OWS and AHS

"We don't deserve this," I said as he sat on a rock looking back at me.  "Who says?" he responded.  "Huh?" I asked listlessly.  "Why don't we deserve this?" he persisted.  "I don't know... just because we haven't done anything right."  After all, Hawaii was the most perfect place I could imagine on earth, and as we sat there drying on some rocks underneath Alele Falls, a private location where we'd just swam under a waterfall without another soul in the world in miles, in an environment closer to earthly perfection than any I'd ever witnessed to that point, I felt small and totally unworthy to be there.

My husband works in the nuclear power industry.  Last winter, he was talking about signing up for yet another set of work hours that would take him to another region of the Midwest for a bit over two weeks.  These 72 hour work weeks for a month or more are not uncommon in his job, and we usually see these kinds of hours 2-4 times a year.  I will never complain about his job, because he has a job - and a good one, but these work hours can make for some trying times in our household.  Everything just seems to run more smoothly with two parents.  As he was talking about heading to another voluntary assignment that would separate us all for a few weeks, I said, "Well, I know we've said this before, but if you do sign up, I want some tickets to someplace tropical in hand before you head out."  We had talked many times about trying to take some time to go somewhere for awhile - just the two of us.  After all, our honeymoon a bit over 6 years ago was a nice one to the Smoky Mountains, but we were pretty new to each other at the time, and we were just trying to get through awkward - not to mention the mono I had contracted about a week before the wedding.  After that, we came home to 3 children - a ready-made family loaded down with responsibilities and routine.  We are a couple famous for talking about "what ifs" and "some days", but I liked the idea of more than just the promise of some future vacation if he were to sign up for more over time.  He agreed and told me to start planning a vacation for a mere 3 weeks from that time.  After sitting in front of the computer for 2 hours agonizing over where to go and how long to go, I determined I just couldn't put things together that quickly.  He agreed, and we decided to wait until the very end of August so that we could avoid busy summer vacation season.  So last January, I set to planning a vacation a whole 7 months away, which might as well have been an eternity at that point.

Later that Spring, a family member who is in the Navy approached Austin (16) about a "Tiger Cruise". This is an event wherein Navy personnel can invite family members on board a ship to see the daily operations, etc. of the ship.  Essentially, all we would have to pay for him to go was air fare to Oahu.  We told Austin that he'd have to pay half of the airfare, and he'd be good to go.  He (being a renowned penny pincher) said he might rather just save his money and stay home.  I said something to the effect of, "Are you serious?  Do you know how many kids your age would die to have this kind of opportunity, and you're going to let a few hundred bucks stand in your way?  You may never get there again in your lifetime!"  He semi-reluctantly agreed that he'd like to go.  When was he supposed to go? At the beginning of August.  We made the plans, and he was to be gone 16 days.  My dad accompanied him for the trip, and they took in a week of sight-seeing in Hawaii too.  When Austin was gone though, I was afraid to tell anyone where he was... afraid that they might think we were bragging or that we had 'money to burn"... especially since he spent two weeks in February on a cross-country road trip from California to Illinois - bringing my sister back home from Cali for a visit.  In reality, he was just afforded a unique opportunity that we would have been foolish to deny him - especially since he foresees a possible military career in his future.

Austin - Grand Canyon 2012

Austin - Hoover Dam 2012

So, he spent months teasing us that he'd be getting to see Hawaii before we did.  A fact, which we didn't find nearly as annoying as he hoped we would.  His upcoming trip to Hawaii didn't make me feel less guilty.  I worried even more that people would see and scrutinize our trip-taking, and they did.  Pointed commentary about "rich Christians" - spending money frivolously when we should be (presumably, as they are) giving it to the poor was ironically posted on the Internet/facebook by people with computers... putting them in the richest 95% of humanity because they have a computer in the first place.  I guess if I were judging them, I would say they should have spent their computer money on the poor.  I find it terrifically ironic that people post angry words about the "filthy rich" on the Internet with their macbook pro or hp laptop from their bed whilst watching their flat screen TV.  Just about anyone in America can rack up credit card debt on "needs" like computers and TVs and Internet access and cable TV.  We didn't go into debt to take a vacation.  We planned it into our year... along with charitable contributions... as if it's anyone else's business.

As we sat there under that water fall, my husband reminded me that we don't spend money on the things a lot of people do.  We have aged television sets and no TV service; we buy almost all of our kids' clothing second-hand; we have older cars with no payments; etc.  Even more importantly, he reminded me - people who begrudge either of us a vacation do not really know, care about, or love us as a couple or family.  No, they don't even like us.  Why do I care what people like that think anyway?  He had made an excellent point - several, in fact.

It doesn't matter how many good points are made... I still want to feel guilty about having something so great.  I don't even know why.  What I do know is that, had Mark not helped in relieving my guilt, I was precariously teetering on the edge of losing the blessing that the vacation was.  So I began to keep a journal of our trip so that I could relive it for years to come... for those difficult seasons, which are sure to come - and always do... into every life.  I have never been so close to paradise on earth, and, for me at least, it was Hawaii with the man I love.  Everyone has their own version of where their paradise would be, but I think that our glimpses of those places - however many and to whatever extent we're permitted those glimpses in our lifetimes - are meant to give us a tiny taste of what God has within His creative capacities.

I intend to document our trip in another blog - mostly to have a photo/written remembrance of the trip, and also - for those of you who have asked for advice and are considering a trip to the same area - some must-dos and must sees and maybe one or two must NOT dos.  

For now, I'm going to take this in a different direction.  SINCE, I've started this blog about half a dozen times and rerouted and never finished it, and I have a contract to blog at least once/month, this is it, folks:

The ups and downs of our late summer/early fall - and by "fall", I'm not referring to "autumn", I really mean FALL:

It started off pretty well - kind of like this:

A friend of ours asked our family if he could take our photos in the wheat field behind our house... gave us 2 days to plan and be there, and voila... an awesome deal on family photos that we were very happy to have.

And then there was this:

I did something like this - OW...

Which ended up in something like this...
(MRI of herniated disc) - OW...

That lead to something like this... AH...
(Yes, there were much better massage photos on line, but I thought this one was funny.)

And then something like this... OW...

 
And ended, or so I thought, with this last picture... still a mom, still a wife... still a LOT of work to do that I'm not supposed to do, which lead to:

forced child labor :(

When all of the above started less than 6 weeks before our anticipated trip, I thought we'd never go.  I thought we would never make it to Hawaii and that my fears of getting what I deserved - were coming true... a bad back and a missed opportunity.  Enter our church family and family family who brought meals, cleaned, took care of kids, and helped with just about everything conceivable... not to mention the star of the show, my husband - who ran his life, my life, and our family life without a single complaint and with compassion and humor that are so essential to our lives as a couple and family.  What would I do without him?  This is one of the AH... parts.

Then came the time to take the trip...

northeast coast of Maui

northeast Maui coastline

Maui - mountainous/rainforest

southeastern coast of Maui

private garden at condo off Hana beach

One of my favorite moments of my love trying to extricate himself from sharp waterfall rocks without falling while I was holding the camera 

outdoor shower/tub at the Kipahulu condo 

falls on Road to Hana

Little Me... Giant Tree - on our hike up to Waimoku Falls

more of our hike up to Waimoku Falls

swimming in Alele Falls

my love on our first night in Oahu - near Waikiki beach

our toes in the first water we saw in Hawaii

Last night on Maui - Sunset extraordinairre

And I saw that it was VERY good... There was enough AHHHHH... in those 10 days to last me a lifetime.

And then we came home to an ordinary life - full of routine, continued physical therapy, bills, schooling the kids, etc.  After about a week of this - Mark and I meeting one another coming and going after having been spoiled with days of intimacy, he asked me to come sit in the garage in a lawn chair he had set up for me after a long week for us both.  He held my hand, and said, "I know it sounds terrible, but I want to go back..."  I looked at him, and smiled, and I said, "Me too... this is the first time all week I've even talked to you."  We sat and basked in the quiet beauty of rural Illinois from our garage lawn chairs, the kids squealing and riding bikes in circles around us.  Precious moments aren't about the places we're at but about the people who are with us.

And after all that AH... there had to be another OW, which looked exactly like this:

the unveiling of my hideous leg

incision #1 (inside of right leg)

and, my personal favorite, incision #2 (outside of right leg)

Now, those I know and love know exactly how this happened, but suffice it to say that it involved an ankle broken in two places, a bone chip in my ankle, and a severely broken fibula - all of which resulted in my physical therapist who was completely mystified by my behavior.  Fix a person, and then what do they do?  Break themselves again.  When I tried to lift my leg after the accident, it flopped over to the right side, and I knew something was terribly wrong.  From there, let's just say that the ambulance crew knows me by name - they recognize me, not just in SPITE of the grimmacing, wailing, mascara-running, ugly-crying face that only they get to see, but BECAUSE of that face.  "I know you," said the ambulance driver with a little less finesse than was required at the moment.  I covered my face, and I said between gasps, "I know, and I'm SO sorry."  "Why in the world are you sorry?" he asked.  I couldn't respond - mostly, because I was sorry for everything I could think of... my husband, my kids, the abulance personnel who are supposed to be rescussitating drowning victims and little old people who are having heart attacks.  "How old are you?" someone from the accident scene shouted.  "Eighty-four," I wailed back.  "Um, my sister replied, 34."  "I feel like I'm eighty-four," I sobbed.  Then I lost consciousness. (AH...).  Then I regained it again.  (OW...)  Replay the last two sentences about a dozen times between the accident scene and my first hour in the ER, and you'd have those 2, terrible hours in a nutshell.  

5 days in the hospital; 2 roommates (one with Alzheimer's-induced screaming fits, the other with an abusive son who liked to stay in the room screaming at her off and on for hours just for fun); 5 IV attempts; one IV leak; 2 successful IVs; 2 pain pumps; 2 hours of surgery; untold mls of morphine, demerol, and dilauded; one metal plate and several metal screws; about 40 staples; and one wheelchair later, they finally released me from the hospital.  OW...

I could write for another 3 hours about the hospital stay, the first couple of weeks of recovery, learning to use a wheelchair and/or crutches, teaching myself to do everything in new ways, feeling very sorry for myself, and a lot of other whining, but I'd rather talk about something else.  

Well, I will talk about my Alzheimer's roommate for a second, because - and maybe this is just the pain pump talking - she.was.hilarious.  My first impression of her was when she would wake up shouting all night long the first night I was in the hospital.  My second impression was when they were trying to catheterize her at about 5:00 AM.  She kept fighting them and shouting, "Help!  They're trying to kill me!" and "Stop, that doesn't belong there!"  I felt sorry for her, but I admired her mettle.  I continued to witness her turn down any food they offered her, as I remained on a strictly no-food-or-water diet for 24 hours as they were trying to schedule my surgery.  I listened annoyedly as she turned down shakes, roast beef, yogurt, and chocolate cake.  Then came the shouts for "Help!"  I couldn't rest for two minutes without her calling for a nurse.  They knew she wasn't in need of one for the most part; so this could go on for 20-30 minutes before I would just call a nurse for her with the call button.  They would talk to her and calm her down a bit, and she would beg for them to stay in there with her, because she didn't like to be left alone.  Finally, she decided that she wanted her food tray (mostly, I suspect, because she wanted to keep the nurse in there to feed her).  She said, "I need my food tray."  "Really?" the two, young nurses at her bedside asked, "because you have turned down all food all day."  "Really!  and I want someone to feed it to me too!" she shouted back at them.  They left the room and told her that one of them would be right back with her tray.  As the door closed behind them, she muttered, "I don't want it anyway."  Ah, I imagine myself being just like that someday.  

What I really want to talk about are the things I'm finally learning not to take for granted.  Three days after I came home, my husband found me crying in my chair in the corner of our bedroom.  He asked why I was crying, of course.  I said that I hated being stuck in the chair.  It was only my 3rd day home of several weeks upcoming, and I felt trapped.  He brushed my hair back from my face, and he said, "You have a nice home to stay in.  You have kids who are old enough to help you and who love to help you.  You have church family who are bringing us meals every day.  You have a temporary condition.  You have a son who can drive you anywhere you need to go when I can't.  You have friends and family who are calling you and lining up to help you in any way they can.  You have a husband who is crazy about you and a God Who's watching over you.  What's wrong again?"  You know when you're in the mood to just feel sorry for yourself, and you don't want to hear someone tell you nice, happy things?  Well, I was in that mood - for days.   And then, one-by-one, stories kept coming to my mind or attention.  People would come by to drop off meals and tell of a friend or relative who was in dire straits.  People who had lost limbs...  People who were battling cancer or who had children battling it...  A woman whose husband divorced her and moved out of state while leaving her to cope with a young daughter who is dying of brain cancer and a son with serious behavioral disorders...   (I just noiced those last three sentences sounded like just one of the people that either of the presidential candidates might claim to have promised a better future to on their various tours of these miserable United States.)  What right have I to feel sorry for myself?  All I had been able to think of was how I was just finishing up physical therapy for my last injury; how I would have to rely on other people again; how much I would miss out on in these upcoming holiday months; how I was just starting to get back to regular workouts; how I hate sitting still; how I, I, I, me, me, me.

As I sat at the dining table one of those first nights home, Mark gave thanks for the food and for having me home from the hospital.  In a half-joking way, I made the statement that I wished the hospital had been able to put me under sedation for the few months till I'll be allowed to use my leg again.  Austin (16) frowned at me, and said, "Why?"  I said, "Well, you know - so you guys don't have to wait on me all the time."  He said, "You know, mom... we like having you around.  Do you know what it was like around here with you gone for 5 days?"  It cut me to the core - how selfish I was being.  I needed an attitude adjustment - seriously.  

Well, God's taking care of that.  I don't know what I need to learn in this, but I know there's a lot.  Some of it is that we all have our "OWs" and "AHs".  One moment we can be basking in an "AH..." only to be struck down by an "OW..." minutes later.  That is life.  Regardless of what it throws at me, I am the same person.  I can't choose my circumstances, but I can choose my responses.  I can choose to be beautiful inside when I'm scarred outside.  I can choose to contribute whole-heartedly to the happiness of those around me when I'm not ideally happy myself.  Would I like things to be different?  Yes.  Can I think of a single, legitimate reason to complain at this moment?  I'm happy to finally answer, "No."  

What are you struggling with this week?  Why are you unhappy?  What's making you discontented?  There are better times ahead!  AND... there are worse times ahead, most likely.  I don't say that second part to depress you but to encourage you to enjoy the situation you're in, not only because there are way better things ahead, but because there are also worse things ahead, and you don't want to waste the relatively good moments that are in your lap today.  I can't remember when I've had as much time to sit down and rest, sleep in, snuggle kids in my lap, have long conversations with my older children about nothing and everything, and just enjoy my family with no agenda in particular.  Someday, the kids will be gone.  Someday, loved ones will die.  Someday, health will fail catastrophically.  For now, I just have a broken leg, and I'm so thankful that God is turning my OW into an AH... right in front of my face, and even more that He's finally giving me the grace to recognize it.

I'd Like to Say...

Today I find myself at what I hope is the tail-end of another outage season.  For those of you non-nukes, that's when his work takes one of these two cooling towers out of service for about a month (give or take - usually GIVE) for routine maintenance.

 It's also when my husband works 72 hours/week.  When we were first married, before the NRC (Nuclear Regulatory Commission) breathed down their necks, the power plant my husband works at required 84 hour work weeks - which were worse, admittedly than right now.  However, all those days (or nights - whichever 7 to 7 shift he happens to be assigned) can take their toll on all of us.  Admittedly, the quality of parenting around here slides.  

I used to worry for our safety when he wasn't around as much, but we have had added some security options around here lately - not the least of which was a Ruger .38 special my love bought for me.  I never thought I'd be a "pistol packin' mama," but we had some incidences of concern this past Spring.  Long stories short - I ended up at the gun shop with my husband and the "gun guy" (who supposedly has a name, but I only ever call him the "gun guy"), who were showing me a few models of gun I might like.  I can't say I "liked" any of them, but the pink pearl-handled revolver caught my eye.  However, after closer inspection - which included gun guy telling me to pull the trigger a few times to see how it felt in my hand, I said, "Well, it's a hard pull, and I think I won't be able to pull it 4 or 5 times in a row if I need to, you know?"  Mark and gun guy looked at me agape for a few seconds, and gun guy got to work showing me a few other revolvers.  I decided on the Ruger - which was a little more intimidating in appearance.  When we left - ammo in hand, Mark mentioned my comment and how he and gun guy had been stunned by my imaginary shooting of an intruder several times with a medium caliber handgun.  I said, "Well, I don't want to have to go to court."  He laughed, and so did I.  I'm not sure how much I was joking, but I don't really like my gun.  I've had several shooting lessons - courtesy of Mark and Austin.  I can load and unload fast, and I can shoot it, but I don't like it.  I like the sense of security I get from it.  This isn't a blog about guns or about second amendment rights or even about home security options.  It's about my weekend.  

It's at this point that I'd like to use the phrase, "It started out innocently enough," but that wouldn't apply here.  Last Friday, our local home school group had a get-together/picnic lunch.   [Background:  A few days prior, on my husband's one day off/week, we took the kids to Brookfield Zoo.  Like any trip to the zoo with young children, it never goes how you have it pictured in your mind.  Rides on the carousel, cotton candy, feeding peanuts to the elephants and corn to the goats...  It really consists mostly of parking and fetching strollers/wagons; exchanging tickets and money for every, possible attraction; dragging a cooler along to avoid $8.00 sandwiches; trying to scrape up quarters for wax mold machines, goat feeding machines, and whatever else the zoo can think of to literally nickel-and-dime us to death; watching your child screaming as she either runs toward or away from the peacocks, geese, and guinea fowl roaming the zoo; and thinking your child is tugging at your leg when it's really a petting zoo goat eating your shorts like they're salad.  Levi and Violet spent much of this trip chasing the more helpless of the creatures roaming the zoo into a tizzy.]

Back to the squirrel at Friday's home school picnic... not as much a captive audience as a peacock with a tracking device/zoo prison anklet.  She began the squirrel chase with a bellow that would've impressed William Wallace himself.  This squirrel had her number.  He scampered up a tree.  She followed.  He went around and down the tree.  She went around the tree.  He went back up the tree.  And so the taunting went.  About the time I turned back to start talking with some friends, my friend tapped me on the shoulder and turned my attention back to the tree, where my 3 year old daughter stood, back to the tree, pants at her knees, butt pointing squarely up into the tree, mooning. the. squirrel.  I don't think anyone would have called that - least of all the squirrel.  At this point I would like to use the phrase, "I was shocked and mortified," but that wouldn't apply here.  I've ceased being surprised by much when it comes to some of my children.  I thought, "How would I explain to everyone here that I have no idea where she came up with that idea?  I doubt they'd even believe me."  Ah, well.  I posed the useless question anyway... and all were, of course, very gracious.  The idea that the Slagters must spend their days mooning one another in gibbon-like displays of displeasure is an amusing picture in my mind - and probably in the minds of others now too.  It's gotta be good for something, I figure.  If I took my days too seriously, most of them would end in puddles of tears.

attitude plus

On to the rest of the weekend...  We were set to travel about 5 1/2 hours (give or take - usually GIVE) to Southern Illinois for a family reunion.  I was going to be on my own with all the children... which isn't a problem for the older three (9, 11, and 16).  They are very helpful, easy-going, and happy, and I'm always happy to be with them.  I purposefully picked out a hotel that had a pool (and jacuzzi).  I thought we could all use the break after the long day of travel.  We arrived at the hotel around 3:30PM the first day (Saturday).  My grandparents, who were staying at the hotel across the street, had mentioned that they'd like to go to supper with us at a local Chinese buffet after we all got settled.  I reluctantly agreed (knowing that most of the kids don't like those places and that those places consistently give me intestinal woes).  I told them I'd wait for their call.  I tried to keep the kids busy in the hotel room, thinking I didn't want to have to drag them out of the pool shortly after they'd gotten into it.  About an hour later, my grandma called me - telling me they'd called some relatives, and that they'd meet us at the restaurant in about 40 minutes.  My agony was complete.  The squealing (from delayed pool excitement), wrestling, hitting, punching, and general wasting of pent-up energy from a 6 hour car ride was getting to me in a big way.  I was trying to keep the room quiet for any possible neighbors.  After about the third time Levi or Violet ended up crying after a wrestling match, I told them that they wouldn't be allowed to swim later if they didn't shape up and calm down.  About 5 "second chances" later for Violet (mostly involving tickle fights gone amiss), she asked me if she could have one last chance - on the walk over to the restaurant.  I told her that this was positively her last chance.  She then proceeded to push her brother off a curb and into traffic.  That was it.  Her last chance expired, and I came to the terrible realization that I had to follow through with the grounding.  However, I had not only grounded Violet.  I had grounded myself... to a hotel room... with a toddler who desperately wanted to go swimming with her happy siblings.  There would be no jacuzzi for me.  There would only be a little girl begging and pleading and crying to go swimming while I tried to comfort her.  I felt like a heel, but I had to follow through with my word - even if it hadn't been very well thought-out.  Sadie asked me if there was a way that Violet could work her way back into swimming-favor.  I replied that I couldn't re neg on this issue, because this already strong-headed blonde with notable skill for getting what she wants would certainly take me to task for it.

I already had the beginnings of a pretty miserable cold.  Between the cold and sleeping with 5 other people in the same room, I resorted to Nyquil.  Ah, Nyquil... the only kind of socially acceptable drunk a mother can be.  Between that an a Benadryl for some awful allergy symptoms, I slept pretty well - considering I went to bed at 9:30 - which is the earliest time I may have gone to bed since 5th grade.  I woke up in the morning to explain to Levi and Austin that they could go to breakfast at the breakfast room in the hotel without us girls and that we would go to breakfast when Violet and Sadie awoke.  (Pay attention, because this fairly benign instruction will bite me back on Monday morning.)  After breakfast, the kids went in swimming awhile.  We got ready for the reunion and met my grandparents to follow them to the community building.  When we got there, the small reunion was attended by only one other child - a five-year-old boy - an astute little fellow whose only phrase directly to me was about Violet when he came over to me, pointed to Violet and said, "You see that girl?  SHE does NOT listen!"  (Tell me something I don't know, kid.)  Levi had a buddy - one who understood his "pain"... until... I didn't see what happened.  I heard some screaming and looked over to see Levi's buddy screaming and holding his head.  I saw Violet running toward me saying, "I didn't do it!  Levi did it!"  The buddy was screaming and holding his head and pointing to Levi.  Levi had tears welled up in his eyes, and he said, "We were just wrestling, and he fell down!  I didn't mean to hurt him!"  I told him I believed him but that he still needed to apologize.  After some coaxing that it was okay, he told his buddy (presumably an only child) that he was sorry - at which point the boy's father lectured Levi in an angry sort of way and told him, "I told you boys that you shouldn't be TOUCHING each other!"  At which point I thought, "Yeah, you can tell YOU only have one kid, rookie."  That's all kids do when they're together... touch each other, touch everything else, and especially touch the stuff you've told them explicitly NOT to touch.  So there was his first mistake - telling them not to touch each other.  If we learned nothing else from God, Adam, and Eve in the garden, it was not to tell human beings the things they're not supposed to touch.  Bottom line: "buddy's" dad banned him from playing with the Slagter children (the only other children at the reunion) for the rest of the day.  I'm not saying it was a bad decision - just not a very nice one.   So I had to encourage my kids to try to give "buddy" a rest from them for the rest of the day.

But our day wasn't over yet.  Chinese food started to kick in, and my stomach was a wreck.  Nausea and stomach rumblings started to overtake me.  I spent the last hour (give or take - mostly GIVE) in the Belle Rive Community Center bathroom - crossing my fingers that the kids were staying away from "buddy", his ice pack(s), and his imaginary friends.  As they closed the building, I had to leave my "fortress of solitude" and head for the cemeteries.  Yes, the cemeteries.   The traditional visit to the cemeteries was one I dreaded as a child - the awkwardness of adult grief, the rules about not stepping on the grass in front of the gravestones or touching flower arrangements, etc.  However, I've come to appreciate the importance of these visits as an adult.  That is, unless I'm sick.  As I was chasing Violet around telling her not to pick flowers off grave site arrangements, climb monuments, or otherwise desecrate grave sites, she announced, "I have to poop!"  As her urgency grew, grandma said we could go.  So I thought we were headed back to the hotel... and sweet privacy (or at least relative privacy).  The grandparents took a detour and headed to a second cemetery where - who else was there, but buddy and his overprotective parents.  His dad glared at us as my children unbuckled and began to run over to buddy - a friendly face they recognized.  In buddy's eyes, bygones were bygones, but I could tell that not so in his dad's eyes.  So I suggested strongly that the kids should come back to the car with me and wait till grandma and grandpa were ready to go back to the hotel.  About 5 minutes later, they meandered back to their car, and we started gratefully following them toward the interstate... as Violet was continually complaining about her need for a bathroom, and I was feeling the same sense of pain myself.  About 3 miles on the interstate (and only 6 more miles till our hotel exit), I saw a sign for a rest area.  I believe I forgot to mention that we had an incident on the way down when Levi (who insists on using men's restrooms now instead of accompanying me and his sisters to the ladies' room) got out of the restroom before we did and dialed the emergency call button on the police telephone outside the restrooms.  We were met with a flashing blue light and an operator asking what our emergency was.  SO... rest areas were not places of good luck so far this trip.  I set Violet up in a stall and proceeded to grab the stall next to her myself.  Not 5 seconds later, Violet announced from her stall throughout the bathroom, "Well... NOW I CAN'T GO!"  At this point, I'd like to say that I was mystified by this turn of events.  I'd also like to say that she ended up changing her ways when I said in my quietest yet most threatening voice, "You're not leaving that stall until you go poop!"  However, I heard a toilet flush, and a stall door open.  Had there not been a solid block wall between us, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have grabbed her ankle and made her stay in that stall.  I then heard her asking strangers for help washing and drying her hands... along with adults asking where her mommy was.  UGH... I was seriously conflicted between rushing to get out of my own stall and back out with her to make sure she made it safely back to the van and just tossing the dice and hoping for the best.  Fortunately for all of us, motherly instinct won out (as it usually does)... yes, even over physical agony.

At this point, I'd like to say that was the end of a long weekend.  I'd like to say that when we finally made it back to the hotel to the swimming pool and jacuzzi that it wasn't cold from some sort of malfunction that couldn't be fixed on a Sunday evening.  I'd like to say I didn't spend the rest of Sunday evening nauseated beyond belief, fitfully sleeping, and unable to go get the kids some supper.  I'd also really like to say that Levi didn't wake up early Monday morning and quietly yet skillfully manage the bolt lock on the top of our hotel room door (without waking anyone else up), walk himself down to the breakfast room, and start eating breakfast all by himself.   But I can't say those things.

What I can say - with any degree of confidence, is that I fail.  Life is full of glittering victories and - quite possibly more often - utter, dismal failures... for all of us.  I know people who shy away from the words, "success" and "failure".  I don't.  I fail.  I can't feel good about myself if I lose my temper with my kids.  By God's grace, that rarely happens.  I happen to have become blessed (or plauged - depending on who you ask) with a thing called forbearance (or even laid-back-ed-ness).  I wasn't always laid back, but since my first marriage ended, I was brought to surrender... in that I cannot possibly control my circumstances.   From time to time, I try to grasp that control back - an act of habit, but I'm always gently reminded that it's futile.  As I imagine what people in that breakfast room must've thought when my 5-year-old wandered into the room barefooted in his football PJ's, helped himself to a box of cocoa puffs, popped the top, and started chowing down, I imagine maybe they thought we were into "unparenting" - letting our kids ride the subway unattended and things of that sort.  Little did they know it was more like nausea followed by Nyquil induced parenting... reminding me that I wouldn't be a good actual drunk.

I read a devotion by Charles Spurgeon (19th century British minister).  It started out, "A living dog is better than a dead lion." - Ecclesiastes 9:4  From there, Spurgeon goes on to say that worst things of life - the absolute most awful of its circumstances - are still brighter than the best death has to offer.  He says that same thing applies to our spiritual lives.  The least amount of grace exercised is far superior to the best of the unregenerate nature.  "The thief on the cross excels Caesar on his throne; Lazarus among the dogs is better than Cicero among the Senators," because of the fact that there is beauty in admitting failure, weakness, and need - in a very human way - to One greater than self.  You see, even Caesars and Ciceros are weak, needy - pathetic even.  They need - even if unwilling to admit it.

Life happens, and as Spurgeon writes, "Life is the badge of nobility in the realm of spiritual things, and men without it are only coarser or finer specimens of the same lifeless material, needing to be quickened, for they are dead in trespasses and sins."  Life - and how I rise (by conscious choice) to meet it or fall to be conquered by it - are badges of honor unique in all of creation to humanity.  In addtion, "A living, loving gospel sermon, however unlearned in matter and uncouth in style, is better than the finest discourse devoid of unction and power.  A living dog keeps better watch than a dead lion, and is of more service to his master; and so the poorest spiritual preacher is infinitely to be preferred to the exquisite orator who has no wisdom but that of words, no energy but that of sound."  My actions toward those around me (most often my children) are more effectively used in loving, grace-giving, surrender than in blustering, controlling words and deeds that end in the hardening of hearts.

I take the kids to a local ceramics shop sometimes to work on projects and learn new skills.  The proprietor, a lovely woman - and well-put-together, loves to use the word, "Perfect!" when referring to how a color combination or new skill we try turns out.  I love it when things turn out, "perfect".  What a delight that a side-effect of a fallen world - full of error - is the frustration of would-be perfectionists.  Striving for perfect pleats, perfect hair, perfectly matching colors, perfect decor, and perfect weather for a perfect vacation, we can miss the joys of living in the imperfect.

Perfection is a requirement fulfilled only by God, and that not through effort but through His very nature... not something earned or accomplished, but something intrinsic to His very being.

Yes, I'd like to say a lot of things about how our weekend went, but in the end... I'd do it all over again. Experiences that teach are far more valuable than easy ones.  I can say this for sure - there is grace abundant and free for all of my mistakes and yours.

I Could Write a Whole Blog about SongPop, but...

I won't.  But I will say a few things:  

1) iTunes is making a killing off this game.  Some of my old favorite songs I forgot even existed after 1998.  Ah, it's nice to have you back The Presidents of the United States, because really... who doesn't want to "movin' to the country" and eat 'em a lot of peaches?  

2) It's easier to play on the computer than on the iPhone.  

3) I might prefer losing an eye to selecting the wrong answer accidentally - a theory which could only be confirmed or debunked by me actually losing said eye. 

4)  I hate that I have to check my times with my opponent's to make sure he/she doesn't think I was cheating just because I thought a little slower than I should.  I find a tenth of a second or so is the only acceptable lag time.  

5) Sometimes I cheat if I don't know the answer.  

6)  I hate when I cheat and it turns out that the other person didn't know the answer either - which I only know after selecting the answer he/she selected and it turns out we are both wrong.  Then it's obvious I cheated.  I mean, I would rather pick the wrong song completely and come out with my dignity than pick the other person's wrong song.  

7)  LOVE the "send challenge" button when I totally owned the last round.  HATE the "send challenge button" when I missed three out of five songs.  Then, it is officially no longer a "challenge" but rather an embarassment.  I think the button should then say, "send this embarassment" OR "let's burn this travesty and promise to never speak of it again".  

8) Go ahead and pick "Modern Rap" 14 year old who challenged me, because I'll "Alternative 90's" you back all.day.long.

Hmmm... now I'm not sure what the rest of this blog should be about.  Maybe I really did write a whole blog about SongPop. 

Invalid

Today I was driving with the kids, when I asked Claire (9) - whose birthday was last week - what had been in her card from an aunt and uncle a few days ago.  She replied, "I don't think I got a card from them."  I said, "Yes, you did.  I handed it to you.  It had a blue envelope."  She still could not conjure a recollection.  So I said, "You told me you had gotten money in a lot of cards.  I just want to make sure you didn't lose it."  She has a tendency to treat money like it's just paper.  She either carries it in her pockets all the time or leaves it on the floor or table or someplace else - willynilly like it doesn't matter to her... until she needs it for something.  Then it's panicsville.  The conversation continued..., "Where do you put your money when you get it?"  Claire responded that she puts it on top of her dresser (obviously a fool-proof place to keep it from thieves and curious toddlers).  Sadie (11) piped in (true to her firstborn personality), "Um, Claire, that's not where money goes.  You should be putting it in your piggy bank." Claire said quietly, "I lost it."  The girls and I laughed and I said, "Claire, I think you just made Sadie's point for her.  If you can lose a whole piggy bank, how are you keeping track of dollar bills?"  She laughed a very "Claire" laugh, and she said, "Sadie, just wait till I get a house of my own.  There will be bills everywhere."  I said, "What kind of bills?  Dollar bills or bills you can't pay because you can't find your money?"  She laughed harder and said, "Dollar bills, of course!"  Sadie asked (laughing), "How are you going to afford to buy a house when you can't keep track of a few dollars?"  Claire then went on to explain how she would put dollar bills all over her couch cushions, and Sadie told her that guests wouldn't be able to sit down, and then Claire decided that a better place would be between all the couch cushions... yes, that was much more sensible.

I doubt very much that anyone was missing it, but I have been out of blogging ability for about 6 weeks now.  Honestly, I was out of ability for about 4 weeks and then out of willingness for 2 more.  About 6 weeks ago I was taken to the local hospital by ambulance (a first for me), where I was put on a morphine pump for 3 days for some herniated and degenerated disc issues in my back.  I spent the next almost two weeks flat out at home, and I've been slowly getting back to sitting for longer periods of time.  This is the second time I've had the discs go out into nerve space, and I just have to say that I hate it.  Yes - there's the pain (which, in my experience, made childbirth look like a tiptoe through the tulips)  that I hate, but much worse than that was being "out of commission".  I hated being on pain medication.  I hated being away from my family.  I hated not being able to do the things I usually hate to do most - laundry, dusting, cleaning toilets, etc.  We've gone every possible route for pain control and strengthening - from physical therapy (current and past), strengthening exercises (always), to traction (current), to inversion table (current and past), to ice and heat (constantly), to chiropractic (regularly), to deep tissue massage (whenever possible), to cortisone epidurals (which I hate to get but are the most effective), and now to a TENS (electro-stim) unit that I now carry with me almost everywhere I go.

I told my husband last week how hard it is to feel invisible.  I have spent weeks on my back on the couch or in bed or reclined in a chair with all of life going on around me but not being able to really be a part of it.  He reminded me to be very thankful that, for me, it is a temporary thing - at least for now.  A friend of ours was in a motorcycle some months ago and lost his leg.  We also get facebook updates and photos from a hometown hero of ours who lost both of his legs in Afghanistan.  These are tangible reminders that I am not in the dire straits I have felt.  My reality is not fun, but it's not permanent.  I will not fully recover, but I have my legs.  I can walk.

A month or so ago, I sat outside the pool on a reclining chair - wishing I could get in the pool or at least go putter around in the garden.  I watched Mark interacting with the kids when Levi said, "Dad!  Where are my goggles?!  I can't find them anywhere!"  A few seconds later, he laughed realizing they were on his head.  Who hasn't experienced that?  Looking for spectacles that are on your face or for the milk jug you have in your hand... I think that is a quirk of human nature that God uses to reveal to us how blind we can be to our own lack.  Sometimes the things that are closest to us are the things that are the hardest to see.  The kids all love to show me their drawings, coloring pages, etc., but they like to shove it as close to my face as possible to give me the best view.  I have two eyes - that should help me see better than just one, but they work against me when trying to focus on one thing.  The closer things are to my face, the less clear they become.  I have to step back from the viewed item to be able to see it properly.

I am mostly blind to my condition.  The things I say and do that are unbecoming are not Christ in me.  They are me in me.  My actions and reactions are the truest picture of what I am holding closest to my heart at the time.  If I am holding me closely, I am selfish, short-tempered, defensive, full of pride and self-pity, and sometimes just downright nasty.  I have been very introverted because I have felt that I have to be to protect myself from hurting again.

When complaining to Mark last week, I said, "It's just so succinct that the word invalid (noun stating the person as their condition) is exactly the same as the word invalid (adjective - describing the person's state)."  I've felt invalid - as though I didn't matter anymore.  They go on bike rides without me.  They do my laundry instead of me doing theirs.  They cook their own food.  No one is replaceable and yet everyone is.  When a void is felt, humanity has a unique strength in moving in to fill that void so that it's no longer felt.

The neat thing that I've noticed in these brave men who are facing life-long disability is that the times they shine the most are when they don't accept that their physical condition is a lifelong identity.  They choose to be involved with family and friends and community.  They choose not to let a trial define them.  I wish that, in my minor trial, I had readily taken the same approach.  After all, our physical condition on earth is very temporary.  

Resilience is one of the most fantastically brilliant ways of all of nature - but especially of humanity.  Hope springs eternal.  Each of my children is so different.  I have some optimists and some pessimists.  I have an older sister and a younger sister.  As a middle girl, I had many firstborn characteristics (loved The Birth Order Book by Dr. Kevin Lehman) such as perfectionism, rule-following, etc., but I was also messy, creative, and often misunderstood - hallmarks of middle child syndrome.  A few weeks ago, I read the story of two pigs (Sidney and Norman) - one neat, orderly, and punctual and the other one messy, disorganized, and forgetful.  After the story, I asked the girls which pig they felt they were (if any).  Sadie piped up that she was the neat one, and Claire smiled and said she was the messy one.  In the story of Claire above, it's obvious that she knows her tendencies but is unashamed of them.  I love that.  As a child, my mom used to bet me (jokingly) that I couldn't go through a whole meal without getting food on my shirt.  I was/am Claire.  While Sadie is asking me the day's schedule and reminding me if I miss a beat or packing wet naps in her purse for the hands of the little two when we go to the zoo... assuming (and rightly so) that I will probably forget  to do so, I am wishing that I had an ounce or two more of that genetic bent.   I used to think Claire was kind of oblivious to order and what other people generally do.  Now it's clear to me that she sees those things but isn't made by them in any way.  She has my ridiculously curly hair, but it's underneath a pile of thick, wavy hair that makes it look like she always has rats in her hair (which she only has about half the time - despite what my mom might think.)  She doesn't care at all about that.  I used to dress my girls up in dresses and hair pretties and headbands when they were babies.  Once they got minds of their own, they became their own persons - instead of being a mirror of me or what I wanted them to be.  I love that too.

Sidney and Norman both got messages from God - that he wanted to see them.  Neat Sidney was sure he would be congratulated for his "good performance".  Messy Norman was terrified that he would be chastised for his overall "poor performance".  God's message for both was the same.  "I love you."  Nothing we do or don't do (can/can't do) will change our standing in His sight, because His view of us is covered in the precious and perfect blood of His only begotten Son.  So no amount of my performance can upstage God's.

A devotion a week ago reminded me that I have a tendency to take credit for my abilities.  That's so easy to do when we are complimented for anything from physical traits to creativity to personality.  I was reminded that those attributes and abilities are not only bestowed on each of us by God but that my traits and abilities are faint shadowy replicas of true Creative Genius, true lovely Spirit, and true beauty.    

I apologize for rambling, but I'm a bit on the sleep-deprived end of life right now.  When I was married to my first husband, we often argued toward the end of our marriage.  Each time, I found my inner head voice vacillating wildly between two thoughts:  1)  I am a horrible wife.  I'm a horrible person!  How could anyone want to be with me?  and 2)  I am such a good wife to him!  How could he treat me like this?  I could do so much better, and he's lucky to have me.  I remember the day when God made it clear to me that both of those lines of thought were complete lies.  I'm not horrible, and I'm not wonderful.  I have the ability to act horrible and sometimes (by God's grace) the capacity to muster wonderful.  Unless I see me the way God sees me, I will always be seeing myself as either too amazing and significant and important or too ridiculous, insignificant, and unimportant.  A friend of mine was once apt to point out that self-loathing is just the flip side of the coin of self-love.  When we loathe self, it is in anger and pity for self, because we feel deep down that we don't deserve to be seen so negatively.   The point (I think) is that we can't see our true nature when we're absorbed in self.  We can only see it when we get caught up in Someone bigger than self.  

My Husband is Hot

I rarely go through the self-checkout aisles at Walmart.  I think it's because it never goes right for me.  I have to make sure I don't have anything lightweight in my cart, because the scale doesn't like lightweight items.  I have to make sure that I don't have anything that's missing a code tag or anything that needs store approval - like spray paint, booze, or rated R movies.  Like I'm going to huff paint... I need all the brain cells I have left.  That reminds me of the time my old Schwan man asked me if I knew that pregnancy caused a loss of brain cells.  I said that I didn't know that.  He said, "Well, you just seemed smarter before you were pregnant."  Ah... he had seemed smarter before he said that.  Maybe he didn't realize he worked on commission.  It was a good thing for him I don't hold a grudge very well... and that I like ice cream. Ah, who am I kidding?  He knew he could pretty much say anything he wanted to say.


Back to Walmart - having been certain that none of the few items in my cart would be too lightweight, too controversial, or too intoxicating, I approached the self-checkout lane with relative confidence - anticipating a smooth transaction.   One of the items I was purchasing (in our household of many girls) was a bra.  To my surprise, when I scanned the tag through the soothing feminine Walmart lady voice came over the speaker, "Approval Needed".  Um... this could be interesting.  I froze momentarily - wondering what my next move should be.  What kind of approval was needed for purchasing underwear?  Austin happened to be with me, and, as embarrassed as he is about everything else in the known universe, it seems underwear is not one of those things.  I started to laugh with just the sheer speculation of what this obvious computer error could mean for womankind.  What would we have to prove in order to purchase bras?  Fortunately for me, the error corrected itself.


I've been hearing/reading a lot about the virtues of gender neutrality lately.  For instance, Sweden is in the process of removing gender language altogether from their dictionaries.  They began with children's books in creating a neuter term for children which is neither male or female.  In the U.S., there is talk currently of eliminating gender references in school altogether.  In this neuter environment, children would be specified as neither male nor female.  They could use whichever restroom they like.  They could play on whichever sports team they like.  In fact, sports wouldn't be divided up by sexes at all.  Sexes, after all, are confining and completely unnecessary.  Prevailing wisdom dictates that the world would be a better place were the genders nonexistent.  Now if we could just make our bodies hermaphroditic from birth, the world would be perfect?  Aside from the myriad of logical and logistical problems with these types of plans, my mind can't comprehend what kind of societal benefit would come from such a system.  A few of the articles I've read have asked the question, "Who would propose such a system?"  Has the existence of gender distinctions hurt individuals so badly that they seek to erase genders from all of society?  Don't get me wrong, I'm all for boys and girls doing things that have been traditionally viewed to be for one or the other, but wishing our sex organs away will not somehow create a Utopian society.


My husband is hot.  Not boy band hot... not metrosexual hot... not white collar hot... The best kind of hot, in my truly humble opinion, is blue... collar... hot - working man hot.  I'm not saying this because anyone else should think he's hot.  I'm saying it because I DO.  I'll talk about this more later.

I said before, in a briefly published blog, referring to a "thing" I had for the Marlboro man type - minus the cigarettes of course.  The guy leaning against his horse with a few days of scruffy beard, a far off look in his eyes, and a bit of tan on his skin... testosterone is not an undesirable hormone in a man.  


Sometimes I think we've domesticated men too much.  Having now been mom to a baby boy, a teenage boy, and having been married - I think that women, in attempts at "equality" (which I'm not sure why we'd ever desire), have rearranged masculinity.  We have pigeonholed many men into one of several types or combinations of types:  1) Jerks - These men are openly angry and antagonistic toward women.  2) Womanizers - These men pretend to love women but treat them unlovingly by hopping from one to another.  Being insecure he fears that, if he stayed too long with one woman, she would realize that he was not enough for her.   3)  Domesticated - These men seem to like routine and don't mind being bossed around a bit.  They're not afraid to push a shopping cart or buy feminine products when asked.  4) Man-children love video games, paint ball, porn, and any other activities that disengage them from reality.  These guys are "checked-out".  5) Macho Men - These men have to try any number of things in order to prove their masculinity.  These are often things they perceive as cool or rebellious to show they're owned by no one.


So, let's see, in seeking equality, we've made them hateful and angry, unfaithful, wimpy, childish, and/or disengaged.  Those are the biggest complaints I hear from single women about the men in the dating pool or from married women about their husbands.  It reminds me of a SNL skit I watched a few years ago.  It was of a couple being interviewed about their "wonderful" marriage.  She went on and on about how domesticated and sensitive her amazing man was - how he was in touch with his feelings and how they could talk for hours about nothing.  Basically, he was a woman in a man's body.  As she talked, he began to also talk about his feelings - weeping with joy or sadness over the discussion topics and sharing his deepest thoughts and inner angst with the interviewer and his wife.  As he did, she got more and more nauseated with him - ironically telling him to "man up" and to stop being a wimp - finally telling him she was sick of him and complaining to the interviewer with contempt about the fact she was pretty much married to another woman.  Everything she'd wanted her man to be - more emotionally "in touch", more sensitive, more like her, the more she hated him for it.  


I have a lot of friends and acquaintances who tell their men how to dress, how to act, how their money should be spent, and how they'll be required to parent the couples' children.  They dictate which chores need to be done when and how they should be done.  They even dictate how their men should show them love.  "Well, so-and-so's husband does such-and-such for her.  Why don't you ever do that?"  The implication being:  If you loved me, you'd do this differently or better.  I speak of these things, because I've done a lot of them.  In my first marriage I carried most of the responsibilities for household things, car maintenance, yard work, and finances.  He claimed the inability or lack of desire to do those things, and I did them grudgingly.  I remember asking him once when he was being unfaithful, "Why?"  He said, "I don't know.  Maybe I want someone to believe me when I say, 'I love you.'"  I wondered why he would say that, and then I thought back to the dozens of conversations we'd had about how he could love me "better" by my standard or about what I needed from him.  I remember never feeling that he really loved me or that, if he did, he'd do something more than he was doing - maybe I couldn't even put my finger on what that'd be.  Resentment grew on both of our parts.  We were both looking for something more.  


So what's a guy to do?  He's supposed to be masculine but kind.  He needs to be sensitive but rarely cry.  He needs to be able to kill spiders, take the garbage out, mow the lawn, change diapers, fix things that break, be available and fun with the kids, and would it kill him to do a few dishes now and then?   Basically, they need to be at our beck and call.

Well, second time around and I've realized that very few things in marriage are worth a fight.  As a wise woman once said, "If it won't matter 5 years from now, it's not worth a fight today."  I said before that my husband is hot.  He has a unique ability to not care an ounce what people think about him.  He says what he wants.  He does what he wants.  I remember when we were first married that we drove through a car lot to look at a newer vehicle.  Annoyingly but not unexpectedly, a salesman scurried over to our vehicle with his clipboard and started to chat up my husband.  "So," he said, patting the side of our older van, "this thing's seen better days, huh?"  Mark looked at him.  "Are you folks thinking about a new ride?"  Mark looked at him.  "Is there anything I can show you?"  Mark looked at him.  I remembered thinking how rude it was of Mark to ignore him.  Mark eventually, after what seemed to me like an hour of awkward silence said, "Nope.  We're not looking to buy.  We're just looking around your lot, and if we think we've found something we like, I'll let you know."  With that, he drove away, and I'm pretty sure that the salesman was as relieved as I to be done with that exchange.  I remember asking Mark, "The phrase 'awkward silence' isn't even on your radar screen, is it?"  I think that, over the years we've been married, he's learned to say what he means without coming across as gruffly, but I admire the daylights out of the fact that he has no fear of others and doesn't waste one moment thinking about what they might be thinking about him.  He doesn't shy from confrontation.  He speaks up when it matters and is wise enough to stay silent when he knows he should.  He doesn't force his will on anyone, but he has a way of getting what he wants without force or manipulation.  I can also trust that almost every time, whether or not I see it at first, what he wants for our family is what's best for us all.  He's great with our kids.  He's kind to the elderly and tender with the young and weak, and he teaches our boys to be the same way.  For all those things and so much more (not to mention his broad shoulders and hulking height) I think he's hot.

One of my favorite movies is The Quiet Man with John Wayne.  Wayne plays a retired American boxer who travels to Ireland to settle down and enjoy his retirement.  He meets and falls in love with a stubborn red-head (Maureen O'Hara), and the rest of the story is about the fireworks of their courtship and marriage.  He loves her, but he won't be domesticated.  He is so secure in the man he is that he can love her and maintain his masculinity and, in the process, she can do nothing but admire him.  


The concept of love has become so twisted.  Mark and I used to listen to a fair amount of country music, but in recent years we've agreed that the tired story lines of "babe, you look so hot in those tight jeans/t-shirt - get up on my truck (or bar, or stage, or whatever's handy) and shake your booty for me", blah, blah, blah... are not just tired but glorify the basest instincts we have.  What do these story lines represent?  Love - with longevity and passion that fills an empty soul?  Hardly.  Lust - short-lived and empty, at best.  A few days ago, Mark handed me a magazine and pointed to an article he wanted me to read.  It was an excerpt from New York Times columnist Meg Jay called, The Slippery Slope of Cohabitation.  The article said, "Most young couples now live together as a safe first step before marriage, but research shows that cohabitation is anything but safe:  It makes couples less likely to be satisfied with their marriages, and more likely to divorce later.  In my psychology practice, I have seen many couples move from dating to sleeping over to cohabitation along a 'gradual slope' unmarked by 'rings or ceremonies or sometimes even a conversation'.  Without saying so, women usually think of living together 'as a step toward marriage,' whereas men tend to view it as a way of auditioning their partners while postponing commitment.  As years slide by, the two people find that despite the trial nature of their relationship, they have become bound together by shared leases, wireless contracts, furniture, pets, and friends.  Those who work up the courage to split find that the 'setup and switching costs' are nearly as wrenching as divorce.  Others drift into marriage, while secretly wondering 'whether they have consciously chosen their mates.'  To increase your chance of a satisfying, lasting relationship, it's best to start with 'I do,' rather than 'Maybe we will, and maybe we won't.'"  This is the link for the NYTimes article in its entirety:  http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/15/opinion/sunday/the-downside-of-cohabiting-before-marriage.html?pagewanted=all


I have a friend who has been in and out of cohabitational relationships ever since I've known her, and she laments her situation to me always saying she wants something more.  She refers to the fact that Mark and I are happily married and hopes to fall into the same kind of arrangement.  She's often asked how I found him or how we've made it work.  I've said as plainly as I can that we just got married.  We didn't mess around.  When we went on our honeymoon, I didn't know if he even knew how to follow a map... much less anything else about what kind of husband he'd be to me - in any way.  I had hopes and prayers, but I had no way of knowing for sure.  She says she couldn't do it.  She'd have to "test a guy out awhile".  I understand the thought process, but, I feel sad about it too.  She resents that, although it's obvious there are men out there who would value a woman enough to marry/commit for life to her without any guarantees of her perfect performance or lovability, she has not found such a man to do that for her.  Somewhere deep inside of women, we must admit that we resent a lack of commitment and fear being left alone with nothing to show for the love we'd given.  This fear leaves us controlling and manipulating the people around us hoping for a positive outcome.


The majority of the time God wanted to redeem His people in the Bible, he sent a baby boy to them.  Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Jesus.  Not to negate the importance of women like Deborah, Esther, and Mary, but primary roles of leadership and saving were given to men.  Every culture and nation has stories of damsels in distress - held by an enemy - waiting to be rescued by - a loyal pet?  another damsel?  a moderately passionate lump of video-game playing expertise?  No.  A white knight.  A man so brave, handsome, passionate, rugged, and strong of character that her knees have no choice but to buckle.  This story is not just ingrained in us by a society consumed with romanticism.  It's written on the hearts of humanity, because that is the story of mankind from the beginning of time.  God (the white knight) breathed his own breath of life into humanity (damsel).  He loved her deeply.  Then she was taken captive by sin and death.  He loved her so much He had to rescue her.  He wanted her back.  There was only one way to prove the depth of His love for her.  He had to die for her.  He sent Himself to earth (Jesus) to love her, speak truth and tenderness to her, and then to offer His life in payment for her ransom.  She is redeemed.  She was purchased at a great personal price to her Love.  Only after making this sacrifice and proving His love did He invite us into intimate union with Him.   (Isa. 54:5, 62:3-5, Hos. 2:19-20).  Jesus Himself reminded us that He was the "bridegroom" and His church was His bride (Mark 2:18-20).  I'm so glad God didn't "interview" me for worthiness before He sent Jesus to die for me.  I'd never have passed the test.  

A few nights ago, I pulled in the driveway with some groceries in the back of the van.  As I pulled toward the garage entrance, my headlights shone on a bat that was flying around the garage.  I hate bats.  I texted Mark who was in the house (napping after having put the kids down to bed), "Bat in garage.  Help!"  Moments later, Austin and Mark came out.  Austin reached for a campfire roasting stick, and, although quietly said to myself, "Ew!  Not that!"  As if he'd heard me, he picked up a golf driver, and I thought again, "Ew!  Not that either!"  He used it to shoo the critter out of the garage and Mark waved me into my parking spot.  They went to the back of the van, unloaded groceries, and helped put them away as we talked about our days.  I felt protected.  I am blessed to know that, if I call for help, two big guys and a littler one will be there in the blink of an eye to answer that call without hesitation.  I am thankful for that.  I reinforce their strength by believing in it and not being threatened by it.  Their strength is precious to me, and the more I believe in it, the more I love it, the more I trust it... the more they give it.  If I were afraid of their strength... if I wanted my strength to be more prominent than theirs... if I denied their strength, I would never be the benefit or recipient of it.  As it is, I am both, and I couldn't feel more precious.  

God is the same with us.  He longs to give us His strength... to stand and fight for us, but we often want to fight our own battles, or to force our own will, or trust our own strength.  We miss out on seeing what He can do.  Like the beauty of a woman, the strength of a man can be twisted and/or misused.  At their core though, these two things (strength and beauty) are defining attributes of God and, when used in that context, are powerful, passionate, and life-giving.  I once quoted this verse in another blog ( http://illinoisslags.blogspot.com/2010/04/safety-in-helmet.html), but I think it does an excellent job of explaining the nature of God.  Isaiah 59:17 says of God Himself, "He put on righteousness as his breastplate, and the helmet of salvation on his head; he put on the garments of vengeance and wrapped himself in zeal as in a cloak."   Strength unbridled and pure is nothing to fear.  Rather, embrace it and the One who owns it.