On Bullying or A Humble Defense of the Town of Greece

I’ve been religiously following the story of Karen Klein, the bus monitor who was verbally abused and humiliated by a bunch of middle-schoolers from my hometown, Greece, NY. I have spent the last 15 years defending my hometown to those who live on the east side of the city. This story hasn’t helped my cause, much.

Why Greece should be cast in such a negative limelight is beyond me; it’s not as if bullying is limited to the boundaries of western New York, though it sometimes feels like it. Caleb was recently excommunicated from his lunch table by a bunch of bullies, who suddenly and inexplicably turned on him at the end of the year. He came home at the end of each day, eyes brimming with tears, with a story of a new name he was called. “Midget, little girl, midget lady…” And I was filled with righteous anger. Spankings were in order! We should line up these kids and berate them like drill sergeants! Their parents should be fined hundreds of dollars!

These kids are nine.

Instead of throwing a hissy fit and marching into Caleb’s school with purpose, I quietly reminded Caleb he was better than the way he was being treated, that kindness is always the best policy, and that summer was right around the corner. That he can’t control the way he is treated, but that he can control the way he responds. I read from the bible:

Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”

“Burning coals on his head?”

Maybe that wasn’t the best verse to read.

In the interim, I have donated to Karen Klein’s “vacation” fund. I have cried. I cried for Caleb, and for kids who are too scared to speak up for what is right, and I cried for kids who are so weak that they spew evil things from their mouths in order to fit in. I cried because next year I have to put my babies on the bus, or rather, on the big yellow den of iniquities.

I threatened to homeschool.

I thanked God to be done with the public school experience, which wasn’t my favorite time of life.

I took courage in my faith, and in God’s word, which really has more wise words to say on the subject than the talking heads at Fox News, The Washington Post, and CNN.



2 Timothy 1:7


For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.


Matthew 5:38-41


“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.


Deuteronomy 31:6


Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”


Ephesians 4:29


Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.

Mark 12:31


The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”


1 Peter 3:8-9


Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing.


Micah 6:8


He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

Romans 12:18


If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.

Power, love, self-control, strength, courage, generosity, tenderness, sympathy, humility, justice- peace. If my children can foster even half of these attributes, they will be blessed. 

Life is hard. And despite what those commercials say, it might not get better. But, if my kids live admirably and in accordance with the verses above, I believe God will bless them. If possible, so far as it depends on them, I will admonish my kids to live peaceably with all. And if they make the wrong choices anyway, then they will see the righteous anger. 

See? People from Greece aren’t all bad.  Also, we are a biodiverse community with many excellent Italian restaurants and lovely lakefront homes.  So there you have it.

Life is Like a Baseball Game

Life at our house is much like a baseball game.  Most of the time, it's a bit slow with occasional and sudden moments of intense frenzy and running around like looney-birds.  Also, at any given moment my kids scream out things like "POPCORN!,"  while John screams out, "BEER!"  And I am prone to blurting out "The Star Spangled Banner" at least once a day.  So, yes, our life is much like a baseball game.

We took Danny and Caleb to the season opener of the Red Wings on Saturday.  On Sunday, we enjoyed a musical and convicting service at our church, and then had a lovely dinner with family in Lockport, where I offended everyone by calling Jesus "the ultimate zombie."  Personally, I believe Jesus MUST have a sense of humor; otherwise, how do you explain the platypus? 

Some photos from the weekend:

I bought the twins sunglasses when March tricked me into believing sunny days would reign well into next November.

Oversized sunglasses are in.

Ella loves to pose.

My mom and sister arranged an Easter egg hunt. 



Not too old to search for candy.

Someone's mouth is full.

We decorated cookies.

 

Ben insisted my mom get out red sprinkles because red is his favorite color. This poor rabbit looks like it's been slaughtered.

 

Amazing blue skies.

We went to the Red Wings opening day on Saturday.
This is Daniel without a hot dog.

This is Danny with a hot dog.
You can draw your own conclusion. 
All right, I'll tell you.
Life is better with a hot dog. 

The kids are on spring break for the week, and let me tell you, I am going nuts.  Wherever I am, there's a child underfoot, begging me for a snack or tattling on Daniel. Poor Daniel is always the one who gets tattled on.  Caleb retreats into his own room to read or play by himself a lot of the time.

When you get Caleb alone, he is conversely really talkative and will share things on his mind.  He told John, "Dad?  I'm happiest at home.  I'd rather just stay home than go anywhere else."

Often, I give myself a hard time for not having a more organized life, a neater home, a stricter schedule.  But my kids- they don't seem to care.  They revel in the chaos and rest in the peaceful moments in between.

Life is like a baseball game.  It's dirty, hard, sometimes horribly predictable, sometimes full of surprises, the players always striving to get home. 

I'm glad my kids are home. 

Can

I gave up sugar for lent. (Refined sugar, icky sugary processed foods. The really bad stuff.) Then there was cake and I may have indulged.

I’m not saying God smote me with cholera because I broke my Lenten promise, but I am saying it’s a slight to very real possibility. The cholera is one good way to expunge all the sugar from one’s body. Good grief.

There are far too many moments I tell myself I can’t.

I can’t keep up.

I can’t be happy.

I can’t stop craving sugary processed foods. I can’t.

I can’t run a 5K, let alone some type of marathon.

I can’t be a good mom to my wonderful kids.

I can’t keep promises to God, let alone to others.

And then God smites me with the cholera. Because the truth is, I can. And the sooner I learn to tell myself “I can” instead of “I can’t,” the better off I’ll be- and the less cholera I'll have to endure...

This video (and song) never fail to reduce me to a puddle.  Enjoy. 



For the record, I don't believe God smote me with cholera.



Also, I actually CAN'T don't like to run because my toes go numb  and it's actually quite painful. Thoughts on this?

The Reality of Christmas

Today, there are two things on my agenda: clean the house and bake more Christmas cookies. Molasses, gingerbread, crème de menthe truffles, snickerdoodles… Tonight, John will make a crackling fire and I will snuggle on the couch with my four perfect children and watch the film Nativity.

Ella’s actually not so perfect right now. Her upper lip is so chapped and red I call her Rudolph.

“I not Rudolph. I Ella! I a girl!” (Her speech is coming along, people.)

We will wish for snow, because mud doesn’t invoke cozy Christmas feelings the way clean white snow does, and we will send the kids to bed with visions of sugarplums in our heads. Or crème de menthe truffles. Or whatever. After they fall asleep, I will continue wrapping presents. (I finally started this most arduous process last night.)

Last evening, at 9:30, as John was bringing in Barbie dolls and Imaginext Batman toys from his trunk (our super secret Christmas hiding spot) to our living room, a mother whose three children were already slumbering in their own beds slipped from this world into the next. She had been fighting an aggressive form of cancer for the past 2 years. Her three children are just about the same age as mine.

I read the news with a heavy, bitter heart. I thought of how the shadow of her death will forever darken her children’s Christmases to come.

And then I thought better.

I thought of how the miracle we celebrate on December 25 makes it possible for these kids to have hope. That there is something serenely beautiful about leaving this broken earth at the same time of year we celebrate Jesus’ coming,remembering that Jesus came for the sole purpose of bridging the unfathomably large gap between heaven and earth.

Tonight, I will hold my kids close and remind them of our temporary condition. Their toys, which bring them such short-lived joy, are nothing in comparison to the ultimate gift of Christmas. And they will probably tell me to be quiet mom, that I always talk during movies and hug them so tight they can’t breathe so good. So I’ll tickle them and one will inevitably rush off to go to the bathroom, and we will all laugh. Oh, how blessed we are to have one another. To have faith.

“You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” C.S. Lewis.

Merry Christmas.

Lent

I’ve been thinking about Lent.

“What are you giving up for Lent?” I asked John. “Because I have some ideas for you. You should give up alcoholic beverages. I’m giving up sex.”

“Wow. A double win,” was his response.

He was unenthused.

Lent, of course, is the 40 day period before Easter Sunday where Christians take time to pray and contemplate the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Self-denial is a practice of Lent that I have always been perfectly happy not to participate in. I’ve only ever attended protestant churches that don’t participate in Lent; yet, I’ve always been intrigued by the concept.

So, I’ve been thinking seriously about participating in Lent, which starts this Wednesday, but I can’t decide what to deprive myself of. I’m focusing on the following verse:

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified. 1 Cor 9: 24-27 ESV

I like this verse. It works on many levels. I’m hoping that if, for 40 days, I focus on becoming more physically disciplined, I will also become more mentally and spiritually disciplined, because when it comes to self-control, I am lacking. I am much like Kiah the Wonder Dog, unable to stay out of the pantry, unable to focus on tasks at hand, unable to keep my small brain from getting into mischief.

I do not pee on the floor. I want to make that clear.

I think I’m going to try and eliminate processed foods (with the exception of Cheerios. I can not be without Cheerios. And pasta and rice. I’ll try to go whole grain…) and limit my overall daily sugar intake. This will require supernatural assistance, especially since it is Cadbury Cream Egg season.

(I wish they made a sugar patch, like a nicotine patch. I am so very addicted to sugar.)

I’d be more disciplined at running- actual physical running- if I didn’t suffer from a debilitating condition. My toes and the balls of my feet go numb after I’ve run about a mile. At first it just feels weird, but then it gets prickly and painful, like running on little needles.

Why does this happen?

So, I’ve been training in the pool, but I think I need a lesson. I may have trouble swimming in a straight line. (A statement that, like the verse above, works on both a literal and figurative level.) Knock into an elderly woman once, and it’s an honest mistake. Do it more than once, and suddenly you’re a “menace” and “out to get people suffering from rheumatoid arthritis.”

There have been many obstacles to getting in shape. I’m talking literal obstacles that take the form of grouchy old women floating on those tube things.

So, here I am this evening, contemplating a 40-day sugar semi-fast, while half watching a National Geographic show entitled “My Child is a Monkey” and eating a small bowl of sugary fruit loops. (And let’s be honest. There will probably be more small bowls of sugary fruit loops as the evening progresses.) The TV guide’s synopses of “My Child is a Monkey”: Primates who are adopted as surrogate human babies. I thought it would be funny. It has turned out to be dreadfully depressing. Here’s to hoping that the following program, “Marijuana Nation,” will be more uplifting.

Also, I’m noting how often I’ve used the word “I” in this post. Will write about narcissism later this week, because that’s what narcissistic bloggers do: write about their narcissism in a self-deprecating narcissistic manner. Also trying to give up narcissism for lent.

What are you giving up?

Bells on Christmas



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I’m back in the choir for Christmas and hopefully beyond, and guess what? I’m a soprano this year. I’m in full-fledged diva mode. I’ve been listening to my Mariah Carey Christmas album and yesterday, in a moment that nearly sent the dog into a full-fledged panic attack (the Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!), I hit a high C. It’s all about air, people. Air in the gullet. (I’m not going to say it sounded pretty, or even socially appropriate, but it was a high C.)

I was pleased to find out that we are singing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” which is my husband’s favorite carol. I wrinkled my nose when I saw it was NOT the original version, but some newfangled adaptation by the band Casting Crowns.

Blah.

It is possible that I was born with a very old and cranky soul. Why take a perfectly gorgeous melody and toss it aside for something that is, in my not-so-humble opinion, mediocre? (For the record, the 50’s adaptation by Johnny Marks, who is most notably the author of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” is okay, but Calkin’s melancholy version written in 1872 is the original, and I think, the best. And I’m not even going to tell the story of the day I found “Adagio for Strings” set to techno music on YouTube. There was a hissy-fit of epic proportions.)

The words to “Bells on Christmas Day” were written by the great American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow at the tail-end of the Civil War. Several years before, in 1861, Longfellow lost the love of his life, his wife Fanny, in a tragic accident. After cutting her daughter’s hair during a heat wave, Fanny Longfellow decided to preserve the cuttings in some wax, which dripped onto her dress. A breeze from the window set her dress on fire, and in order to protect her children, Fanny ran into the next room, where Henry frantically tried to extinguish the fire with a small rug. When this failed, he threw himself around her, burning himself in the process.

Fanny died the next morning. Henry, recovering from his own burns, was too injured to go to her funeral. His beard remained full and long because his injuries kept him from ever being able to shave his face without excruciating pain.

Longfellow’s journal, Christmas 1861: How inexpressibly sad are all holidays. I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace.

Longfellow’s journal, Christmas 1862: A merry Christmas' say the children, but that is no more for me.

In 1863, Longfellow received word that his oldest son had been severely injured and permanently disabled in battle. His journal that Christmas is silent.

In 1864, on Christmas day, he writes the poem “Christmas Bells":

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 Then from each black accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

I have never known such sorrow. I can’t imagine what went on in his heart that would bring him from bitterness and misery to hope and faith. It was, in short, some sort of miracle.

And you should all probably know that as I write this, I am listening to Adagio for Strings and crying like a baby. (I have a very sentimental, cranky old soul.)

Here's hoping your have a blessed start to the Christmas season!

Johnny Cash actually sings the Calkin melody; so do the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They seem to be in the minority.

Communion

Almost two weeks ago, three cars collided on 390N. The talking head on the news reported that a woman was taken to the hospital with severe head injuries. When I saw the report, I had a weird, heebie-jeebie feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is unlike me, to have weird heebie-jeebie feelings in ANY part of my body. (I’m not one for supernatural “signs” in the form of nausea.) Still, I felt compelled to call my mother (who lives off of 390N) and make sure she was home, safe. She was, already in her pajamas, wondering why I thought she would be on the 390 at all. I dunno, lady. Maybe you went to the mall or something.

I pondered who the woman might be. “It could be someone we know,” I said to my mom. We hung up and I, somewhat subdued, took a Tums and went to bed.

The woman with “severe” head injuries turned out to be my friend, Lydia. A man lost control of his car, drove across the median, and slammed into Lyd’s vehicle. Lyd lost consciousness, crawled out of her car via the passenger door, and took an ambulance ride to the hospital. She was released later that evening.

Lydia is one my oldest and best friends. We’ve been through a lot together. I stole her best friend in the fourth grade, she slapped my face (she says accidentally) in the fifth grade, and in the eighth grade, I peed all over her kitchen floor. (First time I had Vodka. I’m not particularly proud of that incident.) Lyd cleaned it up. She’s one of those friends- the long-term, will-always-be-there-for-you friends. I sincerely hope you have one.

Lyd has to have surgery next week- her orbital bone is in need of repair or else, and these were her words, her “eyeball will sink into her cheek.” (Ack! I now realize I’ve been taking my orbital bone totally for granted.) She also suffered a concussion and is bruised and beaten. She limps, thanks to a swollen knee, and her eye looks like you would imagine someone with a compromised orbital bone’s eye would look. (It is a lovely shade of aubergine.)

But if you saw the pictures of her car, you would know how lucky she is. How lucky everyone who loves her is. If you have an active imagination, you might note how the insides of the engine hanging from the crumpled hood are reminiscent of something out of a horror movie. It might be a miracle that she is alive.

Incidences like this remind me that we’re all standing at the edge of a precipice, and that fate can push us into the abyss just as easily as it holds us back. And the precariousness of this situation sometimes wears on me.

Everything is meaningless. Wisdom is meaningless. Pleasure is meaningless. Folly is meaningless. Advancement is meaningless. Toil is meaningless. Riches are meaningless.

(Because, of course, you can’t take it with you.)

For who knows what is good for a man in life, during the few and meaningless days he passes through like a shadow? Who can tell him what will happen under the sun after he is gone?

Did you know that the book of Ecclesiastes is a favorite among atheists? I am a person of faith, yet I so often I have an atheist’s heart. I have perched at the edge of the precipice and looked down- my heart filled with nothing. No passion, no love, no anger, just a void. Just a dark, deep, chasm. And I have wanted to bury myself in the darkness. (see endnote)

We took communion today at church. We were asked to examine ourselves- to make sure our hearts were clean before we took the bread and the wine. (Which is really just juice. So lame.)

And my heart held no grievances, no bitterness, no angst- nothing, really. My heart was empty.

As a woman of faith, I believe there is a bridge that will take me across the chasm. That went the time comes, my leap of faith will carry me to the other side. I know that life is not meaningless… that my loves, aches, and toils will have counted for something. That I’m loved when I don’t feel loved. That God makes everything that is bad into something that is good: that people of faith are “as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.” (2 Cor 6:10)

And this evening, this verse brings me peace. (I’m working toward the rejoicing. Don’t want to get ahead of myself, here.) And I’m eternally grateful for my loves, my family, my friend- for her safety and for her meaningful life. Her ever-meaningful life.

My husband, on the other hand, needs your prayers. On the way home from church today, he was stuck behind a particularly terrible driver. He gritted his teeth and his gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles a most angry white, and when the woman finally turned away from us, he shouted, “LADY! I do not forgive you. At least, not until the next communion.”

At least he didn’t give her the finger.



Endnote: Don't call 911. I'm not saying I feel like that NOW- this is just an example of the sort of depressing stuff depressed people feel occasionally. 911 NOT NECESSARY. ALSO- I don't mean to imply that all atheists feel nothing. Obviously not. I don't mean to offend. If you're an atheist and you take offense, it is probably because you are a perfectly LOVELY human being. I'm going to stop now.

Bigger Faith

John read this to me in the car today.

As a Christian who is sending her kids to public schools, it was quite a refreshing "listen."

Excerpted from Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell

Do you know anybody who grew up in a religious environment, maybe even a Christian one, and walked away from faith/ church/ God when they turned eighteen and went away to college?

Whenever I ask this question in a group of people, almost every hand goes up. Let me suggest why. Imagine what happens when a young woman is raised in a Christian setting but hasn't been taught that all things are hers and then goes to a university where she's exposed to all sorts of new ideas and views and perspectives. She takes classes in psychology and anthropology and biology and world history, and her professsors are people who have devoted themselves to their particular fields of study. Is it possible that in the course of lecturing on their particular fields of interest, her professors will from time to time say things that are true? Of course. Truth is available to everyone.

But let's say her professors aren't Christians, it is not a "Christian" university, and this young woman hasn't been taught that all things are hers. What if she has been taught that Christianity is the only thing that's true? What if she has been taught that there is no truth outside the bible? She's now faced with this dilemma: believe the truth she's learning or the Christian faith she was brought up with.

Or we could put her dilemma this way: intellectual honestly or Jesus?

How many times have you seen this? I can't tell you the number of people in their late teens or early twenties I know, or those I have been told about, who experience truth outside the boundaries of their religion and abandon the whole thing because they think it's a choice. They are experiencing truth in all sorts of new ways, and they need a faith that is big enough to handle it. Their box is getting blown apart, and the faith they were handed doesn't have room for what they are learning.

But it isn't a choice, because Jesus said, "I am the way, the truth, the life." If you come across truth in any form, it isn't outside your faith as a Christian. Your faith just got bigger. To be a Christian is to claim truth wherever you find it.

(I haven't read the entire book, though I realize Bell has been called "a heretic" and other unpleasant things. Even a heretic espouses truth once and again, I imagine.)

Genesis

I’m reading the Bible. All the way through. I’ve read, of course, significant portions of the good book, but never all the way through. I don’t know what compelled me to take this on right now; it just felt like the time to do it. So I am.

I’m through Genesis and Exodus. I was thinking about starting a whole separate blog about my thoughts on this undertaking, but I don’t think I will. I’ll just occasionally update my biblical journey on this blog. Too many blogs a confused person makes, I think.

So- Genesis. Let me tell you about Genesis.

Genesis contains the stories of the biblical patriarchs, i.e. the founding fathers of the Jewish and Christian traditions. These men include: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph. They are God’s chosen people. They are also deeply flawed: they make the same mistakes over and over again. They fail to really learn from history.

One common theme:

Enmity between brothers. Adam’s sons are Cain and Abel. Cain, out of jealousy, kills Abel.

Abraham’s sons are Isaac and Ishmael. Born of, respectively, Sarah and her maidservant, Hagar, Isaac and Ishmael are made enemies by their mothers. Their mothers, understandably, are jealous of one another. (Polygamy doesn't work, people.) Hagar and Ishmael are sent away by Abraham, though God takes care of them. He promises Ishmael shall be the father of a great nation. While Isaac is one of the founding fathers of Israel, Ishmael is supposedly the father of the Arab, or Muslim, nation.

Isaac’s sons are Jacob and Esau. Jacob deceives his father and steals Esau’s inheritance and blessing. Jacob flees afterward, out of fear, but the brothers do later reconcile.

Jacob has twelve sons by wives Leah, Rachel, and their two maidservants. Jacob’s favorite son is Joseph, born of his favorite wife, Rachel. Joseph’s brothers, jealous of Joseph, dump him in a well and then sell him as a slave. (Joseph reconciles with them much later.)

Some other stuff from Genesis:

Both Abraham and Isaac pass their wives off as their sisters and get in a bit of trouble for lying. Kind of weird.

Daughters are scarce in Genesis. Jacob has one daughter, Dinah, who is raped by a Hivite, Shechem. The rapist fancies her and asks for her hand in marriage. (So romantic! Reminds me of Luke and Laura from General Hospital.) Jacob’s sons get sweet revenge. They promise that if Shechem and his people become circumcised as Israelites, they will trade their sister and daughters for Shechem’s daughters. So, all of the males in Shechem’s city get circumcised, and on the third day after the circumcisions, when the men are in a lot of pain, Joseph and his brothers attack and slaughter all of the men and plunder their city, taking their women, children, and livestock as their own.

(When Caleb, Ben, and Daniel are of appropriate age, I am going to teach them this story. And then they can tell it to any of Ella’s potential suitors.)

Genesis is ultimately a book of stories about the patriarchs of the Bible. And a lot of them are scandalous. For instance, Jacob’s son, Reuben, loses favor with his father. Why? Because he did something stupid, that’s why. He slept with his father’s concubine. Come on, Reuben. Not cool. Get your own concubines.

Incest is rampant in Genesis. Abraham’s wife, Sarah, is his half-sister. Abraham’s cousin, Lot, has two daughters who get him drunk, have sex with him, and become pregnant. Jacob’s son, Judah, visits who he thinks is a shrine prostitute, gets her pregnant, and goes home. Turns out the veiled prostitute was Tamar, his widowed daughter-in-law. She ends up giving birth to twins. (And... it makes one a bit nauseous to think about how the earth was populated by just Adam and Eve.)

There are beautiful events that took place in Genesis, too, like Jacob and Esau’s reconciliation. They see each other from a distance and literally run into one another’s arms. Reading it made me feel a bit weepy. And then there’s the long-awaited reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers. Joseph, who after being sold into slavery becomes the Pharoah’s right-hand man, forgives all of his brothers and is reunited with his father, Isaac, who has been heartbroken ever since he lost his beloved son. The Bible is essentially a book about faith and forgiveness. Those who have faith and forgive are blessed. Those who lack faith and are bitter, nasty people, perish.

Jacob’s twelve sons form the twelve tribes of Israel. (Sort of. Joseph fathers two tribes and Levi’s sons become priests belonging to the Lord.)

And this is the history of the Jewish people.

Isn’t it?

Interestingly, just a few days ago, a Chinese group of evangelical archaeologists found what they believe to be Noah’s ark atop of Mt. Ararat in Turkey. The media announced this around the time I was reading the story of Noah and the flood. Coincidence? I think not. The world does revolve around me and what I am doing, after all.

Man finds ark? Or ark finds man?

There have been archaeological remnants that seem to prove that Solomon and David existed. King David’s palace was excavated, as was a tunnel described in the Bible during the reign of Hezekiah. The tumbled walls of Jericho have even been said to be found.

How about proof that the stories in Genesis and Exodus actually occurred? Not so much. There have been no artifacts found in the Sinai desert, where the Israelites spent years roaming about. The Ten Commandments written on two stone tablets? MIA. The Ark of the Covenant? Locked somewhere in a government warehouse- proof of its existence cannot be confirmed. The parting of the Red Sea? Nary a chariot has been found in depths of the waters. And the flood? While strict creationists insist fossils and current landscape features are indicative of a great flood, scientists are not only not convinced, they find the evidence laughable. After all, whole civilizations that date back to that time period were unscathed by any flood. A myth, they insist.
When it comes to reading the Bible as fact, archaeologists come from two general schools of thought: The minimalists believe the bible is a fairy-tale, and don’t pursue ancient civilizations and artifacts as detailed by the bible. Maximalists refer to the Bible as a veritable historic resource, and refer to it like any other ancient document. Some fall in between, believing parts of the bible, like the flood, to be allegory. Other sections, they believe, actually happened, or are at least based on actual events or people.

So what of this ark in Turkey? Is it actually a boat, or just a remnant of an ancient mountain-people’s residence? And if it really is a boat, how did it get to the top of a mountain? The archaeologists who found it say that the carbon dating on the wood dates back 4800 years, right at the time the great flood is supposed to have occurred.

Both atheists and evangelicals have a hard time believing this whole thing isn’t a scam. If the carbon dating is correct, there are some problems to discuss:

1) How can creationists (those who believe in a literal 7-day earth creation) believe that carbon dating is correct when it comes to this ark, but not when it comes to dating other ancient artifacts?

2) If the carbon dating is correct, why is there evidence of societies thriving during that same time-period? Why weren’t they wiped out in the flood?

3) How did Noah fit two of every animal on a ship? What did the lions eat? Dear God, what did they do with all of the poop? And are you telling me that all of the different kinds of animals were living in the Middle East during this time? Even pandas and kangaroos? How did they eventually make it to completely different continents? And, darn it, WHAT HAPPENED TO THE UNICORN? (And the dinosaurs, for that matter.)

I’ve always been a bit of a skeptic. (For instance, I don’t believe William Shakespeare wrote those plays and sonnets. If you weigh the evidence, the evidence points to someone else. Sorry, but it does. And I’m happy to debate the issue with you.)

I’ve never been a strict 7-day creationist. I believe in God, I believe he created the earth, but, as I weighed the evidence, I moved toward a creation-evolutionist standpoint. (I keep quiet about that, generally, because in Christian circles, the term evolution is akin to the f-word.)

So, it won’t surprise you that I’ve had trouble with the flood story, too. Ask an evangelical Christian if they believe the ark actually existed, and they will say, wide eyed, “Of course! The Bible says it did.”

And this is faith.

Some people come by faith more easily than others. I guess I’m the doubting Thomas. I’m the person who would need to see the holes in Jesus’ hand before I believed he had risen.

Everyone has faith in something. I have faith that my husband won’t run off with a cute little intern in Albany, leaving me to raise four kids alone. I base my faith on the promises he made me and on his character. Can anyone be certain John won’t leave me for a cute little intern? No. But I have insurmountable faith that he won’t.

Atheists have faith that there isn’t a God. Their faith is just as strong, if not stronger, than a Christian’s or a Jew’s or a Deist’s faith. With all of their scientific evidence against events recorded in the Bible, there is no scientific equation, and never can be, that proves the existence or non-existence of God. Or the flying spaghetti monster. Or any other weird deity you come up with. Because God is supernatural. And if you believe in the supernatural, anything is possible.

Even an ark atop of a mountain.

So, I’m doubtful, but I’m kind of hoping it is a boat up there on Mt. Ararat. Because sometimes I need to be wrong.

Favorite verse from Genesis: God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning- the sixth day. Genesis 1:31.

Easter

The Tale of Three Trees
retold by Angela Elwell Hunt

Once upon a mountaintop, three little trees stood and dreamed of what they wanted to become when they grew up. The first little tree looked up at the starts twinkling like diamonds above him.

"I want to hold treasure," he said. "I want to be covered with gold and filled with precious stones. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!"

The second little tree looked out at the small stream trickling by on its way to the ocean.
"I want to be a strong sailing ship," he said. "I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!"

The third little tree looked down into the valley below where busy men and women worked in a busy town. "I don't want to leave this mountaintop at all," she said. "I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me they will raise their eyes to heaven and think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!"

Years passed. The rains came, the sun shone, and the little trees grew tall. One day three woodcutters climbed the mountain.

The first woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, "This tree is beautiful. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the first tree fell. "Now I shall be made into a beautiful chest," thought the first tree. "I shall hold wonderful treasure."

The second woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, "This tree is strong. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the second tree fell. "Now I shall sail mighty waters," thought the second tree. "I shall be a strong ship fit for kings!"

The third tree felt her heart sink when the last woodcutter looked her way. She stood straight and tall and pointed bravely to heaven. But the woodcutter never even looked up. "Any kind of tree will do for me," he muttered. With a swoop of his shining axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter brought him to a carpenter's shop, but the busy carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead his work-worn hands fashioned the tree into a feed box for animals. The once beautiful tree was not covered with gold or filled with treasure. He was coated with sawdust and filled with hay for hungry farm animals.

The second tree smiled when the woodcutter took him to a shipyard, but no mighty sailing ships were being made that day. Instead the once-strong tree was hammered and sawed into a simple fishing boat. Too small and too weak to sail an ocean or even a river, he was taken to a little lake. Everyday he brought in loads of dead, smelly fish.

The third tree was confused when the woodcutter cut her into strong beams and left her in a lumberyard. "What happened?" the once tall tree wondered. All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop and point to God."

Many, many days and nights passed. The three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But one night golden starlight poured over the first tree as a young woman placed her newborn baby in the feedbox. ”I wish I could make a cradle for him," her husband whispered.

The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the smooth and sturdy wood. "This manger is beautiful" she said.

And suddenly the first tree knew he was holding the greatest treasure in the world.

One evening a tired traveler and his friends crowded into the old fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree quietly sailed out into the lake. Soon a thrashing storm arose. The little tree shuddered. He knew he did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the wind and rain. The tired man awaken. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said, "Peace." The storm stopped as quickly as it had begun.

And suddenly the second tree knew he was carrying the king of heaven and earth!

One Friday morning the third tree was startled when her beams were yanked from the forgotten woodpile. She flinched as she was carried through an angry, jeering crowd. She shuddered when soldiers nailed a man's hands to her. She felt ugly and harsh and cruel.

But on Sunday morning, when the sun rose and the earth trembled with joy beneath her, the third tree knew that God's love had changed everything.

He had made the first tree beautiful.

He had made the second tree strong.

And every time people thought of the third tree, they would think of God.

And that was better than being the tallest tree in the world.

Prayers for Heather

One day, while I was randomnly clicking on other "mother of twins" sites, I ran across Heather's site, It's Twinsanity!

Heather is the mother of not one, but two sets of IDENTICAL twins. Somewhere on her site she tells the odds of that occurring.

She also has two other children-six total.

Heather is also an army wife. Her husband was recently deployed into Iraq and will be there for the next year. (Her youngest boys are just 16 months old!)

She is having a tough time. She is in a new house and has some support, but really needs more. Turns out her husband's job is not what they initially thought it would be, and she is consumed with worry. Their communication is sparse.

The kids have been sick since Christmas and Heather is not getting any sleep.

I don't even know her, yet my heart aches for her today. The only thing I can think of to do is to request prayers on her behalf. Would you take a moment and offer up a prayer for Heather and her family? Please pray:

- That her kids would get and stay well!
- For the safety of her husband, Jason.
- That she would find a supportive church ASAP.
- For peace of mind in this tremendously difficult time.

If you do this, I promise that for the next year I WILL NOT WHINE about my own husband's traveling schedule. Unless it's a Monday.

"Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 NKJV)

Grace, Amazing

I have done something horrifically awful to my left foot, which is my laziest foot, so I’m really not surprised it was the one that got injured.

The noodles were in the pot, boiling away, the children scattered about playing amicably, and I was multi-tasking: preparing dinner and changing loads of laundry. I took a load out of the dryer and brought it across the kitchen toward my sunken living room. Sunken is important. If it wasn’t a sunken living room, if a year and a half ago we had gone with the house that had the living room on the same plane as the kitchen, I would not be in this mess right now.

Two steps lead into our living room. The first step I took was without incident. It was the second step that killed me, that and the matchbox car on the floor. I crumpled like a soda can that’s been stepped upon. I screamed as it was happening because in that instant, I saw the days stretched out before me, days where I would be hopping about the house on one foot, hopping after my kids, crawling up stairs, unable to put pressure on my foot.

The reason I think it might be broken is because after the initial pain, which was severe and endless and nauseating, there was no short reprieve. The pain lessened, but was consistent. Generally, when I twist my ankle or foot, the pain eventually subsides and gives me the illusion that everything is going to be okay. I fall for this trick EVERY TIME. I lope around, further injuring myself, when what I should be doing is resting and icing my foot. A day later I wake up all swollen with a great excuse for avoiding housework.

My foot swelled right away, and continues to do so. After the fall, I sat on the floor waiting for the throbbing to cease and desist. It never quite did. The timer went off and I just sat there, knowing I was overcooking the noodles. The kids stared at me contemplatively. They were probably thinking Mama has lost it… again.

John was and is still out with a client. I fed the kids and then I put on the television, my faithful and loyal babysitter in emergency situations. I crawled into the other room and sat on the window seat, my leg laid out before me, and I slowly removed my sock and stared at the purple jumbo-sized egg that seemed to be growing beneath my skin. Then, I put a bag of frozen peas on it. And then I cried. Because it hurt. Because I was alone. Because I felt really really sorry for myself and I wanted my mom.

The kids were watching Dora the Explorer. Dora is always “engaging” her young audience, asking them questions… is this kind of television superior to the kind that completely ignores its audience? Anyway, Dora was talking about thankfulness. She asked her television audience: What are YOU thankful for?

I heard Caleb’s soft voice answer, “My mommy.”

I’m the mom now. Not that I can’t call on my own mom, and believe me I do, but I am now the one who needs to provide a sense of security and unconditional love. And there are evenings like this one, where I’m taking turns gazing out the window at the cold, dark November night and then at my cold, purple foot, that I feel so inadequate for the job. I wonder, how can I do this right? How can I be a parent who won't feel the need to apologize to her adult children for all of the ways she failed? And I fail in so many different ways every day.

But he’s still thankful for me. I’m the person he thought of when Dora asked the question. And I don’t think he would lie to Dora. She’s intimidating for a cartoon. Plus, she has a crazy monkey sidekick I wouldn’t mess with, either.

Listening to that voice from across the hall, I felt a sadness settle on me. It was quiet and lovely, but sad… and it was one of the few times that I’ve thought to myself… this is what grace feels like.

Amazing.

Lying

I am a liar. (I have decided that, at least for the time-being, I will begin all of my posts with declarative statements. Look for future posts starting with the following: “I am a binge-eater”, “I am not a morning person”, and “I am the Batman.”)

Caleb has been playing with a seashell that hails from North Carolina, where we vacationed when he was but a fetus in my belly. I told him he could hear the ocean when we put the shell to his ear. He wanted to know why. So I told him, of course, that there was a tiny ocean inside the seashell that he could not see, but could hear. The sound was he heard was the lapping of the waves, the wind over the water, the spray of the surf.

Caleb is so stinking rational. At first, he was incredulous. But I was insistent! He asked all sorts of questions:

“I think I hear whistling,” he said.

“Little tiny seagulls,” I said.

“How come no water comes out when I shake the seashell?” he asked.

“It’s so small, you wouldn’t be able to see the water if it did come out.” I said.

“Is there really a little tiny ocean in this shell?” he asked.

“That’s an affirmative,” I said.

“Did God make the little tiny ocean?” he asked.

Oh, man. He had to bring God into my convoluted tale. I was stumped. Did I draw God into my lie? Did I tell the truth? Did I cover up with another lie, like, gosh I think I hear Ella crying?

(I went with the third option. I’m a terrible person.)

This morning, John went and told Caleb that there was no little tiny ocean in the seashell, that the sound was just air circling its cavernous insides. Caleb was crushed. He said he didn’t want the seashell anymore. He gave it to Ben.

“Here Ben,” he said, grouchily. “You can have this for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!”

Then he sat cross-armed on the sofa. I scuttled up next to him and told him I knew how he felt. Because I do! I know what it’s like to believe in something so wonderful, so fantastical, and so beautiful that just believing in it makes me feel a part of something greater than what I am. And I always feel mad at the reality; my fictions are much more fun, more interesting, and make life seems less ordinary. I told Caleb that I knew there wasn’t really a beautiful, blue-skied sea kingdom inside the shiny North Carolina shell, but that I still liked to pretend that there was.

As we waited for the bus, we made up a story about the people who went to the beach inside the shell. Little bitty people who liked to body surf; babies who never dirtied their swim diapers; mommies who had an abundant supply of lemonade and red popcicles; children who never had to reapply sunscreen; daddies who tossed their kids into the water over and over again and never got tired out; sharks who were nice and let people ride on their backs. A very strange, fun place.

I’m hoping this imaginative exercise will help Caleb out when he inevitably realizes there is no Santa Claus, that the fluff left behind by the Easter bunny is just stuffing from the throw pillow Daniel pulled apart, and that the leprechaun that he swears he saw on St. Patrick’s day is a myth perpetuated by people who drink too much and hallucinate angry little green men who horde gold.

The tooth fairy? Oh, the tooth fairy is very real. Very, very real.

God and Politics

I hate dinner time. Hate it hate it hate it. If you haven’t seen the video I posted, which features a not-that-uncommon dinner scenario at the Jennings’ household, you should probably check it out. Especially if you’re looking into birth control. Heck, show it to your teenage kids. It will scare the living doo-doo out of them.

Dinner always starts out rough. Friends and family, especially our non-Christian friends, are always incredibly amused by the fact that our older boys fight over who gets to say the mealtime prayer. It’s gotten to the point where I have to keep track of who said it last. If Caleb says the prayer at breakfast, then Ben says it at lunch, Caleb says it again at dinner, which means that Ben gets to say the prayer twice the next day. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I would just say the prayer myself, but I might end up praying that God turns my children into mutes, which probably isn’t a good thing to petition God for.

The prayer itself is pretty basic. In fact, the boys don’t waver in their address to the Lord Almighty at all. It goes like this:

Dear God. Thank you for this day. Help us to get a good sleep. Bless this food to our bodies. Help G__ the Bear to get better. Amen.

(G__ the Bear is really just G__. He is John’s best friend from college, and is currently tussling with cancer. We attribute all of the success of his treatments directly to the many prayers the boys have offered up on his behalf.) Why G__ the Bear? Before his chemo treatments, G__ had a sizeable beard (think Civil War general) that made him appear, well, bear-like to the boys.

I have no idea how sleeping got incorporated into the mealtime prayer. Whatever.

Things go downhill from there. Sometime I will tell the extremely sad and somewhat horrific story of the night I served Tilapia.

Caleb, a budding Christian fundamentalist wack-a-doo, is that kid in Sunday School who raises his hand after every question and answers… “Jesus?”

He is also (and this may seem odd) an ardent fan of Barack Obama. He voted for him in his elementary school’s presidential election. He gets giddy if he sees the president on television or on the cover of a magazine. He is a bit star-struck, the same way he is about Spikes, the mascot of the Rochester Red Wings baseball team.

He is, I believe, a little flummoxed that his own father voted for the other guy. Here is a conversation they had earlier this evening:

Caleb: Why didn’t you vote for Barack Obama?

John: I didn’t think he was the best candidate.

Caleb: You voted for McCain?

John: Yup.

Caleb: You thought he was the best guy?

John: I didn’t think he was the best guy. The re-animated corpse of Ronald Reagan would have been better than McCain. But I thought he was better than the other guy.

---pause… Caleb is thinking…pause---

Caleb: God is the best guy.

John: Well, God can’t be president. He isn’t a natural born citizen of the United States.

And I end it there. And now you know that this is a blog you can turn to for your daily dose of religion and politics.