A Worthy Life

let's talk about sex, shall we?

It was a book a friend gushed over, crafted by one of the best historical writer and this his crowning glory. I'm always on the hunt for a good book so I quickly downloaded it to my iPad and settled in for what I anticipated to be a story bathed in brilliance with enough suspense and drama to keep me hooked.

A few hours in it became the first book that has ever brought crimson to my cheeks while reading, the only book where rather than diving in I felt compelled to turn my head out of respect for the intimacy shared between two characters, out of shame for the cheap sell sex was presented as, and out of concern for innocence lost.

Let's be straight, I'm no prude. Ask my close friends, I'm known to joke about hilarious situations inside the bedroom, mine or others. In fact, one of the funniest stories I've ever heard told was this one recently at a friend's wedding reception held the night after the wedding:

The bride's father shared that, at a house party he hosted, he was chatting with some friends when our friend, his future son-in-law, came up to him and declared, "I'm dating your daughter, what do you think of that?" Later, when they had been dating for some time, he again approached his girlfriend's father and said, "I kissed your daughter, are you ok with that?" When the father of the bride entered the venue the night of the reception (remember, this was just after their first night as a couple), he cringed as he saw his now son-in-law, a frequent over-sharer, walk towards him, not sure of what his question might be this time!

Sex is beautiful and fun and mysteriously interwoven into our very beings, hooking us heart and body with another. Trust me, I understand the biological responses and our natural longing to engage in intimacy and a little about the challenge it is to wait until marriage to fully awaken that desire.

It's just that I worry about the cultural landscape and the views and values with which they, the majority, have endowed to the act of making love. Sex is no longer what you can give to another but what you can get out of it. It has become a symbol of a successful night on the prowl, catching the eye of a stranger in hopes of luring into bed someone who can sufficiently embody the fantasies that we hope to reenact, a dance of lust performed as a mimicry tribute to the smoldering hunks and heroines of our favorite t.v. shows.

No wonder even kids growing up in Christian homes aren't waiting anymore, who is?? With a culture selling sex on enough corners, magazine covers, and prime-time comedies, is it really worth the wait? When sex sells, everything from gym memberships to dieting plans to four door sedans, why not get why the getting's good?

The good news is promiscuity among youth is highly inaccurately over-publicized. Sure, almost one of every two teenagers is having intercourse but it's less than it was a decade ago due, in part, to the fact that our children are engaging in safer, oral sex. Yippee!

The purpose of sharing my thoughts here isn't to post another rant against the world for polluting the minds of our youth. It's rather to challenge us as parents: what can we do differently? Will we heighten our commitment to stem the flow of filth aimed at our children, building below ground bunkers in which to isolate our children until an arranged marriage can be bought with the herd of goats we hope to have within the next ten years? Innocence and virginity seems to have an expiration date, that of 13 or 14 in biblical times, so why not seek out a SWM at your son's next basketball practice?

Or, will we continue to impress on the minds and hearts of our children that God has a better way. Not necessarily one that comes with the guarantee of a rainbow and fireworks when you finally give love, not only one that it will grant your experience all the more meaning when you share it with the one you will share the whole of your life with, and certainly not one that comes with the idea that is is nothing more than an obligation from a dutiful wife. But we can tell them that it is a choice that comes from the heart of one who desires to walk in open unity and unabashed intimacy with their God.

So what hope is there that my kids, our kids don't become one of the 88% who hold their virginity loosely between fingers holding too much temptation? Let's face it, we can't compete with a world that wraps it's packages in glitz and glitter. But what can we do, what will you do? It's just a gander but I'm thinking that telling my children that what I have with their father is hotter than what they'll see on the big screen, because it comes with passion and commitment, is probably not the best preface to our next birds and bees discussion.

On second thought, just the thought of it might so sour their perspective on sex that it'll buy us a few extra years at least just to fatten up those goats a little more. :)

What are your thoughts? I'd love to hear!

today's the day

We cuddled close, her chilly feet tucked between my warm legs, and read from her favorite books.

One picture among the glossy pages caught my eye - a grown man with fuzzy beard peeking out from full branches of a sycamore tree. The story tells that he was short, easily missed among the crowds. Curious about this Jesus talked much about, not wanting to be seen but rather see, he climbed a tree.

Of the many Jesus passed that day on dusty road, His eyes rose to meet those of one. His voice rang out above the pressing crowd and in the calling the little man knew that he was seen, that he was known.

Some time earlier, Jesus walked again on different path, eager to respond to the plea of a grieving father over a dying daughter. The crowds again crushed in, many brushing against him in the huddle of the mass.

Yet somehow someway a path opened for a woman, weary and rejected because of illness prevailing without hope. Stretching out her last olive branch of faith that just might bring peace to a body at battle within, she happens to graze the very fringe of this known miracle worker and new life with a different future immediately flows through her veins.

Again, Jesus walks past the informal social gathering place of the formally regarded social misfits of the day - those who were without sight or strength nor ability or personal advocate. Of the many, He singles out one.

"You there. Yes, you. Today is your day. Get up and go, strengthened in your healing."

Today I close the book with dozing audience snoring in my ear, wondering when it will be my day. When will it be me He focuses in on though hidden and unnoticed , when will my closeness to Him culminate in the touch that brings power coursing through my life, when will it be my turn to testify to skeptics and doubters the glory gotten despite my brokeness?

No answers are written within the cardboard pages of our book. And yet, I sense the way that will gain me all these and more.

As I continue to scramble up out of the clamor and into the quiet heights of heaven, I will be seen.

As I push my way through the weariness and distraction all around, I will still touch Him.

As I wait patiently holding on to hope and possibility, I may yet hear His voice calling out to me...

"You there. Yes, you. Today is the day I have chosen to have my glory revealed in your weakness."

 

a borrowed persona

I sat behind her on the flight back to my hometown. She was a feisty older woman, grandmotherly in countenance but with a quick and witty tongue, as felt by an airline employee who dared to growl at her. Had she not spoken up, defending herself and the rest of us with deflective humor, I would have hardly noticed her, so ordinary did she appear.

As I settled back for an hour and a half of silence in my inner sanctum (thanks to a hubby who promised me that this leg of my journey would have an in-flight movie), I watched from afar as this woman too settled in for the ride.

With her head back-lit by the sky outside her window, her head became a cumulus cloud; voluminous but sparse, surrounding a pale pink orb bouncing in the center to the lifts and dips of our flight. Her hair disappeared into the background; you could clearly imagine what she would look like without it.

Stripped of her beauty parlor styled hair, she was seen just as she looked when first she came into the world: bald and frail.

I thought back to a quote I had just heard the night before from the new Robin Hood movie. When Robin Hood proposes to pretend he and his men are knights, they shrink back, wondering if they have what it takes to look the part.

He answers them, "There is no difference between a knight and any other man aside from what he wears."

This truth was applicable to this older woman. Take away her hair, her decidedly frumpy wear, even her wrinkles, and her size and all that is left is the same as what would be left of me: a soul.

Applying it further in my life personally, I wondered if my fancy car, my pretty house, my style-ish clothes, my pricey haircuts were all stripped away, would I be ok with the pale pink orb bobbling atop the the outer package encasing my soul?

Sometimes I chuckle when I see older woman desperately trying to reclaim their youth by dressing decades beneath their age. I shake my head when I see businessmen behind the wheel of their imported convertibles, their heads swinging to make sure they catch every look their way.

Who are they behind their anti-aging creams and platinum wristwatches? I wonder if they have ever questioned themselves. 

Who am I?

Am I a sheep, passive and gullible, displaying the look that makes me appear like the seemingly soulless wolves around me?

Or am I a lamb, arising into a lion, maturing past my materialistic wrappings and growing wise with an inner, unflappable confidence?

My soul is all that will last into eternity. The impressions and lies on display will rot and rust away.

What remains is who I am. What remains is what I believe. What remains is what I will present to the One who first thrust me into this world.

Naked and vulnerable, who will you and I present to the King?

preachin' politics

The nation is in political mode. Debates, polls, primaries, and Super Tuesday have captured the papers' headlines and America's attention. The candidates are each vying for one thing-to be Leader of the Free World. Citizens scurry to the polls to voice their opinions through their vote for the candidate that will best represent their concerns. Critical issues such as the value of life and family, the increase or decrease of taxes, and the filling of vacant seats in Congress are among the many issues at stake. After all, history is set on course by those whom the people elect, by those who lay claim to a throne, or by those who dictate the laws of their land. Or so it seems.

While others anxiously await the outcome of November 15th's election, I was recently assured by the reality of this thought: "You (God) control human events - you give rulers their power and take it away, and you are the source of wisdom and knowledge." (Daniel 2:21) The question quickly arises whether my vote matters when God controls the outcome. Should I spend all my time worrying and scurrying to affect change for this election? Or would my country not be best served by taking my voice to the One who will set the man or woman of His choosing in the role as President of the United States? Thomas Merton, a monk and author of the 20th century, voiced a similar thought. After observing men devoted to prayer, he wrote that they "are doing for their land what no army, no congress, no president could ever do as such: they are winning for it the grace and the protection and the friendship of God."

While I have personally decided that voting is a necessary and responsible choice for me, I will be campaigning not on my preferred candidate's trail but before heaven's audience. On November 15, I absolutely plan to exercise my civic privilege by casting my absentee ballot but I will all the more surely be exercising myself in the discipline of prayer to the King who holds the whole world in His hands.

History belongs to the intercessors. ~John Ortberg

Occupation: Familykeeper

Recently I was filling out (another!) doctor form and the question of occupation again, as it always does, gave me a moment's pause. The tiny, one inch answer space mocks me, unblinking in it's glaring, vacant stare, from the page. How can I possibly adequately put into a word or words the occupation that is mine? Even if I wrote in supermicroletters, I could never fit in launderer, housekeeper, dishwasher, cook, courier, taxi driver, coach, receptionist, party planner, teacher, part time preacher (my kids are my lucky parishioners!), decorator, and more!! I know, I know, it's an old problem that has frustrated mothers for decades, no doubt! But to me, that line bears an answer all-revealing to whoever might check my chart. {Hmm, I wonder...why is that question so essential? Does my high or low position in the working class affect my treatment in this office or does it simply give the staff a way to relate, maybe open the visit with relevant conversation? Anyhoo, back to the thought at hand!} The old standby "homemaker" or "full time mom" just isn't enough for me anymore. The first sounds a little Betty Crocker to me and the latter could be said of all moms and the effort and devotion that any mom gives is so varied that such a title is certainly not enough for me.

As I thought about it, the term "familykeeper" immediately sprang to mind. Initially, I thought of a gatekeeper and the image of a person standing faithfully at his/her post with unwavering attention and intense perception immediately sprang to mind. So I researched it a little further...

In ancient times, the gates of a city were heavily fortified to withstand breaching by enemy forces. Although most commonly thought of as a single entrance, city gates often had multiple doors from which to deploy soldiers which would meet the invaders head on. In contrast, drawbridges were useful in facilitating the sending out of citizens of the city. And the person responsible for having the wisdom to know what was permissible to pass in and at what time it was completely safe to open the passageway into the world...the gatekeeper!

Even as I began to understand more fully the role of a gatekeeper, I was increasingly convinced this had so much in parallel to my own life, my own occupation, if you will. My children, my husband are the citizens within the walls of my 'city', my home. My role as a mother reflects that of the gatekeeper for my children. What influences, what role models, what information comes into my home is my prime concern. While they are still young and impressionable, I am the first point of defense for what life and society at large may throw at them. The treasure within my walls demands that my attention be focused, undistracted by the taunts of those who belittle my position and remain stoic amidst calls to leave my watch for a 'more fulfilling' position. I must be ever at my watch, perceiving between the good and evil that would approach my city's gates. I am their protector, I am their strong wall! And if need be, I'll open up one of my secret doors to deploy 'the papa' who could lay a much bigger whooping on menacing invaders! And when that sad day (for me!) comes when they are ready at last to leave the safety of my castle walls, they will be prepared. For their wisdom and their discernment will have grown as they walked frequently across the drawbridge day after day with mama's watchful eye upon them. Across the drawbridge into many rich and sometimes painful experiences and lessons of life. But always at night, they found refuge once again in that city where family is the foundation.

So for me, I have finally found my own response to that loaded question of occupation. I am a proud 'familykeeper'... and you just watch if that's not exactly what I put down the next time I have opportunity!

As for you? Well, you've just wasted precious minutes hoping that after all my rambling I'd have the decency to end with something profound. I'd say better luck next time but the truth is, if it's profound you're looking for, you're better off reading somebody else's blog!!

What does a mother look like?

We all know what a grandmother looks like. Curly silver hair crowning a face of mercy and smiles, lips eternally puckered to plant the next big, wet one right on those darling chubby cheeks, any chubby cheeks - north or south! In fact, we know just how she smells...the sweet lavendar soap and the aromas of a day's baking clinging to her fuzzy housecoat. Funny how the initial image conjured up in my imagination is far from the real image of my children's grandma! Fiftyish and stylish she is often asked if she is the mother of my children, while I'm standing right there!

Which brings me to my point...just what does a mother look like?! I have, for the most part, always appreciated comments about how I look too young to have 4 children. That is until this past week, on a trip back to my hometown, my average assumed age hit a new low...15! My husband still doesn't believe me but then he's always been super competitive about who even looks better after having 4 children (c'mon, what are his buddies thinking when they tell him he looks great...how much weight has he gained and lost in 4 years or how difficult was his schedule while nursing every 2.5 hours and still trying to find energy to make it to the gym or fighting the hunger cravings that come with births, nursing, and just plumb exhaustion?!)! One classmate of my sister thought I was the baby cheering during their volleyball games during highschool - really?! - I played on that same team one year later! Another thought I was the youngest sister and that my 14 year-old sister was me! Now, I've gotten this wherever I go but have never really known how to answer that all too common question, "Are all these yours?!?

Finally, on a recent trip to the children's hospital, my answer came to me...regretably, too late to be considered witty but ready for the next innocent observer who dares challenge my maturity! Anyhow, I walked into the er examing room and the doctor asked me who Emmanuelle favored in looks. When I responded that most say she looks like her brother, she responded with astonishment..."you have another?!" Well, you can imagine her next line when told we have three more at home. Yep, you guessed it: "Wow! You look too young to have 4 kids!" Ironically, she didn't look quite old enough to be called dr. and yet I didn't hold that against her! But to be fair, she did look alot closer to my age, my real age, which actually is just enough years to fit that doctorate in.

And then, my answer came (sound the Hallelujah chorus...!): "While you were majoring in ______ (ie, medicine), I was majoring in motherhood!"