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Christmas seems to be paradox in and of itself. When we think of Christmas, we think of gifts, giving, and of course, the greatest Gift of all. And then, in almost the same breath, we complain about gifts and giving. If that wasn’t bad enough, we even complain about the greatest Gift!
I remember my early days of motherhood. I knew I wasn’t “doing Santa” but outside of that, Christmas wasn’t that big of a problem for me. I enjoyed it, loved the holiday, and family was a welcome addition. Over time, it became overwhelming in some areas. Gifts were a nuisance! By the time my parents, Kevin’s parents, aunts, uncles, and friends gave gifts, our family was overloaded! Six presents per child came in and at four children, that was twenty-four new items to fill our home. That was if we didnt’ buy anything ourselves! We wanted to give them “good things” too!
I look back now and it shames me. I was so concerned about my convenience and “spiritualized” opinions of Christmas that I took the joy out of it for others. Shame on me! If I cannot teach my children how to graciously and gratefully receive anything from anyone, this is a reflection on me, not on the givers! But alas, I didn’t understand that. I was holier-than-thou in my self-righteous decisions. We would give our children three presents each! (That’s still 27 new thngs in his house every year!) We would limit what grandparents could give (Oh the arrogance of telling others how they can bless us!). We would stop exchanging gifts with the siblings. (Because it is so much more spiritual to not give under the guise of not commercializing Christmas)
I am relieved, when I think of it, that my ridiculousness was short-lived. Unfortunately, the damage was done.
Why is it that we tell our children eleven months out of the year that it is “more blessed to give than to receive” but in December we rephrase it to, “it is more blessed to not give and not receive.” Unfortunately, sometimes we stretch this to include birthdays and other special occasions.
“Don’t send so much mom. It’s too much.”
“Those toys are unacceptable to our family.”
“I have a list of what you can purchase if you must send something.”
Oh the etymological gymnastics we put ourselves through to make our words platable to the ears and eyes of those who are now expected to follow our rules for their giving. WHAT?
Why do we think this is acceptable? The grandparents are usually the ones to “benefit” from our superior wisdom in this area. I can’t help but wonder, how would we feel if our children came up to us and said, “I know you mean well and hat you want to bless me for my birthday. I’m working on teaching myself gratitude so I don’t think you should give me more than one present and the books and toys you usually give aren’t godly enough so her is a list of acceptable things.”
How rude can we get? What happened to receiving with thanksgiving? What happened to gratitude? What happened to common courtesy? What happened to preferring one another?
Why do we have such a compulsory need to control every aspect of our lives that we now think it is acceptable to dictate how others bless us too. It is perfectly ok to destroy the enjoyment of others in our desire to have things “our way.”
I have a secret for you. Ready? Your children will not be warped for life if they get too many Christmas gifts. Your children will not need therapy if mom and dad quietly remind them after they are home alone, “Wasn’t it kind of Grandma to buy you that Barbie? I know she forgets that we don’t play with this kind of toy but it sure is wonderful that she wants to bless you. We’ll take it and exchange it for that other thing you’ve been wanting. Let’s go write her a thank-you note right away!”
I have an even bigger secret. The world will not end if Grandma and Grandpa deliberately give your children what they know you have forbidden. Video game systems may not be allowed in your house. Grandma may buy one in order to undermine your decision and find a way to get them whatever they are ‘deprived of’. It won’t matter. Your children will be more adversely affected by your lack of gratitude and arrogant indignation than they will be seeing Grandma give what isn’t allowed.
Guess what? Some day you will be grandma. Some day you’ll see the toy that you think your grandchild needs or the trinket or the- I’ll never forget how much it bothered me that Challice got a necklace for Christmas when she was very young. It seemed “too old” for her and I quickly replaced it with something else from “grandma”. Oh honestly! I look back at that and wonder what could have possessed me! The day will come when I want to give little Euphemia a gift and her parents may not want her to have it! I pray they show me more grace than I showed my parents.
Oh the thunder puppiness that Christmas unleashes!
You know that niece who has the gimme gimmes. News Flash! It isn’t your responsibility to teach her gratitude and giving little or nothing makes you look bad and hard. It doesn’t teach her anything but how to be unkind, rude, and patronizing. You know how your Aunt is materialistic and expects something nicer than you can afford? She’ll be blessed more if you expend all your energy finding the nicest thing in your budget than she will with a gift that is obviously given begrudgingly or worse, as a token.
Almost everyone can afford a gift. Few cannot scrape together a few dollars a month to set aside. Yes, I know, your family could benefit from that if we weren’t such a commercialized holiday driven society. Yes I know you are superior in your desire to strip the holiday of everything but that which you’ve made spiritual. However, when you die to self, pick up your wallet, strip the budget catagories to the frugal side every now and then in order to bless your family and friends at Christmas, you are practicing the very spiritualism that you saw as beneath you.
It truly is more blessed to give than to receive. The Lord loves a cheerful giver. Scripture is clear. I cannot believe that the reverse is not true as well. Receiving is a blessing that you give others in how you receive. And I truly believe that the Lord loves a grateful recipient.
This isn’t a new or original idea. We’ve all heard the phrase in some form or another. The point being that life isn’t meant to be lived as though it was a soup pot. We can’t just dip in and find the vegetable or meat we want today and expect it to be ok.
Life really does have seasons; not only meteorological seasons but cycles in our lives that build upon the preparation of the previous cycle. What is appropriate for one season often won’t work well in another and often requires the previous season to work. We can’t have the autumnal harvest if we haven’t planted in spring and grown through summer. Similarly, the warm jackets to protect us from cool spring mornings and evenings are very uncomfortable in summer. In winter, we’d freeze without a heavier coat. Trying to live out of season is an excellent way of ensuring an uncomfortable and difficult life. That’s not exactly an area I’d like to excel in.
Spring- We’re young, impressionable, and need protection from the elements. We wear a jacket to keep us warm and protected from the cool spring rains and blasts of icy wind. We grow quickly and are “green”. We tend to be impressionable, bending in whatever direction we’re trained to grow. It’s very difficult to retrain a mature rose vine to follow a trellis when it has been “left to itself” but when it is young and tender, it is easy to tie it and send it in the best direction for strength, growth, and off the ground where disease and parasites attack.
Summer- We’re older. It’s warm and we flourish in our early training. The jacket of protection that we needed and appreciated when we were younger is stifling and smothers us. We become overheated and miserable if we’re expected to keep that jacket on during the hot languid days of summer. Summer is a bad time to plant as a general rule. Some things grow quickly and can be planted late but generally they either wither from the heat or dont’ have time to mature before the fall frosts kill all growth. We have to pick our short season crops carefully.
Autumn- We reap the harvest of our parents’ careful planting, training, and pruning and the hoeing, the faithful watering, and fertilizing of our early adult years. All of the years of work and toil are rewarded with not only the bounty of harvest but a rest as well. We have time for sharing the wisdom we’ve gleaned from our successes and failures. Our words hold weight because we’ve lived them.
Winter- Our lives do come full circle. Winter is cold but we wear the mantle of experience, love, and wisdom. We sit near the fire and share our wisdom with those in other seasons. We have a lot of time now to do some of the things that we knew weren’t priorities years before. It’s strange, those things that were so important to us during summer now seems so unnecessary now. We have so much to share. We’re dying. We know we won’t live till spring. That’s not how it works. We may make it till the end of winter. We may even become child-like again, but we know we won’t continue into another spring.
The human race is a discontent race. We want what we do not have and do not appreciate what we have. As children we want to be grown up. We want to make our own decisions. We want everything that we’re not prepared to have yet.
As young adults we often want one foot in both worlds. We want all the fun of being an adult without the responsibility of it. We want to indulge our immature sides without lasting consequences. We want the “toys” and the “trappings” of childhood with adult dollars and experiences.
In our late twenties through our thirties and into our forties, we want the privileges of retirement without putting in our time to get there.
Sometimes, between our working years and our retirement years, we suddenly dream of being a teenager again, or maybe we try to recreate our early twenties. We look and act ridiculous but we see that winter is coming and it looks so bleak and cold. We can only see what is going on with the outside of the house. We see the crackled paint, the withered trees, and the barren ground. We dont’ look inside the windows and see the warm hearth, the loving family, the wonderful memories, and the rich wisdom that feeds it all.
The elderly often either give up or try to start again If they just go back to their pre-retirement years maybe they can ignore the passing of time for just a bit longer. They miss that those working and struggling in their early adult years need their aid and wisdom- even if they don’t know it.
There is a foundational principle to the seasons of our lives. We don’t hoe what hasn’t been planted, we don’t plant what we don’t want to reap, and we don’t get to enjoy the fruits of our labors before we’ve labored for them. We grow as tender plants prayerfully protected as we mature. We then slowly blossom and bear fruit still growing but much more slowly. Eventually our colors change, we slow down, and then we wither. There is something terribly wrong if we wither in late spring or early summer. Reaping harvests too early cuts production in half and the food isn’t ripe and as full of nourishment.
Put bluntly, a woman with grown children has the time, wisdom, and patience to teach the younger women to keep house, plan menus, bear and rear children, understand the Word, love their husbands, and serve the body of Christ. Tell me how a young woman who cannot keep her own house in order has any business trying to train others how to do it? I’ve been trying to justify it for years.
Truth doesn’t change based upon experience. However, those who have lived and learned through life usually can give a wise application of that truth because of their experience. I think this is why Paul said for the older (some translations say aged) women to teach the younger. Young women, quit thinking you know it all and listen to your elders! Elder women, PLEASE teach us. Even if we don’t want to hear it. Even if we don’t like it. Even if we think we know it all. And if you really want to bless us, don’t beat us with your lessons unless we’re going to destroy our family without it.
Younger women, don’t be in such a rush to teach those younger or more inexperienced than you. If they ask, share. Don’t hide your “light” under your bushel until you’re sure it shines brightly enough but don’t go wandering the streets trying to light the whole town all by yourself either. Until your own home is in order, don’t be so eager to train others to do what you haven’t mastered. When the going gets tough, they’ll see your weaknesses and quit trying.
Don’t try to live in autumn when you haven’t invested in the work of summer. Those of you in autumn, we need to share your bounty. We’ll share with you again in winter when our harvest comes in and it’ll be richer and more plentiful because of your help.
My pulmonary function test registered an 82.
Nurse said “that’s good”.
Wa-hoo.
One healthy mama that can’t get out of a chair coming up. No wait. That implies activity. Activity bad.
Therefore, this healthy mom will sit here until she rots. Oh, and pray for my frustrated doctor. He knows something is wrong. He just doesn’t know what. As a mom, I hate that. It’s gotta be bad when there is malpractice to consider.
I’d send him a note. Really, I would. You know, something reassurring like, “Please understand that I know you’re almost as frustrated about the lack of finding my problem as I am and I want you to know, I would NEVER sue for non-answers. We just don’t “do that”.”
Alas. He’d probably have a settlement on my doorstep by morning and call me Mrs. Godfather so I guess I won’t reassure him. Poor guy.
The greatest compliment I think I have ever received was in December of 1983. Kathleen Lunde signed my autograph book and wrote, “The thing I like about you is that you are always the same.”
At first, I confess, I was a bit disappointed. It’s not exactly what every thirteen-year-old girl wants to hear. “Always the same”= “boring” at that age. I said as much to my mother who promptly squelshed that erroneous idea. I’ll never forget her expression. It clearly said, “You just got a compliment, TAKE IT.” Then mom explained that what Kathleen as trying to say was that it was nice to have a friend that was even keeled. I didn’t have emotional ups and downs that made it hard to know what to expect from me. I got it.
What I got most from it though, was that constancy was something to value. I learned to appreciate stability. Over the years I’ve seen what inconsistency does in children and I find it a bit ironic that it is the one bit of parenting advice that my mother gave me before Challice was born. “Be consistent. ALWAYS consistent. Even if you’re consistently wrong. Just don’t be consistently inconsistent. Children can handle anything as long as they can depend on you.”
I’m seeing a lot of inconsistency, instability, and inconstancy in the lives of homemakers and home educators. In our quest to be the best wife, mother, housekeeper, teacher, et all that we can be, we tend to come up with newer and greater ways of doing our jobs. Today it is a rigid schedule with every minute of our day carefully packed for maximum efficiency. Tomorrow it is going with the flow and trying to just get everythign in without the stress of watching the clock. We’ll ignore the other stresses it causes. We try for moderation. We try this curriculum and that. Ever organizing, never coming to the realization of organization. We’re always learning, growing, becoming, stretching, and reaching. We want the best, we want it now, and we’ll change minute by minute to get it.
Our kids are the casualties of our ever advancing war on mediocrity. While we battle acceptability in our pursuit of excellence, our children are blasted with the shrapnel of our frenzied attempts to construct the perfect life.
Remember the supermom myth of the nineties? Many homemakers and full-time mothers ridiculed the notion and grieved for the children who were the victims of that mentality. Moms could have it all. Career, personal fulfillment, and be a wife and mother. No sacrifices. We don’t need quantity time. Anyone can just “be there”; we need quality time! Ten minutes a day solely focused on your child is soooooo much more meaninful than an hour in the same room. Take that child to lessons, museums, on dates, to the amusement parks, and join those little leagues! We’ll bond over Gymboree and Baby Aquatics!
The idea has come full circle. We who ridiculed the over-extended notion of a career, home, personal social life, and children’s social lives, have now become the joke. We rush from homeschool co-op to music lessons, to play dates, and MOPS. We attend ladies Bible Study on Tuesday morning and teach basket weaving on Thursday afternoons. While our family eats six meals a week out of fast-food bags, we teach nutrition and frugal cooking on Saturday mornings to new mothers. While we can’t find our car keys or the insurance card for our prescriptions (that we NEED because we’re so run down from our busy lives) we create elaborate systems in how to organize ours and everyone else’s lives.
It’s TOO MUCH. We need to remember scripture. “To whomever is faithful in LITTLE, MUCH will be given.”
Why does the seamstress sew for everyone and their brother but not have time to make clothing for her own family?
Why does the decorator have time to help everyone else decorate their homes to beautifully reflect their personalities but not have time to invest in her own home?
Why does the gourmet cook have time to prepare mouth watering dishes for the weary or recently blessed but her family gets boxed mac and cheese or McDonald’s?
Why are the shoemaker’s children barefoot?
When will we learn to be faithful with OUR little before we try to do much for others? When will we learn that our children are paying the price for our hectic lives? When will we learn that those kazoo lessons that we are SURE our children need because they are the one stable thing in the one or two children who plays lives are actually harming all of our children? Including the players! When will we learn that the same hour or two that we spend on those activities would be more productive and produce longer lasting fruit if we kept that same appointment with the family at home. At least until our lives do not resemble that of lab rats in a maze!
Has it never occurred to us that the drama that so consistently surrounds our day-to-day lives is detrimental to our childen, our marriages, and our spiritual well-being? Tell me how the constant swings from high to crashing low is healthy. Living in an adrenaline induced state of euphoria is a sure-fire way to ensure a crash of epic proportions. Today the schedule works, the children mind, everything is fine, we can keep this tightly wound fiddle singing merrily. Tomorrow, however, the string sounds off key so in our haste to keep it going we tighten just a smidge too much and we snap the delicate strings of our lives. The whole melody is choppy and sounds horrible. We compensate by changng the tune frantically trying to keep our music beautiful and soothing but eventually another string goes, then another. We’re finally left, hanging by a string, and wondering what went wrong.
I see it every week on my board. Some people have occasional crises. These people are the ones who wake up one morning and their life is out of control. They post for help, weigh it against reality, and find a way to crawl back out of the hole they’re in. They may have dug it for themselves, they may have tripped and fallen. Sometimes they even were shoved kicking and screaming into the pit. But these people usually climb out, dust themselves off, remember how they got there, and they’re rarely in the same pit again.
Others have chronic crises. Nothing we say or do can help because the frazzled mother cannot see the wisdom. She’s so deeply buried in her habits that there seems no end in sight. They never seem to crawl completely out of the pit. They sit on the edge trying to have one foot on solid ground while trying to see if there is anything in that pit that might be of value. There is a slippery slope that slides down to the pit but they don’t avoid it. There are good things along that slope and they want the good things knowing full well that the end will be in the pit.
I’d say most of us are guilty of some of this at some time or another. I challenge all of us, especially myself since I’m the only one I can do anything about anyway, to take stock right now and see if we’re headed toward another pit. See if we’re trying to live like we’re in Autumn when it is spring time. We’ll smother! But that’s another blog. For now, a few questions.
Is there any thing in your life that contributes to the stress of your life that isn’t 100% necessary? Home school co-ops, Bible studies, lectures and workshops that you give or take? Classes in cake decorating, sewing, knitting, scrapbooking, writing, or pottery?
Do you serve others before your family? When it is time to bring a friend a meal, does your family get the same or a better meal? Do you make beautiful wardrobes for others while your children are living in threadbare clothing?
Are your children’s activities a BLESSING to your family or contibute to the stress that is anything but a blessing? Music lessons are excellent things. Dancing is a beautiful expression of art and excellent exercise. Sports can be a great way to learn coordination, cooperation, and discipline. All can be learned at home and should be if your life is in such an uproar that you cannot maintain some semblance of stability.
Do you constantly revamp your life hoping to solve all of your problems? All of that revamping is HARD on you, your spouse, your children, your marriage, and all of your relationships. A system is only as good as the ability to maintain it. People are more important than activity, accomplishments, and recognition.
Anticipation. Games. Beauty. Delicious food and tantilizing scents. History. Love. Family.
Thanksgiving day is one of my favorite days of the year. It’s a laid-back day of relaxing, reflecting, and anticipation. Our Christmas celebrations begin today in a lazy round-about way. We’ve already taken our annual trip to K-mart for their annual Game Sale. Every year we buy a new game, replace old worn ones or ones with lost pieces, and snag a bit of wrapping paper. We don’t often shop at K-mart so this is always a lot of fun for us.
The turkey is slow-roasting in the oven. With my health problems, this year our pies are Marie Callander’s. Razzleberry and Pumpkin. How could you have Thanksgiving without pumpkin. The Hungarian Coffee Cake is “sweating” in the aluminum foil. There is no peppermint bark or almond bark this year. I couldn’t do it. Oh well.
The children are playing “Pirates of the Carribbean Life”. The general good-natured arguements over whose turn it is and who took whose life-tiles are en force. I want to pull out my hair but they’re enjoying it.
Once I get some rest, I plan to dust off the upper shelves in the Living Room and spread the poly-fil “snow” in anticipation of the little holiday village we put up there. I’ll hang the garland over the doorway to the kitchen and I’ll set out my cardinal. Might even hang the stockings!
Braelyn and I played Battleship. I’ll challenge Kevin to a game in a while. Around five-thirty we’ll start on the rest of dinner. We’re having…
Turkey
Stuffin’ (Cornbread cause there really isn’t any other kind in my book)
5 kernels of corn
Green Beans
Mashed Potatoes
Rolls
Cranberry Sauce
Rolls
Of course dessert is
Hungarian Coffee Cake
Razzleberry Pie
Pumpkin Pie
I sit here and look around our home at our healthy children. Jenna is safe, no lasting ill-effects from her injury in January and even the scar is hardly visible. Little Euphemia was born safe and healthy and as awful as labor always is, Challice had a reasonably easy time of it. Challice’s infection is gone and is home and their hospital bill is mercifully tiny.
And, with all of the things I have gone through with my health, the doctor says my heart is perfectly healthy. I can get up and move around even if it wipes me out without doing damage to my body. As hard as it is to be able to do so little, being able to do anything at all without being concerned about it is a huge blessing. I’ll have a Pulmonary Function Test on Monday. The doctor says he thinks I have asthma or bronchitis. As blechy as that would be, I’m thankful my heart isn’t damaged.
It’s been a good year. A hard year, but a good one. We’ve grieved for the loss of little Knox but God has shown himself faithful. We’ve rejoiced in Melissa Snow’s improvement and are hurting at the news of their Anna’s tumor. My heart is heavy as I watch Mary Leggewie suffer through her illness. I still pray daily for Linda in OZ as she is dragged through the courts of Australia. But it has still been a good year. God is faithful- we are thankful.
Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
AMEN!
Diversity. It is a popular buzz word these days. It usually has to do with multi-culturalism and is often used favorably by those in the “left camp” of the political arena. My use of it isn’t political and I have no agenda. I just keep thinking about it.
Last year, a good friend suggested I do the NANOWRIMO challenge. I did. I had fun challenging myself. I actually made myself write a deliberate “romance”. For me, this is a great challenge. I don’t “do” romance. Oh, and I should admit, true romance afficionados would not consider it “real” romance. I don’t do physical romance or emotional “porn”. I just can’t. However, as a writer, I knew that adding in this element to a story would help me give my characters depth in the future so I did it. Most will be cut during revisions and editing but I am glad I did. But this isn’t the kind of diversity I am talking about.
This year, I am doing the NANOWRIMO again but my topic is vastly different. This year I am tackling spiritual “unity”. The opposite of diversity. Mainly, I’m trying to show the tendency of Christians to become uniform in belief and practice the longer they fellowship with one another and how if taken to an extreme, this can be spiritually dangerous.
Now please, don’t misunderstand me. I believe in unity among the saints. Paul stated that there is ONE Lord, ONE faith, and ONE baptism, ONE God and Father who is over all and through all and in all. (Ephesians 4:5-6) I don’t think that all beliefs are equally valid and acceptable. I do believe in absolutes and in absolute truth. I believe that God cares about how we live, the choices we make, and the effect that those choices have on the body of believers.
However, I have seen a disturbing tendency over the years, particularly online. Robin Williams showed it in his brilliant performance as Mr Keating in Dead Poet’s Society. There is a scene where he calls three or four young men and asks them to walk around a square. He deliberately chose four young men who were vastly different in temperment and personality. They started walking around the square casually at first but within seconds they were marching in unison and then exaggeratedly as they realized what they did. This is a perfect example of what I am talking about.
My first online experience was on a forum for Christian women and a forum for homeschooling parents (mostly Christian women as well). I found it fascinating how often a woman would hear of a curriculum or a family conviction and take it to heart. Discussions came in predictable waves. Head coverings, dresses only, entertainment, degrees of submission, child training- you name it, they discussed it. Unit studies, textbooks, principle approach, classical and Charlotte Mason went in regular waves as each education style came and went in the discussions.
Now these things aren’t bad things to discuss! I happen to enjoy talking about them myself. What bothered me slightly then and even more now is how any distinction slowly disappeared. What I can’t figure out, is why this happens?
I started Hearth Keepers when a friend wanted a place to encourage other women in rising early. Almost immediately, it evolved into a place where almost anything was and is discussed. One of the first things I did was open the “Controversial” forum. I wanted a place where people could discuss things- things that could be controversial. We have a huge spectrum of believers. Independent Fundamental Baptists, Messianics, Reformed Baptists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Pentecostals, Charismatics, church of Christ’ers, non-denominationals, Catholics, and everything in between. Can you imagine our discussions?
We’ve discussed eschatology, head coverings, speaking in tongues, history, women’s roles in the church and the home, politics, baptism, Calvinism, social programs- the works. I loved that we had a place where we could discuss and then agree to disagree. We have had, in the past, a few members who felt a compulsion to try to “unify” the body on every issue. It was as though any difference in thought meant that we were not unified as a body. If Jane celebrated birthdays but Joan thought that birthday celebrations were extra bibilical, this was considered a bad thing.
Now I don’t know if this is an area that we “should” unify or not. I’ll grant you that there is no room for debate on whether or not we are saved by the blood of Jesus. The fact is, we are. Period. No amount of opinion, circumstance, or faith can change the facts of scripture.
Not everything is like salvation. Some scriptural principles, for instance, have more than one application. Wives are told to honor and respect their husbands. However what is honoring and respectful to one man might insult another. Scripture doesn’t dictate how we do everything we’re told to do. Scripture is vague on some topics. A fine example is the eating meat offered to idols idea. Paul specifically said it was perfectly acceptable, nothing wrong with it, but on the other hand, if it bothers someone, the person is more important than your meat consumption! Methods and principles. They vary.
One woman is dresses only. Another is not. Both are concerned with modesty. The principle is modesty. The method is how they define it. This is a popular topic on our controversial board. Just what constitutes modest apparel? Even if we define modest dress as dresses only, we then have to determine what dresses are modest. Are skirts decent? Do we go for a Laura Ashley approach or do we try for a modern look? Something in between?
This is what happens on the board. The thing I like about Hearth Keepers is that our dresses only women are encouraged in their convictions without our non-dresses only women feeling obligated to change their dress style. In my novel, however, I didn’t do this. I took everything to a logical conclusion. If one family chose to live out their faith in one way, would other families see the fruits and choose to emulate them? If they emulated them, how far would it go? From choosing an appropriate article of clothing to the style of that clothing to the length of hair, and then to entertainment choice and appropriate activities for children it could become cultish. So I took it that direction.
I didn’t do it because I believe that emulating others is a bad thing. Paul said to imitate him as he imitated Christ. We are supposed to learn from the wise choices of others. I did it to show what happens when we make identicality a virtue. I tried to show what happens when the beautiful diversity that God has created in us is traded for uniformity. God created us all so beautifully different and yet we try so hard to conform. In my novel I’ve shown what happens when the desire for uniformity overwrites a person’s own uniqueness.
At what point do we stop? If we create the “Christian uniform”, the “Christian music”, the “Christian past times”, and similar things, at what point do we decide on “Christian colors”, “Christian flowers”, and “Christian candles.” Where does personal preference come into play? Why do we decide to stamp out individuality? Why does one family have to look identical to another? Why do two homemakers have to look identical to one another. Why can’t one enjoy sewing or knitting and another enjoy photography or auto mechanics?
What happens to the church when we become cookie cutter cut outs of one another? I like that on Hearth Keepers, the name on the door of our personal churches doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends. I like that our parenting styles don’t have to be identical. I like that one family can love using cloth diapers and I’m not looked down for preferring disposables. I like the theological diversity on the moderation team. We have a “charismatic Lutheran”, a word-of-faith charistmatic, two Evangelical Free (one worshipping in a baptist church), a Presbyterian or two, a conservative Lutheran, one that I don’t know what church she attends, and me… the paedo-church of Christer! We’re not aiming for an ecumenical approach to worship but we do lay aside our theological differences where it begins to divide us. We love the Lord and all hold a single core of beliefs regarding the personhood of God, the Bible, and salvation.
We’ll debate our differences enthusiastically in the “mud room” and laugh about circus peanuts and mice in the general fellowship forums. We may disagree on how to honor our husbands but we all agree that we should. Sometimes I think that is why the “Mud Room” is my favorite forum over there. It is where we allow our differences to shine brightest. Elsewhere on the board, we tend to blend and meld only showing differences of favorite colors or music styles. We tend to defer to one another and leave some topics at the door of certain forums. This is a good thing. I think it’s kind of our way of not exercising our Christian Liberty in order to honor a sister’s preferences and this is good.
However, I really love it in the Mud Room when the “choir robes” come off and our personal taste in clothing really shows One woman wears calico jumpers while another wears jeans and flannel shirts. One wears cute capris and a layered camp shirt/tank top combo and another wears a bohemian skirt and a peasant top. Of course, the clothing is just a metaphor for what I mean. I just mean that I love seeing the diversity even when I may not agree with it or be comfortable with it. I still like it. I like hearing how other churches do things. I like hearing how other marriages make their problems work. I like hearing how others work out their own salvation with fear and trembling. It is what keeps us from becoming completely homogenized.
Of course, I think the draw back of a forum like that is when personalities clash. There is always someone who gets their feelings hurt. There is never an excuse for deliberately hurting another and it should always be avoided but sometimes that other person is one who looks to be injured. Stronger personalities sometimes intimidate others. Sometimes people simply have little patience with debate so they don’t participate. And then, there is always the problem when a person cannot articulate what they mean. They try to define or describe their thoughts but they become jumbled and a more articulate person can easily tear the ideas to shreds without realizing what they are doing.
Draw backs like these make moderating forums like this touchy. At what point do you cry, “foul” and put a stop to the game before someone is seriously injured? We’re talking about adults in a discussion. If the adult isn’t capable of handling themself, do the mods try to do it for them? That just seems wrong somehow. So, things go round and round.
Regardless of the draw backs, HK will always have the Mud Room if I have anything to say about it. It is the one place where I know people feel free to open up and be themselves. I remember the feelings of relief and surprise to discover how very different most of us were from one another! It was beautiful. Instead of a wholecloth quilt carefully stitched into a predictable grid, we are a patchwork of beautiful colors! I see the rich tones of some, the gentle hues of others, and the marvelous variety of textures and prints. Whole cloth quilts are often lovely but I prefer a beautiful scrap quilt any day.
So, I guess where this is going is, are we losing who we are in a sea of uniformity? Do we feel free to disagree with someone and honestly say so? Do sub-groups of Christian culture have to become so melded that we can’t see the individuals amongst us? Can we not be as diverse as God created us without having to imitate the world to do it? Why do we let the world have the corner on the market of diversity?
Why do we blame others for our lack of identity when we discover that we’ve become another cloned sheep in the flock? There is peer pressure everywhere… even if the peers have no idea that they’re exerting that pressure.
I was terribly disappointed to discover that I wouldn’t find out the results of my torture until November 21. Yep. Two weeks after the test. This is what happens when you live 90 miles from civilization. The civilized doctors only come to town once a week.
So, I was thinking today… “One more week. I can make it one more week. One week isn’t that long. I can do this.”
I knew I was being a bit optimistic. After all, the tests could be inconclusive, not tell us anything at all, and other similarly discouraging things. We may be at square one! I was prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for the reality of a diagnosis.
See, it just occurred to me a while ago that a diagnosis is just the beginning. Even if the doctor tells me that I need surgery, it won’t happen for a week or two or three. At the EARLIEST. (Holidays and what not) Then, there is the whole recovery period. After that, there is the rebuilding of my strength.
As far as I can assume, I won’t be out of this chair before January and it isn’t unrealistic to assume that it won’t be before Easter!
I am so discouraged. I am really extremely discouraged.
Or: How To Authorize Your Own Demise
So today was my heart testing. I’ve been waiting for at least four weeks for this test. I’ve been stuck in a chair for eleven weeks. Suffice it to say, I was ready for this teast. I WANTED this test. I woke up eager and rearing to go.
Now I’m a weird person. I really don’t like doctors. Really. I avoid them at all costs. All. However, I don’t have a fear of them. I have no medical phobias. I just don’t like em. I don’t like canned peaches either and I do avoid them but I have no fear of them. I just find them distasteful. It’s a good analogy in my opinion. Canned peaches are well, canned, and they’re slimy. They aren’t fresh but they sure are syruppy… yep. Perfect analogy.
So, going this morning I had no qualms. Zippo. I hate needles, hate having blood drawn, and can’t stand IV’s but I’m not afraid of them I’m just a wus. The tech starts palpating my veins and I point to the vein between my second and third knuckle and said, “They usually get it here.” He looked dismayed. My first thought was, “You’re dismayed… I’m the one getting stuck here!”
Now, before I begin my whine fest, I have to tell you, this guy was a great phlebotomist. (Or however you spell it. To me, it always sounds like someone with phlegm from their rear so it’s hard to say it with a straight face.) He told me it was going to hurt. He didn’t say, “This is gonna feel like an ice pick being rammed under your fingernails,” but that is what his facial expression said. I steeled myself for the worst. I cured the steel. I cooled and stacked it. I sold it to Dagny Taggart at rock bottom prices. It never hurt. A smidge uncomfortable but no pain. A basic blood draw usually drives me through the roof. I want this guy as my personal blood taker outer. (Keeps me from thinking about icky bottoms to say it that way) He can just follow me to any place that has to insert instruments of modern blood letting.
Unfortunately, my medical love affair with this man ends here. Now he becomes a nemisis. He put me in this chair. It has a nice metal pole going up the back. I’m supposed to sit up perfectly straight against that back. That’s not the hard part. Oh no, that’s him being nice to me. Then he swings this bar at my head um… near my head and tells me casually, “Hang your arm up there.”
I kid you not. Like everyone can hang their arms freely over a bar at head level. Then he says, and this is the kicker…. “Now don’t move. At all. No movement whatsoever. This will only be…
Wait for it…
Are you ready?
THIRTY-ONE MINUTES.
If you want to practice this at home, find a ladderback chair and stick a baseball bat in the middle. Then, put this in front of monkey bars at a height of just above your forehead but not higher than your head. Then, hang your arms over the bars (you can pad them with a couple of folded towels) Now. Don’t move. For thirty-one minutes. Don’t cough, sneeze, get a scratch, forget you can’t move the hair from your eyes, nothing.
Oh, and when your arm starts twitching and shaking as though there is an earthquake or sonic BOOM… don’t let it or you could end up on an operating table for a nice roto-rooter proceedure that you don’t need. Except he didnt’ tell me that part. He waited. Nice guy. Why worry the gal into absolute compliance? Just let her assume that she’s being still. Let her laugh at her husband’s jokes so she jiggles a bit.
It’s a racket I tell ya. They just WANT you to jiggle a bit or move here or there so that you have to pay for a surgery even if you don’t get it or need it. It’s a medical conspiracy of Watergate proportions. Or at least a way to avoid confessing that I forgot I wasn’t supposed to move and brushed my hair out of my eyes a few times until I remembered. *gulp*
From there, the nice *cough* man takes me to the room with the EKG and treadmill stuff. Oh, yeah, and the BIGGEST syringe I have EVER seen. I kid you not it was the size of a tube of toothpaste. Looked like a biological warfare missile but nope, it’s just how we’re going to torture you next. Say thank-you!
This lady was the nicest medical person I’ve ever met. Bar none. I mentioned my little bestekid (bestemors do that) and she asked the baby’s name. Then she rhapsodized over the name for some time. “Euphemia! That is just so PRETTY!” Then she asked about kids… swore it wasn’t possible that I could have nine. She’d have been my new best friend from that alone if she hadn’t already been. “You just don’t look old enough!” Ahh… everyone needs a nice vanity stroke after eleven weeks (one day shy) in a recliner.
Then she transformed into Ms. Hyde. She carefully adjusted the blood pressure cuff and inflated it. I’ve never endured such pain in my life. Honestly, it was worse than labor. Shorter… mercifully shorter… but the actual pain caused was worse. I literally screamed. I tend to have too much pride to do that outside of labor but I couldn’t help it. That scream earned me a 142/82 on the blood pressure reading. She said, “See that 142, that’s your ‘OUCH’,” and then giggled. I guess it was funny. I guess.
However, at this point, she redeemed herself. For a minute. She moved that cuff to my lower arm an I had ZIPPO blood pressure cuff pain after that. If all nurses/techs were so thoughtful this world would be a better place. And the national blood pressure average would drop significantly.
At this point, she flopped back to the Hyde side and whipped out a clipboard. On the sheet that I so naively signed, she informs me that I will experience, heart arythmia, nausea, faintness, dizziness, palpitations, shortness of breath, pressure, headache, pain, pain, pain… no wait, that’s how I would have written it. Oh and there was that one little ditty, “heart attack”. Yeah. I could have had a heart attack. “In thirty years we’ve never had one though!” Gee. Glad to hear it. I’ll be the first. Seems like I always am!
I signed (did you know it hurts to sign with an IV between your second and third knuckles? It is. Thought you ought to know. She told me before she injected this monster thing, “Tell me everything you feel as you’re feeling it.” Ok…. Then she kicked Kevin out of the room. I now know why. A husband watching what is about to happen would be tempted to forget that the tech is a woman and deck her. HARD. TWICE.
It began. I felt cold hands. My breathing accelerated. My heart accelerated. Suddenly I say, “I feel like I’m having a HUGE niacin rush!” They thought that was funny. Whatever. I couldn’t breathe, the pressure was coming from my head, hands, heart, chest, down my legs, I felt dizzy, whirling, gasping for air, choking, coughing. It felt like I would pass out but knew I wouldn’t. I kept thinking as I tried to tell them what was happening, “I am not going to die. They said I won’t die. I know I won’t die.” But it FELT like I was going to die. I assured myself I would live. I didn’t believe me but I did it anyway.
I think they stopped it early. My coughing bugged them. The rest of my symptoms didn’t seem to be an issue but the coughing and wheezing certainly was not what they wanted to see. At some point they draped me with oxygen tubes and insisted I breathe in the oxygen. Somehow I got the idea they don’t always do that. They must sometimes because the oxygen was right there but something about the sound of her voice…
Finally, she lets me leave. It is now noon and I’ve been there for two hours. No waiting. I am to go get coffee immediately (can you say blech in four different languages?), have lunch, and be back in one hour. I haven’t eaten since dinner the night before. I’m famished. Off we go, me coughing up an overworked lung, and Kevin racing to get me coffee, to Denny’s.
Kevin was obviously determined to fix me. I went to the bathroom the second we got inside and returned less than 2 minutes later to a table with a cup of hot coffee and three little dealie-bobs of half and half. The smell was awful. I usually like coffee SMELL. Not this stuff. So I dump two half and half dealie-bobs inside the cup and a packet of sugar. Oh man. UGH. I try one more packet. If there was an improvment, I didn’t notice. So I didn’t bother with more. How many would it take!!! Thirty? Forget it. I ordered a coke.
Now. Coffee. I took a sip. Coughed. Made an awful face before I could stop myself and then had to assure the waitress that it’s not her fault. I am under doctor’s orders to torture myself with tortured coffee beans. (What else would you call ground and burned beans? That sounds like torture to me!) I do not get the appeal. Really. Why drink burned bean juice when you can drink coke?
Speaking of Coke, did you know that it makes coffee taste better? I’d take a sip of Coke, swallow, and then take another sip of coffee. It didn’t make the coffee GOOD, but it did cut some of the bitter nastiness.
Another observation: Coffee makes eggs taste disgusting. Coffee + eggs= disgusting. Thought you ought to know.
By the time the coffee was gone, it had done its job. I could breathe deeply without an audible wheeze (I could hear it but no one else could) and I wasn’t coughing much. We return to the doctor’s office for yet another imaging test. Here is where the evil tech (the first one) informs me that I moved too much. I can’t move. I can’t. No moving or you’ll end up with a false positive. This is a FAR CRY from his original, “try not to move”.
However, in is defense (why am I defending the torture warden?), I will say that he worked harder to make me ABLE to stay still. He lowered the bar (sometimes a necessary thing in order to help students people pass the test) to jus below my forehead so I could rest my arms more comfortably (no jiggling) and rest my head on it as well. An EKG was hooked up the whole time which was interesting.
Breathe in… beep beep beep beep.
Breathe out… beep… beep… beep…
Breathe in… beep beep beep beep.
Breathe out… beep… beep… beep…
Breathe in… beep beep beep beep.
Breathe out… beep… beep… beep…
I didn’t move a muscle. I do not want to go through surgery only to discover they didn’t do anything because nothing was wrong. Surgery prep, expense, incision, the works without getting FIXED? I think not. I think I passed that one with FLYING colors.
Or at least I gave them the info they need to tell me if my problem is my heart or not. Oh, and the tech says she thinks I have asthma. Thought you ought to know.
Did I mention that Pharmacological Stress Test HURTS?
Thought I should make sure. It did. It hurt. I need vast quantities of chocolate to cure me of the side effects. Send post haste to
Chautona Havig
32o N…..
Though I speak with authority on a wide variety of important subjects, but without love, I am as obnoxious as fingers on a chalk board.
And though I have all the right CD’s from well-respected speakers and teachers, and know how to apply them; and though I could have the perfect family that everyone looks up to, if I do it for self without love, it is nothing.
And though I wear lovely historical gowns, bake homemade bread from freshly ground wheat, can my own food, and run a successful home business, if love is not the root of my heart and actions, I’m a fraud.
Love takes time, encourages, doesn’t try to force others into an ill-fitting mold, doesn’t make demands to gratify self, doesn’t arrogantly assume it knows best for all,
Doesn’t shame Christ by trying to earn salvation through behavior, seek formulas to exalt self, get bent out of shape when others choose a different path, assign unjust motives to actions,
Gloat over another’s failure on that different path, but congratulates the successful for a job well done even if it’s not how we would have done it.
Helps with anything they can, assumes the best whenever possible, hopes for the best always, and puts up with guff from the self-righteous on behalf of those who just need a helping hand.
Loving your brethren won’t fail you but all the baptized toys, wheat berries, spiritual snobbery, and fine testimonies will crumble and rot without that love.
Right now we’re a bunch of thunder puppies out to prove our formulas will solve the churche’s problems
But when we learn to know Jesus in all His love and fulness, we won’t care about looking good, we’ll be too busy radiating the Love of Christ in our words, in our actions, and yes, even in the methods by which we live out our principles.
As a thunder puppy I yapped about everything I thought I knew, I whined at the feet of people I thought should listen to my yapping, and I really thought I was something else but as I matured, I realized how much I really don’t know.
Right now, my perceptions hide the flaws in my relfection but as I mature, I’ll see me as I really am. Now I think I know it all, but later I might really know something and be able to share it.
Right now, I have my thoughts, my reputation, and a bit of love… but what I really need is a lot more of that love.
I’m not the only one who has ever written something like this. I know I’ve seen similar things on the homeschooling front, the organizational front, and other areas. This is just something that my heart has been mulling for ages.
PLEASE don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong with baking bread, writing curricula, wearing historical clothing, or purchasing toys designed to encourage your children to look up to godly heroes. I’m not against these things. I’m not against purity, or knowledge, or maintaining a good reputation. I am against the ever growing slavish- almost cultish adherance to another’s lifestyle whether or not it is the one God intended for YOU.
I can’t be Elisabeth Elliot. I’m not supposed to be. I can’t be Amy Carmichael. I’m not supposed to be. I can’t be Jennie Chancey, Terri Maxwell, or Joni Erickson Tada! God made me Chautona Havig. Wife of Kevin Havig. Mother to Challice, Morgann, Braelyn, Kaylene, Nolan, Jenna, Andra, Ethan, and Lorna. Grandmother to Euphemia. Mother-in-Law to David. My responsibility is to be who God created ME to be and glean from the lives of those around me…. not try to replicate them in me. I’m not supposed to be a missionary to India, a speaker to homeschool moms, artist, or anyone but me. My job is to search the scriptures and be sure that whomever I am, is who God wants me to be and no one else. All my attempts at being the “perfect Christian home school mom” will steam like a cow pie in a pasture and if I keep trying it, I’m probably going to fall face first into it.
Actually, I haven’t tried to do this for years but I see it around me every day and it hurts me. My heart hurts for women who think they need a formula, a ‘look’, a vision or something to be happy when all they need is JESUS. Get help from those you admire. Emulate that which God and your husband desire. But please… PLEASE… ensure that God really desires it and that your husband isn’t just yessing you so he can have some peace. Please.
