Songs in the Night

I've been sitting at the computer for a while, hunting down in-network rheumatologists, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, and internists. Without a doubt, I'm struggling in a big way right now.

But as I pray for a hedge to protect my heart and mind from the despair and depression that chronic pain and anxiety can typically bring, I'm instantly reminded of a precious friend in Texas. After over a year and a half of battling cancer, he's received more bad news. Typical for this go-getter, he signed up for the catch-all, guaranteed, brutal treatment. It didn't work.

My heart aches for a vibrant and active friend who is stymied tonight with a broken hip, elbow, and shoulder... an incredibly kind, talented, and helpful friend that, I daresay, will struggle a bit with accepting the help she'll need in the coming months.

Another precious soul is at the center of complete chaos, attempting to grow a budding being as a flurry of other precious souls depend on her for nurture and nourishment. I can't even begin to imagine how she feels right now.

While the struggles are unique, the God who presides over each and every moment of this earth's triumphs and tragedies knows exactly what He's up to. He knows each stone and rivulet these tributaries flow over and through to join His river of life. He's got a plan. And while I struggle to understand... while it all feels too heavy... too sad... every person mentioned above trusts Him (including me).

I'm not sure I feel all that qualified to lump myself in with the precious folks listed above, but I do know I can trust Him at His word when He says He loves us. He's been true to His word too many times before. The One who carried us through the sea on dry ground... who carried us through the Jordan... who brought us into the land covenanted to us before Isaac was a twinkle in his father's eyes... the One who offered the same promise to the Gentiles...He may not purpose to heal us here. I've accepted that possibility. He may not purpose to heal us until we stand firmly planted on the other side of that river. But healing is part of that promise.

Our healing? Yes. But if we trust Him, we trust in something much bigger than that. We trust that so many believing souls are caught up in the stories, carried along, and taken up by the stream into the bigger waters.

Our stories are His. He doesn't need to speak through us, but the humbling thing is, He does it anyway. How many teenagers have come to Christ through the witness of a Christian head football coach battling cancer? How many young people know the gentle guidance of a precious, believing piano teacher who puts 150% into what she does for her students? I know quite a few mothers who hang on and are encouraged by the wisdom and kindness of a darling mama of many who seems to be listening extra carefully as the Spirit whispers into her day-by-days and moment-by-moments.  

I found this little poem this morning in a very short devotion time. For some reason, everyone wanted to be up with me at 6:30 this morning. 😊 As I prayed for the folks above, and others... as I prayed for myself, this sweet poem seemed to hold back the shadows.

I have been through the valley of weeping,

The valley of sorrow and pain;

But the "God of all comfort" was with me,

At hand to uphold and sustain.

As the earth needs the clouds and sunshine,

Our souls need both sorrow and joy;

So He places us oft in the furnace,

The dross from the gold to destroy.

When he leads thro' some valley of trouble,

His omnipotent hand we trace;

For the trials and sorrows He sends us,

Are part of His lessons in grace.

Oft we shrink from the purging and pruning, 

Forgetting the Husbandman knows

That the deeper the cutting and paring,

The richer the cluster that grows.

Well He knows that affliction is needed;

He has a wise purpose in view,

And in the dark valley He whispers,

"Hereafter Thou'lt know what I do."

As we travel thro' life's shadow'd valley

Fresh springs of His love ever rise;

And we learn that our sorrows and losses,

Are blessings just sent in disguise.

So we'll follow wherever he leadeth,

Let the path be dreary or bright;

For we've proved that our God can give comfort;

Our God can give songs in the night.

~From Streams in the Desert

(Mrs. Charles E. Cowman)

Relapse

I've been blanching and freezing carrots and green beans, chopping chard for morning stir fry, processing and freezing basil pesto, and composting our spring lettuce and cilantro plants that have bolted and become bitter... planting in their places kale, spinach, snow peas, and more lettuce that I hope we'll be able to enjoy early this fall. I've also murdered hundreds of cabbage worms (This is becoming a yearly tradition.) that had eaten our smoothie kale (our nickname for curly-leaf kale that grows really well all season here unless it is being eaten by hundreds of voracious cabbage worms). Now that the worms are gone, the kale is resurrecting itself. I'm hoping to start adding it to our smoothies again in the near future.

I've also been wrestling with the conundrum not only of a relapse of symptoms related to auto-immune junk, but some added symptoms that I've never before experienced. I'm getting the fridge and the grocery list ready to put myself back on a modified AIP, backing way off the caffeine, trying to take time out to get some mild exercise, and forcing myself to chill out.

While I'm dealing with several auto-immune diseases, the diagnosis that gives me the most angst is Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. I've been enjoying a relatively long "balanced" period, but typically I'm either making too much thyroid hormone (The current situation.), or not enough.

I was placed on an iodine supplement close to a year ago to counter an under-active thyroid, and while it absolutely corrected a lot of problems for a while, I'm currently under the impression that it's helped knock me back into hyperthyroid mode. I took myself off of it for about a week and a half, started to feel a bit more like myself, and then tried one on Monday just to experiment and make sure it was one of the culprits. Tuesday I felt like death and Wednesday morning I had a panic attack on 7 making my way to the new Leesburg Wal Mart. I had to exit at business 7 and go home a back way after taking several minutes to get myself calmed down in a church parking lot. Trying to mask the symptoms for my kiddos, I pretended that I was lost and grabbed up my phone to look at my map apps, simultaneously trying to breathe deeply, blink back tears, and pray while losing an argument with Jonathan who knew exactly where we were.

I also took myself off a thyroid supplement I'd been taking, which, like the iodine, had wondrous effects when I first started taking it, but is now, very likely, working against me. Initially, I started taking them every other day. Now I'm off completely.

I figured I'd flipped over to hyperthyroid when I started feeling anxious, irritable, and tense again more often than not. My normal heart rate is on the low side of normal, so when my heart starts to race, I know something's up. Another weird but apparently common symptom for some folks is plantar fasciitis. I get it in my left foot when I flip over into hyperthyroid mode. I didn't even realize it had started up again until some folks noticed I was favoring my right foot at church. Just a few days after that, it was full blown and I was ordering new athletic shoes.  

Heart palpitations and mild anxiety are pretty common with me, but the extreme anxiety and panic attacks associated with driving are pretty new. My first panic attack behind the wheel was February a year ago on a return trip from Tupelo, MS. I was trying to drive on I-81 for Jason so he could relax a bit. I had to exit just a mile later. I didn't seem to have trouble in slower town traffic until I had to drive Melanie to an eye specialist in Ashburn several months later. I struggled a bit there (mostly in the faster sections on 7), but since I had to do that drive many times before her eye issue was resolved, I managed to struggle through and get over it relatively quickly. Now I'm getting on the highway and devolving into full-on panic almost immediately. At first I thought I was just panicking on overpasses and mountain passes. Last week, I managed to drive over the mountain and long-ish Shenandoah River overpass to Charles Town, WV. While I did struggle quite a bit, with God's help, we made it without a full-blown attack. It was a shock to experience one on Wednesday heading the other direction on a relatively short, level jaunt.

Since the fridge and the pantry were pretty bare, I had to go to Giant this morning. While I actually struggled to drive there (three to five minutes from home), thankfully, I only experienced mild anxiety on the way and almost none on the way home.

We've started school as I continue to prep for the coming months. The kids are learning how to help at home and be fully-functioning members of the Allen team, but they still really need me to be on as much as possible. My little guy can sense that mama feels yucky in increasing intervals and his preferred method of helping is constantly attempting to make us all laugh, which just really makes me want to cry. He senses and internalizes that too. So while I work out how to cope with and treat this latest relapse, I don't want to lose sight of my biggest and best job. I want to make sure my kiddos know that their pain and their triumphs are just as important, if not more important to me, than my own. They are awesome kids.

I'm currently pre-reading some of their "textbooks". Jonathan began reading a biography on his own this year called Poor Richard (Benjamin Franklin). He is giving me more detail in his oral narrations than I wrote in my pre-reading notes. This is neat because it's been our target from the beginning. The idea is that it will eventually all translate into detailed and fluid written communication. I was more overwhelmed about this aspect of our school year than any other, and he is definitely rising to the occasion and exceeding my expectations. The jury is still out on whether or not Melanie will start to read the same books on her own when she completes her reading program this year. In ways she is a better reader than her brother (better at decoding difficult words - he still does a lot of guessing - more laziness than anything I think), but she hasn't reached his level of comprehension. Most likely, I will hold off with her until next year.

I don't want to divert my attention from raising, ministering to, and educating my kids. So this health stuff really frustrates me. And while I feel like the Lord is protecting me from falling into the grip of depression and defeat, I do not want these setbacks to dampen my children's experiences.

The other day, I took an afternoon to look at all the activities and necessities available in and near our town and accessible by slow back-country roads. Turns out I can get to co-op, the new Wal Mart, camp, swimming lessons, ballet, gymnastics, the new doctor, and soccer without topping a mountain, crossing an overpass, or getting on the freeway. Do I want to stay in that rut? No way. But for now, I'm not completely grounded and I can give myself some margin to breathe.

And while I pre-read school books for my kiddos (My occupation for at least the next eight years or so.), I'm also pre-reading and completing some personal Bible study/quiet time materials I purchased to work through in an effort to test them out before handing them over to Jonathan and Melanie in a few years. The first is an in-depth study of 1 Peter. I'm just going to have to purchase new booklets for the kiddos because I've decided to make this one my very own. It is perfect material for the current situation. While I'm combating this with prayer, a highly anticipated doctor's appointment in early August, exercise, herbs, essential oils, supplement addition and removal, and some serious grit, nothing beats the power of God's word to set a heart and mind straight.

I've been hesitant to share this because I'm always concerned that in a faith community, folks assume that anxiety, panic, and fear denote a lack of faith or some hidden sin. Well, that's definitely possible here (I'm constantly asking for more faith and for eyes to see my own blind spots. I know they're there!), but it's also true that these issues are triggered by unavoidable chemical imbalances. We are fallen creatures after all. So for anyone else out there that might be facing this, you're not alone! Let me encourage you to ask for help and ask for prayer. I'm trying, and failing a lot, but I have hope that this will be a short season. Something I'm also considering is finding some Christian counsel or psychiatric help that I can easily access either by phone or a back roads. 😊 Now that I've had panic attacks while driving, even when my thyroid situation has leveled out, I'm concerned that I will panic anyway in those same scenarios. I want to be safe on the road, especially when my children are riding with me.

Here's hoping my struggle will help someone else.  While I don't wish this kind of thing on anyone, just a quick Google search is all I need to know that what I'm dealing with is all too common. If you're lumped in there with me, take heart and ask for help! 💗

FYI: While thyroid disturbances (including early-onset thyroid disease and cancer) are actually hereditary on both sides of my family, the symptoms are sometimes mistaken for bi-polar disorder and other mental illnesses. Lithium (a common medication used for bi-polar disorder) actually causes even sub-clinical Hashimoto's Thyroiditis to kick into overdrive. Mis-diagnosis in that scenario can often have grave consequences.
 

Perelandra

I woke around 3:30 this morning unable to go back to sleep. Lying there in the dark, trying to relax enough to re-enter dreamland, I couldn't turn my mind off. Once I was awake enough to think clearly, it hit me to go hunting for a book given to me around my 40th birthday by a precious friend with a rare soul. We were preparing to move to Northern Virginia in those months, so this book was likely laid in a box almost as soon as I got it home. I've been missing her lately-- missing that compatible/compassionate spirit, missing the near-weekly meetings at the Barnes & Noble coffee shop, missing those lively and sweet discussions on our Bible study, current reads, families, and relationships. Pulling out her gift felt like pulling her close again.

The book she gifted is a mostly-abridged compilation of the works of C.S. Lewis called The Essential C.S. Lewis. Because I own many of the complete books included here already, I haven't really opened this book much except to scan through it. It would likely be a great, non-committal introduction to anyone interested in tiptoeing into Lewis' work. More than almost anything, I enjoy reading his letters... a place where I feel I can, without the ability to actually meet the man himself, know his heart more completely and delve into the intention behind his writing.  This book includes some of those too!

Last summer, on a recommendation from a couple in our home group at church, I read Lewis' Space Trilogy. I borrowed the books from them and returned them just before they moved. Something about theology combined with pseudo-science and good fiction really speaks to me. Hmmm... what does that say about me? 😂 Lewis writes in such sweeping, overarching, epic themes and yet, in other works, writes with straight forward common sense regarding God and Scripture... almost "in your face"... and in my own opinion, another very relatable/enjoyable style.

While I thoroughly enjoyed the entire Space Trilogy, Perelandra was the stand-out favorite. In fact, it may be in there with my short list of all-time favorite books. It can be read as a stand-alone, however, I think you lose some of the depth and meaning if you don't read the books on either end. This is the book I woke this morning hoping to find in its entirety within The Essential C.S. Lewis. Thankfully, it is there and it is complete. It's been slightly over a year since I read it, and I feel a compelling need to read it again.

"Truly I say to you, unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven." ~Matthew 18:3 NASB

Lying awake in the pre-dawn stillness, I tried to wrap my mind around what it is that draws me to this particular work of fiction. It may be the "what if" quality of the subject matter. It may be that it paints such a lovely landscape of what living in a sinless Eden must have been like for Adam and Eve. But mostly, I think it just appeals to the child in me... and another child... the child I must become if I'm to inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. Aside from the person of Jesus Christ within Scripture, no where else have I encountered the childlike attitude of a true believer in adult form, and it is something I find I desperately need... something I have a strong, innate desire to mimic.  

While I doubt I'll drop everything else (My book bag is full again with a whole bunch of partially-read material that will likely take eons to finish. 😑), I will be revisiting this and reminding myself that Christ made a way for us all to live in child-like faith. I'll get a chance to be reminded of all those incredible attributes that accompany the One who is sovereign over all our moments... such an easy thing to receive within the pages of Perelandra.

Safe Above the Weather

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. ~Isaiah 40:31 KJV

I recently finished a book that I've been anxious to read since it's release date almost a year ago. I purchased it just before beginning several house projects that included drywall repair, a palm sander, and lots of paint. I'd decided that I'd use the book as a little after-project dessert. Unfortunately, I've never been all that conventional about meals and dessert, sometimes having dessert for dinner, especially if that dessert happened to be ice cream. Needless to say, I was halfway through the book before I got done with those projects, and finished the book the same day I completed the final task... putting the last coat of paint on the baseboard in my daughter's closet. 

Madeline L'Engle holds a special place in my heart. While I've only ever known her as the writer of a beloved trilogy that I read in sixth grade, that trilogy became a quintet somewhere along the way without my ever knowing it. A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet were books that I absolutely inhaled. My memory of the images those books conjured would not allow me to see the recently-released movie. I still cringe a bit when I accidentally happen upon a preview.  

What I love about this author is her obvious love for Christ and her vision for Him in history, science, art, psychology, and prose. Opening a book by Madeline L'Engle is like holding a kaleidoscope to your eye next to a brightly-lit window.  For a dorky kid with an interest in almost everything, escaping into her young adult fiction took me to another place completely; a place where I could feel as if I were on quest with the Murray kids; a fully-accepted, highly-valued member of the clan.

Recently, a sweet friend asked me to bring a devotion to another friend's baby shower. The effort to write that little devotion was more pronounced than I felt it should be. I explained to her that I wound up trudging through a lot of my own muck before I could arrive at anything worthwhile to share at the shower. In fact, I spent hours and hours on the thing, only formulating something mildly presentable a few hours before the actual event. The writing wasn't about me. I needed to get to a place beyond myself to truly honor my friend.

I didn't realize this before starting on this journey, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd had it worked out that truly gifted writing can by-pass all that muck. Too many "I's" in a finished product, well, that's got to be the work of an underdeveloped writer. However, I'm finding that this process is quite a turbulent one. To be authentically yourself, which I think most artists strive to be, you have to explore some of the hard stuff in that effort, and while that seems like an okay thing for a little blog with a narrow following, I don't believe any of that self-exploration should find it's way to a published work unless it's a person's aim to publish their own memoirs. Clearly, I am a very immature writer.

That's the problem I had with A Light So Lovely. I didn't purchase the book to read about Sarah Arthur. I purchased it to read a faithful account of Madeline L'Engle's life. Acknowledging the fact that it feels somewhat impossible to leave yourself out of your own writing, there are some more surreptitious ways of including yourself. At times it felt like the author was downright hostile toward her subject.

Despite this, Sarah Arthur seems to have a deep understanding of one of the authors that awakened my senses to a world that could include faith and science and utilize fiction as a vehicle to bring us to ultimate truth. Jesus' own storytelling takes universal truth and brings it to our human cognition via fictional stories... big ideas encapsulated in easily-digested parables. While slightly struggling with the author in her presentation of the subject, the biggest issue I had with this book was putting it down to finish the house projects. There's so much beauty here. 

"We draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, by telling them how wrong they are and how right we are, but by showing them a light that is so lovely that they want with all their hearts to know the source of it." ~Madeleine L'Engle

Quite possibly my favorite part of the book centers on an idea I've been exploring myself for some time now. This section brought me to another book recommendation that found its origins in Madeleine's mentoring of budding authors. Several quotes stood out from the surrounding text in this particular chapter. 

"The artist, while creating, is in some kind of communion with the Maker who made us in his own image--who made us to make things--which has implications not only for individual artists but also for religious communities and their engagement with the arts." 

~Sarah Arthur 

"...my art was actually a vital expression of the gifts I had been given and therefore a responsibility." ~Aleah Marsden

"Art is not merely a task but also a kind of spiritual surrender." ~Sarah Arthur

Another striking aspect of this particular chapter was the stern admonition toward artists against projecting truth from culture, a practice we see in ever-widening use today.  And that is the place where I believe every artist struggles...seeing things through the lens of our own life experience, our own family culture, making it necessary to get above the turbulence of life in the now and life in our pasts. Writing through some of my own struggles in an effort to find a higher place, safe above the weather, has informed my own realization that what we experience as truth, living life in the same household day in and day out for eighteen years with other people, is not necessarily the same experiential truth our housemates cling to. Strong connection to our Source for ultimate Truth is our only solid lifeline. 

Next in line... Walking on Water... a book by Madeline L'Engle herself, and perhaps those last two books in the quintet that I missed on my high school foray into the world of Stephen Lawhead, another Christian author and contemporary of Madeline L'Engle that I can't wait to share with you. 😊

 

June 29th

Today something extraordinary happened. I held a little box full of plastic toys in my hand while explaining to my son and daughter all the reasons why we couldn't keep those particular toys and their corresponding cards in our home. Our son, the eldest, willingly gave them up, his hands open and his heart accepting that his parents, in their love for him, wanted to protect him completely. I hugged him and told him how much we loved him... how he blessed us with his trust in us. Our daughter immediately followed suit and received the same affection and benediction.

Some 25 years ago, almost to the exact day and hour, I sat crumpled in a corner of a room, completely doubled over in grief. I remember my dad coming and and hugging me hard... sobbing with me. In that too-warm Texas twilight, I was ill with sadness. I remember the color of the sunset reflected on the wall as I sat dumbly watching the light fade on that day. A single, weak candle was lit on the dresser... the only light in the room.

Not quite a year prior to that event, I remember begging God for a relationship that seemed impossible. And yet, somehow, I was noticed and pursued by a young man I'd admired from afar for some time. But even as I prayed, I knew I was asking amiss. I knew it every single time. I badgered my God and eventually, He succumbed to my persistent requests. I was not a flirt. I was so shy around this young man that he had to be pretty bold to help me understand that he was interested. 

On June 29th, it all came crashing down. Investigators believe that a solitary hike led to a fall from an extraordinary height, but the only evidence was a bike chained at the bottom of a mountainous trail. I couldn't make myself attend the memorial service. I couldn't believe there was anything to memorialize. It took ages to convince myself that he would never return.

A few months later, I stood singing the Vaughn Williams Mass in G Minor to a congregation with my college chorale group in an Anglican cathedral-style church we jokingly called Fort God. There was a gaping hole in the tenor section. The church sat at the top of one of the only hills in Ft. Worth just above the line of apartments where he had lived. I struggled to sing as I remembered an evening when we'd watched the sun set from a ledge outside a stained glass window full of moons and stars. Gazing above the men, I watched the sun set from the other side of the same pane that evening, struggling to hold back the tears and survive the performance. I heard the Kyrie on my way to church this morning, but those measured patterns did not bring the same sensation today as they did that night over half a life ago. 

Graduation and teaching and seminary happened in there somewhere, but it all seems like a blur. I remember getting extraordinarily angry after coming home to an Arlington apartment and trying to prop my hood to make sure the oil change I'd just received was a proper one. Only, the hood prop was broken in two and laying on top of the engine in my little five speed Civic. I gunned it back up to the garage and stomped in with the rods in hand, furious and weary with those battles, yet too defensive and afraid to dismantle the wall around my heart.

This evening, standing in dappled light on the western edge of our garden, a perfect calendula stem lay broken in the straw. I couldn't help but feel it deep... something so perfect, delicate, young, and beautiful, broken against a hard reality of earth. I left it to dissolve there.

I remember sitting near a sprawling live oak in our big yard in Rendon, Texas. I might have been four. I might have been younger. I loved wildflowers even then. My mother explained to me as she pulled weeds out of our gravel drive that God could make Himself so small that he could sit on the tiny yellow cushion of the dandelion I gripped in my sweaty little fist...small enough to inhabit the heart of a tan, tow-headed, barefoot little girl.  

Somewhere between June 29th, 1994 and June 29th, 2003, my fists loosened. Always looking to the future, I had a list of short-term goals on one side of my bathroom mirror and a list of long-term goals on the other. I'd given up on one dream to pursue another. I loved mountains... particularly Colorado mountains. I had oodles of credits towards a master's degree and an almost-complete master's thesis sitting in a plastic filing box. I could get many of those credits to transfer towards a Christian counseling degree at Dallas Baptist University. I'd decided to become a licensed professional counselor, move to Colorado Springs, work for Focus on the Family, and climb and hike on the weekends. I'd also decided that marriage was clearly not in God's plan for my life. Colorado 14'ers were calling my name. I had cousins in Denver. With God's help, I would make it happen.

In Spring of 2003, my aunt drove to Arlington and accompanied me to Dallas Theological Seminary. I'd turned her on to Elisabeth Elliot and we were going to hear her speak. I'd read just about everything she'd ever written and I was hungry for her spoken words... her countenance. In all my contradictory self, in all my shyness, I needed to see her, hear her, experience her, breathe the same air as this woman who knew what it meant to give in grief. I needed to know how to do that... how to give up the images I'd always held in my consciousness of how it was all supposed to be. I could see that stained-glass window, all the moons and stars in tiny fragments on the stones, but I couldn't walk away from the horror of it.

I remember smiling as soon as her husband, Lars, came to the podium to introduce her. I knew his face from photos I'd seen. And then, there she was... tall, thin, queenly, and yet simultaneously so completely ordinary. In that hour, it was her ordinary self that was so comforting. Lars was her third husband. Would she tell me how she'd done it? Was there a formula to transform a heart turned to stone?

Driving home that evening, I had a difficult time ordering my thoughts. My aunt is a talker, so I listened and nodded and drove. When I sat down at my computer that night, my old seminary study buddy, Jon (a youth minister in Mississippi), had emailed. We kept a running correspondence. Always delighted to hear from him, I brewed up a mug of hot decaf. tea so that I could savor the note and the refreshment together. A fellow introvert, we conversed best through email. He was going to be in town in late June and wondered if we could meet up. His good friend was getting married in Fort Worth and he wanted me to join him for the festivities. I hadn't dated anyone seriously for some time. I wasn't interested in starting anything now. I'd lived on my own for quite a while by that point and I'd learned to enjoy my independence. I was busy getting my paperwork in to register for classes at DBU and scanning magazines for pictures and information concerning life in Colorado Springs.  I wanted a space to make my own.

On June 29th, 2003, Jon and I walked in on a guy sitting at a computer. We'd just met up at the groom's bachelor pad, and this young man was spending a couple nights there. He'd just pulled into Fort Worth in a beat up Nissan truck with a small U-Haul trailer attached... a friend from Mississippi State who was heading down to College Station to complete a master's degree in Macro-Economics and Foreign Affairs at Texas A&M after the big wedding. We all went to dinner that night and returned to play board games. This guy, Jason, was a marathon runner, well-read, super energetic, and super smart. He'd been a teacher too and spent his summers working at a Christian guest ranch in central Colorado. Oh, and he'd hiked a few 14'ers along the way. 😊

The wedding happened and Jon went home. Jason had passed around a little note pad to get everyone's contact information before our little gang parted ways. I simply scribbled in my email address. While definitely intrigued and overwhelmed at everything we had in common, I was trying to be a good wedding date to the very end, and I'd decided quite a while back that I wasn't marriage material. Why bother barking up that tree again? Once I was back at my apartment, I received a phone call. Jason and Jon had shared a hotel room and Jon carelessly left my phone number laying on the nightstand. Jason, a numbers guy, memorized it quickly. I was shocked to hear his voice on the other end. We went out that very night and when we returned to my apartment, we talked for hours.

Just outside our second story bedroom window are sunflowers growing in garden boxes that my husband built and filled with soil. He knows I love the flowers and the scads of goldfinches they draw when the flower heads begin to fade. Between those boxes is another enormous box full of sand for our kiddos to play in. Shading that sand box from the western sun is another box brimming with black raspberry canes because my best friend heard me say the first summer we spent here in Western Loudoun County that the black raspberry had to be the most perfect berry in existence. I walk to those canes for my breakfast almost every morning when black raspberries are in season.

On June 29th this year, we marked 16 years of knowing each other by helping each other replace some parts and pieces of the suspension and the alternator in our older model van. I got a little annoyed at one point during the day because apparently the thing that's actually creating the weird noise we've been concerned about is a tie rod on the driver's side. He started working on that at about 6:45 pm that night. The day wasn't going the way I'd pictured it in my head... a common problem for a person who deals with life in images. But watching our son sit and hand socket wrenches to his daddy... listening to all the questions and answers, I caught a vision of a daughter and a daddy at the same activity years and years ago... a daughter who was well-trained by a man who could easily have been an engineer and who wisely insisted that his daughter and sons assist him whenever he worked on any of our vehicles. That experience was very much appreciated when I found myself with a killer headache trying to get out of a busy intersection in a vehicle with a swiftly expiring alternator. I knew exactly what was wrong with the van the instant it began to act up, and I knew exactly what to do about it, all thanks to a wise father.

Overwhelm is the only way to describe it. Overwhelm that God knew all those years ago that I would need that information to get myself and my children to safety. Overwhelm at the incredible difference between two June 29ths separated by nine years... that sweet reminder that, out of 365 days, He would pick that day of all the days on the calendar to bless me with Jason.

Driving from Keller back to Arlington that day, I had a knot in my throat. I knew I'd just met someone important. I knew it so well that I called my mom and told her that I felt like I'd just driven away from something predestined, but I didn't quite know what it all meant. It felt just like that day with the dandelion. Running my fingertips over the soft yellow cushion I sang "Jesus Loves Me". I recall peering up at the enormous cumulonimbus clouds expanding with the summer heat in the distance. The sight reminded me of the pillar of cloud in the desert from the Old Testament Bible story. I asked mama if God could be big like that too. "Yes, honey. He is any size He wants to be... any size He needs to be to take care of His children."

June 29th doesn't mean much to many people, but it's a little whispered "I love you and I didn't forget about you. And as much as you've resisted... as much as you still resist... I won't stop loving you and I will prove it to you over and over and over again." A little over a year later, Keith Sanders, the guy whose wedding Jason and I attended just after we met, married us in the little Baptist church where I was baptized when I was nine years old. We honeymooned in Colorado on the slope of Long's Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park. The Father who asked me to open my hands a decade before had to pry them open in His love for me. I did not give up willingly. But once they were open and He could trust me to keep them that way, He filled them to overflowing.

Contact

Carl Sagan penned a brilliant, engaging book close to the end of his life entitled Contact. If you're at all familiar with Carl Sagan's work, you'll know that he spent a good deal of time exploring the idea that other worlds populated with extraterrestrial beings might exist beyond our solar system (Google SETI for more information. Fascinating.). You'll also know that, while he did not consider himself an atheist, his belief system did not appear to embrace Christianity or even the tenets of Intelligent Design.

As a person that tends to yawn a bit over scientific and mathematical minutia, you'd likely be surprised at how excited this same individual can get over string theory, wormholes, and abstract math. What overwhelms this reader is the revelation of the sheer volume of the human mind through all types of narratives, and its unrelenting attempts to assimilate everything outside of itself. It is nothing short of miraculous how all the authors throughout all of history have dealt so uniquely and yet so similarly with the universe. Many of them could never come to a place where they were ever willing to admit that it is, in fact, a created universe, even after a lifetime spent exploring and studying it.

I don't want to say too much about this book. I'd be interested to find out how many believers would actually be willing to read it. I will add this though. I have a very strong suspicion that Carl Sagan, nearing the final decade of his life at this book's publication, began to have his doubts about his life-long assertions concerning God and religion. I'd have to go back and re-read it to feel more sure about my own assertion here. I was in my mid 20s when I read Contact, but I had an undeniable instinct close to the end of the book that Mr. Sagan was actively seeking the One we call Lord. 

This God we worship... wow. These minds He gave us to engage with Him and with His creation...they're so astounding... an important part of the created order I believe... and, even in their shattered state, so reflective of the Image of their Creator. It's astounding that geniuses like Carl Sagan, Stephen Hawking, and Joseph Campbell could refute the existence of the Intelligence behind everything... and behind their ability to theorize about it all. If you read it, I'd love to know what you think. I thoroughly enjoyed it!

^"18 For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men who suppress the truth ^[l]in unrighteousness, ¹⁹ because that which is known about God is evident ^[m]within them; for God made it evident to them. ²⁰ For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse. ²¹ For even though they knew God, they did not ^[n]honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened. ²² Professing to be wise, they became fools" ~Romans 1:18-22

Offering Isaac

Of all the characters in J.R.R Tolkein's Ring Cycle, I most identify with Eowyn. A brother on the brink, a family under the influence of who knows what kind of oppression, and an epic fight to release that family from the control of some generational evil characterize this woman who feels intensely hopeless and weak, yet fights as if the salvation of everything she loved depended on her ability to overcome. While no information is given concerning Eowyn's childhood, I've always taken away the impression that it was a golden one; full of joy and wonder. Her devotion, even unto death, to her father and brother give her away. Yet, somewhere in her short life she was disappointed enough times to look with a cautious eye toward anything appearing too good; too wonderful; too beautiful. 

I don't want to give anything away in case you haven't read the books, but as is usually the case in epic fairy tales, a heroine falls in love with a hero. However in this story, initially the heroine is disappointed. And seriously, if you haven't read the books, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Just kidding. But really. You should carve out some time to read them. I promise, it will not be a hardship. You will want to flip back to the front of the very first book and read it all again (something that I must confess to doing with this series of books once or twice 😳).

While I am an enormous fan of Peter Jackson's theatrical rendition of the Lord of the Rings Cycle, I was pretty mortified that he left my absolute favorite part of the whole sweeping tale out of his movies! What?!?!?! Again, I can't go into great detail because it would give away what I believe to be the most beautiful and endearing part of the story. And I really don't want to ruin it for you. However, in the chapter "The Houses of Healing", Eowyn and a hero (Faramir) wounded in the same battle heal together. You can probably guess what happens next. 😊 That's the thing about this kind of story. It's the very predictability that makes it so beloved. And it's something that Tolkein does really, really well. While we always know good will win out and the ending will be wonderful, the mystery remains... how will the author bring it all about? How can this story be redeemed?

In a recent post, I touched on an issue that, for years and years, I didn't even know I had. I'd learned that I might be harboring some anger and bitterness, but I'd never really seen myself as a person with jealousy issues. I had friends that struggled with it in a big way, but, at least on the surface, I always felt glad for my friends with money, things, beauty, gifts and strengths.

One night when Jason and I were newly married, we sat in our living room in Fairfax, VA listening to another couple describe their family legacies. My friend literally glowed as she described her grandparents... people she deeply loved and admired. When I went to bed that night, I was upset, but I couldn't put my finger on the reason why. It took me a while to realize that I was extremely envious of my friend. In fact, whenever I hear people discuss the legacy of Godliness in their families, I get a little green. It's the truth; but if Godly legacy is a reality for you, don't hesitate to mention it in front of me now that you know about this area needing improvement in me. I want to hear how these generational legacies got started. Those stories are instructional, and I want/need to hear them.

^"14 Pursue peace with all men, and the sanctification without which no one will see the Lord. ¹⁵ See to it that no one comes short of the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springing up causes trouble, and by it many be defiled; ~Hebrews 12:14-15

I've spent a good portion of my life taking the easy route... passing back the blame. In some pretty big ways, my parents had to protect me and my brothers from our grandparents. At times I've been angry with my mom and dad for sharing some really hard things with me about them... and sharing them early... for not letting me love them in the way I wanted to. But what kind of parents would they have been had they not put me on my guard?

This is what I've come to understand though. Jason and I aren't beginning a Godly legacy in the way I thought we were. We can build on a pretty solid foundation laid by our parents. We don't have to warn our children against their grandparents. We don't have any hesitation leaving our children alone with their grandparents. We don't have to share the junk. There's an absolute wealth of goodness to pass on. Our children have heroes, and four of those heroes are their grandparents. They can believe that they come from something really good... something rooted in Godliness and in an intention for redemption. 

My mom periodically woke me in the middle of the night to watch random classic movies. We never had cable television, so we had to wait until movies came to PBS Masterpiece Theater. The titles I remember were Splendor in the Grass, Gone with the Wind, The Canterville Ghost, and Raintree County. I'm certain  there were more. She'd lead me into the living room, bleary-eyed and yawning, sometime around midnight, to a palette with pillows and a big comforter. And we'd enjoy our own mother/daughter bonding time away from the guys. I remember the few times I stumbled upon mom standing in a corner with a sketch book in hand. She was always looking out from a certain vantage point, her head tilted slightly to one side, as she drew up a profile of one of my little brothers or a panoramic picture of one of the many corgi puppies trotting around our big back yard. I was always astounded by her artistic ability and her incredible knack for transforming each area of our home into something beautiful, warm, and homey on somewhat meager resources.

My dad took me gliding in a two-seater sail plane at least twice that I remember. Once, when I went along to the glider port that we frequented somewhere in Middle-of-Nothing (Midlothian), Texas, we arrived on a film set complete with bi-planes and pyrotechnics. What a riot! We were allowed to watch some filming from the balcony on the second floor of the tower. We've always shared a love for space, adventure, science, and music. I remember walking into my parents' bedroom one evening as my dad strummed a guitar and sang a song to my mother... a song he had composed in his head. I was spellbound. My daddy has never been able to read a lick of music, but he can hear a difficult run in a song and shortly afterwards mimic it with almost exact precision on his venerable Martin.

Fireflies are not as common in dry Texas summers as they are here in Virginia. But I remember one night down by the creek we frequented to go fishing... constellations of them swarmed around the boggy marshes on the edges of the water. We'd stayed to watch a meteor shower from the top of Dad's work van, but were treated to another kind of light show instead. One Easter, near that same creek, we had an egg hunt and picnic lunch among scads and scads of bluebonnets, primrose, bee blossom, coreopsis, Indian paintbrush, and Indian blankets. We encountered a couple of rattlesnakes too! My parents, in all their own struggle and hurt, did everything in their power to make childhood wonder-filled and beautiful for us. 

As I grew into my difficult middle school/ early high school years, my mom started to realize that she needed to deal with certain events from a childhood that still haunted her. She began seeing a Christian counselor who encouraged her to confront the people that had harmed her. Around that same time, my aunt and uncle's marriage began to crumble. All of the families but one lived within just a couple miles of each other, something psychology tells us is quite common in highly dysfunctional/abusive families. My aunt lived just around the corner from my grandparents. For an extremely quiet and sensitive child who still hadn't quite been able to wrap her mind around the severity of the accusations being hurled between family members... who was still trying to understand and process some of her own experiences within that family... the result was somewhat devastating.

I still wrestle with a tendency to withdraw into an insular fantasy world that I've created in my mind, or into the pages of a good book, when life gets a little difficult. It was, in fact, right about that time that I was introduced to Bilbo Baggins, Eowyn, Emily Starr, Anne Shirley, and Meg Murry. The fear, the yelling, the sobbing, and the devastation of relationships that had seemed okay most of my life made three households that had seemed safe and warm suddenly feel haunted by hatred and sadness. There was no safety net for those awkward years. I developed social anxiety so debilitating that I literally threw up every day the first six weeks or so before school in my 6th-9th grade years. I had coke-bottle glasses and horrible acne that I perpetuated by mutilating my own face, neck, and shoulders.  As I got older, I escaped the conflict in my own vehicle... taking long drives into the country, often to our fishing creek, with my favorite music blaring.

But when I look back, I can know that there was no best time for the bottom to fall out. My mom and my aunt needed healing. There was no rhyme or reason; no actual point at which a person can decide when a volcano of pent-up fear and anger is due to erupt. It happens when it happens. The harm was so serious that the crisis to heal it was destined to be intense. And there we were... kids in the big middle of it... with very little help to process what was happening to our family. But there also was Meg and Anne and Emily... Eowyn and Bilbo... ever faithful friends who wouldn't judge. There also were stories of redemption... full of the faults and flaws of human life... destined to end in the best way possible.

Age and distance almost always bring perspective. Now, I can be proud of my mom... both of my parents actually. They took it head on with no idea how it would shake out. They confronted it with prayer and Christian counsel. My mom took me to counseling when they realized how deeply everything had begun to affect me.

We all suffer as a result of sin. We sin against others, and others sin against us. There's no denying it. That's just a part, albeit a hard part, of living in our "bent" world. Just yesterday, I woke to a fraud alert on one of our credit card accounts. We're careful not to carry a balance on any credit card, and we use them to collect the perks and keep a good credit rating. Jason was working a very long day. The kids and I were scheduled to go on an outing with another family early that morning. And I had to make a flurry of phone calls before we could even start getting ready. I accidentally cut someone off in the traffic circle yesterday too. It was definitely unintentional, but it was still my fault. No major harm came of the event, but I'm sure I made the other driver's blood pressure spike. I spoke harshly to my son this morning... less because his behavior was annoying me and more because I couldn't get our current audio book to play in the van on the long-ish drive to Charlestown, WV for our Aldi and Wal Mart run. I'm a sinner. Therefore, I cannot hold another sinner's feet to the fire. I cannot, in good faith, stay angry and bitter toward people who loved me enough to put aside an ocean of pain to make my childhood exceptionally beautiful until they buckled under the weight of their own difficult pasts.

"Although He was a Son, He learned obedience from the things which He suffered." ~Hebrews 5:8

I used an object lesson from the book, Good and Angry (Turansky and Miller),  with my kids the other morning. It likely had a deeper effect on helping me deal with the anger in my own heart than it did with my kids. I blew up two balloons: one almost to bursting and the other just about 1/3rd of the way full. The instructions were to let the kiddos feel how the air moved within each balloon. In the smaller balloon, the rubber was pliable. There was room for the air to move about when the balloon was squeezed. The other balloon popped pretty quickly. And that was the idea. A heart so full of bitterness and anger can only explode all over everyone else. Forgiveness mingled with the memory of a hurt can minister to others who have not quite learned to let their pain rest with God and forgive in the way He's forgiven us. People who are able to accept forgiveness are pliable and forgiving of others.

At some point, perhaps earlier than I realized, I began to harbor anger and bitterness toward God. I wanted to be angry at my parents, but I wanted to love them too. At some point, I decided that it was my job to help them; to hear them and counsel them. I needed to feel like I could somehow protect them. On reading a few articles here and there about the familial roles that eldest daughters tend to occupy, I've come to realize that this impulse is not all that uncommon. There are likely a lot of women out there with stories like mine... other Eowyns who try, with great difficulty, to take on the responsibility of everyone else's pain. While I can see now that all of those jobs were way beyond me, that the only Person equipped to help anyone involved in that situation was God, I tried hard to serve in all those roles in some lame attempt to restore a harmony that never actually existed in our family. I could not understand how or why a loving God could allow my parents to endure under so much stress and pain and abuse as children. I also could not understand how two such incredibly talented and brilliant artists could have so little confidence in their God-given skill... so little, in fact, that they, quite often, either refused or were too afraid to use those gifts. That's been especially true for my mom. Another truth I've come to understand; people who have survived abuse often cope with it by espousing a belief that they actually deserved that treatment. They begin to believe that nothing good could come from or of them.

When I graduated high school and entered college, the hits just kept on coming. After college, and a long sabbatical from dating, I found myself breaking off relationships before they even got started because I couldn't deal with the inevitability that they would end abruptly... maybe even tragically. I became a conflict and pain-avoider, and as a result, a relationship-avoider. Even into the early years of our marriage, as we prayed for children, I continued to doubt that God wanted to bless me... and because Jason had united his life with mine, I believed that he was somehow doomed too.

Somewhere along the way,  I began to read a lot of Elisabeth Elliot. She was the mentor I needed through years that felt terribly lonely and difficult. She had lost so much. There was so much to keep her heart rooted in bitterness and anger, yet she used the memory of her pain and her ability to forgive to minister to my heart and the hearts of millions of women all over the world. I'd become so weary from fighting what felt like epic battles with the world and with myself. One day I read a short chapter, most likely in Keep a Quiet Heart, concerning the story of Abraham and Isaac. I realized something that day. It was time to start offering all my Isaacs to God. It was time to take each desire of my heart, right along with the fuel and the fire, all the way up the long mountain trail. It was time to lay them all down on the altar, ready and willing to sacrifice, but all the time waiting for God's provision to appear. Even if that provision was merely the strength and patience to endure, it was provision nonetheless.

 "And He has said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me." ~2 Corinthians 12:9

A few days before I turned 40, and against the advice of several specialists who had just diagnosed me with multiple auto-immune diseases, I ran a half marathon. We happened to live in an area just on the edge of the Texas Hill Country. My training ground was brutal. I never timed my runs, but I drove them off so I'd know that I was completing my distance goals. I ran on pavement and I ran on trails. I threw out water bottles at intervals and made note of beginnings and endings. Some evenings I just rode miles and miles on my mountain bike to build up my quads. By the time I was ready to race, I was completing 4-5 mile short runs during the week and 7-8 mile long runs on the weekends. A few days before the race, I ran 10 miles straight for the first time ever... and I timed myself. It was a hot afternoon, so I didn't pay much attention to my completion time on that run. I tried to stay elated over the fact that I'd actually run 10 miles non-stop.  The race took place in Downtown San Antonio. While it's still slightly hilly there, it's nothing to where I'd trained. The morning started off chilly for a South Texas spring. It was pretty windy too. Aside from the big hill at the beginning, I moved along pretty well and passed a lot of runners, even though I was trying to pace myself. At the end of the race, I turned a corner into the final straightaway. I could see the finish line and a very large digital clock mounted there. Focusing in on the numbers on the clock through the sweat that kept seeping into my eyes, I blinked several times in disbelief. I'd set a goal time for my finish. I was just yards from the finish line and a full THIRTY MINUTES ahead of my goal time. I was tired. I was thirsty. But seeing the numbers on that clock gave wings to my feet. I was over that finish line before ten more seconds had elapsed and I was elated as a young, muscular race coordinator enthusiastically high-fived me and placed a medal around my neck.

Wow. What an experience. And while I hadn't entered to compete against anyone, I was overwhelmed by my finish time. Adversity was my trainer. Those hills that about killed me on my day to day slogs won for me a confidence that I still maintain.... a 112 pound weakling finishing a race she never thought she'd enter and certainly never imagined she could complete... trained on adversity and a good Father's discipline, and carried through by a Grace she still cannot see or completely understand.

"Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us..." ~Hebrews 12:1

"And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing." ~James 1:4

I still cannot pretend to understand why my life has played out the way it has, but I have a very firm conviction that there's a purpose for it all because a Great and Sovereign God has it all well in hand. We know how it ends, we just don't know exactly how this, the Greatest Author, will bring it all about. I've had many, many opportunities to combine memory with forgiveness and counsel students through grief and abuse. I've had the opportunity to lead some of them to Christ. I've been able to hear a friend's struggle without judgement. What a beautiful thing. Hard won maybe, yet something I would never trade for all the perfect stories in the world. And there are none really. Eventually, maybe I'll learn to be completely content with the story God is writing for me and Jason and Jonathan and Melanie, and not be even slightly envious of someone else. It's certainly not the story I would have written. I keep offering that story up with all my other Isaacs, editing and revising it in such a way as I hope will please Him, bringing to it the knife and the fire, and accepting instead provision and redemption. And I believe that, as we slowly approach the end of all things and the beginning of a happily ever after, I will be ever more vocal in my gratitude for God's authorship of these stories. 

Sheldon Vanauken described it better than anyone when he explained his understanding of the Trinity in a letter to C.S. Lewis. It was a concept that he and his wife, Davy, came up with as new believers through discussions with fellow Oxford students.


"I am incarnate in my book. I am out here writing it, so I'm like god the Father. But it's really me in the book, too, isn't it? so that's Jesus, the Son, right? The me in the book speaks my words-and yet they are speeches that I've probably never made in real life, not being in those situations. And yet can't you see that it's really me?' 

There's something else, though,' said Davy. 'The other characters-made up ones. Invented ones. If Van invents characters, they'll all, even the bad ones, have something of Van in them, won't they? So, you see? We all have something of God in us-God's spirit-but only the One, Jesus, Is God Incarnate. But God's Spirit in us...Well, that makes the Trinity, doesn't it? God the Father, God the Son, And God the Holy Spirit. Actually, I've never seen it so clearly myself."

 ~From A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken

So I'll end the way I've been beginning lately -- with a book review. 😊 If you have not read the book I just quoted, well, you should read it too. It is beautiful, heart-wrenching (so be prepared to mop a few tears from your eyes), and all about the sovereignty of a good and gracious God. 


 

C.S. Lewis in a Time of War

Bear with me here. It's been well over a year since I read this one, but scrolling through documentaries on Prime this afternoon put me face to face with one that I'd watched a while back on the subject of C. S. Lewis' great work, Mere Christianity. Geek that I am, I started watching it again... and promptly fell asleep. 

When I woke, the documentary was over and a kiddo was standing over me with his face right at three inches from mine. He was holding a red beetle encased in hardened hot glue in one hand while poking me with the other. After explaining to my son that God's creatures were not intended for torture and that presentations on specific beetle species could wait if the presentee was trying to get some much-needed shut-eye, the book C.S. Lewis in a Time of War came to mind.

I had picked up the book in our Purcellville Public Library, determined on that day to choose something for myself after loading up several bags with the children's picks. While admittedly dry in some sections, C.S. Lewis in a Time of War was difficult for me to put down. I had never read Mere Christianity at that point. I had only recently read The Weight of Glory, written right around the same time, during a visit to the E.R. Those have been less frequent for me over the last 18 months or so, but at the time, I was plagued with odd, severe aches and heart palpitations that had both me and my husband rather concerned. I happened to have The Weight of Glory in my purse and I read while I waited for a sonographer to arrive. The wait was so long, and the book so short, that I managed to finish the book during that stay. I read this one on a follow up visit and series of lengthy diagnostic tests in the weeks that followed. 

Around this same time, I listened to a podcast given by a professor at some New England college on "reading around" certain authors before enjoying their actual works. While I hadn't intended to do that with this book, that's exactly what happened. What a gift it was! Ingesting this book just before reading Mere Christianity opened whole worlds of ancillary information and formulated a backdrop which allowed me to understand and enjoy the book at a much deeper level.

In case you're not aware, the book, Mere Christianity, began as a series of BBC broadcasts written and delivered by C.S. Lewis to war-torn England and Europe. His goal was to bring words of faith and hope through a decidedly non-denominational message to millions suffering under German occupation. One of the highlights for me was the detailed information given on the editing of these talks and also on the language and delivery methods allowing for tight national security. In fact, Phillips was so meticulous that he even included information on how Lewis chose to spend earnings received for those talks. 

Within the pages of C.S. Lewis in a Time of War, not only is the reader transported to WWII-era London and Oxford, s/he is introduced to the very minds and hearts of Lewis and BBC religious producers of that era. Justin Phillips gives a detailed account of the founding of the BBC as well; a history that certainly appealed to the curiosity of this reader.

Since reading this book, I read a recently-published biography on Joy Davidman (Lewis' wife) simply entitled Joy (Purcellville library) and the Lewis biography, Jack (BRBC library), written by George Sayer. Both are fascinating and well worth reading, but nothing prepared me for a deep study of Mere Christianity more than Phillip's well-researched and enjoyable book.

Good and Angry + Bitterness

 I am making some serious room in my book bag this week! I finished Good and Angry (Turansky & Miller) tonight. This one has been a life-changer... HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! I got an opportunity to hear both Scott Turansky and Joanne Miller speak at a home school conference in Ft. Worth, Texas almost five years ago. I was able to meet Scott later at his booth down on the exhibition floor. While not the most engaging orators, they have a pure message that doesn't need any angst, comedy, or fluff to make it effective. We're born sinners into a broken world and we have a Guidebook (the Bible) and relationships to help us lead obedient, Godly lives. That message doesn't need any help. I was so moved and learned so much in the first session that I attended a second session hosted by this team later on in the day.

For me it was so helpful to meet Scott.  I can be pretty shy, but when I get excited about a message like this one, I can get assertive. Something about this man's general demeanor is warm, kind, and refreshing. His passion to help point families to abundant lives in Christ is as evident within his person and it is the pages of this book. 

If you go through some of the books on my shelves and actually open them, you might see something like this. The above picture is a side view of my copy of Good and Angry... all the evidence you'd need to know that this book really spoke to me. Growing up in a home with parents who were trying hard to do it right... parenting through a fine mesh of hurt and bitterness brought about through extreme abuse and neglect... they couldn't help but pay forward some of the hurt they lived. No encouragement was forthcoming... little, if any guidance was offered to them.  In fact, they often experienced the opposite of guidance and encouragement. Even still, they worked hard to offer us what they did not receive. This book addresses the root of anger and bitterness that we as parents deal with in our relationships with our children. It also encourages us to keep trying, even when we fail and fall back on old routines and habits that threaten our family relationships.

Within the pages of Good and Angry, sound advice is offered straight from Bible wisdom. At the end of each chapter are Bible passages and object lessons to help your whole family understand the ramifications of anger and bitterness. I used one today before we headed out to our first day of Vacation Bible School. I plan to use one each day at our breakfast devotions this week. While I can't tell you if today's lesson hit home or not, my son did make an exceptionally mature statement on the way home, verifying to me that he is listening and learning, at least in some areas, how to be sensitive to the needs of others. We all still have a lot of work to do. 

Just a couple years ago, I realized that I was not being obedient to God in one of the major points of the Ten Commandments. 

"Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your God gives you." ~Exodus 20:12

It doesn't add, "if they deserve it." I think it took becoming a parent to realize that none of us deserve honor. But we are still required to honor each other, especially our parents, even as adults. I realized then how angry I'd been at my parents. In some areas, I had reason to be angry. My children will have reason to harbor anger and bitterness toward me as well if they don't choose to take to heart the lesson of obedience and forgiveness. 

When I decided to review Good and Angry, this little booklet came to my mind. My sweet friend, Catherine, gave me it to me right after I became a mother. Somehow she detected a deep-seated bitterness in me and a tendency to become easily offended. I learned then that the two are related. I will be forever grateful for her willingness to gently direct me in those areas. It still took me till a couple years ago to get to the end of this little booklet. It was the final two chapters that I needed most, but for some reason, I stopped before I got there. What I found in those chapters mirrored my own heart attitude so completely that it startled me at first. It sent me to my knees first and then to God's Word. While I still get offended occasionally and I still yell at my kids from time to time, things are improving. Good and Angry reinforced the lessons learned through Catherine and this little booklet. 

I'm not exactly sure, but I think Catherine received the booklet from a pastor friend. There may be many of these booklets covering many topics. If you're interested in it, you might be able to receive it from your pastor as a part of his counseling ministry.

Good and Angry in a nutshell (without giving too much away 😃): God created anger. Anger is good. It's a very helpful indicator that something's not quite right. However, anger is never a way to solve a problem, especially in a relationship. While the object lessons and examples mostly deal in parent/child relationships, they can be applied to any area of your life. 

Karen Andreola

 Karen Andreola is another lady I'd love to meet. I wish I could sit with both her and Jamie Martin in a little corner of a Barnes & Noble somewhere and spend an entire afternoon just soaking in the wisdom. I've heard Karen's work described as unrealistic, sentimental, syrupy, corny, and saccharine. I disagree. This lady writes with a fleshed-out wisdom and winsomeness. Her books are founded on the truth of the Bible and in the common-sense philosophy of Charlotte Mason's volumes and Parent's Review articles.

What I appreciate most about the two books I've pictured here is that you don't have to read the books all the way through. The information is highly accessible to a busy mom who just needs a quick blurb on how to implement something in her school day. That's worth gold! The chapters are ordered by subject. If you need info. on how to teach Shakespeare, go to the chapter with that subject heading. If you need info. on how to make nature study or habit training happen, leaf over to those chapters.

I'm more of a "global thinker" so it's hard for me to approach any book in segments. I read both of these books cover to cover. In fact, the purple book up top was one of the very first books I read on home-educating our children. I was so thankful that I didn't have to read all of Charlotte Mason's six volumes before implementing the philosophy in our home. This book made that happen for us. We're approaching year 4 and I'm only half way through volume three. Here's hoping I'll get done reading the primary source material about the philosophy we're using before the kids actually graduate!

Having read both books now, it's easier for me to pick a chapter and go with it when I need refreshers in certain areas of our home school life. It makes this way of life not only more appealing, but also more doable. 

The Charlotte Mason Companion obviously centers more on philosophical ideas and practical approaches to a Charlotte Mason-style education. Even if you're not a purist (I'm not.), you could easily use this book to pick and choose which aspects of CM you want to use.

As far as subject matter is concerned, Mother Culture is a bit different. This is Karen's most recent offering. I finished reading it a couple days ago. Mother Culture is formatted almost exactly the same way as the Charlotte Mason Companion making it just as user-friendly. There's no need to read cover-to-cover unless you just want to. Using Scripture, Parables, and her own real-life examples, Karen Andreola encourages mothers (especially home school mamas) to find margin in their lives for pursuits that are enriching to them as mothers and wives. While this seems counter-intuitive (and maybe a little selfish too), it actually encourages us in our homemaking endeavors and encourages our children and husbands to use their gifts of creativity and ingenuity as well. We become examples to them as good stewards of the gifts God has provided.

A little background information on Karen Andreola: She and her husband, Dean, were responsible for rediscovering and publishing the highly sought after "pink" Charlotte Mason volumes. They also located and began re-publishing the Parent's Review periodical that circulated in Charlotte's day. Those periodicals can be ordered through the Andreola's website. Karen would tell you that she began her home-education career without knowing where to start. Her desire to be obedient and diligent in her learning and teaching led her and her husband to this wealth of information and this lovely "discipline, atmosphere, and life."  I'm so thankful that she and her husband were willing to share what they uncovered with the rest of us! 

Karen has several other books out as well. I've read one of them, but I'd prefer to reveiw it when I can combine that review with another book of similar subject matter. Karen is affiliated with Simply Charlotte Mason. I lean more toward Ambleside Online to plan the activities in our home school, but I use several resources from Simply Charlotte Mason to make our lives easier. You can find more of Karen's work there as well.

Introverted Mom Review

 Less than a week ago I wrote a very long post in the midst of some weirdness I tend to experience a few times a year when I run up against a schedule that, over a period of many months, doesn't allow for enough down time to write and process in quiet and solitude. I glanced over that post again tonight after the kiddos were in their beds and I could hardly believe what I read. It was actually decent writing, but I had to concede that it wasn't ready to post, even with the tiny audience this little blog attracts.  I wound up pulling that post down a few hours after writing it because it contained a lot of soul-wrenching language leading to some definitive decision-making for our family that was long overdue. When those loose ends are left dangling in my heart, it can have a very negative effect over time.  I'm slowly learning that when I don't give myself margin to get my thoughts out into a place where I can visualize and order them, I get a bit emotionally unstable, I start to feel freighted with anxiety, and I very definitely start experiencing strange and unpleasant physical symptoms. My journal is getting worn out this month, and a couple of my friends have received emails too long to read (much less process). To those friends, "Thank you, and I apologize." 😳

The book, Introverted Mom,  came to me close to the end of the busiest part of the busy season we're still occupying around here. While I continue to wrestle with its message, I do believe that when something this specifically relevant becomes available in such a timely fashion, when it offers hope and relief after months of prayerfully asking for hope and relief,  it is most likely a gift from God. I finished it today. I loved it. I wish I could have coffee with the author because I've learned to love her through her words, and I want/need/crave more of her wisdom. I feel strongly though that, although Jamie Martin has pointed me down a correct path, my reliance should be on the Holy Spirit to direct me over the rocky places and through the snarls that still await.

Here's where I'm still struggling. Where do we separate what is our natural bent (our sinful, natural man) from what is intended as a gift to bring gifts to others? Is introversion a natural/sinful inclination? I think it could be like any character quality that is misused, misguided, and misdirected. I can completely understand why the ascetics were able to cloister themselves on rocky islands and in caves for years on end. I have an undeniable yearning to pack a suitcase full of books, paper, pens, and pencils and find a distant cave right now. I get it. However, I think that's taking introversion to sinful extremes... except that some historians credit those same men with the salvation of western civilization and the preservation of the Gospel through the period between the fall of Rome and the beginning of the medieval period. I'm sorry. I can't help myself. Read How the Irish Saved Civilization to get a broader explanation/interpretation on that subject (Thomas Cahill - I think?). Men with those same tendencies were responsible for all those scrolls in the caves at Qumran. I could cite a veritable library on that one. I've got a near-complete master's thesis sitting in my attic on that very subject. And man, oh man does it excite me.

Clearly I've been doing some soul searching on this. I don't mean to make it an overwhelming preoccupation with self, but I do feel the need to tease this out and find ways to create margin for those giftings. If I don't, how can I help my kiddos find theirs? If I'm lost and alone on the path, how do I point the ones who depend on me in the right direction? If this is a gift to be used to the glory of my Creator and the edification of others He created, then I want to stop despising that gift and start fine-tuning it for Him.

The place where I struggle most is in mothering an extrovert. While I tend to be a sensitive soul, I can be selfish and highly insensitive in my need for a quiet space to think. This is where the struggle happens. This is where I'm tempted to sin. And there's a chapter or two discussing just this problem, and some possible solutions, within the pages of Introverted Mom.

We're all called to step beyond what's comfortable. You don't have to read too far into the Bible to encounter characters doing just that. Keep reading and you find it over and over and over and over and over again. Stepping out onto the choppiness of the sea of life, our eyes laser-focused on Jesus, is a requirement of all believers. But to be mamas with quieter gifts... gifts of writing, creating, deep conversation, and one-on-one encouragement through notes and small gatherings, it's important to feed a need for margin, or we will struggle to function... to join in creation... a thing we must do, in my opinion, as believing children of God.

The above is my attempt at taking a few minutes each day to get some thoughts out in writing... a little experiment to see if I start feeling like a more balanced individual. Guess what? It's working! Getting the opportunity to harmonize with others on Tuesday evenings is another big boost to my mental and emotional health. In most cases, social gatherings flatten me. Tuesday-night rehearsals leave me energized to the point that I have trouble settling to sleep on the nights I attend. Finding opportunities to serve the Body while quenching our own thirst for joy is a "win-win" as Jamie Martin puts it. I have to agree.