tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21163118272541483912024-03-13T13:46:54.386-07:00Bittersweet:An Ordinary LifeChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-55323752857871633372013-09-07T07:04:00.001-07:002013-09-07T07:04:14.925-07:00The Power of Memory
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember
it.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5350.L_M_Montgomery"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">L.M.
Montgomery</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1161931"><span style="color: blue;">The
Story Girl</span></a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Autumn is nearly upon us. It has
always been my favorite season, and as a teacher I mark time by my Septembers. For
the past two years, one of my back-to -school bulletin boards has been an
introduction to my life, so that my students can get a glimpse of who I am, and
the things that have brought me here. The caption is THIS IS MY STORY…SO
FAR.WHAT’S YOURS? A second caption reads, LET GOD BE THE AUTHOR OF YOUR STORY.
This is meaningful for me, because as I look back, as the time rushes on more
quickly each year, I see very clearly that He has been writing my story all
along. That’s why memory is so powerful, I think. God has put into us the
ability, not to merely recall, but to somehow <i>be there. </i>To be
transported back to a moment and feel what we felt then, hear the sounds, the
voices. The older I get, the more it seems to happen…and the more I remember.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am there in that kitchen in an
Indiana farmhouse. It is a freezing winter night and my parents are getting
ready to go to church because Mom has an extra practice with the children’s
choir she leads. It is a few days before Christmas .My grandparents are with us
for the holidays. Pappy is trying to tell an off-color joke, and Nonny is
attempting to stop him. This proves futile-despite her interruptions,he makes
it to the punch line.”He says you’re gonna die!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have not been listening to the joke and I am
only five, but I laugh because my mother and siblings are laughing. Dad is,
too, but he’s doing that thing where he shakes his head slowly from side to
side, eyes closed, trying desperately to pretend he is displeased while in
reality he is two seconds from laughing, too. My mother has given it up
completely and is nearly in hysterics. Nonny is scandalized. “Oh, LAMAR!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The talk then evolves into how many days it
is until Christmas and who is getting the hat and scarf set with the Westville
High School logo and how much that costs. (“It’s ONLY five bucks.”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom and Dad head out into the snow and I
watch my grandma mixing up the cookie dough and I snitch some when I think she
isn’t looking, but she sees and rewards me with a big spoonful. I can taste its
buttery sweetness. I am there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am six.We are visiting friends
in New Jersey. They have a big Great Dane named Athena, whom I adore. I am
curled up against her on the rug in front of a roaring fire, and I slide off
into sleep as the murmur of familiar voices drifts over me. The next day, the
adults are off somewhere and I am watching the housekeeper as she washes
dishes. I offer to help dry, like I do at home now that I am six. “No, baby,”
she says. “I do the work I gets paid to do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then she asks me a question. “Do you like black people?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not a question I really understand,
although it would most definitely have been a legitimate one to ask a little
Southern-born white girl in 1972. But I have been taught to love everybody and
skin color has never really been discussed as far as I can recall. I consider
the question. To be honest, there are no black people in the Midwestern town
where I live. This housekeeper is the first<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>African-American I have actually had the opportunity to know, and I do
like her very much. So I answer the only way I can. “Yes, ma’am. I like all
people.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This must be an acceptable
answer, for she grins broadly and gives me a peppermint.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am eight now. I am in
Mrs.Cooper’s third-grade classroom in Texas…or maybe it’s Mrs.Edkins’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fourth-grade classroom,at Spanish Fort School
and I am nine…those memories tend to merge for me, those two supremely magical
teachers, one black, one white, both with a passion for teaching and for
literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is their voices I hear
when I read the “Little House” books, unless I am hearing the voice of my
mother. It is a splendid harmony. My head is down on my desk. It is just after
lunch and I have eaten my tuna sandwich and my Oreos and the clock is ticking
slowly. I am imagining myself as Laura, running with my dog Jack across the
prairie. At home I put on a long dress and pretend to be Laura. My dog Misty
makes a satisfactory Jack. And then it is Halloween, and I am in my Laura
costume.My sister has braided my hair and dotted my face with mascara freckles.
I stand in line with Heidi and Holly and Matt and the other neighborhood kids
to get served some “Witches’ Brew” punch from a cauldron. Our neighbor does this
every year. Another neighbor, who is also our bus driver, gives out homemade
cookies.We never get our candy X-rayed at the police station. We know
everybody.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back to age seven and the
chicken pox.Itching like crazy, I have been instructed not to scratch.It is
miserable. Even the inside of my mouth itches. I am wearing one of my dad’s
soft old T-shirts. I get out of bed and roll around on the carpet to try to
relieve the itching. I am in the big bed in Mom and Dad’s room because I am
sick. “Jeff’s Collie” is on. Mom brings me a tuna sandwich and chocolate chip
cookies and again says I must not scratch. I’m not scratching, I’m rolling. She
gives me the Mom Look and I stop. I nibble my sandwich and taste the
mayonnaise. I look out the window at the bare branches of the February trees
against the sky and for once wish to be at school. Dad comes home with a fairy
tale book, grape popsicles, and a three-color pen. I love these three-color
pens that he brings us from his office. I draw cartoon dogs and stick people. The
next day he brings me markers in five different colors. They are the permanent
kind because the washable kind has not yet been invented. They smell strong,
like they might be combustible. They also bleed through the thin typing paper.
I don’t care. I draw and draw.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First grade classroom. Listening
lesson from a recorded monotone voice. “Pick up your blue crayon. Circle the
picture that goes with the sentence. ‘It is time for lunch’.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bored, I circle the picture of the clock with
my fat blue crayon. I look at the clock. I am suddenly out in the snow fort in
the backyard, and this time I am exploring Alaska with Misty, now turned into a
faithful sled dog .The cold stings and bites and my mittens are icy. That
stupid stocking cap is getting in my way, but I know I will strike gold soon.
And then I am floating on the waters of the Gulf of Mexico and I am eleven and
the sky is vast above me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find shells
along the shore, some intact, some broken. I keep them all. I watch the
sandpipers as they run along the beach leaving tiny tracks in their wake. I eat
a tuna sandwich that has grit in it. The sun is hot. I am in a café in New
Orleans and we are having a powdered sugar fight that began by accident, and my
mom is pretending to be angry at my dad because she now has sugar all over her
black pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Under a tree with a book, I am
so absorbed that I don’t even notice the banana popsicle melting in my hand. It
is a summer day and the mosquitoes are buzzing and occasionally a dragonfly
flits by. Misty is lying beside me, panting, little drops falling from her
tongue. But I am Bilbo Baggins and I am headed for the Lonely Mountain, where
Smaug lies in wait. Mom calls me for supper and I go and eat hamburger-pizza
popover, my favorite, but I feel as though I have just awakened from a dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now my brother is telling one of his dumb
jokes and we are at a campsite somewhere in Georgia, eating Dinty Moore Beef
Stew cooked over a Coleman stove. My brother has taken the Old Maid card from
my deck and he won’t tell where he hid it, so I color with my new crayons that
Mom got me just for the trip. The coloring book is the Munsters and I am
coloring Herman green. Then I play with my Colorforms-Miss Cookie’s Moon
Kitchen-and then we are in the car again, on our way to the family reunion and
Uncle Julian’s boiled peanuts. Before I know it, it is Christmastime and we are
at the tree farm with seven different opinions about which tree to get. At home
Dad wrestles it into the stand and we decorate it and it is sparkling and
beautiful. And then I am sixteen and I am at my friend’s house, spinning out
record after record on the turntable, Pink Floyd and Styx and Pat Benatar, and
the music of my world fills every corner of the room.Then I am here again, back
in this house, the voices of my husband and children rising and falling on this
Saturday morning. I sip my cup of green tea. I am infused with the power of
memory, touched by it, blessed by it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Memory is not just vague
pictures in my mind. Perhaps it is the writer’s gift, but for me memory is a
state of being. And so nothing is ever really lost to me-not places or people
or pets. I can go back and be there, watching my granddaddy jump around and
sing “Dance With Me,Henry” while my Southern Baptist grandma pretends to be
horrified. I can see the gray farmhouse and hear the soft lowing of the cows in
the pasture at twilight,and watch the sun sink slowly and magnificently. I can
sit there on the corral fence and lovingly stroke the nose and mane of my
sorrel pony, and I can breathe in that horsey smell that is like no other smell
in the world, and when I watch my daughter with her sorrel colt I can smile
because I am <i>there</i>, in all the places I love with all the people and
animals I have ever loved. It’s all here, a million little points of brilliant
light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is the power of memory. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And the moral of the story is that you don’t remember what
happened. What you remember becomes what happened.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1406384.John_Green"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">John Green</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-90787124683521437872013-07-29T08:49:00.000-07:002013-07-31T09:34:19.950-07:00Everything Nice
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;">“Aunt
Alexandra</span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> was fanatical on the subject of my attire. I could not possibly
hope to be a lady if I wore breeches; when I said I could do nothing in a
dress, she said I wasn't supposed to be doing things that required pants. Aunt
Alexandra's vision of my deportment involved playing with small stoves, tea
sets, and wearing the Add-A-Pearl necklace she gave me when I was born;
furthermore, I should be a ray of sunshine in my father's lonely life." ~
To Kill A Mockingbird, </span><span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span id="lw_1375108349234_2">Harper Lee</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Poor misunderstood Scout. It’s no
wonder that I related to her so much when I was a child. Little girls might be
made of sugar and spice, but when God was mixing my DNA, He threw in some salt
and vinegar. The fourth girl and youngest child, with three older sisters and
an older brother, I was not a girly-girl, but I wasn’t as bold and
adventuresome as my sister Jackie, so I didn’t exactly fit the tomboy mold
either. She got hurt a lot; I only got hurt once in awhile, like when I
face-planted in the driveway after running my bike into the side of my mom’s
car. I took more risks than I should have as far as riding my bike with no
hands and exploring places I wasn’t supposed to go, but I never swung out
across the road on a rope when a car was approaching. I wasn’t afraid of bugs
or snakes or any animals at all, other than bats and roaches. I wasn’t afraid
of swimming in deep water after taking swimming lessons at age eight, but I was
terrified of heights and the dark and all of the weird monsters and aliens I
read about. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I liked a lot of things that were
not considered “girly”, such as mud and dinosaurs and Hardy Boys books. I was
never good at sports and hated P.E. at school, but I did play baseball and
kickball and sometimes even tackle football with my friends from the
neighborhood. In fact, one day when I was ten, my mom looked out the window
just in time to see me going down, clutching a football, with a swarm of boys
on top of me. She shrieked in horror and I was dragged into the house and treated
to a lecture on why this was now inappropriate because I had Become a Woman
several months before. I was not at all thrilled with the early onset of
puberty and was bored with all of the trendy teen-angst books that the girls at
school were passing around. I thought Nancy Drew was an idiot and preferred
Trixie Belden, and my role model in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little
Women </i>was not <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>prim and proper Meg,
snotty Amy, or shrinking violet Beth, but , of course, the volatile and
unpredictable Jo.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two of my best friends, Heidi and
Holly, lived across the street and were always wanting to paint my nails and do
my hair. We had fun together and I realize now that I pretty much always got my
way because I was terribly bossy. I would deign to play Barbies as long as I
got to make up the stories, which generally involved transforming Barbie into
someone else, like Laura Ingalls. Great tragedies and disasters inevitably
ensued. Once, Barbie and Ken’s plane crashed on a desert island and they had to
survive by any means necessary, which ultimately included cannibalizing the
other passengers. I was always trying to shock Heidi and Holly but they were
such good sports that they went along with my bizarre imagination and seemed
quite fascinated. I also dragged them along on various bicycling adventures,
many of which did not end well. Imagine being eleven years old and being chased
by two vicious dogs and a gun-toting old lady. Heidi lost her shoes that
day-both of them-as we frantically pedaled away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I once did an experiment to see if I
could grow my own maggots in a pile of rancid dog food. It worked quite well,
leaving my parents wondering why there was a sudden fly infestation around the
back porch. Then there was my pottery project. My fourth-grade teacher
instilled in me a love for Alabama history, and I decided that I wanted to use
the red clay in the backyard to make pots like the Choctaws did. They turned out
okay, but they cracked so much when they dried that I couldn’t paint them. This
was fine with my mother, since I had already ruined two pairs of pants and
several shirts with the clay. I also loved to collect critters-turtles,
lizards, caterpillars, ants, the occasional grass snake-and this required a lot
of crawling around on the ground. Jeans were a must, but I insisted on the boy
jeans for many years.I didn’t think it was fair that jeans for large little
boys were called “Huskies”, but jeans for large little girls were called “Chubbies”.
I thought husky was a nicer word. My mother did not understand this logic at
all, but she got me the jeans I wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My logic extended to my reading of
literature. If Flicka made a miraculous recovery and she and Ken lived happily
ever after, then why did Gabilan in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Red Pony </i>have to die?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Rascal the
Raccoon was set free in the wilderness and survived to father many generations
of little Rascals, then why did Bertie in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Year of the Raccoon </i>end up as “a battered body in a box”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilbur the Pig was not slaughtered, yet the
pig in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Day No Pigs Would Die</i> was-in
graphic detail. So why was the book called that? At seven, I had not quite
grasped the concept of irony. Imagine my disappointment when I learned, after
many years of weeping copiously over the demise of Jack the Faithful Old
Bulldog in the “Little House” books, that in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real life</i> he was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">given away </i>when
the Ingalls family settled at Plum Creek! Or my shock and anger when I read the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>story of the Sager orphans,
which was nothing at all as depicted in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On
to Oregon. </i>It was a long time before I came to understand what “inspired by
actual events” meant.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>According to my family, I was
speaking fluently at thirteen months and reading fluently at three years. Since
I don’t remember not reading, the latter is doubtless true, but I wonder about
the former. Most experts in child development say that the facial muscles have
not matured enough before about fifteen months for a child to say more than a
few words-although they acknowledge that in rare cases, children begin speaking
in clear sentences earlier than that. Thus, if my family is remembering
accurately, it is merely one more freakish thing about me. It also explains why
I thought kindergarten was stupid. I did not voice this opinion at school-in
fact, I rarely spoke at school-but at home I was very vocal in my disdain for
formal education. I wonder to this day if I would have benefited from “unschooling”,
but on this point my parents were firm-I had to go to school. In retrospect,
they were probably right. I would have been too weird to function had I not
been forced into social situations. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My own kids have some of the same
struggles I did, but they handle them with greater grace and humor. Despite
their exceptional intelligence, they are friendly and sociable and relate well
to their peers. To be fair, by the time I was eight or nine, I was reasonably
socially adept, but I always got along better with boys than with girls, even
in high school. Nevertheless, I had plenty of friends of both genders and,
while not particularly “popular”, I was not a complete social outcast. I
learned not to always blurt out the sardonic, witty comments that popped into
my head a hundred times a day, and, by God’s grace and under the loving
instruction of my parents, the compassion that I had for others blossomed
despite the bullying and cruelty that I often faced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I still find the world a confusing
place at times, and I wonder where I fit. I still seek acceptance even though I
know in my heart that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am </i>accepted
and maybe even lovable. I read and write to try to make sense of things that
seem backwards, sideways, and upside down. I still am the little not-quite-tomboy
in the Husky jeans seeking the caterpillar than will eventually transform into
a butterfly. I am a combination of all the things that made my parents as well
as some things uniquely mine. I am sugar, spice, vinegar, salt, and maybe a
little nutmeg. I am not everything nice, but neither am I everything
terrible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God creates us each from a
recipe that makes us a little different, while at the same time we all have the
desires and qualities that make us the same in our humanity. That’s the beauty
of His design.Unity-and diversity. What a lovely collage we are.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The world was made up of people putting one foot in front
of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living
it had been doing so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger
without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique;
and that this was the dilemma of being human.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5309857.Rachel_Joyce"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Rachel
Joyce</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/18156927"><span style="color: blue;">The
Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry</span></a></i><span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p><span style="color: #366388;"> </span></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="yshortcuts1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: #366388;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-3491755453145284022013-07-01T09:55:00.002-07:002013-07-01T09:55:41.234-07:00Radical
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">rad·i·cal <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">/ˈradikəl/<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Adjective<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(esp. of change or
action) Relating to or affecting the fundamental nature of something;
far-reaching or thorough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Radical is derived from the Latin word <i>radix</i> meaning
"root", referring to the need for perpetual re-orientation
towards the root truths of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disciple_(Christianity)" title="Disciple (Christianity)"><span style="color: blue;">Christian discipleship</span></a>. (Wikipedia)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There is a lot of
talk these days about “radical Christianity”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes this is interpreted and/or
carried out as fanaticism. Some think that it means you must abandon
everything you have, forsaking everyone and everything that is comfortable
and familiar-and it can include that. My belief is that to follow Christ
the way that we are called to follow Him is indeed radical by definition,
because the call is to change <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the fundamental
nature of something</i>-in this case, to change the world. To be radical
Christians means to return to the roots of our faith. I’m not talking about
necessarily returning to the roots of our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">family’s </i>faith, although I was indeed raised in a Christian
home. I am talking about a return to the roots of Christianity as a whole, trying
to do what Jesus actually told us to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I guess it can be
open to interpretation, this whole business of following Jesus, and of course
we are all given different gifts and tasks. But I think that the basic
ideas of loving one’s neighbor, being in the world but not of it, turning
the other cheek, helping the poor, and allowing God to be the judge hold
true for anyone who claims Christianity. Where we go with these basic
tenets depends on where God sends us and whom He sends us. I have some
friends who are selling and giving away most of their possessions and going
to live and work in Haiti. To leave it all behind and go take care of some
kids in an orphanage –that’s radical. They have faced criticism from people
who just don’t understand. No one has to understand. It is a call from God.
I have learned over the years that we become utterly miserable when we
ignore the call ,no matter what it is. No matter how strange it seems. And
we are indeed in good company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Consider Noah,
building a huge boat because water was going to fall from the sky and flood
the earth. Do you suppose he got laughed at and mocked much? Consider
Abraham, abandoning all that was familiar to go-where? He had no clue, but
he went. Moses, after an encounter with God in the form of a burning bush
in the desert, went to face the powerful and wicked Pharaoh. He ultimately
took on the task of leading several million people out of slavery “to a
land flowing with milk and honey”. A Promised Land that he had never seen.
Radical? Oh, yes. And the Apostles, standing up to beating and torture,
singing while imprisoned and in chains, refusing to back down. Jesus
Himself, defying the legalistic leaders of His time to reach out to those
who were the most despised and rejected. Jesus, making the ultimate
sacrifice for a world that largely refused to acknowledge Him. Radical-and
real-love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Going beyond the
Bible, we have heroes throughout history and in our world today. Martin
Luther. William Wilberforce. Corrie ten Boom. Mother Teresa. Jim Elliot.
Martin Luther King. Billy Graham.And those who may not be famous, but who
are willing to give all. Think of the people you know-your parents,
perhaps, or grandparents. Teachers. Pastors. Youth leaders. Those who are
willing to sacrifice for the good of others, no matter the cost, no matter
if anybody even notices or expresses gratitude. To be radical is to
understand that it is not about ourselves. To be radical is also to endure
being called crazy, sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was crazy, some
say, to adopt three kids at once, the oldest eleven, the youngest five, all
with baggage and problems that we did not fully realize at the time. I have
days and times, like today, like these past few weeks, when I ask myself if
it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> actually crazy. I ask
myself if it really mattered. And then I have to ask if we could have done
any differently, and the answer is no. It wasn’t as if we had a choice, not
really. Not when we knew it was a call from God. We could not ignore it any
more than we could ignore the call to be teachers, which is, I suppose,
another thing that could be called radical. Anything that is designed to
change the world <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>radical. I
ask myself how “sane” it was for my father to give his last ten dollars to
a homeless family when he had no job. How “sane” is it to go and live among
the poverty-stricken and diseased people of Calcutta? How “rational” is it
go to Haiti after an earthquake, or to Oklahoma after a series of
devastating tornadoes? Does it make any sense to give your expensive coat,
the one your kids gave you for Christmas, to some stranger who is cold, and
then keep on handing out food and blankets in your shirtsleeves in
thirty-degree weather?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there any
logic to going into strip clubs and hand out gift bags to the women, gift bags
with tags attached that say, “We love you just the way you are” and invite
them to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">church</i>? What if they come
in scantily clad, with tattoos and piercings and stuff, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>are the one who encouraged them
to come? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What will people think</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What will people
think” is probably the worst reason for doing or not doing something. I’m
really glad, for my own sake as well as everyone else’s, that Jesus was
never motivated by that. I am truly grateful that He did not forsake God’s
will and go count out mint leaves with the Pharisees. (Keep nine, give one
away, and you are fulfilling the Law. It’s the Magic Formula from God Boxes,
Limited.) If my daughter Alyssa chose her friends based solely on what her
classmates thought, she would have missed out on some really great
relationships with some truly fantastic people. If we only do things based
on popular opinion, I doubt we’ll do a whole lot that is worthwhile, in the
eternal sense. To put your last five dollars in the church offering plate
when your bank account is empty and payday is three days off is a bit
nutty, and it’s not necessarily something God always tells us to do, but if
He does, we should listen. We have no way of knowing what that homeless man
is going to do with the fifty dollar bill that we hand him-but God does. It
then becomes a matter between that fellow and God. We have done what we
believed God was prompting us to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">God has not called
everyone to do some Grand Big Thing. We aren’t all supposed to go be
missionaries to Africa, or start a homeless shelter, or become evangelists.
Those are indeed wonderful callings, worthy of notice. But God notices it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all. </i>To follow Him, to love and
forgive others, to obey Him when He tells us to do something, no matter how
odd it seems to others, is “radical” indeed. Every small act can be
far-reaching. To use that old cliché, it really is like ripples in a pond.
When people ask you why you are doing this-whatever “this” is-if your
reason is because God said to, then tell them. You will get some raised
eyebrows, some shakes of the head, some laughter and mocking at your
foolishness. But you will also get, at least sometimes, “Really? Tell me
more.” Those are the times that make it worthwhile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Be radical. It
will change the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“For me, to live
is Christ, and to die is gain.” –Philippians 1:21<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-74153042250653222392013-06-15T08:38:00.000-07:002013-06-15T08:38:22.070-07:00Strong Hands
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">To lead
them with strong hands<br />
To stand up when they can't<br />
Don't want to leave them hungry for love<br />
Chasing things that I could give up<br />
<br />
I'll show them I'm willing to fight<br />
And give them the best of my life<br />
So we can call this our home<br />
Lead me 'cause I can't do this alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">-Sanctus
Real<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What do you do when you plan a beach
day and you wake up to a hissing sound from the water heater and you empty out
the closet and find everything soaked from a leaky pipe? Well, if you are my
husband, you patch the pipe, clean up the water, leave the rest of the mess for
the next day, and take your family to the Chinese restaurant for lunch and then
to the beach for an awesome afternoon. Not that this was accomplished without
some shouting from everyone and a bit-just a bit-of whining from the kids. Not
that the mess is going to be fun to deal with in a little while, or that we are
thrilled that we will have to throw out the majority of books and games that
were in that closet. But we did have a great afternoon, and I was honestly
relieved that it was only a leaky pipe, since we have had to have plumbing
repairs done quite recently AND had to replace the ancient washer and dryer
which both gave up the ghost on the same day. Tough times don’t have to be
altogether bad times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While we were at the beach, we found
a live sand dollar. None of us had ever seen a live one before. Of course we
put it back after looking at it, because you can buy dead, dried sand dollars
at any local souvenir shop. We also played with hundreds of harmless, beautiful
little jellyfish, the nearly transparent kind. As my husband was holding one of
these small treasures in his large hands, I looked at his hands and thought
about how they have the power to destroy. He could have easily crushed those
tiny creatures. He chooses gentleness. He chooses to be kinder than is required
or necessary. He is meek. The definition of meekness is not weakness; it is “power
under control”. This pretty much sums up my Freddie, the man who could not kill
a moth when he felt her heart beating, but also the man who I know could kill a
lion if his family was in danger. The man who does what he has to do to keep
this fragile little ship afloat, including a second job teaching online
classes. In this economy, a third income is often necessary, especially for
people with kids. I am glad his second job can be accomplished via the laptop
in the living room, because we can be together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A father’s presence is important. A
recent study showed that well over half of high-achieving students have
involved fathers. I know many single moms who do a fantastic job, but it just must
be so much harder on their own. I cannot imagine trying to do this whole
parenting thing without my husband. I know that I was probably much more
obedient to my mother than I would have been had I not had the shadow of my
father looming over me, even when he had to be away on a business trip. My own
kids are the same. They kind of disregard me, because moms just nag you and go
psycho on you, but they generally do what they are told anyhow because Dad will
be upset and disappointed if they don’t. My husband is the kind of dad you just
don’t want to disappoint-not because he is mean, but because he is genuinely
hurt and surprised when the kids don’t do what they are told. He is also good
at making the consequences fit the crime and is reasonable about it, whereas I
am the one to try to dole out some ridiculously exaggerate thing like, “You can’t
go anywhere again, EVER, for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!” Yeah, they take that
seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the way home yesterday, we passed,
for the thousandth time, the spear hunting museum. I don’t know why there is a
spear hunting museum in our county, but there is. Hardly anyone goes there, for
even we Lower Alabamians who are fierce about our right to bear arms are kind
of horrified by the idea of looking at dead animals that were killed for no
reason whatsoever. There are certain ethics involved here. There is rumored to
be an elephant in the museum, murdered before killing elephants became illegal .Whether
this is actually true or not, most people I know would agree that there is
nothing manly about killing animals with a spear just so you can stuff them and
brag about it. As we were passing the museum, my girls commented on how much
fun it would be to hear their dad question the spear hunter dude as to his
logical reasons for slaughtering animals and causing them undue pain and
suffering. My husband grew up around guns and hunting and fishing and has no problem
with killing animals for food (although he personally chooses not to), or
killing vermin that invade his home (as humanely as possible), or gently
releasing a suffering creature from its pain, or shooting, say, a rabid dog or
some other dangerous animal that is attacking or threatening human beings. All
of this is Biblical and right, but in all cases should be done with a minimum
of pain inflicted on the animal. That’s called good stewardship. Deliberate
destruction or torture or neglect of God’s creatures, or any kind of pointless,
random act that harms an animal, is shameful and probably even sinful. This is
what my husband, a man of God, has taught his children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He has also taught them this-to be
kind and compassionate to everyone, and treat them with dignity and respect.
You don’t have to like them or agree with them or anything, but there is
nothing to lose in being nice and gracious to people. He has taught them that
when you get frustrated with the guy on the phone who is just doing his job
working for the cable company, you have to back off and realize that he is not
the one who is actually responsible for the fact that the cable company is
lousy and doesn’t follow through. Then you have to apologize and tell him that
you know it’s not his fault. And when the waitress in the restaurant is doing
her very best even though the people in the kitchen haven’t done what they are
supposed to do and they are shorthanded because of poor management, you smile
at the waitress and thank her for her efforts and give her the most decent tip
you can afford, because her job is not easy. You don’t make fun of people
because they talk funny or aren’t very smart or can’t run fast or look
different from you, and you don’t go around being self-righteous just because
other people sin different from you. Be humble. Be brave in the face of
adversity and get up every day with the attitude that you are going to do what
you have to do and it’s going to be okay because God is going before you and
stands beside you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My husband has strong hands and a
strong heart. As a teacher, he impacts many students every day of his life,
often without even realizing it. As a husband and father, he is superb. He is
loving. He is tough when he needs to be. He is funny and he is tender. There is
no subject that the kids feel uncomfortable discussing with him, and he turns
every small outing into an adventure and a learning experience. When he messes
up, he acknowledges it and asks forgiveness. He isn’t perfect because nobody
is, but I would say he qualifies for the Dads’ Hall of Fame. He looks to God
for answers because he knows that he cannot do this on his own. He listens and
he loves. He leads his family with strong hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Happy Fathers’ Day, Fredzy My
Love!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is our resolution<br />
Our answer to the call<br />
We will love our wives and children<br />
We refuse to let them fall<br />
<br />
We will reignite the passion<br />
That we buried deep inside<br />
May the watchers become warriors<br />
Let the men of God arise.-Casting Crowns</span>ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-61415504368623959232013-06-10T16:20:00.002-07:002013-06-10T16:20:52.843-07:00Sinners in the Hands of a Loving God
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“‘Cause I am a sinner <br />
If its not one thing its another<br />
Caught up in words <br />
Tangled in lies <br />
You are the Savior <br />
And you take brokenness aside<br />
And make it beautiful <br />
Beautiful…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">-Leslie Jordan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In 1741
Jonathan Edwards delivered a sermon which was to become famous and would also
contribute to the Great Awakening, a short-lived revival which swept across the
nation. Thousands were converted-or were they? In my opinion, “Sinners in the
Hands of an Angry God” was effective in converting a few, bringing some back,
and frightening many. “</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Over the summer of 1735, religious fervor took a dark turn. A number of New
Englanders were shaken by the revivals but not converted, and became convinced
of their inexorable damnation. Edwards wrote that "multitudes" felt
urged—presumably by Satan—to take their own lives. At least two people
committed suicide in the depths of their spiritual distress, one from Edwards's
own congregation—his uncle Joseph Hawley II. It is not known if any others took
their own lives, but the "suicide craze" effectively ended the first
wave of revival, except in some parts of Connecticut.” –George Marsden<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As a piece of
literature, Edwards’ sermon has merit. As a sermon, it has little, as far as I
am concerned. Edwards meant well, and the extreme always makes an impression.
There are lots of well-meaning people in the world who teach wrong theology. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The
wrath of God is like great waters that are dammed for the present; they
increase more and more, and rise higher and higher, till an outlet is given,
and the longer the stream is stop’d, the more rapid and mighty is its course,
when once it is let loose. ‘Tis true, that judgment against your evil works has
not been executed hitherto; the floods of God’s vengeance have been with-held;
but your guilt in the mean time is constantly increasing, and you are every day
treasuring up more wrath; the waters are continually rising and waxing more and
more mighty; and there is nothing but the mere pleasure of God that holds the
waters back that are unwilling to be stopped, and press hard to go forward; if God
should only withdraw his hand from the flood-gate, it would immediately fly
open, and the fiery floods of the fierceness and wrath of God would rush forth
with inconceivable fury, and would come upon you with omnipotent power; and if
your strength were ten thousand times greater than it is, yea ten thousand
times greater than the strength of the stoutest, sturdiest devil in hell, it
would be nothing to withstand or endure it.” –Edwards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lovely,
isn’t it? It does not sound at all like the loving God, the Abba Father whom I
worship and serve. God is not angry with us. He is grieved at times, but He
made His peace with mankind when Jesus came, and the debt was settled at the
Cross. Yes, there always have been and always will be consequences for sin.
When we do the wrong thing it has a negative effect on others as well as ourselves.
We live in a fallen world where bad things happen. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But God is not angry with us.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have tried to figure out where some of the strange ideas people have regarding
The Rules actually originated, and I have to say that a lot of blame must be
placed on the Puritans. If you were having fun, you were sinning. You had to
dress a certain way, act a certain way, speak a certain way, and think a
certain way. Holidays were by and large not celebrated, and heaven forbid that
anyone play cards or dance or read anything that wasn’t religious. It was a
pretty grim life, and the people were ruled by fear. This, however, has not
changed for many Christians. They view Christianity as a religion, which it was
never intended to be, rather than a relationship with a Father who loves His
children and wants to give them good things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some
loathsome insect, over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; his
wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else,
but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in
his sight; you are ten thousand times so abominable in his eyes as the most
hateful venomous serpent is in ours. You have offended him infinitely more than
ever a stubborn rebel did his prince: and yet ’tis nothing but his hand that
holds you from falling into the fire every moment: ‘Tis to be ascribed to
nothing else, that you did not go to hell the last night; that you was suffer’d
to awake again in this world, after you closed your eyes to sleep: and there is
no other reason to be given why you have not dropped into hell since you arose
in the morning, but that God’s hand has held you up: There is no other reason
to be given why you han’t gone to hell since you have sat here in the house of
God, provoking his pure eyes by your sinful wicked manner of attending his
solemn worship: Yea, there is nothing else that is to be given as a reason why
you don’t this very moment drop down into hell.” –Edwards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loathsome?
Abhors? Wrath? Abominable? These are not the words I believe God uses to
describe us or how He feels about us. He LOVES us!! He sees us as BEAUTIFUL,
regardless of the fact that we are indeed sinners. We are broken. We are indeed
wretched, in and of ourselves, but He is not dangling us over a fiery
pit-although admittedly we often dangle ourselves there. Not only can He “bear”
to have us in His sight, but we are the apple of His eye. He wants us to talk
to Him, to petition Him, to praise Him, to thank Him, to love Him. He wants us
to be His children and His friends. Jonathan Edwards was misguided-but he was
not alone. Even now, it is not uncommon for Christians to be told that bad
things happen to us, like, say, infertility, because of unconfessed sin. Or
maybe our child gets sick or our air conditioner breaks or our dog gets hit by
a car-because we haven’t been tithing. This formulaic approach is utter
nonsense. It is an attempt to figure out how to work the “system” and get God
into a box so that we can understand how to make Him do what we want. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Bible says that God rains down blessings on the just and the unjust. It’s in
there. God does not work according to any kind of twelve-step plan. Those ideas
are man-made and have little to do with God. We should live in obedience to Him
and seek His will and follow His precepts as far as we are able, but we will
stumble and no one can keep the Law. It is an ideal and a pattern and an
example, but it is impossible for humanity to achieve. If it wasn’t, there
would have been no need for Jesus. Jesus-the friend of sinners. The One who
also set an example of love and mercy and grace. The One who told everyone to
drop their rocks and go on home, because He was the only one qualified to judge
or condemn the woman taken in adultery.And then-oh and then, what did He say to
her? “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” It’s beautiful, and all
the more so because we ARE that woman. God shows us mercy every day, and he
doesn’t just “put up” with us, but DELIGHTS in us! We are not abhorrent to Him.
He looks and He loves and He pities. He wants to dance with us every day, to
the Song of All Songs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
are not sinners in the hands of an angry God. We are sinners in the hands of a
LOVING God. “Come, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you
rest.” Notice that He promises rest, but He doesn’t promise perfection. He promises
to stay, but not to always prevent those trials which may very well be mercies
in disguise. He promises pleasures forevermore, the goodness of God in the land
of the living, mercies that are new every morning, living water, treasures in
Heaven, and greater glory. All we have to do is choose to receive His grace. It’s
a heck of a good deal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hope you will join in the dance with the Divine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Yes living, dying let me bring<br />
My strength my Solace from the Spring<br />
That he who lives to be my king<br />
Once died to be my Savior<br />
<br />
That he would leave his place on high<br />
And come for sinful man to die<br />
You called it strange, so once did I<br />
Before I knew my Savior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">-Aaron Schust</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-79059687386602391612013-06-03T08:20:00.003-07:002013-06-03T08:20:38.301-07:00Shadows and Deserts
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness,
an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad.
Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared
into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that
made and unmade me.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10917.Stephen_Fry"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Stephen Fry</span></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One of
my students told me several weeks ago that she admires me for being real. I was
grateful for the compliment, as I am pathetically grateful for any word of
encouragement. I dislike public praise intensely but that doesn’t mean I have
less of a need than anyone else for occasional validation. I am not overly fond
of large crowds of people; I prefer small groups and one-on-one conversations.
That does not mean that I want to live in isolation. I often cannot attend
get-togethers for various reasons including transportation issues or other
commitments, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be invited. By nature I
am somewhat introverted, although I no longer consider myself shy. I love
people and I want to have friends, although I am not a Joiner who has a need to
belong to lots of organizations or go running from event to event. Some people
do and that’s fine; it’s just not me. My husband is my best friend and I
honestly prefer his company to anyone else’s. That may be weird, and it’s also
probably weird that as a general rule I am more comfortable around men than
women and more comfortable around older people and young adults than those
nearer my own age. I am not sure why any of these things are, they just ARE. </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
probably shouldn’t overanalyze myself. My dad used to tell me that being shy
was a prideful thing because it means that you think people notice you a lot
more than they actually do. He was right. I mean, probably a dozen people
actually read this blog and twenty-five percent of those are related to me. I
don’t really write it for other people as much as I do for myself anyway,
although if what I write helps or inspires others, so much the better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To quote Eeyore, “Thanks for noticing
me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing is one of my “mad
intensities” as is reading. There is something in me that causes me to love the
things I love with a great passion- writing, reading, teaching, God, my family,
my friends, animals. Over the years I have traded one obsession for another as
a result of an addictive personality or OCD or whatever name experts want to
give it. But in talking to artists, writers, musicians, and so on I realize
that this is all part of a creative mind and personality. It’s weird, yes, but
it’s not crazy or anything. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have
to be extremely careful not to drive myself and other s insane. I try not to
expect too much from people lest I drain them completely. I am very, very
cautious about giving away too much of myself to others. I know I can give it
all to God and He can bear it in a way that human beings cannot. When I was
younger I had impossible standards for others which were only a reflection of
the standards I had for myself. Ultimately, I broke. I have broken many times
since, but not irrevocably. I still sometimes expect too much from family and
friends-expect them to understand what cannot possibly be understood, expect
them to never hurt me or let me down in any way. That is not fair. What I
really try to do is accept others the way I want to be accepted. I try to be
for my students that person who will listen and care and not judge, and will
see the potential in them and not ever simply write them off.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not
because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the
world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7128.Jodi_Picoult"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Jodi Picoult</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have
never been able to quite “blend in.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
you are different, it’s just not possible. Now, of course, my very large size
makes it more difficult than before. I used to wear grays and browns and blacks
hoping that it would make me sort of disappear, but when I realized a few years
ago that it wasn’t working anyway, I decided to start wearing what I like,
including the bright colors that are supposed to be a no-no for middle-aged
stout ladies. And people do sometimes stare and giggle, and students make fun
of me behind my back, or sometimes pretty much right in my face, and I just
ignore it. I hate my fat, but I LIKE my clothes and my hair, and I have as much
right to wear pretty things as skinny people do. Take that, Abercrombie and Fitch.
And by the way, to those who whisper, “She’s gonna break that chair,” just know
that I have never broken a chair. I have fallen out of a few, due to sheer
clumsiness, but I have never broken one. I am smart enough to figure out where
I can and cannot sit, just as I am smart enough to know when people are making
fun of me. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
trying to be real here, as real as I have ever been. What I loved about working
with very young children was that there was no judgment, just smiling
acceptance and trust. Teenagers aren’t so kind-well, some of them are-but the
great irony is that they say they hate hypocrisy and legalism but they
themselves condemn one another and everyone else on the basis of appearances
and other surface-level junk. I choose to love them in spite of this, because
the reality is that inside, they are terribly insecure and many of them have
suffered great pain. Most of the kids I teach are good-hearted and
compassionate, but a few have let bitterness take root and grow and because of
this they seem to take great pleasure in hurting others. I myself was extremely
arrogant as a teenager, setting myself above others and saying that I was
smarter than almost anyone else and I did not stop at sometimes saying cruel
things. I thought it would lessen my own pain, but it actually made me feel
worse which was why I didn’t do it very often. I think that’s true of most
people. Maybe I am being idealistic, but I think that deep down, very few
people are actually so mean that they don’t feel at least some guilt about
their unkind behavior. </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I try
to think about what is the “Christian” response to being mistreated, made fun
of, left out, etc. I try to recall the Golden Rule. I remind myself that I am a
child of the King and that no one else’s opinion actually matters. But all of
these are the same old platitudes which, even though true, can sometimes ring
hollow when you’ve been dealing with the same crap over and over for forty-two
years. I leave the first five years of my life out of it because before I went
to school, no one told me that I was fat, and no one told me I was weird except
my siblings who were pretty weird themselves. But I find myself in this great
dilemma now because every time anything happens, I get the idea that no one
likes me and I logically know this to be very untrue. Then I go from that to
doubting every ability, every relationship, every aspect of my life and
personality. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get to self-analyzing and
using this blog that most people don’t even read to vent the fact that everyone
knows-the world is a cruel place.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is a
cruel place indeed, sinful and fallen. I try to also see the beauty that is in
it and most of the time I succeed because God’s grace and glory cannot be
denied. I have been blessed so far beyond what I deserve that at times it
overwhelms me. Why, then, do I let the pain and fear and worry overshadow the
goodness of God in the land of the living, without which we would all surely
despair? Sometimes I feel as if I am totally alone..and yet:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high
up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it
smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to
him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end
the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was a light and high
beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance
rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his
own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into
the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side, and putting away all fear he
cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/656983.J_R_R_Tolkien"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">J.R.R.
Tolkien</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3462456"><span style="color: blue;">The Lord
of the Rings</span></a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Tolkien was right. The Shadow is only a
small and passing thing. The enemy would like for us to think it is more, that
it is bigger and more powerful than it really is. My reality is that there are
students who do not like or respect me, but there are more who do. There are
people who have utter contempt for me and for everyone in general, but there
are people who care. There are days that are bad and days that are good, times
when nothing seems to go right and everything is a desert, and then the streams
and rivers are filled with good rain and it’s all okay again. This is just
life-the world and the way things are-the way things have been since the day
sin and death entered Creation. There are no easy answers .I keep seeking and
seeking and I find only glimpses of Truth and sparks of Divine. The moments of
clarity are rare but lovely. The times of refreshing are fulfilling. And if for
a season I must retreat into my books and be sustained by prayer, then so be
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to stay real but I also have
to stay sane. To trust in that light and beauty beyond the Shadow is all I
have, all any of us have. It is all that matters, in the long run. Trust…and
hope.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many
dark places.<br />
But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now<br />
mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/656983.J_R_R_Tolkien"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">J.R.R.
Tolkien</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3462456"><span style="color: blue;">The Lord
of the Rings</span></a></i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-53421782028429263112013-05-28T15:59:00.002-07:002013-05-28T15:59:19.807-07:00Going Deeper
<br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">“I
do believe in God. That seems to offend people more than almost anything else.
I think they would find it…well that is my limited experience, that they have
more of a problem with me believing in God than they would have if I was an
unrepentant atheist.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J.K. Rowling<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before I begin, let me make a few
things perfectly clear. First, just because I myself read-and allow my own
children to read-particular books or watch particular movies, does not mean
that I would have my students read or watch them. Every book I assign in my
English classes is on the recommended reading list endorsed by ACSI-the
Association of Christian Schools International-and, because this list was
compiled by Christians who had actually READ the books and knew what they were
doing, it includes not only works like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Scarlet Letter </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pilgrim’s Progress</i>,
but also the often-banned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Kill a
Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, Huckleberry Finn, The Diary of Anne Frank,
Animal Farm</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of Mice and Men.</i>
In order to be educated, one must have read certain books, period. The
compliers of the list understood that. Secondly, I have never assigned a book
that I have not myself read and I am always careful to explain the purpose
behind each book, the author’s background, and the historical context of both
the novel itself and the time period in which the author was writing. I teach
EVERYTHING through the lens of Christianity, and there is much richness to be
found in, I venture to say, the majority of classic literature and probably
half of modern literature. Finally, I have been working on this blog entry for several weeks in response to a couple of incidents/comments that I have either
overheard or that affected me or my kids in some way. I have done my homework,
as the diligent student of life that I am. My conclusion: I want to keep going
deeper, and I want my kids to go deeper, and this may involve sometimes reading
or watching things that some might find offensive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone pretty much agrees that an
educated person needs to have been exposed to Shakespeare, the Bible, and Greek
mythology. Even most atheists say this. Why? Because these three works, in the
literary sense, are at the heart of ALL literature. In order to understand
everything else, there must be a frame of reference. As a Christian parent and
educator, I believe-and teach-that the Bible is the source of all truth, and
that all truth is God’s truth. Everything else that we read and watch and even
experience points back to this Source. This does not mean, however, that other
things cannot supplement, enhance, and enlighten the truth of Scripture-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even things with which we do not agree.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">If you want to talk about book banning,
consider this: nearly everything has been banned, or boycotted, or complained
about by somebody, somewhere, at some time. Do you realize that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House </i>series by Laura Ingalls
Wilder has been banned in some circles as being “too traditional”, “disturbing
in its depiction of family relationships” and, of course, “sexist”? Yep. Now,
in the light of the twenty-first century, and equal rights and all of that, I
can see how it might be interpreted that way. After all, Ma cooked and cleaned
and took care of the kids while Pa went out and worked. That’s the way it was
then, in the 1880’s. It’s what people did. And I, for one, have a great deal of
respect for Ma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you ever tried to
lift one of the irons that was used at that time? I have. I couldn’t do it.
Neither could any of the moms who were with us on the field trip to the
Heritage Museum, and we all agreed that Ma, along with her frontier woman
counterparts, was one tough lady. I love the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House </i>series and the values that it depicts, with hard work
and faith and family at the core. I also love the charming, completely
unrealistic works of Louisa May Alcott. Alcott was deeply offended by the works
of Mark Twain, stating that his books were “unwholesome for our young lads and
lasses”. Ironically, Alcott’s family was not what many would consider
“Christian” and had some ideas which would later get Walt Whitman, among
others, in a whole lot of trouble with the” Christian” community. To me, when
Huckleberry Finn tears up the letter that will doom his friend Jim to a
continued life of slavery and mutters, “All right, then, I’ll GO to hell,” it
is one of the most profound statements in all of literature-and Alcott, along
with much of the country, took it entirely out of context. Those who have
screamed down through the centuries that this incredible, beautiful story about
true compassion versus the cruelty of bigots and hypocrites have not ever read
it-or at least have not understood it. Therein lies the problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The much-maligned Harry Potter series
is every bit as Christian as Tolkien’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord
of the Rings </i>and Lewis’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chronicles
of Narnia. </i>I say this having read every book and watched every movie and
carefully researching Rowling and her intent. She IS a Christian; she has so
stated time and time again. Google it yourself. She is NOT a Wiccan, despite
rumors to the contrary. Honestly, though, a writer being Christian is not the
sole criteria on which I base my reading choices. George Orwell was not a
Christian as far as I know, nor was William Golding, nor John Steinbeck. Twain,
Poe, and Hawthorne are a bit murkier. Twain’s condemnation of hypocrisy was not
necessarily a condemnation of all Christians; Poe was an utterly miserable
individual who begged God’s mercy at the end of his life; and Hawthorne was
horrified by the actions of the Puritans, especially when he learned that one
of his own ancestors was a judge during the Salem Witch Trials and was
responsible for the deaths of innocent people. All things considered, the
bitterness of these three writers was perfectly understandable, even if it
wasn’t right. And if I read ONLY specifically Christian books by Christian
authors, there would be precious little left to read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I am REALLY going to step on some
toes, because my experience with much of Christian entertainment has been that
it is formulaic, unrealistic fluff. Enjoyable and encouraging, yes, but still
way too simple. I call it “Christianity Lite”. At the end there’s a great
payoff, like in the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Facing the
Giants. </i>I realize that it was meant to show the ultimate of what God <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can </i>do, but He doesn’t always work like
that. In fact, He usually doesn’t, and so people who are “turned on” to
Christianity by these kinds of promises often end up running the other way,
heartbroken and disillusioned. The only promises, ever, were that hard times
WOULD come and that he would never leave us or forsake us. There are not now
nor have there ever been any easy answers. I prefer things like Ann Voskamp’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Thousand Gifts </i>and John Ramsey’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Other Side of Suffering, </i>which
depict real Christians who have gone through very real and terrible tragedy and
their only testimony is that God is still good in spite of it all. As far as
fiction goes, I like to go deep into the works of the great writers, Christian
or not, and explore themes of good versus evil and darkness versus light and
the pitfalls of pride. Books about Amish girls who get shunned by their
communities and then find true love and happiness at the end are nice, and I
have read many of them, but not because I was seeking any deep meaning. They
were just for fun. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Miserables, </i>on
the other hand, shows the best and worst of humanity and the miracle of true
redemption. I like that better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am not saying that I read absolutely
anything. Obviously I avoid things that I know may cause me to stumble or are
just trash, and when we researched Philip Pullman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His Dark Materials </i>and realized that he is blatantly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">intentionally </i>anti-God, and had a goal
in mind of turning CHILDREN against God, we chose to stop reading. However, I
cannot make that decision for anyone else or condemn them for choosing to read
the series. Maybe they will find something in them that I have not found, but
when students ask me about them I give my opinion and explain why I feel that
way. Likewise, when Raina expressed a desire to read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twilight, </i>because everybody else was (which is never a good reason
to do something anyway) we sat down with her and explained that actually, we
would prefer that she read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dracula </i>and
get the REAL lowdown on vampires first. We had her research the Twilight series
for herself, and I had read the first book and could honestly say that it was
poorly written and I didn’t like it. Ultimately, Raina decided for herself to
pass on those. This was about four years ago, and I would probably let her read
them now if she wanted to, but she doesn’t because she knows there are better
things out there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In our research on Harry Potter, we
found nothing that particularly bothered us and, in fact, as we delved into the
books and movies as a family, we found much to talk about. As far as people
getting all uptight about the “spells” in the book, I hope they don’t think
that saying a bunch of Latin words would actually cause anything to happen,
like someone being turned into a toad or growing a pig’s tail. That’s silly. If
you look up Biblical definitions of witchcraft and magic, you will find
something far different and far more sinister than that. True witchcraft, as so
well depicted in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Macbeth </i>, involves
mental manipulation and control. Shakespeare just threw in the cauldrons and
broomsticks for fun, as the Elizabethan audiences liked that sort of thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes I will change my mind about
a book or movie, like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life of Pi. </i>I
read it a few years ago and totally hated it, but then after talking with a
student about her take on it, I am going to give it another go. I am
open-minded enough to do that, to think maybe I misjudged. I have been known to
do that. I like books and movies that challenge me and deepen my faith, and
sometimes they may be things with which I disagree. Then, you see, I have to
think about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why </i>I disagree, and is my
disagreement based on God’s truth, or my own opinion? It’s actually a lot of
fun. More people should try it. J.K. Rowling says that she has never had a
child come up to her and say, “I really want to become a witch since reading
your books.” This is probably because kids understand that the books are not
“about” witchcraft. The magical world is simply the backdrop against which the
beauty and terror of the story is played out, like Middle Earth or Narnia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I will not say what I think about the
way some people misuse and misinterpret the Bible for their own selfish
motives. That’s a whole other topic for another time, but I will say that I
have seen it for myself and it’s not pretty. It’s fairly disgusting and I think
it grieves God far more than my daughter reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Caster Chronicles </i>does. My sixteen-year-old is grounded enough
in her faith to handle this series just fine, thank you, and although she is
only halfway through the first book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beautiful
Creatures</i>, she is already seeing how the struggle between good and evil,
the choice between darkness and light, is going down in the little Southern
town of Gatlin. What she will get, I trust, is the message that I got-that we
DO always have a choice, even when people tell us otherwise. We do not have to
settle for a doomed destiny; we CAN fight the darkness. This is an important
message for my kids. They are also getting it, by the way, from our viewing of
the excellent miniseries <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bible</i>,
lest any should think we leave Scripture out of things. We don’t. It is the
center of all that we do, say, watch, and read. It is the frame of reference to
which we always return. So don’t judge me because I allowed my
fourteen-year-old to watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les
Miserables. </i>Yes, there were some rough scenes, but she handled it. At the
end of the film she said, “Why are people even worried about that? Why would
you want to miss that movie because of ONE scene?” (The scene in question, by
the way, was in the movie to show just how decadent and wicked some people are.
My child GOT that.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the long run, you have to just
trust that if you are raising your children with certain values, they will make
the right choices. They don’t, always, but when my kids fall short it won’t be
because they read the Harry Potter books. I do not anticipate them going out
there with wands and trying to cast spells on people. They already know to
avoid things like Ouija boards and Tarot cards simply because it might open a
door they don’t want to open, but reading about fantasy magic does not fall
into the same category . If they have questions, they ask. When we play the
often misunderstood Dungeons and Dragons (the board game version), they know
that we are playing a game, a pretend game where we fight evil and triumph over
it. Should I not allow them to play MarioKart because it might promote reckless
driving?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How about that book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black Beauty</i>? Aren’t talking animals
Satanic or something? And just FYI-the song “Puff the Magic Dragon” was never
about anything other than a dragon and a little boy, and you can ruin nearly
anything if your overanalyze it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Christians have got to stop being so
fearful. To read about an idea or think about an idea is not the same as
embracing it. To allow an opinion to be expressed is not the same thing as
agreeing with it. Already, my kids disagree with me about a few things and they
are free to do so. They understand and cherish and practice the essentials ,
like loving God and acknowledging Jesus as Lord and Savior and trying to follow
Him and seek and submit to His will. They also do those things like loving
their neighbor and showing compassion to those in need, and reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Caster Chronicles </i>or Harry Potter
isn’t going to change that. They are not in the least confused about what is
real and what is not, and they laugh at “scary” movies as though they are
watching a comedy. They fear not, for they know that they are safe in the arms
of Jesus no matter what. Yes, we have made mistakes as parents and will make
more, but I am confident that my children know what they believe and why. I
don’t think allowing my teenagers to read and watch certain things makes me a
bad or irresponsible parent. It would, however, be irresponsible to forbid and
condemn absolutely everything and not tell them which things can actually be
backed up by Scripture and which are matters of opinion. My hope and prayer is
that, by allowing them to question and explore, they will not have to find out
the hard way that, while drinking a glass of wine is not a sin, getting drunk
and getting behind the wheel of a car is not only sinful, but very stupid. Or
that, while gambling may not be expressly forbidden in Scripture, it is not
good stewardship and it is not trusting God for what you need and it can be
extremely destructive. Listening to the Beatles won’t hurt them, but having
premarital sex will. Let’s not major on the minors, folks. Let’s be real with
our kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s “keep the main thing, the main
thing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I go to
church myself, …I don't take any responsibility for the lunatic fringes of my
own religion."-J.K.Rowling</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-52569022712605619832013-03-29T07:34:00.002-07:002013-03-29T07:34:28.232-07:00A Time of Innocence
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Time it was and what a time it
was, it was</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A time of innocence, a time of
confidences…”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
reconnected on Facebook yesterday with my first best friend. My friend for
life. Say what you will about social networking-and it definitely has a
downside-but it has enabled me to keep in touch with many people with whom I
share a bond. Some of these connections go back to high school or middle
school, some back even further. And then there is Lynn. She has known me since
I was born. Yes, actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">since I was
born. </i>She was just a toddler herself then and I doubt she remembers much
about my earliest years, but I do not recall a life without my Lynnie-Pooh.
Through the years we would sometimes lose touch, but we always found each other
again.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lynn’s
actual first name is Patricia and she is Trish to most of the world. Lynn is
her middle name and it was what her family always called her. Thus, so did my
family. She lived across the street from my grandparents and our families were
friends when we lived in Jacksonville. We moved away from there when I was two,
but we would visit my grandparents several times a year and Lynn and I would
pick up right where we left off. In between we wrote letters, and I still had
those letters up until the day my mom’s house burned. Letters filled with
little-girl confidences and, as we grew older, more serious secrets. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We had
so much fun together and could make each other laugh like no one else could. We
were nothing alike physically-me with my chubby body and wild red hair; she
with her impossibly skinny legs and straight blonde hair-but our hearts were
the same. We didn’t share everything, since she loved to cook and sew and I
couldn’t do either (still can’t), and I was always writing in my journal. But
we were alike in nearly every other way, with an uncanny love for animals and
nature and a desire to imagine and create and Do Things. When we weren’t Making
Something or Building Something, we were Pretending Something. Countless
reenactments of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Old Yeller </i>took place
in my grandmother’s front yard, with dramatic weeping and sobbing in the final
scenes. Sometimes we actually made ourselves cry.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
adored playing school. Lynn was the teacher, and she had this giant pair of
glasses that dwarfed her small face. She would put her hair in a bun and look
for all the world like an old schoolmarm. “Now, class,” she would say in a
nasally voice to me and the assembly of stuffed animals, “Today we will study
MES-O-PO-TA-ME-UH. Can you say MES-O-PO-TA-ME- UH?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This never failed to send me into hysterics.
She made report cards for me and the stuffed animals, and I always got a D in
conduct. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We also
played Barbies, which I absolutely abhorred when playing with anyone else. It
was different with Lynn, because we made up very tragic stories that we acted
out with the dolls, plus we made them some pretty cool outfits. Lynn seemed to
have an endless supply of fabric scraps, which we would also use to decorate our
shoebox “houses”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiny toy animals
purchased at the local dime store lived in the houses, and they had pretty adventurous
lives. We made furniture for them, and itty bitty books and food and dishes
from pieces of cardboard. Sometimes we would have tea parties on Lynn’s front
porch, with all of our stuffed animals in attendance. Or we would play house in
my grandma’s sunroom, and she would let us use her collection of salt and
pepper shakers as long as we were careful. We never broke anything.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
favorite and most special thing to do, though, was The Trading Game. I’m not
sure how it began, but it started with just a few cereal and Crackerjack prizes
(back when Crackerjack prizes were actually cool as opposed to the junky little
paper deals they have now) and eventually morphed into an entire elaborate
system. We would save, in between the times we got to see each other, not only
cereal and Crackerjack and gum machine prizes, but any small junk we could lay
hands on. Mini notebooks and pencil sets, plastic rings that turned our fingers
green, miniscule plastic dogs and horses, mini card decks and domino sets, and
so on. Any party favors or prizes we got went into our respective boxes; every
trinket we purchased or were given or found was saved until we saw each other
again. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We had
a few rules for our game, one of which caused our first and only fight. Unlike
most little girls, we rarely even had the slightest argument, perhaps because
our time together was so limited that it would be pointless to waste it on girl
drama and cattiness. Living so far apart, we didn’t have any mutual friends or boyfriends
to come between us. The Trading Game was something we did exclusively with each
other. It was one of the hallmarks of our special connection, a connection we
never wanted to lose or mess up. But on this day…she tried to break one of our
Rules. I was a stickler for Rules. Every game has them, and I was a game
fanatic. In Scrabble, you can only make certain kinds of words. In Clue, you
can’t look at the other person’s cards. In The Trading Game, once you put down
an item to trade, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and took your hand off
of it, </i>you HAD to trade if the other person wanted it. You could make the
deal as tough as you wanted, but you had to trade for something.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
culprit was a small red plastic canteen from a toy camping set. I desperately
wanted that canteen. I loved to play Explorers and Prairie Girls and Cowboys
and Army and Backyard Fort With Mud Wars, and that canteen would be perfect.
Lynn set it down on the porch step…and removed her hand. I then began to
bargain. She refused every offer. “Come on,” I said finally, exasperated. “I’m
offering you the best stuff I have.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
she said it. “No. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I changed my mind.</i>”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What??”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
shrugged. “ I decided I want to keep it. I can. It’s mine, you know.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
can’t do that.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
defiant lift of her chin. “I can too.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
You took your hand off. It’s the Rules.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
made the Rules, I didn’t.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
BOTH made the Rules.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, we
didn’t.” She was annoyingly calm. I was getting flustered. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I ‘ll
throw it into that tree over there, “ I threatened, “and then come back for it
later.” I said this because I knew Lynn would never climb a tree. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
she got mad. “Well, FINE.” She practically threw the canteen at me. “TAKE it.
And fill it with Clorox bleach liquid, and DRINK it, and DIE.” With that, she
snatched up four or five of my items and flounced off into the house.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
stunned, but got in a parting shot. “You’re a CHEATER. You cheated me out of my
Snoopy pencil set with that picture of your brother, and I don’t even LIKE him
anymore. I think he’s UGLY.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
stuck her head out the door. “Just take the stupid canteen and LEAVE.” SLAM.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
grabbed my box and the canteen and stomped back across the street to my Nonny’s
house, where I proceeded to throw myself down on the wicker sofa and wail.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard the door open and Lynn came running in, her
faced streaked with tears. “I’m sorry,” we both cried at the same time. We
hugged. Then we went back and forth about who should have the canteen, since
neither of us really wanted it anymore. We finally compromised-it would live in
my Nonny’s toy closet, and we would both play with it when I came to visit.
Lynn also insisted on giving back most of the stuff I had traded to her for the
canteen.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
see, things are just things, but a good friend is a rarity. We both
instinctively knew that. So the Trading Game went on for several more years,
long after we were really too old for it, just as we continued to play with
dolls and stuffed animals into our teens-but only when we were together. No one
else had to know. We are both married now, and in our forties, with children
nearly grown, but yesterday confessed to each other via Facebook that we have
taken a vow to never really grow up. I still play with toys and color and watch
Disney movies and I don’t really care who knows it. Most people don’t understand,
but Lynn does. She understands everything.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
movie “Beaches”, Hilary and CeCe have very different lives, yet through the
decades they remain steadfast friends. They know that no matter how long or how
far they are separated, by years or miles, they will be there for one
another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will always be friends-no,
more than friends. Soulmates. Kindred spirits. So will Lynn and I. If we should
happen to get together sometime in the future-the last time we saw each other
was in 2000, 13 years ago-I know that once again, we will pick up right where
we left off. If we don’t see each other face to face again until eternity, I
know we will still recognize each other. Maybe we’ll trade some heavenly
trinkets. Who knows? I just know that I have been blessed to have so much love
in my life, to know so many amazing people .Lynn is one of God’s greatest gifts
to me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I love
you, Lynn!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Long ago it must be, I have a photograph</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.”</span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-57723053307975513262013-03-16T09:09:00.003-07:002013-03-16T09:09:54.987-07:00To This Day
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and if a kid
breaks in a school<br />
and no one around chooses to hear<br />
do they make a sound?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon first hearing Shane Koyczan’s
poem “To This Day”, I wept. Having now heard it and read it many times, the
impact is no less. He has put so eloquently into words how so many of us
feel-to this day. Yes, I have left it behind, in a sense. But the long-term
effects are subtle. The long-term effects are a handy tool for the Enemy to use
against us. That’s why, to this day, criticism stings me harder, certain words
trigger a feeling of nausea, and the positive is easily buried beneath the negative
if I am not careful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">every school
was a big top circus tent<br />
and the pecking order went<br />
from acrobats to lion tamers<br />
from clowns to carnies<br />
all of these were miles ahead of who we were<br />
we were freaks<br />
lobster claw boys and bearded ladies<br />
oddities<br />
juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle<br />
trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal<br />
but at night<br />
while the others slept<br />
we kept walking the tightrope<br />
it was practice<br />
and yeah<br />
some of us fell<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, Purd!” I can never forget
it. I have tried. I won’t even tell how I got the nickname; it is too painful.
It sounded like it didn’t mean anything, and that was the beauty of it for Her
and all of Her lemmings. They knew I would never tattle, because then I would
have to explain. So they could shout it at me on the bus or across the middle
school campus and I would try to ignore it. “PURD! You look PURDY today!” Explosive
laughter. Strange looks from people. Quizzical looks my friends, from my
brother.”What does that even mean?” I never told. So they would say to Her, “Why
don’t you shut up?” and of course She would put on a face of innocence. It was
just a made-up word, what was the problem?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That nickname did not follow me
to high school, because She moved away. I began tenth grade with a profound
sense of relief and a little bit of hope, which was quickly dashed those first few
weeks. Some of Her lemmings tried the name, but it didn’t sound the same
without Her to egg them on…so they came up with new ones, things that everyone
could understand perfectly well…and I still never told because by then it
seemed pointless as well as immature. Back then we were told to get over it, as
long as no one was doing anything to us physically.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the cutting began, along
with the hostility toward my parents, the diagnosis of borderline personality
was made. How ironic is that? Day after horrible day I had to deal with being
tortured by people who enjoyed watching others suffer, but I was the one with a
personality disorder? At the time, though, I bought into it because I was
already convinced there was something wrong with me anyway. My parents, not so
much, especially when the suggestion was made to put me on Prozac. No, thanks.
The idea of drugging their sixteen-year-old daughter was abhorrent to them, and
they were right. In fact, I myself am opposed to that sort of thing under most
circumstances-and I am not talking about legitimate things like actual ADD or
bipolar disorder, in which case medication may be necessary in order for a
person to function normally-but I am talking about drugs administered to mask
the actual problem. Having gone through that with my son, who was put on
Abilify at the age of ten, it makes me shudder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking back, I realize some things.
I realize that I did have some issues, but they were probably more hormonal
than anything. When at the age of thirty-two I was told by an OBGYN that no, I
wasn’t crazy and never had been, that there were actual things going on
physically that were not my fault, I actually hugged the man. I also realize
that some of the issues had to do with the normal difficulties of growing up,
that I am a particularly sensitive person which doesn’t have to be a bad thing,
and that the school I attended was a shark tank. I was one of the plankton on
whom the sharks fed. Finally, I realize now that the kids who went through a
lot of the same things and seemed unbothered actually were bothered, they just
had stronger personalities and many of them, like my friends Tisha and
Charlotte, had such a deep Christian faith and were so mature spiritually that
they were able to withstand it better than I.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Knowing all of these things on
an intellectual level, however, does not honestly help very much in the reality
of everyday life. I think of Truman Capote, who needed so much affirmation from
people because his wounds were so deep. I think of how he drained them
emotionally. I don’t want to be the sort of person who takes and takes from my
family and friends without giving back. I never want to be the kind of teacher
whose self-esteem is so tied up in how the students respond to me that I fail
utterly at earning their respect. I don’t think I am any of these things, but I
worry about it a lot.Ridiculous thoughts that are lies from Satan keep me awake
at night-and even as I write this, I know it might happen again tomorrow. I
still walk the tightrope. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the movie “The Perks of Being
a Wallflower”, my favorite line, said by an English teacher to a lonely young
man, is “We accept the love we think we deserve.” It’s true. I see it all the
time, particularly with young ladies who don’t see their beauty and worth and
will allow themselves to be treated like dirt. But I see it with young men,
too. With them it is usually different as they build walls of sarcasm and
hostility, purposely making themselves unlovable so they won’t be hurt any
more. I did all of those things. I tried it all. None of it worked. To this
day, I still find it hard to accept praise, to receive unconditional love. I
had a great family, but the abuse I suffered at the hands of my peers unfortunately
often overshadowed it. I also accepted Christ at a young age, but the vile
words of classmates often made me forget that God made me beautiful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Strong animals know when your
hearts are weak. “ Thus says little Hushpuppy in </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Beasts
of the Southern Wild”, a movie that I love so much because it speaks such
truth. The people who get some kind of joy from hurting those who are weaker
know exactly who we are, and they attack. That gives them power. Logically, the
thing to do would be to not let them see that they have hurt us, but that’s
easier said than done. I got better at it over time. In fact, I am so good at
it now that I don’t let people know they have hurt me even when it would be
more beneficial for everyone if I did so. I push it way, way down. Sometimes I
feel stuffed to the brim, as though I will explode. Sometimes I do explode-at
the wrong people, the ones closest to me. To this day,I am not “all right”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
I am, though, is forgiven and loved, not only by family, friends, and students,
but by a big incredible God.When you come right down to it, no one is all
right. Everyone is broken, be it a little or a lot. We want to do God’s job and
fix each other, but we can’t. What we can do is love each other, help each
other, and encourage other. We can pray for each other and support each other. “I
see that I’m a little piece in a big, big universe,” says Hushpuppy. Indeed, we
all are. Some of us may feel that we don’t fit, that there’s no room for our
particular piece of the puzzle, but we all do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and if you
can’t see anything beautiful about yourself<br />
get a better mirror<br />
look a little closer<br />
stare a little longer<br />
because there’s something inside you<br />
that made you keep trying<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The best mirror is God Himself.
Look at Him, the One Who created us and sees only beauty, the One Who puts a
spark of Himself into us all, and gives us life. He was the Something inside me
that made me keep trying, even when I felt that I was on the edge of falling
off the edge of the world. Those words that still echo down through the years
can be drowned out by the Song, but I have to let that happen. I have to ask
Him to silence those other voices and show me the mirror that reflects Truth
and reveal to me daily that I am more than what I perceive myself to be-not
because I am any better than anyone else, or any better than I ever have been,
but because I am allowing Him to work through me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="background: rgb(244, 249, 243); text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“
Our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to
do with pain and more to do with beauty.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-23231739860238564012013-02-09T07:34:00.002-08:002013-02-09T07:34:40.747-08:00I'm Impressed!
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m impressed that God made this day so wonderful”. –small boy
to his mother</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I read
the above on my Facebook feed this past week and found it both beautiful and
insightful. The little boy, Aidyn, is five, I think, or six-at any rate, still
young enough to be impressed by God’s everyday gifts rather than taking them
for granted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not having a good
week myself, but perhaps I was not looking hard enough for the goodness in
things. Stress kept mounting and by yesterday morning I was ready to throw in
the towel. I’m just being honest. It was not any one thing; it was a whole
string of petty annoyances that included students being disrespectful,
difficulties with my own kids, a dog with separation anxiety doing weird things
like eating an entire package of hot dog buns, trying to do stuff on the
Internet and not being able to get it to work right, and so and and blah, blah,
blah. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tried
singing praise songs. Of course I dutifully read my Bible. Dutifully. I went to
church on Wednesday night. I prayed, dutifully. Listened to Power 88. Tried
talking to a friend about something I was dealing with. That backfired because
my daughter decided I was “saying mean things” about her. I wrote in my
journal, reread some of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blue Like Jazz. </i>I
did my relaxing things like reading my fun books and playing my brain games and
coloring and watching reruns of old TV shows . I diagramed a few sentences
because I am strange and I find it entertaining. More dutiful prayer and Bible
reading and praise music-and still, nothing. I was not at all impressed. I ate
ridiculously healthy food and only felt hungry, not virtuous in the least. My
tenth graders <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still </i>resisted reading
A TALE OF TWO CITIES and my eleventh-graders <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> argued about what constitutes plagiarism and the two boys who
have been goofing off in that class partied on until I took them out into the
hall and had a very strong one-sided conversation with them and then wrote them
up, which is the thing about my job that I hate the most.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, it
was that kind of week. And yet…</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On Thursday
the Zambian Singers came to our school as they do every year. If you have never
heard them, you should. They are a group from Africa, totally non-profit.
Everything they make goes to funding their Christian school of 250 students and
five teachers in one of the poorest regions of Africa. Yes, 250 students. Yes,
five teachers. I tried to imagine fifty students in one classroom without any
of the fancy trappings I have, like nice chairs and tables and decent books and
a whiteboard, a computer, and a projector. I tried to imagine the difficulty
inherent in attempting to give individual help to fifty students, and how
exhausted those teachers must be every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Zambians sang their amazing concert, all a capella, their voices
blending in incredible harmonies. They got our own Mr. Wade up there to sing “The
Lion Sleeps Tonight” with them. I was beginning to be pretty impressed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mind
wandered back to the previous day, when I found a note of encouragement from a
student. She said things about me that made me cringe, not because they weren’t
nice, but because they were. They were undeserved, at least at the moment when I
was reading them. On Thursday afternoon after school, the two boys to whom I
had had to assign detention came into my classroom. One worked on the math that
is frustrating him to no end and the other did chores that I assigned. I talked
to them both and they expressed regret for their behavior. One in particular
really owned it, said that it was pretty inexcusable and that he would make
every effort to change things. This reinforced what had been said in the
note-that the students DO appreciate me, they just don’t always act like it. Impressed
again, I went home. Unfortunately, it was a rather bad evening, and my
mishandling of things with my kids didn’t help. I dutifully prayed. No, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">desperately </i>prayed. I needed things to
get better. I prayed with the expectation that they would. I had already seen
glimmers of the possibility that they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could.</i>
There were the Zambians, and the note, and the apologetic boys, and I had found
in some donated books a complete set of the Little House series. I have not
owned a complete set since the fire. Then there was that really good discussion
in creative writing…and on Wednesday there had been that really good discussion
of romantic poetry in senior English. The week had not been a total loss.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
yesterday morning, my kids were speaking to me again. We were out of uniform so
I didn’t have to wear a dress. In first block I realized that majority of
students actually are reading A TALE OF TWO CITIES-at least enough to have a
halfway coherent discussion. In second block a student told me that she had
finished LORD OF THE FLIES already and that it made her cry. I asked her why,
specifically. I mean, it makes me cry, too, but I was curious. She said not
only was the story sad, but that she felt terribly sorry for the author, who
obviously had a very negative view of humanity and had no hope .We talked more
about the book and I was impressed by her depth of understanding. In third
block we had a great time with ROMEO AND JULIET, especially when a girl read
Romeo’s part and a guy read Juliet’s. At lunch, my Nerd Herd shared pizza with
me. Ham and pineapple. The day ended with the second of the goof-off
eleventh-grade boys coming and offering to help me clean my room. He told me
that he had learned some important lessons during the week, and that he knew
his behavior was inappropriate and immature, and it was time to start buckling
down and being a better example to others. Guess what? I was VERY impressed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
night I sat and took stock and realized that that if we seek to find only the
bad, we probably will. Like William Golding, the author of LORD OF THE FLIES,
we can choose to see everything as a total loss and ignore the wonder that is
all around us. The Glory is still everywhere, though. We may be having a week
that seems so disastrous that we are blinded to what is Real. We may be going
through things that are so awful that we forget about the grace. But there is a
possibility that the Grace and the Glory and the Good are all intertwined with
the Terrible Awfulness or the merely annoying. While my prayer and Bible
reading this past week may have been largely of the Dutiful rather than the
Grateful sort, I know that God knows me and knows that my heart’s desire is to
honor Him, and He forgives me. He forgives me for missing blessings while they
were happening right before my eyes. Blessings like a sorrel colt with an
injured leg that is healing and mending because a girl with a loving heart has
been fully obedient. The Girl and the Colt are two creatures that came suddenly
and unexpectedly into my life and I am forever changed. Likewise the Boy, who
last night brought me a rose, the Boy who humbly acknowledged that he has not
been much help this past week because of his attitude-that Boy is a gift. The
students who tried to make right their foolishness, the friend who was willing
to listen, the rain that fell in buckets and renewed the grass for the sorrel
colt to graze upon, the flowers that are blooming because they think it is
Spring, the husband who tracked down a copy of an elusive book that I wanted,
the stars that hang so low in the sky some nights and sparkle so brightly that
the traveler can find his way Home, even the dog who ate the bag of hot dog
buns but who has been there to help heal our pain-these are gifts from the One
who knows best what we need.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thank
you, God. I am impressed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I discovered later, and I'm still discovering right up to
this moment, that is it only by living completely in this world that one learns
to have faith. By this-worldliness I mean living unreservedly in life's duties,
problems, successes and failures. In so doing we throw ourselves completely
into the arms of God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings, but those of
God in the world. That, I think, is faith.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/29333.Dietrich_Bonhoeffer"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Dietrich
Bonhoeffer</span></a></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-7499747846599372232013-01-26T07:27:00.000-08:002013-01-26T07:27:04.705-08:00How to Say Goodbye
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tell
me how to fill the space you left behind<br sb_id="ms__id4048" />
And how to laugh instead of cry<br sb_id="ms__id4049" />
And how to say goodbye…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Imagine this, if you will. A
world of perfection, where no one sinned and no one was sad and nothing died. A
place where the grass was more lush and green than any grass our eyes have ever
beheld, the fruit was sweeter than any fruit we have ever tasted, and the
animals were all tame and friendly and without malice or fear. A world where
you could run your fingers through a lion’s mane and he would purr like a
kitten. A world where mankind walked in harmony with God and all of Creation.
It existed, once. It was called Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then, in a moment of pride,
mankind succumbed to temptation and the lust of the flesh. In a split second,
his eyes were opened to a new reality of sin and sickness and suffering and
death. I wonder what our first parents must have thought, how they must have
felt when they realized that the garments God gave them to cover their
nakedness were made from the skins of their animal friends. That they,
indirectly, had caused the first death, the first shedding of blood. It must
have been terrible. The sense of loss and pain must have been nearly
unbearable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We have been feeling it ever
since that moment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were not designed to deal
with death. In the beginning, nothing was supposed to die, not people, not
animals, not even plants. In a world that now seems so hardened and indifferent
toward human life, even now, we don’t cope with it all that well, not really.
Not when it involves those we are close to, or when it is a result of senseless
and random evil, like the 9/11 tragedy and the Sandy Hook massacre. We try and
we struggle and we flounder, struggling to make sense of it all. The reality
is, there is no one solution, no formula, no foolproof<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>six-point plan to coping with grief and loss.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Countless books have been
written about this topic. There are allegedly even stages of grief that have
been observed, but those who compiled the list admit that grief often deviates
from that pattern, that people may move back and forth among the various “stages”
, that some may go directly from shock and denial to seeming acceptance and
then anger and deep sorrow may come years later. In other words, it cannot be
so easily defined. There is no one way we are “supposed” to feel, no one way
that all of this should go.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #676767; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>C.S.Lewis understood this. For
so many years this man was able to intellectualize and compartmentalize, and,
using logic, he had figured out the reasons why human beings suffer. Then he
suffered the most terrible loss of his life, the death of his wife Joy from
cancer, and suddenly it just couldn’t be so easily explained. In the following conversation,
he is speaking to a friend regarding his loss:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Life must go on.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't
know that it must, but it certainly does.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- I'm sorry, Jack. </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- Thank you, Christopher.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- We're all deeply sorry. <o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- Thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything I can do?<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, just don't tell me it's all for the best, that's all.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Only God knows why these things have to happen, Jack.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- God knows, but does God care? <o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- Of course.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We see so little here. We're not the creator.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We're the creatures, aren't we?<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We're the rats in the cosmic laboratory.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I've no doubt the experiment is for our own good, but...<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>it still makes God the vivisectionist, doesn't it?<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It won't do.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's this bloody awful mess, and that's all there is to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bloody awful mess.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? Some might
even consider it a not very “Christian-like” expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some may find it offensive, even. I don’t. It’s
the reality-the raw, unvarnished, aching reality. It is the utterance of a man
who is in despair, the sound of ultimate suffering. I have been there. I have
walked that road. I have never lost my faith, or doubted God’s existence, or
even thought in any conscious way that He doesn’t know what He is doing. I
have, however, wondered at times if He is capable of cruelty. I have questioned
why He allows us to undergo such pain. The only answer is that we live in a
sinful, fallen world. I didn’t make it this way, so how can it be fair?<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
<br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s not. God is not “fair”-
but He is just. He is merciful. Above all, He is Love. Because He is Love, He
weeps with us and He does not become angry at our questions. He is big enough
to handle anything we hurl at Him in the midst of our very human sorrow. He
knows. That’s why He came here as a Man. He does not expect that we will
understand exactly how we are supposed to get through the grief that death
causes. He knows that we are limited, and can only fumble along day by day. He
knows that even years down the road we will have moments when our longing to
have those we love back with us is nearly unbearable. But as we blindly stumble
through unspeakable pain, the one thing we can know, the one thing that was
actually promised was that He would not leave us comfortless. <o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
<br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I would never try to tell
anyone, ever, that there is a “right” way to say goodbye. Grief is very
personal. I can have an idea of what someone is going through, but I cannot
fully know. I can sympathize and even, to a point, empathize because of what I
have been through, but I am still not them and they are not me, and I would
never presume to tell them, “This is what you must do/say/feel/ think.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know some who try to remain stoic because
they think giving in to grief is a sign of weakness or lack of faith. Nonsense.
Throw something if you have to, break all the dishes in the cupboard, go
outside and scream and shake your fist at the sky, but allow yourself to </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">feel it. </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretending that it’s not there, pretending
that it can’t possibly be terrible and awful because it is “God’s will” is just
a lie, and God doesn’t believe that any more than we do. He knows when our
hearts are torn and if they are ever to be healed at all, we must acknowledge
that it is indeed “bloody awful mess” and we can’t get through it on our own.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
<br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When contemporary Christian
artist Steven Curtis Chapman’s beautiful little five-year-old daughter, Maria,
was killed in an accident several years ago, his first instinct was to never
write another song. That’s real. That’s an honest acknowledgement that losing a
child is unbelievably painful and utterly heartbreaking. Within days he had
reached the conclusion that if what he believed was ever true, it was still
just as true in the wake of Maria’s death and the world still needed to know.
The result was his album “Beauty Will Rise”, which he refers to as his personal
collection of psalms. It is a completely honest chronicle of suffering and is
probably some of his best work. Another result of the loss is “Maria’s Big
House of Hope”, an orphanage in China built with the donations of people around
the world in memory of Maria. <o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I believe that the Chapman
family still struggles and weeps and grieves. In fact, I know they do, because
I am connected to Mrs. Chapman’s Facebook page and she often makes comments
that speak of their sorrow. Yes, they have gone on. They live their lives fully
and embrace the time they have, but it does not mean they miss Maria any less.
Even knowing that we will see someone again in Heaven does not completely ease
the pain, because we want them here with us, right now. That is natural and
human and there’s nothing wrong with feeling that way. Picking ourselves up and
being able to somehow move on does not mean that we forget, ever. <o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t want to forget. I
don’t want to forget the good times and the love and the laughter. I don’t want
to forget the hugs and the silly jokes and his voice and his eyes. A student of
mine who lost her father six years ago says she is afraid of forgetting what he
looked like. I told her that she probably won’t, but even if she does, she will
remember what he </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">was like </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and
that is what truly matters anyhow.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But
I will not tell her that she will ever reach a point where a memory doesn’t
move her to tears. I will not tell her that the loss will ever be unimportant.
What I have told her is that the loss has made her who she is, and will
continue to be part of who she is. I have told her that it has changed her
forever, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. We are shaped as much by
experience as we are by heredity.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If we will but admit that
even as Christians, we can only do the best we can in the face of grief, we
will seem so much more real to those who don’t believe. Be honest when you are
walking in the valley of the shadow. Be honest with yourself and with others.
There is no one way to say goodbye. Don’t worry about whether you are doing it
right…just trust Him, one step, one moment, one hour, one day at a time.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></em></div>
<span style="color: #676767; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">This hand is
bitterness <br sb_id="ms__id10418" />
We want to taste it and <br sb_id="ms__id10419" />
Let the hatred numb our sorrows <br sb_id="ms__id10420" />
The wise hand opens slowly <br sb_id="ms__id10421" />
To lilies of the valley and tomorrow <br sb_id="ms__id10422" />
This is what it means to be held <br sb_id="ms__id10423" />
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life <br sb_id="ms__id10424" />
And you survive <br sb_id="ms__id10425" />
This is what it is to be loved and to know </span><br />
<span style="color: #676767; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">That the promise was when everything fell, we'd be held...</span><br />
<span style="color: #676767; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">-Natalie Grant<br sb_id="ms__id10426" style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-60074482507392206902013-01-21T07:33:00.001-08:002013-01-21T07:33:07.597-08:00Whom Shall I Fear?
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I
will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10, NIV)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
had been a rough week, to say the least. Two of my classes had chosen to be
rather uncooperative, with some outright defiance on the part of a few students
.On the home front, I was dealing with an injured horse, a sick child, and the
financial stresses that seem to crop up at the worst possible times. I wasn’t
feeling well physically, and my old nemesis, Depression, which I have battled
off and on for most of my life, was lurking around the corner. I stay one step
ahead of this particular enemy most of the time, recognizing it as merely an
agent of the true Enemy, but I was tired and a bit discouraged and I wasn’t
sure I had the strength to fight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then,
a voice out in the hall, a sweet young male voice, caught my ears. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know Who goes before me, I know Who stands
behind, the God of angel armies is always by my side.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stuck my head out the door and saw a middle
schooler standing at his locker getting his books as he sang Chris Tomlin’s “Whom
Shall I Fear?” He didn’t see me and I didn’t want to embarrass him so I
withdrew quietly back to my desk and thanked God for that small, yet
all-important reminder. The day didn’t get stunningly better but I did.God had
spoken to me through a child to inform me in no uncertain terms that I was not
alone. I am never alone. I do not have the strength to fight anything, be it
sickness, depression, or financial woes- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but
God does.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
C.S.Lewis’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Screwtape Letters, </i>the
high demon Screwtape tutors his nephew in how to corrupt mankind through
deception. One of the many strategies he discusses is prayer.If a man prays and
things don’t get better, he can say that God didn’t listen, therefore God doesn’t
care, or perhaps He does not exist. If a man prays and things improve, it can
be chalked up to chance or coincidence-something that “would have happened
anyway.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, prayer is no proof
of anything. I know many people who have fallen into exactly this line of
thinking. For me, I have ceased to think of prayer as any kind of evidence.
Prayer is our most powerful weapon because it strengthens <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us. </i>Does it affect what God does? I think it does, quite often. In
fact, because He exists outside of time as we know it, it is entirely possible
and even likely that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our prayers now are
determining what He has already done.</i> When I first heard this idea
expressed by a pastor, I was staggered. Can it really be? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
try with finite minds to grasp the Infinite. It cannot be done. We try reason
and logic, which does have its place, but then we run up against the
Unexplainable. A friend of mine recently related a story about a terrible car
accident which he survived. The officers on the scene looked at him in
amazement. “You can’t be alive,” they said. “It’s impossible.” But Ben <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>alive, with only one small,
insignificant injury. The fact that, humanly speaking, he should have been dead
was not lost on him. He had been drifting somewhat from his true purpose, and
this brought him back to it, realizing that our time on this planet is very
brief. The accident itself was part of the Plan written from before the
foundation of the world. It was a Plan written for the whole universe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shakespeare
said that “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s some truth to that. God has given
everyone a role to play in the great Story. But there is no “merely” about it.
The roles were assigned by the Author of all things. He, the Author, the God of
Angel Armies, does not regard a single one of us as “merely” anything. We are
His masterpieces, each one of us. So no matter how weird I am, how unlovely
physically, how limited in my abilities, I still matter. I do not fear death
nearly as much as I fear not being truly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">alive
</i>while I am here. I fear, quite often, that because I do not measure up to
the world’s standards of conformity and beauty, that I am nothing. I know this
is a great lie of Satan, but I have seen more than one person fall victim to
it. Mostly, I fear that the root of bitterness I still harbor in the deepest
recesses of my soul will spring into weeds of cynicism that will choke out all
of the love and idealism I try to nurture. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unfortunately,
it doesn’t take much to send me spiraling into that abyss of self-doubt. Fortunately,
I have a God Who doesn’t let me stay there for long, provided I allow Him to
consume me from the inside out and give Him control. When I do that, giving up
is not even an option. The real truth is that we are fearfully and wonderfully
made, perfectly designed for whatever his purpose for us may be. The real truth
is that in the face of hardship and loss and betrayal, the God of Angel Armies
has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>been with me. At the end
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Screwtape Letters, </i>“The
Patient”-the man Wormwood has been trying to turn from his faith-dies during an
air raid. Screwtape is outraged, because the death is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">victory. </i>Wormwood was unable to pluck The Patient from the hand of
God. In the end, The Patient sees clearly the angelic beings who have been with
him all along, and then he stands before his Savior. Screwtape, knowing that
Evil has lost, roars that “someday we WILL win.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that is not true. Satan lost the moment
Jesus went to the Cross and died in our place. He is defeated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">already.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
of this is knowledge that I have had from my childhood. Getting it into my head
was not difficult. I was a bright child. Getting it from the head to the heart,
however, has been an ongoing process. Salvation is a present progressive kind
of thing. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am being </i>saved. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am being </i>transformed. The one thing that
the Enemy, as clever as he is, is unable to comprehend is that Jesus did what
he did out of love only. There was nothing in it for Him. And of course Satan,
being the one who comes solely to steal, kill, and destroy, will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never </i>understand that. We think we
understand it, we say we understand it, and then we make our weekly trek to
church and throw our offering into the plate hoping that it will be enough to
buy God off and keep anything terrible from happening, ever. When the Bad Thing
does come, we remind him of our great righteousness and question His justice.
We bought our ticket-so why isn’t the journey easier?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
journey is what it is because we actually didn’t buy our ticket-God did. Our
redemption was purchased with His blood, not our own. He never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">said </i>it would be easy. We just assumed
it would. We think we deserve something. We think that the process of
transformation should be a walk in the park, but a walk in the same old park
day after day just isn’t very challenging. When we played that old childhood
game of Follow the Leader, it was pretty dull if the leader just went around in
circles, never jumping over a crack in the sidewalk or climbing a hill or
wading through a puddle. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Life
would indeed be easier without challenges, but challenges are part of the deal and
we are stronger for them. Of course there are things which will make us
fearful, but the fear lessens when we realize Who is leading. Courage is not
the absence of fear, it is being afraid and facing what you must face anyway,
in the power of Christ. I know I am not walking alone. Because the Leader in
this game is omnipresent, he can be standing behind me, going ahead of me, and
walking beside me all at once. It’s as great a mystery as being able to
transcend linear time, but God is God. There’s an old song that goes, “Fear not
tomorrow-God is already there.” Even if I cannot quite grasp this with my human
understanding, I can grasp the unseen Hand of Almighty God, the Lion of Judah. He
is standing guard. He always has; He always will.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">No guilt of life, no fear in death<br sb_id="ms__id2083" />
This is the power of Christ in me<br sb_id="ms__id2084" />
From life’s first cry to final breath<br sb_id="ms__id2085" />
Jesus commands my destiny<br sb_id="ms__id2086" />
No power of hell, no scheme of man<br sb_id="ms__id2087" />
Can ever pluck me from His hand<br sb_id="ms__id2088" />
‘til He returns or calls me home<br sb_id="ms__id2089" />
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand.</span><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-86591948486892636412013-01-05T09:01:00.003-08:002013-01-05T09:01:40.991-08:00The Face of God
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“To love another person is to see the face of God.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Victor Hugo</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">,
<i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463"><span style="color: blue;">Les Misérables</span></a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Many critics are slamming<i> </i>the new
movie production of <i>Les Miserables</i>, based on the Broadway musical taken
from Victor Hugo’s classic novel. Having read some of these negative reviews, I
can only be saddened. These people simply don’t understand. They go on and on
about the movie’s imperfections, some legitimate, some, in my opinion, totally
untrue. In focusing on the flaws in the film itself, they totally miss the
point. Or maybe they <i>do </i>get the point, and it makes them angry because
they want to deny its truth: there <i>are </i>such things as forgiveness,
redemption, and self-sacrifice. Victor Hugo knew this, and wrote about it, as
my husband puts it, “with a sledgehammer.” He tackled the notion of man’s inhumanity
to man with a grim and gritty sense of realism, unmatched by few save perhaps <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and Harper Lee. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The story of Jean Valjean, sent
to prison for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family, is, at its
core, a very simple one. The novel itself is nearly 1500 pages long, but about
a third of it is exposition, attempting to help the reader understand the
context and setting and focusing on the political aspects of the story as well
as the history of France. It is the story, however, that matters. It is a love
story. The love of parents for their children, the love of friends for one
another, the love between husbands and wives, the love of God for humanity-it
is all there, presented with heart-rending beauty and complete honesty. Jean
Valjean’s redemption following a simple act of human kindness gives us pause. If
mankind and mercy are truly our business, then why aren’t we doing more?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These thoughts make people
uncomfortable, and that may be why the critics are not getting it. They don’t
want to. It is impossible to truly do good without God, no matter how hard we
strive, on our own, to “be good”. Javert, the antagonist of the story, is a
pathetic figure despite his self-righteousness and relentless pursuit of
Valjean. In bondage to law and order,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Javert has convinced himself that because he is “good” and Valjean is “bad”,
his cause must be just and that the only “right” thing to do is capture
Valjean. This inner conflict eventually drives Javert to suicide. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is easy for us to simply dismiss Javert as
evil-but is he? Or is he merely a picture of the way we ourselves tend to live?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, it causes great discomfort
indeed to examine ourselves and consider how many we may have turned away
because they were labeled as worthless, hopeless, beyond redemption. For all
the time we spend mocking a Britney Spears or a Charlie Sheen-would that time
not be better spent in actually <i>praying </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their falls from grace-which are not truly falls from Grace, after all,
because God still loves them-make us feel so much better about ourselves, don’t
they? We can say, “Well, at least I’ve never done THAT.” Is that so much to
brag about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we haven’t done “that”,
but we’ve certainly done plenty-and, even worse, <i>failed to do what we really
ought to do.</i> But we forget about that, and watch a film like <i>Les
Miserables </i>and try to figure out who the good guys and bad guys are. We
tell ourselves that the priest would never really protect a Jean Valjean, would
never give him the stolen silverware and hand him the candlesticks as well.
That’s just a fantasy. But wait-isn’t there something in the Bible about if a
man takes your shirt, you are to give him your cloak as well? And if that was
an impossibility, would Jesus have told us to do it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I noticed that a lot of people
were crying at the end of <i>Les Miserables. </i>I myself started weeping when
Jean Valjean was given the candlesticks, and never really stopped until I was
almost home from the theatre. It wasn’t just sniffles, either-by the end of the
movie, tears were rolling down my face at a ridiculous rate. But for whom, or
what, was I crying? Why did my chest hurt, why did I feel as if I couldn’t
breathe, why could I not even speak for a full fifteen minutes after the movie
ended?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it was horribly sad,
possibly even leaning toward melodrama. It was beautiful and poetic . The
characters were wonderfully realized. Fantine’s awful situation, the rescue of
Cosette by Valjean, the suicide of Javert, the death of Valjean, the love that
existed among the characters-all of this, and more, stirred emotion and opened
the floodgates. But there was Something Else. Something bigger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The story of <i>Les Miserables ,
</i>the title of which can be translated as <i>The Wretched, The Victims, The
Poor Ones, </i>or <i>The Miserable, </i>is the story of all of us. It is a
story of loss and pain and longing for “a castle on a cloud”- a better place, a
true home, somewhere to belong. It is a story of dreams destroyed, of
bitterness and emptiness, of the utter despair people sometimes feel. But it is
also a story of hope. It is a story that helps us understand the truth that to
love someone is to see the face of God. Fantine, depite her outcast and
miserable state, had Something-because she loved Cosette. When we reach out our
hand to help a person in need, when we call someone “brother” and show them the
respect and dignity to which every God-breathed soul is entitled, we see His
face-and, hopefully, we acknowledge our own brokenness and wretchedness and
very great need for the Love that transcends our humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let us be good to each other-and
see the face of God.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span>“Ecclesiastes names thee
Almighty, the Maccabees name thee Creator, the Epistle to the Ephesians names
thee Liberty, Baruch names thee Immensity, the Psalms name thee Wisdom and
Truth, John names thee Light, the Book of Kings names thee Lord, Exodus names thee
Providence, Leviticus Sanctity, Esdras Justice, creation names thee God, man
names thee Father; but Solomon names thee Compassion, which is the most
beautiful of all thy names.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13661.Victor_Hugo"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Victor Hugo</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">,
<i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3208463"><span style="color: blue;">Les Misérables</span></a></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-55924134783260022892012-12-24T07:31:00.000-08:002012-12-24T07:31:10.675-08:00Believe
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Children sleeping, snow is softly falling<br sb_id="ms__id1353" />
Dreams are calling like bells in the distance<br sb_id="ms__id1354" />
We were dreamers not so long ago<br sb_id="ms__id1355" />
But one by one we all had to grow up<br sb_id="ms__id1356" />
When it seems the magic's slipped away<br sb_id="ms__id1357" />
We find it all again on Christmas day...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yesterday
at church a lady teasingly asked me if Santa was coming to see me. I told her
of course-since I’m married to Santa! She replied that she is married to the
Grinch. I hope this is not true. I know how blessed I am to be married to a guy
who loves Christmas at least as much as Clark Griswold does and maybe more, a
guy who has a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lot of George Bailey and
the Old Man from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Christmas Story </i>in
him. A man who, like me, has never really outgrown the magic. Whatever our
circumstances may be-and some years have been better than others, financially and
in other ways-we always seek to make Christmas special. Last year’s great and
shining moment was, of course, presenting Raina with her horse. This year, we
took a day trip to Montgomery to see the Alabama Shakespeare Festival’s fine
production of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Christmas Carol. </i>It
was our big family gift to each other, and it did not disappoint. We had been
before, several times, but it had been about five years and so it all seemed
new again-and besides, that is a story that never ever grows old.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Polar Express, </i>there is
a bell that can only be heard by children-children who Believe. As they grow up
,the sound of the bell fades away.</span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“At
one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell
silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer
hear its sweet sound. Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it
does for all who truly believe.” Personally, I hope to be one of the ones for
whom the bell continues to ring. I do not ever want to lose my sense of wonder
nor my idealism to the bitter cynicism that at times threatens to crowd out my
joy and steal it from me. I do not want to be one who says that the story of
Ebenezer Scrooge’s reclamation is only fantasy, that people never change, that
Scrooge’s newfound salvation would have ultimately been shallow and fake, a
mere emotional response.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know that Love is real. If I
look closely for signs of it, I see it everywhere. I see goodness and truth in
the everyday, the mundane, the ordinary-if I am actually seeking it, if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want </i>to see it. We really can choose to
See. And so I decided prior to our Montgomery trip that I was not going to let
anything that happened spoil the joy of that day, and that, furthermore, I was
going to try to notice things, because our days on this earth are short at
best. It was indeed a blessed trip, the worst thing that happened being some
spilled hot chocolate on Alyssa’s dress-but even that did not occur until we
were almost home. There was no fighting. There were no car problems. We were
afraid we were running late, but it turned out that we actually had time to
spare, so we were able to thoroughly enjoy our dinner and then peruse the gift
shop at our leisure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before we went to dinner, we
strolled down to the park area to watch the ducks and geese on the pond. In the
fading light, I gazed at my children and realized that they are now all three
almost the same height. I remembered the last time we went to the play, when
Alyssa was seven and Raina was ten and Tony thirteen. They were so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">small. </i>Where did the time go? My vision
blurred as I tried to fill up my eyes and heart with the sight of them standing
there by the water. Then I glanced to my right and saw another family-a young
couple, an older man, a boy of about four, and a big chocolate Lab. The grandpa
was pointing upward and I saw that he was showing the little boy a small flock
of Canada geese flying overhead. The boy, perched on his grandpa’s shoulders,
laughed with delight. The family slowly made its way across the park, tossing a
ball for the dog who would chase it eagerly and bring it back, a huge doggy
grin on his lovable face. They were happy and relaxed. The boy was obviously
thrilled to be with his grandpa, and the parents were holding hands and
smiling. It was Real.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After dinner, which was Cornish
hen and other delightful things, we purchased some small items in the gift shop
and then sat in the lobby and waited. I watched the people coming in, families
who, like us, had obviously been looking forward to this special outing. One
little girl who looked to be five or six was wearing a pink dress and pink
boots. I saw her tug on her daddy’s sleeve and say something to him-and then
they began to dance. There were people all over the lobby, smiling, talking,
and laughing. The door kept opening and closing, letting in the bitter cold.
But this little girl and her daddy danced together as though they were alone in
the room. He twirled and spun and dipped her, and then lifted her into his
arms. She giggled and put her small hands on his face and they looked deep into
each other’s eyes. It was Real. I know it was, because my daddy used to dance
with me like that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Earlier in the evening, when we
first arrived at the Festival site, we had seen a dog jetting across the
parking lot with its owner, a college-age girl, running in fruitless pursuit.
Tony took off running, headed the dog off at the pass, and returned her to her
grateful and tearful owner. “Thank you, thank you so much,“ she kept saying. ‘I
don’t know how she slipped out of her harness.” I wonder if this girl lives on
her own. The dog may be all she has. It was a mixed-breed dog, exceptionally ordinary
in appearance. Yet the love the girl has for her dog is Real. I could hear it
in the panicked voice .We were in the right place at the right time, and my son
is very quick on his feet and he knows how he would feel if he lost his very
ordinary-looking dog. His simple act of kindness may have made all the difference
for this one young lady. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone knows the story of
Ebenezer Scrooge, of course. We own nearly every movie version ever made and we
watch several of them every Christmas, my personal favorite being the George
C.Scott version while my family likes the Patrick Stewart one just a bit
better. We can recite the dialogue word for word. When I teach the book to my
English classes they are amazed at how I can go on for several sentences
without glancing down at the text. It is not surprising, since some of my
earliest Christmas memories involve hearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Christmas Carol </i>read aloud, and I have read it countless times since, and
my children, too, can quote from it. Nevertheless, seeing it on the stage from
our front-row seats was a dazzling experience. We laughed and we cried, and we
rejoiced when Scrooge went first to his knees, and then to beg forgiveness of
his nephew Fred. We lived the story once again, as did the rest of the
audience. And when Bob Cratchit placed his hand over his face and sobbed, “My
little, little child!” there were more than a few sobs from those watching.
Perhaps they were thinking of the little murdered innocents in Connecticut. I
know I was. Or perhaps some of them have children who are ill, or are in some
kind of trouble. Everyone has a story, and can relate in some way to that
anguished, heartfelt, and very Real cry of sorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a purpose, you see ,for
Jesus to come as He did, not as a king, but as a helpless baby, a baby born
into poverty, a baby whose mother was probably shunned and outcast and whose
foster father was made a laughingstock. He came so could he know our pain, feel
it for Himself and be able thusly to put His arms around us and whisper, “I
know what you mean.” He lived His Story so that He could know ours in a way
that is Real. Scrooge’s hard heart melted in the Hand of the One Who knows, and
is, the Past, Present, and Future. I love Christmas because it reminds us of
the Gift, but it should not be a thing we remember just once a year. It should
be Real every day that He gives us. If we can remember that, then we will never
stop hearing the sound of the bell. If we just Believe in something finer,
stronger, and greater than our finite minds can comprehend, and are willing to
give ourselves completely to the One who spoke Creation into being, then we can
know beyond all doubt that everything will, in the end, be all right. The Story
is unfolding. Choose to SEE. Choose to Believe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Merry Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Believe in what your heart is saying<br sb_id="ms__id5268" />
Hear the melody that's playing<br sb_id="ms__id5269" />
There's no time to waste<br sb_id="ms__id5270" />
There's so much to celebrate<br sb_id="ms__id5271" />
Believe in what you feel inside <br sb_id="ms__id5272" />
And give your dreams the wings to fly<br sb_id="ms__id5273" />
You have everything you need<br sb_id="ms__id5274" />
If you just believe.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-53340600919273096492012-12-15T07:46:00.001-08:002012-12-15T07:46:42.223-08:00At Least I Bring You Hope
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">If I cannot bring you comfort<br sb_id="ms__id1933" />
Then at least I bring you hope<br sb_id="ms__id1934" />
For nothing is more precious<br sb_id="ms__id1935" />
Than the time we have and so<br sb_id="ms__id1936" />
We all must learn from small misfortune<br sb_id="ms__id1937" />
Count the blessings that are real<br sb_id="ms__id1938" />
Let the bells ring out for Christmas<br sb_id="ms__id1939" />
At the closing of the year...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yesterday
afternoon as I sat at my desk stapling papers during my planning block-stapling
those last tests and exams that must be given and graded next week before
school is dismissed for the holidays-I decided to check my Internet news feed
to get a look at the weather forecast and see what was happening in the world.
Most days I go from one class to another so quickly that I hardly have time to
notice anything, and yesterday was no exception. Breaking down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Julius Caesar </i>for the tenth grade so
they could prepare for Monday’s test, having a deep and serious discussion on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Screwtape Letters </i>with the seniors,
and then reading an abridged script of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Christmas Carol </i>with the ninth graders that ended in great hilarity and delight,
I was having a normal, albeit it rather noisy, school day. And then after
lunch, after the usual banter with my students over chicken sandwiches and
applesauce, I went back to my room to face the paperwork. Really, checking the
weather was an excuse to procrastinate for five minutes. That was when I read
about it-the horrible tragedy in Connecticut. A shooting at an elementary
school that left 28 dead, including twenty children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
are no words, really, to describe how I felt. Sickened, dismayed, horrified,
heartbroken-none of them seem adequate. I sent an email to my fellow teachers
because, as busy as we all are, I didn’t know if any of them had heard about it
yet. By the time the final bell rang an hour and a half later, many of the
students had heard about it. They came by my room to talk to me and ask if I
knew any details, which I didn’t. Their big question was, of course, why. Why
would someone do such a horrible thing? I had no answer. I still don’t. And,
while I know that this tragedy is going to open up a storm of debate about
things like gun control and video games and the disintegration of the American
family, all of which are valid concerns, I cannot think of much other than the
human side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
saw Barack Obama, admittedly not my favorite president, struggle to maintain
his composure as he spoke about what had happened. He is, after all, a daddy.
He loves his children. He is human .In times like these, it is our humanity
that unites us .I do not know any of these families. I don’t know their names
or their religious preferences or their nationalities or their political views.
I don’t know if those children were well-behaved or drove their teachers crazy,
whether their parents disciplined them or were permissive, whether they colored
inside the lines or scribbled. I don’t know if they were rich or poor or in
between, from traditional or non-traditional families, whether they had buckteeth
or were chubby or wore glasses or had a penchant for stirring up a little
mischief in the classroom. None of this matters, none of it matters at all. The
one thing I am sure they all had in common...is that they were loved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe
they were loved by a mom and dad who were still together and had never
experienced the heartache of a broken home. Maybe they were loved by foster or
adoptive parents, or struggling single moms, or grandparents who had been
forced by bad circumstances to take on the raising of a grandchild. Maybe they
had siblings who looked up to them if they were older, or who teased and
protected them if they were younger. Maybe they had dogs and cats at home, or
bunny rabbits, or hamsters. Maybe there were already lots of presents already
bought for them, waiting to be placed under the tree or wrapped and sitting
there tantalizingly. Or maybe Mom and Dad were waiting until another paycheck
came, or hoping for a Christmas miracle if they were out of work. Perhaps some
of them had new bikes and sleds and skates hidden away in a shed or garage or
attic. I cannot know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perhaps
yesterday morning before school, some of them had to be sternly told to hurry
up and finish breakfast and get dressed. Somebody probably spilled his milk and
somebody probably complained about having to wear that ugly sweater and
somebody probably just lost a tooth, or was about to lose one. And as they
left, as they got onto the school bus or were dropped off by Mom or Dad or
Grandma at the school doors, no one knew that that hasty hug, that “Have a good
day; behave yourself”- that those would be the last things, the very last.
Because the truth is that we never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>know,
that we never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can </i>know, and if we
realized this every day, maybe we would be better to one another. Last night as
I was grumbling about the horrible tangle of shoes and sweaters and schoolbooks
thrown onto the dining room floor, I was struck by how I would feel if there
was no chance of that mess being there again, ever. What if I got up in the
night to look in on my children and then I remembered that those beds were now
empty- carefully, perfectly made, every item in the room in place, never again
to be used, worn, played with by those three irreplaceable pieces of my heart?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
night my girls sang so beautifully in the school choir, and I couldn’t look at
them enough. This morning they are earning Christmas money by taking on the
enormous task of cleaning the front room (if you could see our front room, you
would understand why we consider this a task worthy of actual financial
compensation).In this process, they will get mad at each other and their
brother will have to put in his two cents and then they’ll get mad at him.
Tomorrow we will be in a rush to get to Sunday school and I will probably yell
at someone to hurry up, and at least one girl will be frustrated over her hair
and I will become exasperated. But through it all we will still be a family,
and we will not stay mad at each other. One of our household rules is that no
one goes to bed angry or leaves the house angry .When I hear about things like
yesterday’s nightmare, I am reminded of why we have that rule. I am also
reminded of why those “small misfortunes” must be learned from and taken in
stride. Our time is indeed precious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Christmas
is ten days away. I pray for those families who will have an empty place at the
table, presents that will never be opened by tiny eager hands, a hole in their
lives now that makes the world seem a dark and empty place. In ten more days
anything can happen, and I tell myself this not to be morbid or fearful, but to
remind myself to be a little nicer, a little more forgiving, a little less
easily frustrated. I remind myself to “count the blessings that are real” as I
ask that God’s peace and comfort fill the hearts of those who have suffered a
loss that I cannot fathom. I remind myself that “charity, forbearance, mercy”-
all of these are “my business” and I best get on with it. And finally, I remind
myself that we should always be as united in our humanity as we are when
tragedy strikes-that, as a nation, even as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">world </i>created by God, we should be there to pray for and comfort
one another, forgetting our differences and remembering only that we are all,
at the heart of it, just people after all. Broken, hurting, needy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">God bless the folks of
Newtown, Connecticut-and God bless us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ve endured
too many of these tragedies in the past few years and each time I learn the
news, I react not as a president, but as anybody else would, as a parent, and
that was especially true today. I know there’s not a parent in America who
doesn’t feel the same overwhelming grief that I do.”- President Barack Obama</span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-29708415940120677752012-12-08T06:40:00.001-08:002012-12-08T06:40:47.302-08:00Toys
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Little cars that contained a flywheel in the
center. You fed in what looks like today's zip cord, then you yanked it out
hard and turned the car loose. They were pretty fast; mine usually zoomed under
the sofa or some other inconvenient spot.”-quote from a website about vintage
toys, referring to the SST racers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"Marvel the Mustang, he's almost for
real, saddle him up, with spurs on your heels. No winding! No Batteries! Marvel
the Mustang, we love you.” –yes, real lyrics from the commercial!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a child, I think the one think even better than Christmas…was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looking forward </i>to Christmas. Perhaps
because we were not children who were handed toys every time we turned around,
the anticipation of receiving all the toys one could dream of was incredibly delightful.
In reality, we probably received five or six toys apiece, with a couple of
particularly prosperous years being the exceptions, but it always seemed like a
glorious abundance. Having had our family gift exchange the night before, where
we opened things like socks and underwear and sweaters and always several books
(we were appropriately grateful for these things, I might add), we would dive
into bed, shivering with excitement. In the morning, there would be “Santa toys”
under the tree, unwrapped, ready to be played with, and stockings filled with
small trinkets and pencils and crayons and always a giant chocolate Santa and
an even more giant candy cane. While Mom and Dad slumbered, having been up
until four A.M. assembling bikes and dollhouses and such, we played and played.
When they at last came down to make breakfast, they would sit for awhile and
just watch us, and I never really understood the exchange of smiles and the way
they almost seemed to be crying-until my own kids came. Now I get it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
see, it’s not about the toys themselves. Toys get broken and lost eventually,
and even those dearly cherished and carefully kept ultimately wear out. It’s
not the toys- it’s the love. It’s knowing that you were able to fulfill some
small, yet important wish, some little dream that your child had stored in her
heart and mind and was almost afraid to utter for fear it might never come
true. When I was little, my brother and I would sprawl out on the floor in front
of the fireplace, heads close together, and pore over The Wish Book. Remember
those? They were the Christmas catalogs sent in the mail by JC Penney and
Sears, and the first section was very boring because it was all clothes, but
then you got to the toy part and wow! A feast for the eyes and imagination was
there in living color on those glossy pages, and you could begin hoping. We
were allowed to make a list but I realize now that most of what we wrote down
was disregarded, our parents focusing on the two or three things we mentioned most
often and then throwing in a few surprises they knew we’d like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
those who might ask if the real meaning of Christmas ever got lost in all of
this, the answer is a resounding <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no.</i>
We fully understood that we were commemorating the birth of Christ, and that
the gifts we gave each other were only tokens that could never surpass the real
Gift. I’m not sure if I ever really believed in Santa, but I pretended I did
for a long time, just because it was fun. And then I came to understand that
the spirit of Saint Nicholas is a spirit of giving , that this saint who loved
children really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">got it</i>, and that
being Santa Claus for other people is a great source of joy. Once I had
children of my own, this became even more clear and real to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two
of the Christmas toys I remember best are one I wasn’t expecting and one that I
obsessed over for months. The unexpected one was my SST racer, actually
purchased as an afterthought by my mother who realized that it was too cool to
pass up, and that if my brother got one and I didn’t, I would be sad. My
brother was the closest sibling to me in age and we played cars and other boy
things together a lot, which was fine with me because I wasn’t especially
girly. My SST racer was red and my brother’s was blue, and in my mind their
awesomeness has never faded. We had a recreation room that had once been a
basement, and we would race our cars in there on rainy days and they would get
stuck under the furniture. On nice days we would race them down the sloping
driveway, amazed at their lightning speed. Of course they were really kind of
junky, but we didn’t know that and wouldn’t have cared if we had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
there was Marvel the Mustang. I think I was three that Christmas, or maybe
four. In any case, he rode from wherever we were living at the time, either New
Jersey or Indiana, all the way to Jacksonville, Florida where we were spending
Christmas with our grandparents. I did not know that my noble steed was hidden
under the tarp up there on top of the car. I had wanted him for so long, months
and months, that I had begun to doubt I would actually get him. When I did,
along with a red cowboy hat, boots, and a holster with capguns, I was stunned.
I rode him all Christmas Day, my imagination taking me to a thousand places. I
rode him for years afterward, even after I got real ponies and even after I got
way too old and too big. Marvel traveled with us when we moved from Indiana to
Texas, from Texas to Alabama, from our house in Spanish Fort to a storage
building while we spent a year in a condo and finally to the house on
Calverdale Circle, where he was ultimately lost in the fire. He was ridden by
nieces and nephews and neighborhood kids and then set aside but never given up
completely until that fateful day. It wasn’t the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toy, </i>you know. It was the memories he represented-and those can
never be lost.Never.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember that amid the festivities, amid the cooking baking and choir practices
and singing carols around the piano and the chaos of opening gifts, there were
moments of quietness where I would gaze at the star, the really ugly
multicolored light-up star on top of our haphazardly decorated tree, with a
sense of wonder. I would think of the first Christmas and the Baby in the
manger, with all of the animals gathered around (our Nativity scene had a bunny
and a fawn added by me-I figured all of Creation must have come to see Him),
and I would think of how it must have been for Him to give up all His glory and
come down and live like one of us, going to school and work and eating
meatloaf, just so he could know what it was like to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be us, </i>to feel what we felt-and then to die for us, knowing how
terrible human beings could be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
deep and profound thoughts didn’t come to me all at once, but over time, as
Christmas after Christmas was celebrated with exceeding great joy and Daddy
reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Christmas Carol<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>in his best Scrooge voice and reading
Luke 2 while snow fell outside, or, after we moved down South, maybe some rain was
pouring down or maybe it was eighty degrees, but the magic never stopped. I
thought it would, after Dad’s great heart ceased to beat and his earthly voice
was stilled. I have only a vague memory of that first Christmas without him,
when all I could do was wish with all my heart that he could be there, and know
for certain that this wish could never be. But then, as the years passed and
Christmas came just the same, I realized that he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> still there, enjoying it with us. And after my kids came and I
stayed up until midnight putting together two wagons and a Barbie dollhouse, I
came to understand that he lives, not only just beyond that veil between us and
eternity, but in me and in my children. I married a man much like my father, so
much so that when he refers to “Little Fairy on the Prairie” just to bug me, or
reads passages from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carol </i>in a gruff
and scary voice, I experience an odd sensation that is probably as close to
time travel as one can get. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
year when we gave Raina her horse, something that she never thought would
actually happen, I understood why my parents looked like they were almost
crying on those noisy, chaotic, beautiful Christmas mornings. There is an
arriving full circle when you see your kids all wrapped up in wishes fulfilled.
For my kids, of course, the first wish fulfilled was us-their “real, true,
forever family”. Everything after that was pretty much gravy. I felt the same.
That first year, that first crazy Christmas that the big yellow house on the
hill was finally full, my husband asked me what I wanted. I couldn’t think of a
thing, and have no clue what I actually ended up getting. I just recall squeals
and shouts and two little girls and a medium-sized boy in pajamas, with
remnants of chocolate Santas on their faces, celebrating Christmas, actual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas</i>, for the first time in their
lives. To this day they wonder: how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>we
get that giant Barbie house into the bedroom without them seeing? Magic, my
children. Christmas magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toys, </i>you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Did my sister get her baby doll? Did my brother get his
bike? <br sb_id="ms__id473" />
Did I get that red wagon the kind that makes you fly? <br sb_id="ms__id474" />
Oh I hope there'll be peace on earth <br sb_id="ms__id475" />
I know there's good will toward men <br sb_id="ms__id476" />
On account of that Baby born in Bethlehem <br sb_id="ms__id477" />
<br sb_id="ms__id478" />
Mom and Daddy stayed up too late last night <br sb_id="ms__id479" />
Oh I guess they got carried away in the Christmas candlelight <br sb_id="ms__id480" />
And you gotta get up ~ you gotta get up ~ you gotta get up <br sb_id="ms__id481" />
It's Christmas morning! –Rich Mullins</span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-8388294491529806242012-11-21T07:20:00.000-08:002012-11-21T07:20:11.727-08:00Ten Thousand Reasons
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger<br sb_id="ms__id452" />
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind<br sb_id="ms__id453" />
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing<br sb_id="ms__id454" />
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
lyrics of Matt Redman’s “10,000 Reasons” make me think of how rarely we
actually take the time to consider the goodness of God-to count our blessings,
so to speak. There is so much in this life that we take for granted. We are not
promised tomorrow. Every breath I take is by the grace of God alone. In the
words of Psalm 100:”It is He that has made us, and not we ourselves; we are His
people, the sheep of His pasture.” The idea of belonging to Someone greater may
be what causes many people to shy away from God-after all, we are supposed to
be independent, aren’t we? That way of thinking led to the first sin-the notion
that we, in our smallness, can know better than God. Rather than accept and
cherish the security and peace he gives, we want instead to do our own thing,
have things the way we think they ought to be. In so doing, we disregard the
manifold blessings He bestows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
an assignment last week, my husband had his creative writing students list one
hundred things for which they were thankful. They could even list individual
people, individual food, etc. The point was to get into a mode of gratitude. It’s
a great idea, and it got me thinking about the fact that were I to do that,
there would not be enough paper or ink. So I have chosen here to name and
expound a little upon ten things, in no particular order except the first one,
lest I get caught up in the frenzy and mania that begins the day after
Thanksgiving. It’s called Black Friday, and, while I do not participate in the
insanity because I really hate shopping anyway, it does get me thinking about
things I want. Ultimately, I convince myself that some of these are things I
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need, </i>and thus I find myself
surfing the Internet, cyber-shopping, when I really ought to be doing something
else-probably praising God or spending time with people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>1.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">God.</b> This may be a no-brainer, but I
list Him first because He should always be first. He is, after all, my Creator
and the Author of all that I have. While I was as offended as anybody by the
President’s “You didn’t build that” comment, in truth none of us would have
anything without God. Mr.Obama did not intend this to be a spiritual statement,
but an economic one. Apart from politics, though, there is inherent truth in it
.God provides the intelligence, the right circumstances, and the drive to work
hard and make our dreams a reality. Even those who deny His existence get their
determination from Somewhere, and He is the Where, even when unacknowledged .Without
Him, I am nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>2.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Family. </b>it occurs to me that many
people grew up without one. Many people are alone for much of their lives. I
was blessed with two incredible parents who taught me right from wrong, loved
me, disciplined me when necessary and allowed me to discover my gifts and be an
individual. They also provided me with the beginnings of an understanding of
what it meant to live the Christian life, to walk in relationship with Christ.
Then there were my siblings, who made my life both a joy and a torment,
depending upon the day. I would not be who I am without them. There was
extended family, grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, and, later,
in-laws and nieces and nephews. Now I have the most wonderful husband and my
three children, who are a blessing to me every day. God built our family in His
own way and His own time. It is uniquely ours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>3.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Friends.</b> I have so many friends,
friends I have made over forty-six years of living. Because of social
networking, I have been able to reconnect with old friends and even make some
new ones. There are friends at work, friends at church, and friends for life. I
cherish each one. It’s not easy to live this life; we all need a little
Fellowship to help see us through. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>4.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Food. </b>Although over the years I have
had a love-hate relationship with food, it is a blessing that sustains life. I
am married to a man who can cook magnificently, which is good because I can’t
boil water. No, I really can’t-I once put on some for tea and forgot about it
and burned a hole in the pot. Food is connected with memories, fond and happy
memories. It is a way that people show that they care, as evidenced when there
is sickness or death and people bring in food by the ton. It was once my
nemesis but now that it no longer controls me, I can enjoy it the way it was
intended. Meals shared with family and friends have a special warmth and are
filling in a way that goes beyond the physical.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>5.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Books. </b>To say I love to read is
inaccurate. Reading is not a hobby or a pastime for me; rather it is life. It
is through books that I find comfort and peace. I encounter God through the
pages of literature. Forty-three years of reading has been a true gift. I have
lived thousands of lives and my head is stuffed with words and thoughts and
ideas that I return to time and again. I cannot begin to describe what books
are to me-friends ,portals to wonder and delight-nothing can really explain it,
and I wish everyone felt about reading as I do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>6.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Animals. </b>I love our dogs and horse and
other pets, but I am in general astounded by God’s diversity in Creation. It is
another of the ways in which I experience Him and feel a true connection. I
have been fond of and fascinated with animals all my life. When I was younger I
found much solace in the fact that there were beings in this world who didn’t
judge you but only loved you. My childhood pets were not just animals, they
were family. Today, I have a dog who I am firmly convinced is God’s emissary.
She came to me at a time when I desperately needed her, and she has been an
essential part of my son’s healing. Like books, animals have also been such a
natural part of my life that I cannot imagine things any other way. God made
them for us to care for and love and enjoy. There are many that He made for
food and to serve in other ways, but I believe that some were created for the
sole purpose of companionship, and I see dogs and horses as being very different
from other kinds of animals as far as the way they relate to humans. I think
that was intentional, a part of God’s great plan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>7.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Music. </b>Another consistent element in my
life, music has been ever in the background. I have particular songs that I
think of as part of “the soundtrack of my life”. They define me and who I am. I
am as eclectic in my musical tastes as I am with books and food. I love
everything from classical to jazz to folk to country to Christian contemporary
and pretty much everything in between. Songs evoke memories, bring joy, and
sometimes move me to tears. It is an expression of the human condition, in all
its comedy and tragedy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>8.
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">My students. </b>I could say my job, and
I do love my job, but it could not be what it is without my students .Their
energy and life, their humor and compassion, their emerging sense of self,
their sometimes surprisingly mature insights, all make my teaching worthwhile.
Even on the bad days, I remind myself of how blessed I am to be a part of their
lives. No two days are alike, and I never know what someone might say or write
to make me laugh or cry or think. I hope I inspire them, but how much more they
inspire me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>9.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Toys. </b>Yes, I still love toys. I love
puppets and stuffed animals and games of all kinds. I like to build with Legos
and Tinkertoys, color with markers and crayons, and play boardgames with my
family and friends. It is good sometimes to just play, to be a child and have
fun, to create something from Playdough or paint and revel in it.When my kids
were younger I relished those times of play with them. They have outgrown some
things now, but we still play all kinds of games together and sometimes we draw
and color and, every now and then, break out the Tinkertoys and wooden blocks
and toy animals and build something. Then there is the Wii. I am a beast at the
trivia games, but still have not mastered MarioKart or Wipeout. Nevertheless,
it’s amusing to try.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>10.
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Movies. </b>From the first movie I saw,
which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mary Poppins, </i>I was hooked
on the magic of films. They aren’t usually as good as books, but they are still
stories to be experienced. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Willy Wonka
and the Chocolate Factory, Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang, Doctor Dolittle, The Sound
of Music, Oliver!,Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, </i>a thousand others
that I saw with my family as a child. When I go to the movies now, I still
experience a little of that childhood excitement, especially when the film is
something much-anticipated, like the Narnia or Lord of the Rings films and the
upcoming Hobbit movie. Plays are wonderful, too, but I haven’t seen as many of
those since they aren’t as affordable. In my house, movie viewing is rarely a
solitary activity-we watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">together. </i>We
watch, and we talk, and we share. Occasionally, though, I will watch a Netflix
movie on my Kindle Fire, usually because it is something so terribly lame that
I know no one else wants to see it, but it’s generally some kind of nostalgia
thing that I alone understand. Each season has its particular movies-in the
summer we watch superhero films and comedies and musicals and magical things.
In the fall we pull out the thrillers followed by a multitude of Christmas
movies. At some point every year we do a Lord of the Rings marathon. These are
not just movie nights, they are family nights, and they are becoming rarer the
older and busier my kids get. Thus, they are all the more precious and sweet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Can
one find God in all the things I have listed above? Absolutely. One of the many
things I love about my church is the variety of people and personalities. There
is an innate understanding that, while Jesus is the only path to God, there are
many different paths we take to find Jesus, to experience Him fully and
completely. In my church I feel accepted, and I know that, as long as we agree
on the majors, we can respectfully and lovingly agree to disagree on the
minors. The picture of Christianity I get from my friends, family, church
family, and others around me is something akin to a collage or a very beautiful
mosaic. We all are thankful for God’s blessings, but some may regard football
as a blessing while others are more intrigued by the ballet and others by
intellectual pursuits. He speaks to us all in different ways, but it’s okay as
long as we hear Him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So,
I am very thankful today, for ten thousand reasons (at least), and among them
for you who read this blog. I hope it ministers to you, and that, if your heart
is hurting , the things I write about will make you smile and maybe even seek
the Source of all that is good. Happy Thanksgiving, and love to all!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And on that day when my strength is failing<br sb_id="ms__id466" />
The end draws near and my time has come<br sb_id="ms__id467" />
Still my soul will sing Your praise unending<br sb_id="ms__id468" />
Ten thousand years and then forevermore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-12054556705945918212012-11-10T07:38:00.000-08:002012-11-10T07:38:59.083-08:00The Dream
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just because everything's changing<br sb_id="ms__id407" />
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before<br sb_id="ms__id408" />
All you can do is try to know who your friends are<br sb_id="ms__id409" />
As you head off to the war<br sb_id="ms__id410" />
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light<br sb_id="ms__id411" />
You'll come back when it's over<br sb_id="ms__id412" />
No need to say goodbye<br sb_id="ms__id413" />
You'll come back when it's over<br sb_id="ms__id414" />
No need to say goodbye. –Regina Spektor<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have a lot of strange dreams. Sometimes they are awesome; sometimes they are
terrifying. Often they are hysterically, ridiculously funny or totally random
and make about as much sense as your average Adventure Time episode.
Considering that my brain is stuffed with years of literature and movies and
simple everyday experiences, plus a few major events that range from glorious
to comic to tragic, I suppose the overflow into my unconscious mind is to be
expected. Thus, I don’t spend a lot of time trying to figure most of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my dreams out.But on Thursday night I had one
that seemed...different. One of the few dreams I have had where I felt that God
may have been trying to tell me Something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
began with a newscast on television, an announcement that a storm of Biblical
proportions was coming. With one week at the most to prepare, scientists and
engineers were frantically trying to design a vehicle that could convert from a
car/bus/truck/trailer to a sort of ship or boat. This would, they hoped, save
thousands, perhaps millions of lives. With dark warnings that people needed to
gather up “every living creature” along with their most prized possessions and
enough food and water to last several months, the newscasters told us to
purchase these vehicles as soon as they were perfected. My husband bought one
big enough for the five of us, plus my mom and sisters and some friends. His
brother bought one also and so did most of our friends and neighbors. Some,
however, refused to believe it was really going to happen, despite our
desperate attempts to convince them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soon
a caravan was assembled, with our vehicle in the lead, my brother-in-law’s just
behind and three more behind his, filled with various people dear to us.
Everyone had their pets and their family photos and the other little things
that we cherish and deem irreplaceable. Our bus, and one other, had horse
trailers attached which would also float. Legend and his pasture mate, Ghost,
were safely stowed in the trailer with their hay and feed and water, and Alyssa
had carefully arranged the cages and aquariums that house our rabbits, guinea
pig, rat, turtle, and fish. Of course all of the dogs, six to be exact, and my
mother’s Siamese CAT were on the bus with us. As we prepared to pull out, our
pastor leaned in the window and said, “If you need me, I’ll come alongside.”
His vehicle was, of course, filled with his own family and many church members
and a menagerie of animals. It was so comforting to know that our spiritual
shepherd was there for his flock.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
we started on the journey to an unknown destination-we had just been told to “Head
north”- we stayed in contact via cell phone. But then the predicted rain
started to fall, and within hours it was bucketing down and rising on all
sides. We converted our vehicle to ship mode as did the others in our convoy,
and soon we were cut off from all communication with them as one by one cell
phone towers were knocked out. I, in the meantime, was looking frantically for
Tony. “Mom, I’m here,” a young man kept insisting-but he didn’t look like Tony.
Finally my husband reassured me that it was indeed Tony, and I believed him,
but I could not figure out why I didn’t recognize my own son. As we fought to
stay on course amid the rough waters, I suddenly heard a voice. It sounded like
my dad, but I knew it was the voice of God. “It’s going to be rough in places, “
He said, “but don’t worry. I’m here with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the final scene of this dream, which seemed to go on for hours but was probably
only ten minutes or so, Raina came to the front of the bus and said, “Dad, I need
some help with the horses.” He turned to me and said, “I’ll only be gone for a
little while; you take over.” My first response was, “I can’t; I can’t do this,”
but he left anyway and I was steering on my own. Only-I wasn’t on my own. The
voice spoke again, my dad’s voice that was really my Heavenly Father, and He
said, “Just stay strong and keep going straight. Don’t go to the left or the
right. Keep looking ahead.” In the next moment, I saw in the sky the face of a
huge lion, and then there was a brilliant flash of light and someone gasped, “There
He is!” and I woke up with tears on my face.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
what does this mean? Maybe nothing. Maybe it only represents my hopes and my
secret fears. Maybe I’ve read too many fantasy novels and mixed them all up
with the Bible. There are five different interpretations of the book of
Revelation that are generally accepted as being possibly correct, and all of my
life I have heard the story of Noah’s Ark and heard terms like “the Rapture”
and “The Second Coming.” My beloved childhood preacher, Pierre Burns, held to
the same philosophy about Revelation that my father did. “All I know,” he said,
“is that the good guys win.” I’ve read the wonderful novels of H.G. Wells and
Jules Verne and of course I am a rabid fan of C.S.Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Add
in a dose of good old hellfire and brimstone preaching from my very earliest
memories in the Baptist church, mix in some “Star Trek”, a lot of imagination,
and plenty of philosophical discussions with family and friends and students
that include time travel, the nature of reality, etc., and yeah, the mind can
come up with some pretty cool stuff that manifests in dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
couple of details stood out to me, though, that are significant on a personal
level. First there is the voice. My idea of God for my whole life has been that
he was just like my daddy, only lots bigger. This is a perception that I have
not truly outgrown, although I know now that he He is much bigger in other ways
besides the physical. But I also know that my dad is more alive now than ever,
in that heavenly realm that is much closer than we think. I am still guided
many times by his wisdom, by the things that I recall him saying or the way he
handled particular situations. Maybe I need to go back and think about what he
would have said or done more often than I actually do, along with asking what
Jesus/God says about things through the Scriptures. Maybe I am in danger of
straying from the course He has set out for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
second thing was my failure to recognize my child. This has bothered me since I
awoke from the dream but I think that perhaps it is because the Tony I know now
is not the Tony he will become. I have watched for eight years this child’s
struggles and triumphs and I know that ultimately he will have the victory,
because he loves God. Maybe his choices do not always show this, but I know it
to be real and true. Thus, the Tony I saw in my dream was the REAL one, the one
who has overcome it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thirdly,
there was this whole idea of going it alone, without my husband. That scared
me, but I need not read anything dark into it. I believe that God is telling
me, not that something WILL happen, but that I could handle it if it DID
happen. I could handle it because God would still be there and I would never be
alone. I need to know that. I worry too much about possibilities and what-ifs.
I need to relax. My God is in control and he will NEVER leave or forsake me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The final thing that really stood
out was the idea that Pastor Jesse can be trusted to come alongside. He is not
perfect because he is human. I know not to trust in any man the way I trust in
God, but since the Great Betrayal several years ago I have become at best
skeptical and at worst cynical regarding the integrity of pastors and clergy.
What God is saying is this: most of them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are
</i>men of God who do their best. Don’t worship them, but at least give them
some of your trust. Even those who have wronged others probably started out
with the best of intentions and need to be, yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">forgiven. </i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the apocalyptic nature of the dream, I can only speculate. I doubt that it was
prophetic in the sense of there being some cataclysmic event; God promised that
He would never send another actual global flood. I think it was simply a
metaphor for my journey through this earthly life, with the promise of
Something Grand at the end. The face of the Lion in the sky worked for me
because I knew him to be Aslan and I know Aslan by his other Name. I do not
love Aslan more than I love Jesus, because to love Aslan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>to love Jesus, the Lion of Judah.The floating ship that was
weathering the storm symbolizes that I and those I love will be kept safe until
He calls us Home, whenever and and however that happens. And then we will ALL
be known by our true Names, the Names he gave us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
could be overthinking this. Maybe it was just a crazy dream brought on my
overindulgence in books. I am, like Jo March, too fond of books, and it has
turned my head. Still, God speaks to me through those books, all kinds of
books, and through movies, too, and through art and music and children and
animals and trees and flowers and rivers. He speaks to me through my friends
and my daily joys and struggles-so why not in a dream?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our lives are made up of so many things, and
God uses these things to help us make some kind of sense out of our lives. My
life is not, as poor guilt-ridden Macbeth said, simply a tale full of sound and
fury signifying nothing. Our lives are about Something. They mean Something.
The dream is mine, and I may figure out more of its importance in days to come.
In the meantime, go on and dream-and follow the Light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” –J.K.Rowling</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than
are dreamt of in your philosophy.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/947.William_Shakespeare"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">William
Shakespeare</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1885548"><span style="color: blue;">Hamlet</span></a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“And the ship went out into the High Sea and
passed into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet
fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water.
And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the
grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld
white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.” <br />
― <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/656983.J_R_R_Tolkien"><span style="color: blue;">J.R.R.
Tolkien</span></a>, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2964424"><span style="color: blue;">The
Return of the King</span></a></i></span>ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-16962837476661632292012-10-27T07:12:00.000-07:002012-10-27T07:12:55.545-07:00And Having Done Everything, To Stand
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="text"><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">10 </span></sup>Finally, be strong in the Lord
and in his mighty power.</span> <span class="text"><sup><span id="en-NIV-29349"><span style="font-size: x-small;">11 </span></span></sup>Put
on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s
schemes.</span> <span id="en-NIV-29350"><span class="text"><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">12 </span></sup><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">For our struggle is not against flesh and
blood</b>, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers
of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly
realms.</span></span> <span class="text"><sup><span id="en-NIV-29351"><span style="font-size: x-small;">13 </span></span></sup>Therefore
put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be
able to stand your ground, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">after you
have done everything, to stand</b>.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
Stephen King’s novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stand</i>,
forces of good and evil are pitted against one another in the wake of a “superflu”
that wipes out 99 percent of the world’s population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leader of the good side is an ancient,
wise black woman named Abigail Freemantle (aka Mother Abigail). Mother Abigail
speaks to her God as though He is right there in the same room. She seeks His
will in all decisions as one by one, led by their dreams, those who would
choose good over evil come to her. Meanwhile, Randall Flagg, aka The Dark Man,
is gathering his own forces together in preparation for the ultimate
showdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother’s prayer is, “Lord,
help us to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stand</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
not sure what Stephen King’s religious beliefs are, although I think I recall
reading somewhere that he refers to himself as “a fallen-away Methodist”.
Whatever the case, like most people, he has an innate sense of the struggle
that has existed since the beginning of Time, and even before that, when
Lucifer fell and took a third of the angels with him. It has not ended and we
continue every day to fight against the “powers of this dark world.” For
someone who hates confrontation as much as I do, this is a daunting thought.
One thing I have learned, though, is to recognize the attacks for what they
are. I know that the enemy is wily and deceitful. I don’t freak out about
Halloween or Harry Potter; I am far more concerned with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people. </i>While the real struggle is not against flesh and blood,
Satan uses our relationships with others to cause division and strife. His goal
is to divide humanity and ultimately conquer. Of course, he was defeated already,
two thousand years ago when Love paid the price for our sins. However, like
anyone else who suffers from insanity, The Old Deluder won’t acknowledge the
truth. He continues to steal, kill, and destroy, and he uses human beings to
help him accomplish his evil schemes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Those
who are used of the enemy are, more often than not, used unwittingly. Despite
the decline in my idealism over the past ten years, despite all that I have
been through, I still do believe that very few people are truly evil. A lot of
people are confused and deceived, often because of their own hurt, but utter
depravity is a rare thing. Mental illness, a sad result of our sinful, fallen
world, accounts for many things that occur, and I am not sure that this aspect
of our society is dealt with as well as it should be. But what is certainly not
addressed most of the time is the multitudes who live in utter despair because
they have been rejected and feel they have nowhere to turn. These are the souls
who slip in and out of our lives virtually unnoticed until the headlines shriek
of some new horror, and we are dumbfounded. I have heard stories of people
whose primary emotional wounds were received, not at home, not at school, but
guess where? Believe it or not, in church. Trying to convince these people that
it was human beings who hurt them, not God, is a difficult task. The really
horrible part is that the wounding was often done with the best of intentions.
Of course, we all know where “good intentions” often lead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
person who is overweight does not need a pastor to tell him so, nor a fellow parishioner
to outline exactly what formula to follow to eliminate the sin of overeating
and thus set the person free from bad things happening, ever again. A woman who
has had seven miscarriages is not helped by her church family telling her that
this agony is because of some unconfessed sin in her life. People who don’t
regard little kids going door to door yelling “Trick or Treat” as an evil thing
do not need to be handed the tract about a child who goes out on Halloween
night and is hit by a car and goes to Hell. And I doubt very much that anyone
has been saved as a result of being screamed at by people in a van with REPENT
OR BURN IN HELL painted on the side. I hate these things<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with a perfect hatred, because these people
are calling themselves Christians while driving others AWAY from the Kingdom.
They are not standing where they should be. They are,albeit completely unaware
for the most part, standing WITH the enemy, helping him spread the lie that no
one is worthy anyway, no one can possibly measure up to God’s standard, so why
try?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don’t mean to sound like I am being judgmental, but perhaps I am. I know a lot
of Christians who mishandle situations and have deep regret. I have done it
myself. I am not talking about that. I am talking about people who hurt our
cause by hurting other human beings on a regular basis. I am talking about the
ones who have put God into a little box, gotten in there with him, and have a smug
sense of their own righteousness. They are in the God Box and they are nice and
safe in there, safe enough to judge everyone on the outside. For those of us
who are willing to step outside the box and stand for what is truly right,
there is swift and severe retribution. I have warned my daughter about this,
because twice this past week she has stood up for herself and for others. The
first time she found her gym bag on the locker room floor with its contents
spilled everywhere-and no one did it. Who knows what the next move will be in
the little game of middle school power play?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She has a choice to make. She will be making it every day for the rest
of her life. Sit by and do nothing, or make a stand and face the consequences. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Right
now I am facing the possibility of a confrontation with someone, and it is
making me sick. I am afraid of what the consequences may be. I am worried about
saying the wrong thing and creating a situation that will lead to more damage
and not to the restoration for which I am praying. The truth sets us free, but
only when spoken in love. Even then, it can be hard to deal with, and people
don’t always accept it gracefully. When a situation has existed for a long time
and you have just allowed it to continue in the interest of keeping the peace even
though people are being hurt by it, you are guilty of wrongdoing. Fear kills
truth, and then restoration doesn’t happen. At least if you do what is right,
there is a chance for a good result. Atticus Finch in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Kill a Mockingbird</i> understood that. It is better to stand that
to sit passively. People can be really mean and nasty and say horrible things
to you and about you. The Bible reminds us, though, that really, what can man
do to us if we are walking with God?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I write this I am trying to talk myself either into or out of what I know must
be done. I keep getting affirmation from God, through events and through other
people, that it MUST be done. Yet still I am afraid. It’s okay. Fear is not the
opposite of courage. Because Jesus was fully human as well as fully divine, He
must have felt fear as He prayed in the garden, as He stood before Pilate, as
He walked to the Cross. William Wilberforce, William Wallace, George
Washington, Martin Luther, Rosa Parks, Moses, Daniel, David, Esther- all of
them must have experienced fear. They just didn’t let it stop them. Frodo and
Sam were afraid, but the quest had to be completed for the good of all. They
had to stand. I have to stand. Crucial things are at stake. Maybe not as
crucial as, say, saving the world, but we never know how one small event will
affect everything else. It’s called the butterfly effect-if someone kills a
butterfly, according to Ray Bradbury, it could change everything. Everything.
And so…it’s time to stand. Please pray for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="text"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">18
</span></sup>And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and
requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the
Lord’s people.</b></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> <span class="text"><sup><span id="en-NIV-29357"><span style="font-size: x-small;">19 </span></span></sup>Pray also for me, that whenever
I speak, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery
of the gospel,</span> <span class="text"><sup><span id="en-NIV-29358"><span style="font-size: x-small;">20 </span></span></sup>for
which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I
should.</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-17987264214020033992012-10-20T07:25:00.000-07:002012-10-20T07:25:15.460-07:00Do What You Can
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";">“While
He was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of a man known as Simon
the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made
of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on His head. 4 Some of
those present were saying indignantly to one another, “Why this waste of
perfume? 5 It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money
given to the poor.” And they rebuked her harshly. 6“Leave her alone,” said
Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to Me. 7 The
poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want.
But you will not always have Me. 8 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She
did what she could</b>. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for
My burial. 9 I tell you the truth, wherever the gospel is preached throughout
the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This week I attended a conference
for Christian teachers. The final speaker on Thursday has written a book
entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She Did What She Could</i>,
inspired by this beautiful story of a woman, probably Mary Magdalene, who
anointed Jesus’ feet with perfume-and then had to deal with the judgment and
criticism of those around her. One can’t help seeing their reaction as so
typical of human nature. Either we aren’t doing enough, or we aren’t doing in
correctly, or we are doing it for the wrong reasons, or myriad other things
that people tell us to make us feel unworthy and inadequate. But the truth is
that Jesus wants our hearts and He honors our efforts. I often wonder if I am
getting things “right”. I have lived a lifetime of stress and worry, seeking
that perfection that always seems to elude me. I am haunted by mistakes and
shortcomings, always seeking a better way. I forget that, in the words of the
Song of Solomon, I am “dark but lovely.” In other words I am scarred,
blemished, wounded, sick, and sinful-yet dearly beloved by my Father God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are so many things I wish I
could do that I simply cannot. Some things I never could do, like play
volleyball or paint a picture that actually looks like something real or
perform breathtaking gymnastics feats or figure out complex algebraic
equations. Some things I used to be able to do but cannot anymore, like drive
long distances, do hard physical labor, walk a long way without suffering great
pain or having my heart race, run, dance, stand long enough to sing an entire
cantata with a choir, or wear cute shoes. I miss those things. I want those
abilities back. Someday I may eventually be able to do some of them again; some
are gone forever. I waste far too much time on wishing and denial, though. The
focus needs to be on doing what we CAN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember a dear lady, Mrs.
Fenters, who is forever one of my heroes. Wheelchair bound, she smilingly came
up to our school four days a week to read with the little children. On
Wednesdays she spent all day preparing something special for the church potluck
in the evening. She kept the church accounts in perfect order. During Vacation
Bible School, she would be there every day, serving snacks. She would often
say, “I can’t do much, but I’ll do what I can!” Always in pain that she masked
with a bright and very real smile, she did what she could. When she went to be
with the Lord, all I could think of was that she was now free to do anything
she wanted. Anything. But while here on this earth, in a body that limited her
abilities, she found so many ways to serve her God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The problem of unwanted and orphaned
children is so massive that there is no way for one person to solve it. But
what if we all did what we could? What if everyone who was able took in a
child? What if adoption was made easier for people who have the desire but not
a lot of money? And how about the problem of homelessness? Statistics show that
if every CHURCH took in one homeless PERSON, guess what? There would be no more
homeless people. Wow. And what if we lack the physical or monetary ability to
help in a big way, but simply give what we have, like food or clothing? Isn’t
that doing what we can? I think that we fear not doing enough, and thus we are
paralyzed and do not act at all. At school I have a box in my classroom to
collect food for the needy. It doesn’t have much in it, but I don’t really
believe my students are apathetic. I just think they believe that a couple of
cans won’t matter and so they aren’t doing what they can. I explained to them
that they don’t have to go buy anything; almost everyone has an extra can or
two in the pantry and that WILL make a difference. In this country many people
don’t vote because they think their votes don’t count-but they do. Whatever we
do matters, to someone, somewhere, somehow. Mostly, it all matters to God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have been asked to sponsor the
Scholars’ Bowl team and the Media Club at school. I am delighted to do these
things-because I can. These ministry opportunities are just as real as coaching
one of the ball teams or planning and carrying out a retreat or Christmas
program. They are things that I am able to do. Last spring at our service
retreat, I went with a group to Mobile Baykeepers and spent the day clipping
and sorting newspaper articles, and the people there were grateful for our
help. Sure, I would rather have been out helping paint a house or planting sea
oats , but my reality is that I can’t, so I did the thing I could, and I was
good at it, too. I can read a lot of information very quickly and I print
neatly and cut fairly straight. Small abilities, but useful in that particular
capacity. I did what I could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes people simply need someone
to talk to, someone who will listen and not judge.I am good at that. English
teachers need to be able to read and write and understand grammar and impart
that knowledge to their students. I can do that. As a parent, I have never been
able to play ball with my children or climb on the monkeybars with them, but I
have sat and watched and cheered them on. I have been able to play boardgames
and Wii games and do art projects with them, and read to them and watch movies
with them and talk to them about all kinds of things. We have painted and
played with Play-Dough and decorated cookies with them. We have never had the
money to take a real vacation as a family, but we have gone on day trips to the
beach and the zoo and the Exploreum, and we have gone on picnics and to plays and
concerts and to many dinners at Wendy’s or the Chinese restaurant. We have done
what we could. My desire was to adopt more, but obviously God sees our quiver
as full and I have accepted that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In all that I do, I have always
wanted to do my very best. Teachers are world-changers and so are parents, even
if the world never notices. The mistakes that I have made in my teaching and in
the raising of my children have been human and forgivable. I know that in my
head, but my heart is slow to catch up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To quote Emily Dickinson:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">If I can stop one heart from breaking,<br sb_id="ms__id5844" />
I shall not live in vain;<br sb_id="ms__id5845" />
If I can ease one life the aching,<br sb_id="ms__id5846" />
Or cool one pain,<br sb_id="ms__id5847" />
Or help one fainting robin<br sb_id="ms__id5848" />
Unto his nest again,<br sb_id="ms__id5849" />
I shall not live in vain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">God sees things very differently than
the world does. He notices and He cares. What little I can do, I want to do to
His glory. His eye is on the sparrow, and if I help even that little sparrow, I
have done something. To save three children out of so many in need does not
seem like much in the grand scheme of things. There are seven billion people in
the world. Seven billion aching, hungry, hurting souls. What can I do? Only what
I can. My friends who have adopted one child, if they listened to God’s call,
have done just as much as I, just as much as others I know who have adopted ten
or twelve. It is not the amount we give; it is the heart with which we do it.
The Word tells us that if we give so much as a cup of cold water to a brother
in His name, we have done as He commands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next
month is Adoption Awareness Month. I urge everyone who has even had a fleeting
thought regarding adoption to seek God’s will through prayer. Maybe He is
calling you. Or maybe not. Maybe your calling is something else entirely. But
whatever you feel He has given you to do, go out and, in His power, do it!
There is some gift He has given you; use it! Do what you can. You will be more
blessed than you can imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";">“If there are millions<br sb_id="ms__id7471" />
Down on their knees<br sb_id="ms__id7472" />
Among the many<br sb_id="ms__id7473" />
Can you still hear me<br sb_id="ms__id7474" />
<br sb_id="ms__id7475" />
Hear me asking<br sb_id="ms__id7476" />
Where do I belong?<br sb_id="ms__id7477" />
Is there a vision<br sb_id="ms__id7478" />
That I can call my own?<br sb_id="ms__id7479" />
<br sb_id="ms__id7480" />
Show me, I'm<br sb_id="ms__id7481" />
Looking for a reason<br sb_id="ms__id7482" />
Roamin' through the night to find<br sb_id="ms__id7483" />
My place in this world<br sb_id="ms__id7484" />
My place in this world<br sb_id="ms__id7485" />
Not a lot to lean on<br sb_id="ms__id7486" />
I need your light to help me find<br sb_id="ms__id7487" />
My place in this world<br sb_id="ms__id7488" />
My place in this world…” –Michael W.Smith<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Adobe Kaiti Std R","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-53738106901027920162012-09-29T08:16:00.001-07:002012-09-29T08:16:30.353-07:00Come To My Rescue
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I need You Jesus to come to my
rescue<br sb_id="ms__id815" />
Where else can I go?<br sb_id="ms__id816" />
There's no other Name by which I am saved<br sb_id="ms__id817" />
Capture me with grace<br sb_id="ms__id818" />
I will follow You…<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
sister Jackie has a dog named Elias-a dog who was rescued from an unspeakable
horror. Having suffered so terribly, you would think he would never be willing
to trust anyone again. Yet he does. With steadfast devotion, he follows Jackie
and my mother all around the house. He watches them with adoring eyes, desiring
nothing more than to be near them. He is a dog, yet somehow he knows that they
saved him, and now the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his life is
whatever pleases them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
only we were like that with God.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was very young the first time Jesus came to my rescue. I may have been five, or
slightly older. I don’t really recall the exact moment when I owned my
salvation. I was always profoundly aware of some greater Presence. From my
parents and Sunday school teachers, I learned his Name. My younger daughter
came to Him in much the same way, his Name not being revealed to her until she
came to live with us. Yet she always knew Who He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>. For me, I sensed Him in all that I saw and touched and heard
as I lay in the grass and stared up at the clouds. I found out that His Name
was Jesus, and that He died so that I could be set free. I have loved Him all
of my life. When I was seven, I remember whispering a prayer just to confirm
that I was His, and to let Him know that I wanted to serve Him forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
my fifteenth birthday I was at a youth conference in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The
theme was “A Walk With Christ to the Cross”. As the details of His suffering
were brought home to me, I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by a new awareness of
just how much He was willing to go through that I might be saved. As the
picture of His sacrifice unfolded, I had a renewed sense of purpose. I stood that
night with many others and rededicated my life to Him and to Christian service,
never dreaming of where that commitment would lead me. The one thing I knew for
certain was that my service to Him would require the surrender of my shyness
and timidity, so when choosing classes for the following school year, I signed
up for public speaking, a choice I have never regretted. I turned out to be
actually quite good at making speeches, and I made an A in the class, but the
ultimate purpose God had in mind was to place yet another brick in the
foundation of His plan for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jesus
came to my rescue again about five years later. During my last year of high
school, I got into some dangerous territory and began experimenting with things
I knew were completely stupid. I started hanging around with the wrong people,
angry at God because my dad had lost his job and things were not going the way
I wanted them to. I never completely gave up my faith, but I began to feel and
express doubt. I stiff-armed my Savior because deep down, I knew I was sinking
and in my pride I wanted to save myself. But at night I was tormented by
oppression and voices that relentlessly told me lies. After I graduated from
high school I continued to lead a double life, clever enough to maintain the façade,
hold down a job and even show up at church on Sunday morning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
God spoke in a way I could not ignore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had been sick off and on for a couple of months and thought it was simply
stomach viruses picked up from the small children I taught. I went to the
doctor when it got really bad and he told me it was a parasite I had gotten
from my new puppy, gave me antibiotics and sent me home. That night, I woke up
in unbearable pain, crawled into my parents’ room and told them I needed to go
the hospital. It turned out that I had acute appendicitis. I almost died. I was
in the hospital for a week and then had to stay home from work for another
month. This gave me plenty of time to think, to pray, and to re-evaluate my
life. I decided that God had given me another chance and I wasn’t about to
throw it away. I got my life back on track, joined the Young Singles group at
church, and enrolled in college. I was twenty years old.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
year later, my father died from an aortic aneurism. Of course this was no
surprise to God. He had been preparing me for it for a long time and, though my
heart was broken, I was strong enough now to take it, to move on and do what
had to be done, hanging on to my faith with all I had. We were grimly
determined to survive and survive we did. In fact, I think the ten years between
the loss of my father and the day I got married were the years during which I
learned the most about truly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">living. </i>When
there is nowhere else to go, you either die or run to the Father. I chose Him. I
chose to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
that time I have faced many other trials, significant losses and staggering
betrayals, personal struggles, and dreams deferred. The theme of our school
retreat this year was SURRENDER, and I realized that there are still things I
need to surrender, people I need to forgive, habits I need to break. And then,
right on the heels of this revelation came yet another crisis. As I write this,
I am exhausted and drained, sleep-deprived, and somewhat at a loss as to where
to go from here. I am greatly disappointed and tempted to give up hope. But, in
the words of Jeremy Riddle:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: sienna; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">“His love is deep, His love is wide<br />
And it covers us<br />
His love is fierce, His love is strong<br />
It is furious…”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: sienna; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yes, there is that. And if there were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only </i>that to count on in this life, it
would be enough. But I have seen the goodness of God in the land of the living,
and I know that morning is coming. In Narnia, it was always winter, but never
Christmas…and then Aslan came bounding back in, and all was done…even though it
was harder than they thought. Bilbo Baggins made the journey he thought he
could never make, and the dragon was defeated. The little hobbit became a hero,
and in the end had all the treasure he could carry. So will we…someday…and
maybe a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to remind us He is near.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: sienna; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;">“When it’s always winter but never Christmas,
sometimes we think that You’re not with us, but deep inside our hearts we know,
that You are here, and we will not lose hope.” –Relient K<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: sienna; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></b></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-47662923564417111602012-09-08T14:54:00.001-07:002012-09-08T14:54:51.555-07:00One By One
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You cannot predict the outcome of human development. All
you can do is like a farmer create the conditions under which it will begin to
flourish.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/43940.Ken_Robinson"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Ken
Robinson</span></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>School
has been in session for three weeks now-well, actually, eleven days, due to
Hurricane Isaac and Labor Day. It is September, and I have been waxing
nostalgic about the earliest days of my teaching career. I love what I do now
and would never want to actually go back. My high school students are a joy and
a blessing every day. But there is a particular magic about working with small
children that is difficult to explain. Their innocence, their wide-eyed wonder
at the newness of everything, their spontaneity, their unbridled joy, their
uninhibited expressions of feeling and emotion that are by and large repressed
by the time they are six-these are the things that make the magic. My first
teaching job was in a daycare center, and I wouldn’t trade those four years for
anything in the world.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
question that students often ask me is, “How and when did you decide that you
wanted to be a teacher?” It was a rather involved route, and I was dragged
kicking and screaming part of the way, and I am so glad that I didn’t have to
make the choice on my own. God did it for me.Deep down, though, even though I
told myself that this daycare job was only a job, that I was not cut out to teach,
that this was not what I would be doing forever, I think I knew. I knew from
that first day. In fact, I knew long before that, back in first grade when I
was assigned to help other students, when I babysat the neighbor children
beginning at age eleven, when I helped teach Sunday school and Vacation Bible
School…God was moving, stirring my heart.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
assignment as a rookie teacher’s aide at the Children’s Center was to be a “floater”
and then,if I did a good job, I would be given whatever position was available and
suited me the best. I quickly discovered that infants weren’t really my cup of
tea, although I did fine in the infant room and didn’t exactly hate it. I just
preferred children who were a bit more mobile, verbal, and social. The babies
were adorable, but the funny thing is that even then, I was more drawn to older
kids and was never the kind of person who wanted to pick up every baby I saw.
This worried me for awhile and I feared I would be a terrible mother, but I was
assured that it would be different with my own and it doubtless would have
been. I never had the opportunity to find out, since my youngest child was five
when she came to live with us, but I did recall my mother saying that she was
concerned about me when I was little and had no interest in dolls. She, too,
was afraid I lacked maternal instincts, but then she read somewhere that
children who love animals usually grow up to love children, and, since I
brought home every stray dog, cat,and turtle I found, she relaxed. She was not
particularly surprised when I ended up being a teacher.Not as surprised as I was,
anyway.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
ultimately happened after I made the rounds of the various age groups in the
daycare was that I became a morning aide in the Toddler 2 class and an
afternoon aide in the preschool class. On my first afternoon, I had baptism by
fire as the minute I walked in the door of the preschool classroom, the teacher
thrust some books into my hands and practically ran away, so anxious was she to
go on her break. I had never been alone with such a large group of children
before-there were eighteen in all, ranging in age from three to five-and I don’t
know who was more terrified, them or me. I suspect it was me. They were seated
nicely in a circle on little squares of carpet labeled with their names. I had
been introduced to them briefly as “Miss Chris, our new helper”, but a few of
the smaller ones could only manage “Miss Tiss”, or, tragically, “Miss Piss”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went around the circle and asked their
names and even now I remember most of them. Christy, Stuart, Lauren, Colin,
Julie, Brooke, Laura, Jonathan, Justin, Mitchell,Eric, Wade,Courtney,Michelle,
a few others I cannot recall. I read them a book that had been a favorite of
mine when I was small. It was called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Four
Puppies</i> and was all about how four little collie pups learned about the
changes in the seasons and how every season had things that were good and fun. At
the end they were big dogs, not puppies anymore. The only problem was that,
living in South Alabama, it was a bit difficult to explain snow or even<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clearly defined temperature changes.
Fortunately, most of them had seen enough television to get the gist.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
that I had learned long ago about reading to very young children is that you
cannot make it a passive activity; you have to keep them involved and engaged
in the story. This means not only reading with expression, but pausing to
discuss the pictures, ask questions, and get comments from the kids related to
their own experience. It means trying to keep them anticipating what will
happen next. I am sure there is some fancy name for this type of pre-reading,
language-building instruction, but I didn’t know what it was and still don’t.
It’s just what my mother and father always did when they read to me. Thus we
discussed the four seasons and what holidays and weather patterns were related
to each, the habits of squirrels as a squirrel figured prominently in the
story, and what kinds of animals the children had at home or had seen at the
zoo. We talked about how it was now fall and what kinds of foods made us think
of fall. We talked about scarecrows and owls and I remembered a song about
pumpkins that I had learned back in elementary school, so I taught it to them.
I was no longer scared to death; I was having <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fun.</i> When the teacher got back into the room fifteen minutes late,
expecting chaos, she found us all quite happily getting to know each other. By
that afternoon I had a job. The Director said, “I have gotten <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">glowing </i>reports from every room you were
in today,” and that was that. My Beginning.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
just a little church daycare with about thirty-five children and a tiny but
caring and dedicated staff. During my four years there I learned much about
life, about people, about race relations, about how children grow and develop,
and about how simple it is to give children a Christian understanding of life
without brainwashing or terrifying them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When people came in to view the Center they often commented on the sense
of love and community, the respect and independence that the children had, and
the way they seemed to learn with very few formal lessons. Indeed, we were on a
list of centers that best prepared children for kindergarten, yet we did almost
no worksheets or direct math or phonics instruction. Nearly everything was
hands-on and experiential. Our days were structured but not regimented. Nevertheless,
all of the kids who graduated from our center were adept at self-help and
social skills and could work on tasks independently. All could write their
names; most could tie shoes and button buttons and sweep a floor. Most of them
knew the alphabet and numbers; a few could read and add and subtract. They knew
lots of stories and songs and poems and a lot about God and Jesus. They knew
about animals and transportation and weather and rocks and how to stay safe and
keep your teeth healthy and eat a balanced meal and to not be afraid of the
world, but to be imaginative and curious and ask good questions. They could use
scissors and usually color inside the lines and give their phone numbers and
addresses in case they ever got lost. They had all grown at least one lima bean
seed into a plant and painted at least one picture that Mom and Dad would keep
for always, and they could prepare simple snacks and wipe up the mess
afterward. Mostly, they knew how to love and be loved.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To me,
that is REAL education. The goal of education is not, I think to cram as many
facts into a child’s head as possible so that he can impress the heck out of
Mom and Dad’s friends . Nor is it merely to create “useful” citizens. Our kids
left our center with the beginnings of a work ethic and love for God and
country and an understanding of flag etiquette (they asked that the school’s
flag be lowered to half-mast when my father died, and we complied).All of these
things are wonderful, but the true goal is to produce compassionate human
beings who will not just impact the world, but help to transform it. If that is
the goal at every level, and we begin by nurturing those early seeds of
compassion and honesty and creativity, then one by one, we will produce true <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">world-changers. </i>If I did not believe
that, I could not teach. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If you
are a parent, then you are a teacher. If you are within a child’s grasp, within
his sphere, then you have the potential to help change the world, too. Whether
a neighbor, friend, grandparent, Sunday school teacher, coach, babysitter-if
you are part of a child’s life, then you are a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">TEACHER.-</i>and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it matters.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to
play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83846.Margery_Williams"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Margery
Williams</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1602074"><span style="color: blue;">The
Velveteen Rabbit</span></a></i></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-60696086777363552452012-08-28T08:35:00.001-07:002012-08-28T08:35:36.359-07:00The Longest Night
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There's always another storm. It's the way the world works.
Snowstorms, rainstorms, windstorms, sandstorms, and firestorms. Some are fierce
and others are small. You have to deal with each one separately, but you need
to keep an eye on whats brewing for tomorrow.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/445303.Maria_V_Snyder"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Maria V.
Snyder</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1970128"><span style="color: blue;">Fire
Study</span></a></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s hurricane
season again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After 37 years of living
here along the Alabama Gulf Coast, hearing those words evokes in me a mixture
of emotions-annoyance, resignation, a hint of excitement, caution, and even
nostalgia .Even now, with Isaac on its way, I am not particularly fearful, for
I survived, and vividly remember, Baldwin County’s most powerful hurricane. I
say most powerful, because, although Ivan did extensive damage and Katrina
scared us all, in my mind nothing compares to Frederic.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perhaps
my memories are exaggerated or distorted as I was only thirteen when Frederic
ravaged the Gulf Coast, but my mother remembers things the same way, and she
has lived through many more hurricanes than I. She has told stories of slogging
through huge puddles of standing water during the eye of Hurricane Dorothy,
frantically searching for the family dog , who was finally located under a
neighbor’s porch. This was in Jacksonville, Florida, where hurricanes are also commonplace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once when I was very young, we experienced
the remnants of a hurricane while on a camping trip. My own recollection of
most of these storms is of a lot of rain, wind that blew stuff around a bit, a
couple of days’ reprieve from school , and the inconvenience of being without
power for three or four days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frederic,
however, was different.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember that my eighth-grade history teacher, upon hearing that a major storm
had formed in the Gulf and could be headed our way, showed us a film about
Hurricane Camille that frightened and disturbed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loss of life in that storm was awful, and
the film was mainly a cautionary tale about taking hurricanes seriously. Two
days later, I woke up to the news that school was cancelled, and we were in the
projected path of Hurricane Frederic. My father had already gone to his office
to make sure everything was secured. My mother set my sisters to washing
clothes and dishes and my brother to picking up every loose object out of the
yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took me and my
fifteen-month-old niece, Tiffani, with her to the grocery store. I was given a
list and sent to hunt batteries, paper plates, kerosene, candles, and matches
while Mom and Tiffi filled the cart to the brim with canned goods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very early in the morning but lines
were already forming and items were going fast. I remember thinking that I had
never seen the Spanish Fort Delchamps doing that much business.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we
arrived back at home, I went out with the neighborhood gang of kids to search
for my friend Lori’s missing kitten, Ali.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ali, a little gray ball of fluff, had slipped out the door before
daylight when Lori’s dad had gone out to secure their boat and move the cars to
a safe location. It would be several hours before we would begin to feel the
effects of the storm, but the clouds were gray and lowering, the air humid and
sticky. There was also an odd sort of silence and I realized that I heard no
birds or frogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That gave me a strange
feeling, but I didn’t share it with my friends, who were all just happy to get
out of school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finally located Ali in
someone’s garage, and by that time our moms were beginning to call for us to
come home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few people were leaving
town but most had chosen to ride out the storm in their houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dads and older boys were boarding up windows.
I helped my brother put tape on the sliding glass doors and then began looking
for my own pets.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At that
time my family owned two dogs. In fact, we had owned two dogs ever since I
could remember. The current pair consisted of a collie named Shadrach and a
mixed-breed called Misty, who was one of my dearest companions throughout my
childhood. In 1979 she was already ten years old, blind in one eye, and
terrified of bad weather. She was already on the porch and Shadrach was in his
pen, standing by the gate. He had a doghouse but there was no thought of
leaving him outside in a hurricane; I had beds made from old blankets in the
garage for both dogs. In addition to the dogs and my hamsters, Nicky and
Charlie, we had four cats. I looked all over the yard and in the woods behind
the house but the cats were nowhere to be found. I found this odd because there
were usually at least two somewhere in the vicinity, stretched out on the
railing of the sundeck or lounging on the windowsill or curled up on the old
sofa in the garage. There was Triple, a yellow tabby with six toes on each
foot; Clyde, an orange and white marmalade who had lost an eye in a fight;
Spits, a gray and white striped tom, and Sydney, a calico with attitude. “Dad,
I can’t find any of the cats,” I said worriedly.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
okay, Red, they’ll turn up when it’s time, “he assured me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, an hour later, I looked out the
window and saw all four of them lined up on the deck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got them into the garage along with the
dogs, made sure there was enough food and water for everybody, and then helped
my mother fry about fifty pieces of chicken. My mother always cooked a good
meal right before a hurricane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all
took baths in rapid succession, then cleaned the bathtubs and filled them up.
We also filled every jar and pitcher in the house with water. Having made all
of these preparations , there was nothing left to do but watch the weather
coverage on the news and follow the path of the storm on the tracking map. It
was indeed bearing down on us, a strong Category 3, although to this day there
is debate about whether Frederic was actually a 4.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
feeder bands started way before dark, but by nightfall we were beginning to
feel the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all gathered in
the family room except Tiffani, who slept soundly through the entire storm,
much too young to understand what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daddy sat in his recliner as usual. I tried
to read but was distracted by the wind. It is a sound I will never forget. As
the storm’s fury increased, Daddy took a flashlight and went to the window. He
flicked the flashlight on and off twice. The neighbors in the houses across the
street did the same, a signal that all was well. This continued throughout the
night, even as we heard the wind screech and the sound of tree limbs breaking
off and trees crashing to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
held hands and prayed that none would hit our house. Then Mom sent all of us to
bed. I lay with my head under the covers, one hand reached out to touch my
hamster cage. In the light of my candle I saw that the two little creatures had
burrowed down under their shavings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had checked on the dogs and cats before I went to bed and they were a little
scared, but calm, except for Sydney, whose fur was standing on end as she
paced.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
finally slept, but not soundly until the wee hours of the morning when
exhaustion overtook me and I fell into a heavy slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daddy was keeping watch. I knew he wouldn’t
let anything happen to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom had
reminded us of the words from the Bible: “Be still and know that I am
God.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom was keeping watch, too, I
knew, even though Daddy kept telling her to go to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a testimony to the love and security in
that house that all of us were able to sleep during the worst hurricane we
could remember.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
morning I was awakened by the sound of chainsaws and the scratch, scratch of
rakes. I looked out the window and my jaw dropped. The yard was a disaster, a
mess of trees and leaves and pine straw and other debris. My mother was raking
at the pinestraw while my father surveyed the damage. I scrambled out of bed
and dressed quickly in shorts and a t-shirt. The power would be out for three
weeks and the heat would become nearly unbearable at times. I let the animals
out of the garage and they dashed to freedom, then stopped, confused.
Everything was all over everything; that was the only way I could think of to
describe what I saw. Shadrach’s pen was squashed as was Daddy’s company car,
and I could see a couple of places where trees had narrowly missed the house.
We lost 21 trees in that storm, mostly dogwoods, but we soon discovered we had
fared better than many others. One tiny corner of our roof was damaged and that
was all.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
days that followed, we began to appreciate the small things-ice, for example. I
will never forget when the relief trucks came delivering ice down at the
shopping center. There were National Guardsmen standing watch with weapons in
order to make sure no one took more than two bags. In my imagination, I thought
it was similar to what things would be like in the aftermath of a nuclear
holocaust. There were people lined up to get the ice, and many of them looked
haggard, exhausted, and hungry. However, I do not recall anyone trying to take
more than his fair share. What I do recall is a community coming together to
help and support one another. Bobby Wilson, whose gas station had been badly
damaged, got things up and running as soon as possible and gave free food and
drinks to anyone in need. My father grilled all of the meat that was in our
freezer and fed the entire neighborhood. We feasted for about two days and
after that it was Dinty Moore beef stew and sandwiches with no mayonnaise. I
don’t think any of us complained.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frederic
was the most costly Gulf Coast hurricane until Katrina came along in 2005. The
devastation was heart-wrenching, but at least there was minimal loss of life. Still,
when we were able to get down to Gulf Shores, a place that a friend of mine has
aptly referred to as “the extended backyard of my childhood”, we were shocked
at what we saw. The sand dunes were no more. Debris was everywhere, and
building after building was reduced to a concrete slab. I remember being savvy
enough, even at thirteen, to wonder what this would do to Baldwin County’s
economy. I remember listening to harrowing stories on the news of people who
had ridden out the storm in Gulf Shores and on Dauphin Island and how they
managed to survive. Mostly, I remember our neighborhood coming to life again ,
the sound of chainsaws (there was no shortage of firewood that winter), and
yes, even laughter. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
learned a lot of things from Frederic. I learned about God’s incredible power
and His amazing grace. I learned that in a crisis, most people behave honorably.
I learned that when you are without air conditioning, a cold shower actually
feels good. Because I was a kid, there was a sense of romantic adventure about
the whole ordeal, and I will admit to enjoying the unexpected three-week
holiday. I read a lot of books, played boardgames with my family, and roamed
the neighborhood with my friends, looking for someone to rescue (and we
actually did find a frightened cat in a drainpipe, and returned it to its owner
with a sense of satisfaction). I learned that really, one can get along with a
lot less than he assumes. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
the passing years the sense of fear I had during the storm has faded and
instead I think of my father sitting calmly in his recliner while the storm
raged. I recall with a sense of wonder the fact that when Frederic came up the
mouth of Mobile Bay, he sucked the entire bay into the sky and spit it back
down again. I remember my niece walking into the living room the morning after
the storm, looking out the back door at the chaos, and saying, “Uh-oh,” with
wide eyes. I think of how my mother contrived to keep us fed and in clean
clothes, and how generous the neighbors were when they got back their power
before we did, inviting us over for hot showers and a home-cooked meal. I
remember my dad maneuvering his squashed car carefully down the street and how
amused our neighbors were. I recall going back to school and the sense of
camaraderie we all felt as we shared our storm stories. Our school gym was
gutted , so for the rest of the school year we had Health on rainy days instead
of P.E. This was fine with me because I hated volleyball anyway, but our health
texts were so ancient that the pages were yellowed. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually,
the Gulf Coast was restored to its glory. Baldwin’s Longest Night ended and
hope returned. Today the dunes stand sparkling in the sunlight, covered with
sea oats. The tourist business is booming even in the wake of the oil spill two
years ago. Neither Ivan nor Katrina caused the amount of devastation to our
beaches that Frederic did, and there are people who have forgotten what a
powerful storm it was. But I have not forgotten, and the funny thing is that my
memories of that time are so incredibly sweet. Our family drew closer together,
our community stayed strong, and Bobby Wilson gave away free Cokes. On the
Sunday following Frederic, we went to church and our pastor Pierre Burns (the
second greatest man in my world) preached a sermon about how God is most
present in times of danger and trouble. I knew it was true. Incredibly, only
five people perished in the disaster, even though many chose to weather the
storm in extremely dangerous areas. That had to be the hand of God at work.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I
sit here, the rain is bucketing down and the tarp we put on the roof is
holding. I hope that my children’s memories of hurricane days, like mine, are
mostly about togetherness and love and laughter, not terror. We may lose power
shortly but we have plenty of candles, and playing Clue by candlelight is a lot
of fun. I pray for the safety of our horse and the safety of those who have to
be out on the roads. All is in God’s hands. Maybe that’s the greatest lesson I
learned from September 12<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>, 1979.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same
person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” <br />
― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3354.Haruki_Murakami"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Haruki
Murakami</span></a></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-9832049725542184792012-08-18T07:41:00.000-07:002012-08-18T07:41:13.098-07:00Back to School
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Riding along on a big yellow school bus<br />
Elmer's glue and a brand new lunch box<br />
Writing my name for the very first time<br />
With a pencil that was bigger than me<br />
From jumping rope and skipping school<br />
To doing things that grown-ups do<br />
Life goes by like that big old bus<br />
If you miss it, it's history…” –Carolyn Arends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember my
first day of kindergarten quite well. Being the youngest of five children, I
had for years watched sadly as my siblings headed off to school in the
mornings, leaving me lonely and bereft. In the afternoons I would wait eagerly
for them to come home, forgetting the fact that they often tormented me for
pure amusement. I would listen as they shared stories of the classroom and
playground, and I was outraged when I discovered in the fall of 1970 that,
although I would be five in the spring, I had to be five much earlier than that
in order to be allowed to go to kindergarten.Some of my classmates from Sunday
school had made that magic cutoff date and came to church bragging about it. So
I made my own “school” with my stuffed toys and the workbooks that I always
begged my mother to buy for me. I tried in vain to teach my dogs and cats the
alphabet. I perused my siblings’ textbooks and sometimes coerced them into playing
school with me. I wanted to enter that wonderful, mysterious world and learn
everything there was to learn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As with many
things, the reality was a letdown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First of all,
there were the school supplies. At home, I used regular Elmer’s glue for craft
projects. In kindergarten, we had to use paste, which doesn’t work very well
and dries out quickly if you don’t put the lid back on just right .Furthermore,
some of my peers liked to eat it, which was disgusting to watch. At home, I
used regular pointed scissors. I wasn’t stupid and my parents weren’t worried
that I would stab myself or cut my fingers. At school, however, we had to use
blunt scissors that didn’t cut anything properly, if they worked at all. Then there
was the pencil that was “bigger than me”. I had been writing my name for two
years-with ordinary, skinny #2 pencils. Using that giant pencil was like
learning to write all over again, and the letters looked ugly and awkward on
that flimsy, blue-lined primary paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the crayons were the absolute worst. I don’t think they make them
anymore-at least I hope not. They were called “anti-roll” because they were
FLAT on one side, which kept them from rolling off the table.Having taught
preschool, kindergarten, and the primary grades, I guess I can see why this
would be considered a good thing, although frankly I don’t see why crayons
falling on the floor is that big a deal.You just pick them up. The big flat
crayons were totally ineffective and, to add insult to injury, there were only
eight of them. What good is that? I wanted my pack of sixty-four with the
built-in sharpener!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But no-we had to
have our anti-rolls, blunt scissors, two ginormous pencils, and clumpy paste
packed neatly into a red school box labeled with our names neatly lettered on
the top. And thus I went forth on my first day, box and writing tablet under my
arm, Snoopy lunchbox clutched in my sweaty hand. The lunchbox was so I would
not feel left out-kindergarten was only a half-day-so I loaded the lunchbox with
books, thinking I would actually be allowed to read in school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then came the
second disappointment-in kindergarten, no one was supposed to be reading yet. I
had overheard my mother talking to the teacher on Registration Day about the
fact that I could read already, and the teacher had frowned as though this was
a terrible thing. I did not realize that I would actually not be permitted to
read at school-at least for the first two weeks. One day I was taken out into
the hall and given some kind of test where I had to read words off of
flashcards, and another test where I had to point to the picture that went with
the word the teacher said, and then there was some kind of discussion with my
parents about advancing me to second grade, which my parents firmly refused to
do. After that, my teacher’s perpetual scowl deepened whenever she looked at
me, but I was allowed to read my books while the rest of the class had Alphabet
Time. On the first class trip to the school library, I headed for the junior
section to get a chapter book, but was steered over to the picture book section
by the sweet-voiced librarian who explained to me in a gentle tone that “the
junior books are for the big girls and boys.” I was not accustomed to being
talked to as if I were a moron, and I was also horribly shy, so I didn’t try to
explain but grabbed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Make Way for
Ducklings, </i>a book that I had enjoyed hearing read by Captain Kangaroo. By
that point, utter bewilderment had set in. I had thought school was a place for
education, but all I was learning was that either all of my classmates were a
little slow, or I was just plain weird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The third blow
came when we were given our very first dittoed picture to color. It was a cat
playing with a ball, and I became excited, planning to make the cat yellow with
orange stripes and the ball red, purple, and blue. I could actually visualize
in my mind how beautiful it would look, and I would bring it home to my mother
and she would put it on the refrigerator with my brother’s Good Work handwriting
paper and my sister’s “A” math test. Alas, before I could even pick up one of
my flat yellow crayons and begin, the teacher was saying something in her
screechy voice.”Everyone hold up your BROWN crayon. Now say BROWN.” We all did.
“Now, hold up your GREEN crayon. Say GREEN.” We all did. After reviewing BROWN
and GREEN ten times, we were allowed to color the cat BROWN and the ball GREEN.
I was saddened. Whoever heard of a brown cat? I had several cats at home. One
was gray (Lightning), one was black with white feet (Boots) one was
orangey-yellow (Barney), and one was calico (Rover). None of them were even
close to brown, and to this day I don’t think I have seen an actual brown cat.
Maybe I missed something. I was sad but resigned; however, a little rebel named
Bill colored HIS cat purple-and outside the lines. Miss Screech snatched his
paper away from him and held it up for the class to see. “This is exactly what
we DON’T do in kindergarten,” she snarled. “This is the way BABIES color, so I
guess Bill is a BABY.” Bill slipped down in his seat, his face red.I felt sorry
for him and resolved to be very nice to him, even though he was one of the
paste-eaters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wish I could
say that my year got better, but it didn’t. Every day we had warm milk and
either slightly stale animal crackers or slightly more stale graham crackers
for snack. Every day Bill couldn’t learn his colors or his letters or his
numbers or how to color in the lines and was sent to the corner. “Bill, you
will be a REPEATER”, Miss Screech told him. Indeed, the next year Bill did not
get to go to first grade with the rest of us, but was stuck in the land of
Painting With Chocolate Pudding for a second round. Miss Screech was the only
kindergarten teacher so he had to suffer through her humiliation again. She
probably yelled at him for eating the pudding again, which even at five I
thought was absurd. You do not give small children food with which to make art
and expect them not to EAT any. I was to recollect that many years later when
my preschool class made igloos out of sugar cubes (which, by the way, is a
terrible and demented idea) and necklaces out of Froot Loops ( a better idea,
but a huge supply of cereal is essential).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My kindergarten experience was a daily routine of kiddie songs, counting
things and circling numbers, trying to lie perfectly still at rest time to
avoid the wrath of the Screech, and getting knocked down at recess. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My kindergarten
teacher could have written the book on how NOT to teach. I thought she was a
little bit mean at the time. In retrospect, as a teacher myself, I see that I
was wrong. She was VERY mean. I am by no means a perfect teacher,and I
make mistakes every day, but publicly humiliating a five-year-old for not being
able to learn? Really, Miss Screech? It is no wonder that I almost never spoke
during my first year of school. I was introverted anyway, and I was completely
cowed by Miss Screech. I didn’t tell my parents anything about it until years
later, and they were horrified. But, like every experience I have had in my
life, I did learn from it, and I would never, ever treat children the way Miss
Screech did. To be fair, I had far more good teachers than bad ones during my
school days. I will write of them in future blog entries, since I suspect that
my theme the next few weeks will be “school”. After all, I am a teacher. That’s
what I am. Oddly enough, if you had told me at almost any point during my
elementary, middle, or high school days that when I grew up I would WILLINGLY
choose to go every day to a classroom, I would have laughed and laughed. I
couldn’t wait to get out and go find myself-and then I found myself right back
at school, exactly where God wanted me. On Monday I will begin a new school
year, teaching English and Bible and creative writing to ninety unique and
beautiful students. I will have days that are wonderful and days when I get
frustrated and days when I wonder if I am doing any good at all. But no two
days will be exactly alike and that is part of the joy of what I do. Now…get
busy and do your homework!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Mom, is
the world coming to an end?" Jonny asked, picking up the plate of cookies
and ramming one into his mouth.<br />
"No, it isn't," Mom said, folding her lawn chair and carrying it to
the front of the house. "And yes, you do have to go to school tomorrow.” <br />
― <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1318.Susan_Beth_Pfeffer"><span style="color: blue;">Susan
Beth Pfeffer</span></a>, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/206925"><span style="color: blue;">Life
As We Knew It</span></a></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116311827254148391.post-16400772324356880142012-08-06T07:04:00.002-07:002012-08-06T07:04:22.358-07:00For He Could Feel The Mountains Grow<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“…and should some why completely weep<br />
my father's fingers brought her sleep:<br />
vainly no smallest voice might cry<br />
for he could feel the mountains grow.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next
week is That Anniversary-the anniversary of what I still call Black Saturday.
It is hard to believe that almost twenty-five years have passed since that
awful day. When it happened, I could not see past the next moment. And yet, in
a blink, the years have passed, and I have gone on living. Not merely existing,
either, which was what I feared most. I feared that life’s magic and music were
forever gone. I feared that nothing good would ever happen again, or that if it
did, I wouldn’t care. But here I am, with a husband and kids, a career I love,
and a passion for life that has increased rather than disappeared.I know why,
too. It is because my father himself taught me by example how to live well and
to die with dignity. He taught me that the life of one ordinary person can
matter a whole lot. He taught me that you do the very best you can with what
you are given and that it is possible to be content in all circumstances.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was
by no means perfect. He had his flaws like any human being. He got mad
sometimes and on one infamous occasion threw a coffee cup at one of my sisters.
As a parent of teenagers, I can forgive him that and sympathize. Quite
honestly, I am amazed that, with three teenage girls in the house at the same
time, my parents didn’t kill or even harm anybody. I have two teenage daughters
and a nineteen-year-old son. There are days when I worry that they won’t live
much longer. I hope my father forgives me for the horror that I put him and my
mom through. I have heard theology that states that everyone in Heaven is an
adult, which would mean there are no teenagers. But if there are, it would be
so like God to put Daddy in charge of the youth group up there.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or
maybe He made Dad the teacher of the first and second grade Sunday school
class. He and Mom and I taught that age group for several years, and there were
kids in the class who thought Daddy was the smartest man in the world. I always
believed that myself. If he didn’t know the answer to a question, he would do
his best to find it out, even in the days before Google. I sometimes ponder
what he would have thought of Google-indeed, of much of our modern technology.
He died in 1987, way before social media and such. I think he would have been
fascinated and entertained, but would still have preferred face-to-face
conversations. He never even really liked talking on the phone. He kept
telephone conversations short and to the point, but would talk to people for
hours in person.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He talked
to my friends a lot. They would sometimes show up in the middle of the night,
knocking on our door. Kids from troubled homes always seemed to seek out our
house as a place of refuge. I never really appreciated, at the time, how
blessed I was to have two parents who loved each other and stayed married to
each other. Even in the 80s, this was becoming less and less the norm. My
friends liked to hang out at my house and I was conceited enough to think it
was because they enjoyed my company, but it was really because of my parents.
They were not of the “cool” sort who would buy the keg of beer for the party,
but rather they were the kind who would look straight into your soul and see
that you needed a good dose of the truth. Then they would give it to you, no
sugar added. But they weren’t mean about it; there was always compassion and
love that motivated them. After my dad’s passing, one of my friends said, “Your
dad was the best. He didn’t lie.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn’t
lie, but he sure could bluff in a game of cards or checkers or Scrabble. Just
when you thought you were winning-BAM! Out came the Q on a triple word score
and you were dead. That’s how I learned to lose gracefully. He didn’t believe
in letting us win once we reached a certain age-like five or so. He might not
play cutthroat and skunk us as badly as he could have, but if he had let us win
we would never have learned how to play half so well as we did. If you could
beat Dad at a board game, you had accomplished something. To pout and sulk over
losing was very bad form. The question was, had you done your best? If so, then
there was never any reason to be ashamed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
philosophy carried over to everything in life, like schoolwork and sports and
music competitions. Be as good as you can be, and if you aren’t satisfied, keep
going. You can always improve. I once got a rating of Excellent in a piano
competition. I hated practicing piano but since I had to do it and had to be in
the competitions, I wanted to make the best possible score. I didn’t like the
Excellent; I had wanted the Superior. One particular piece-I remember the title
to this day, “The Old Merry-Go Round”- was at a higher difficulty level than
the others and it kept me from getting a Superior. I told my dad I wanted to
drop that piece for the next competition and substitute something easier. “Okay,”
he said. “Let an inanimate object like a piano defeat you. Fine with me.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bristled at this and stalked into the living
room and started pounding the heck out of that piece. I played it so often I was
constantly hearing it in my head and could practically play it in my sleep. I
loathed it with a perfect loathing. I also got a Superior at the next
competition. Then I learned “The Marines’ Hymn” and would race to the piano to
play it when I heard Dad coming in the door from work every day. He loved that,
being proud of his stint in the Marines.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dad
didn’t talk much about his childhood and from what little I knew, it wasn’t
that wonderful. He grew up in the Bronx, his dad died when he was very young
and his mother wasn’t very responsible so he was raised mostly by his
grandmother. Yet he got into Brooklyn Technical High School and graduated with
honors. He stole a poetry book from the school library. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An Anthology of English and American Verse.</i>
As a Christmas gift several years ago, my husband had it rebound for me because
the covers were coming off. It is one of my greatest and most treasured
material possessions. My dad loved poetry and so do I. He also loved God, his
family, animals (except cats, he claimed),good food, flowers, and hard work. He
enjoyed gardening and cooking, reading, watching baseball and football, and
spending time with us as much as possible. He would take time off work to come
to our plays and recitals and ball games. Having not had a father for most of his
life, he assumed that fathers did pretty much what mothers did, and thus he was
very involved in our lives from infancy on. When he was home, he was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">home. </i>He wasn’t one to go play a few
rounds of golf or go out drinking with the guys from the office. That just wasn’t
his style. When he died, we notified his work, the extended family, and our
church. That was it. He had no separate life-yet the memorial service was
standing room only. That’s because one man’s life touched so many others. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He could
have chosen many different roads. He loved the water, the sea. Maybe he could have
been the captain of a ship. He could have stayed in the Marines and seen much
of the world. Or he could have chosen, at a young age, to do the wrong thing
and end up in prison or dead before he was twenty. After all, he was a boy from
the Bronx, poor and surrounded by undesirable people. So at the age of nine he
started selling vegetables on the street corner and daily got beaten up, only
to return the next day. He was called names and made fun of because he didn’t
have a father. He could have turned the hurt into bitterness and hatred, but
instead he joined the Boy Scouts and was led to Christ at the age of fourteen
by his Scout leader, who now has a star in his crown. He chose the more
excellent way. Thus God led him to meet and marry my mother, who is rather an
amazing person herself. Whatever dreams he may have had paled by comparison. His
wife and kids became the only dream he needed. We were the reason why he worked
long hours and put up with all of the junk that goes along with the corporate
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet in spite of his work
schedule, he once sat up all night with a sick hamster. He helped us with our homework
no matter how much he had to do. He cooked us magnificent dinners on weekends,
helped deliver litters of kittens and puppies, tended his beloved roses, and
watched with pride as we sang in the church choir or marched in the school
band. He could be a thunderstorm, but also a playful breeze. He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad.</i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have
two adopted siblings. Sometimes rude and insensitive people would ask, “Which
ones are adopted?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad would call us
over, line us up, look us over for a minute, then dismiss us with, “Nope; can’t
remember!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That might be his greatest legacy
to me. I grew up understanding that family is defined by ties of love and not
blood, and, though I did not know then that I would not be able to have
children. I did know that whatever happened, I would adopt. I had the idea that
adoption is just part of how you build your family. I don’t think it would hurt
if everybody felt that way. In fact, if everybody did, there would be no
children left in foster care. What a wonder that would be! And when people say
to me, “I wish I had known your dad,” I can only say, “Yeah. I wish everybody
had known him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On Saturday
I will watch the meteor showers and remember that on the night of August 15<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>,
1987, a very great man departed this earth. Heaven sent down a perfect shooting
star that we saw from our window that night. It was a goodbye, and an assurance
that everything would be all right. Everything <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has </i>been all right. There have been trials and hard times, and we
have suffered and struggled. But there has also been laughter and delight and
love and beauty. The man who lived well died well, and, while he left no monetary
inheritance, he left something so much better, something intangible that is
more real than the trivial things money can buy. So thanks, Dad. The world is a
much better place because you were in it. You had great success.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“his sorrow was as true as bread:<br />
no liar looked him in the head;<br />
if every friend became his foe<br />
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.”</span></div>ChristyLoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04769589112665369514noreply@blogger.com1