they would be experts at beating those germs, and her sickness would go away.
And it worked. We are all much better. Sniffling and coughing still, but well on our way to wholeness. The doc has cleared the children to return to school, and our naps are getting fewer. A sore throat lingers for me, though, and I asked my husband to make me a hot toddy.
My husband's hot toddies are dangerous. They taste good, they soothe the throat and ease the coughing. But they are deceptively powerful. One means I am in for the night. Two means it will be an early night.
So I am nursing my toddy and watching the fifth season of The West Wing. Unlike the toddy, it is absolutely awful. Hard to believe that show could tank so badly and still go on for two more seasons. Now that I mention it, it's a lot like this virus. Bad television as flu experience. I'm seeing medical schools showing the last three seasons of The West Wing to teach sympathy for infectious disease patients.
We have church tomorrow, but I will probably need to stay home. I'm not quite ready to trust this coughing body to the public. I'm a forty-year-old mother of four and... I don't need to explain, do I? Let's just call it The West Wing Effect.
And it worked. We are all much better. Sniffling and coughing still, but well on our way to wholeness. The doc has cleared the children to return to school, and our naps are getting fewer. A sore throat lingers for me, though, and I asked my husband to make me a hot toddy.
My husband's hot toddies are dangerous. They taste good, they soothe the throat and ease the coughing. But they are deceptively powerful. One means I am in for the night. Two means it will be an early night.
So I am nursing my toddy and watching the fifth season of The West Wing. Unlike the toddy, it is absolutely awful. Hard to believe that show could tank so badly and still go on for two more seasons. Now that I mention it, it's a lot like this virus. Bad television as flu experience. I'm seeing medical schools showing the last three seasons of The West Wing to teach sympathy for infectious disease patients.
We have church tomorrow, but I will probably need to stay home. I'm not quite ready to trust this coughing body to the public. I'm a forty-year-old mother of four and... I don't need to explain, do I? Let's just call it The West Wing Effect.
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Thought That Counts
This past December I had an idea on facebook. Instead of sending out holiday cards (which I never do because it makes me crazy), I would give a personalized book recommendation to each of my facebook friends. I have about 150 friends on facebook (I deliberately keep my list small), and I would suggest a different book for each of them, a book I imagined they would like.
It took me over a month, but it was a lot of fun. I kept a list, and I mulled over book ideas for an hour or so every day. I like thinking about books, so this was no hardship. I thought about the tastes and personality and history of the people I knew, I read a few more books to expand my own palate, and I finished my list in early January.
I was surprised at how people reacted to this. It seemed such a small thing to me, and I was a little concerned that my friends would be annoyed by it. But if anyone was, they were kind enough not to say so. Instead, some of my friends were sentimental in their thanks. It was a pleasant surprise. After all, I wasn't actually buying the book.
It is easy to forget how lonely the world is. Or rather, it's easy to believe that the world isn't as lonely for other people as it is for ourselves. Other people must have lives filled with community and fellowship and easy, graceful camaraderie, right? Loneliness must be unique to me. I have been surprised how many people assume that their friendships only exist by fragile accident.
But they don't. Look, I am a mildly grumpy introvert with four small children, easily exhausted by social interaction and having little time to pursue it. If I am in your life, it's because I want to be. If I have a kind word or a friendly welcome for you, it is meant. I'm not flawless, but when I hurt people it's by accident. If I know your name and I smile when I see you, it's because I'm actually glad you're here. Sincere friendships already test my introverted energy; artificial friendships feel like death to me. They are not in my tool set.
My friends are not friends by chance. I can chalk up that first meeting to Providence, but I kept at it because I like you. At the risk of sounding pompous and maudlin, I chose you. And it means the world to me that in some fashion, you chose me back.
I am not a New Year's resolution kinda person. But if I can suggest one thing to keep in mind this year, it's that most people are lonelier than you think. Most of us wonder if we really matter to that other person. Everyone feels on a hard day that they must have been forgotten. The ripples from small kindnesses can be huge.
Even if it's only knowing that someone thought about you.
It took me over a month, but it was a lot of fun. I kept a list, and I mulled over book ideas for an hour or so every day. I like thinking about books, so this was no hardship. I thought about the tastes and personality and history of the people I knew, I read a few more books to expand my own palate, and I finished my list in early January.
I was surprised at how people reacted to this. It seemed such a small thing to me, and I was a little concerned that my friends would be annoyed by it. But if anyone was, they were kind enough not to say so. Instead, some of my friends were sentimental in their thanks. It was a pleasant surprise. After all, I wasn't actually buying the book.
It is easy to forget how lonely the world is. Or rather, it's easy to believe that the world isn't as lonely for other people as it is for ourselves. Other people must have lives filled with community and fellowship and easy, graceful camaraderie, right? Loneliness must be unique to me. I have been surprised how many people assume that their friendships only exist by fragile accident.
But they don't. Look, I am a mildly grumpy introvert with four small children, easily exhausted by social interaction and having little time to pursue it. If I am in your life, it's because I want to be. If I have a kind word or a friendly welcome for you, it is meant. I'm not flawless, but when I hurt people it's by accident. If I know your name and I smile when I see you, it's because I'm actually glad you're here. Sincere friendships already test my introverted energy; artificial friendships feel like death to me. They are not in my tool set.
My friends are not friends by chance. I can chalk up that first meeting to Providence, but I kept at it because I like you. At the risk of sounding pompous and maudlin, I chose you. And it means the world to me that in some fashion, you chose me back.
I am not a New Year's resolution kinda person. But if I can suggest one thing to keep in mind this year, it's that most people are lonelier than you think. Most of us wonder if we really matter to that other person. Everyone feels on a hard day that they must have been forgotten. The ripples from small kindnesses can be huge.
Even if it's only knowing that someone thought about you.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
The Flu and Gratitude
We are all on the mend, but tired and cranky. Everyone caught the flu in the end, but my youngest daughter's breathing remained clear despite the cough, for which I am grateful. Thank you for your prayers.
I take a nap between each household task. Dose out the medicine; take a nap. Load the dishwasher; take a nap. My husband has been well enough to fix soup and toast for the kids. I have eaten about a dozen crackers over the last two days, which is enough to keep me alive, apparently.
My husband claims that if our marriage is ever in trouble, he will move us all to Iceland. He says I love him more when it's cold. And he says life gets very simple in Iceland: you need to find food and stay warm, and everything else is optional. I'm sure there are many Icelanders with complicated lives who could correct him, but it rings true about a house with the flu. Things have been very simple here this week. Keep the kids' fevers down, keep them hydrated, and rest. Everything else was an extra we could ignore.
Last night we watched The Aristocats, each of the four kids on a chair or the couch, quietly curled under a blanket. The only movement was the taking of turns in my lap. Everyone wants Mama's arms when they are sick. I looked around at my slowly mending family, and I felt so grateful for all the things that let us heal. We are blessed with so many things we could not earn, so many complicated, wonderful things that let us keep our life so simple this week. And because this is my blog and I get to say whatever I want, and because I'm coming off the flu so I know you'll all be extra patient with me, I'll end this post with listing the many things I am grateful for that made surviving the flu a relatively easy thing for this family.
A solid home
A relatively safe country
Running water
Reliable heat
Analgesics and fever-reducers
Blankets
A fully operational immune system
Children's cartoons
Crackers and soup made by someone else in a factory somewhere
Reliable medical advice
Loving family and friends
I take a nap between each household task. Dose out the medicine; take a nap. Load the dishwasher; take a nap. My husband has been well enough to fix soup and toast for the kids. I have eaten about a dozen crackers over the last two days, which is enough to keep me alive, apparently.
My husband claims that if our marriage is ever in trouble, he will move us all to Iceland. He says I love him more when it's cold. And he says life gets very simple in Iceland: you need to find food and stay warm, and everything else is optional. I'm sure there are many Icelanders with complicated lives who could correct him, but it rings true about a house with the flu. Things have been very simple here this week. Keep the kids' fevers down, keep them hydrated, and rest. Everything else was an extra we could ignore.
Last night we watched The Aristocats, each of the four kids on a chair or the couch, quietly curled under a blanket. The only movement was the taking of turns in my lap. Everyone wants Mama's arms when they are sick. I looked around at my slowly mending family, and I felt so grateful for all the things that let us heal. We are blessed with so many things we could not earn, so many complicated, wonderful things that let us keep our life so simple this week. And because this is my blog and I get to say whatever I want, and because I'm coming off the flu so I know you'll all be extra patient with me, I'll end this post with listing the many things I am grateful for that made surviving the flu a relatively easy thing for this family.
A solid home
A relatively safe country
Running water
Reliable heat
Analgesics and fever-reducers
Blankets
A fully operational immune system
Children's cartoons
Crackers and soup made by someone else in a factory somewhere
Reliable medical advice
Loving family and friends
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
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