::: i hope you don't mind that i put down in words :::

When Bard was just a youngster, about six years old, she went to visit a friend of hers who shared with her a book called The Seven-Year-Old Wonder Book. She came home and told me about it. The book, written by Isabel Wyatt in 1958, inscribed "for anyone who has ever been seven years old, or is, or soon will be," follows the sixth year of young Sylvia who lives in a white cottage at the edge of a dark woods. Each entry talks about something that Sylvia experienced that day, and is followed by a story told to her at bedtime which relates to her experiences. These stories celebrate the seasons and holidays of the passing year. Each night, Sylvia pulls her Wonder-Book from under her pillow and turns it to a new page, setting it out for the Rhyme-Elves to write poetry in big, beautiful letters and painting beautiful pictures to go along with the poetry.

Since Bard was living her sixth year, and since I love journaling, she and I decided to create a Wonder-Book for her, though it would be known that I was the elf, and it would contain not only rhymes and pictures, but stories (both real and fictional) and questions and anything else I could stuff into it. Bard, too, would participate, answering the questions and drawing pictures in response to my entries. The cover was decorated with a collage of things that Bard loved and coated with Mod Podge.

The Wonder-Book sometimes went for months without any attention. As Bard got older and we both created blogs, the Wonder-Book was neglected for years. When she packed up most of her things and moved into her first college dorm, I sought out the Wonder-Book in my melancholy nostalgia, watching those years fly by with each turn of the page.

Sweetheart found me there, wandering through that sea of memories, and I realized that I'd not created a Wonder-Book for her nor The Baby. That was soon remedied, and now all of the kids have Wonder-Books of their own.

The Wonder-Book isn't a scrapbook or a photo album (there are no photographs at all, actually), but an ongoing conversation about life, happenings, seasons, emotions, dreams, disagreements, encouragments and poetry, both ours and those we admire. It's a book for a child to set on her bedside or yours, and to awake to, kind of like a coin from the tooth fairy. It's a place where a mom can share her thoughts and appreciations and apologies and a child can vent her frustration and admiration. Sometimes it's just a simple letter written in ball-point pen, sometimes a smattering of ideas dotted with stickers, and sometimes it's a full-blown art project, complete with scrapbooking markers and creative drawings.

Here are a few sample pages from the different Wonder-Books through the years.

::: oh, won't you show me the way, everyday :::

Father in heaven,
here's what I'm tired of:
measuring my days by
the next paycheck,
the next financial output,
and whether the upcoming financial infusion
will cover it.

I'm tired of my waking thoughts,
and my sleeping ones, too,
being overwhelmed by the debts I haven't paid,
and the debts that are racing toward me,
unstoppable obligations.

I need a reprieve.
I need to know that I'm settled with everyone,
and everyone is settled with me.
I need a jubilee.

I don't want welfare.
I don't want charity.
I just want a break
from the worrying
and the figuring
and the guilt
and the comparisons
and the resentment
and the fear.

So, God, how about if you
do something about this black heart of mine?
Help me to find a balance
between the want
and the need?
Fill me with the energy that I need
to do things the right way?
Point me to the tilapia,
that holds in its body the drachma
that will pay both of our debts?

Please,
give me my daily bread,
so that I can rest easy,
love easy,
laugh easy,
and share with those who
are tired, too.

::: if i leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me? :::

Around this time last year, I was waking with a terrible realization and a pain in my gut like that of someone who has experienced loss. I was weepy, unmotivated and grief-stricken. My husband was understanding. My daughters were empathetic to the point of their own grief and tears. I wasn't sure I would survive. People around me seemed puzzled.

In Bard's Wonder Book, an interactive paper journal I started for her when she was seven, I wrote the following:

Under any other circumstance, a woman whose daughter has gone after eighteen years of living at home would likely be heaped with support. If you had died, say, or gotten married, or run away, or been abducted. Actually, had I lost anyone after eighteen years, or even eighteen months--a break up or divorce or other loss--people would call me, I'd be in some kind of a support group, women from church would bring me casseroles and jello salads. But in this circumstance--"Well, gee. She's just at college!" Never mind that the house is void of her music, her laughter, her guitar, her conversation. "What's the big deal? Get over it!"

I hadn't started out grief-stricken. As a matter of fact, I was kind of blasé about the whole thing, having indulged myself in the process of getting Bard into college by making transcripts, visiting colleges, sending paperwork, talking to financial advisors, and then celebrating not only her acceptance letters, but the steady stream of scholarship awards, which was sweet vindication for this mom who had been told that home learning would ruin my child's education.

While I was gloating, I hadn't really thought about the fact that the end result of this process would be that my daughter would be leaving home.

And even had I thought that she would be leaving, once she chose a school that was only an hour away, I hadn't thought about the fact that she wouldn't be living in our house. She'd be taking her loyalty, dependability, devious sense of humor, midnight music making, and, most of all, her delightful companionship along with her.

It wasn't until a church friend asked me, just the week before we would be moving Bard to school, how I was doing.

"I'm fine!" I answered chipperly. "It's great! I think we're ready!"

To which she offhandedly replied, "When we took Jonathan to Goshen the first day of his freshman year, that was the last time he lived at home. He went on service trips for Christmas and summers, and then he got married and moved to Virginia."

Wait...what?

You mean, I thought, next week could be the last time my child lives at home? EVER?!?

And that's when the waterworks started.

At one point, it got so bad that when she simply walked into my room, I was reduced to a blubbery mass of tears.

"Mom," she chided playfully, "I feel like I'm dead! I feel like you're planning my funeral!"

Houdin, who had just ventured down the hall, strolled in, passed Bard without acknowledging her presence, embraced me with mock seriousness and hushed, "When are the calling hours?"

After taking her to her dorm that first day, going through the orientation process, and saying my goodbyes, I climbed into the car with my two younger daughters. Since Bard had packed so much stuff, and all of the family wanted to see her off, we'd driven two vehicles. But my vision was so obscured by tears, I had to pull over in the closest parking lot and let myself bawl. The girls draped their little bodies around me and joined my mourning, and we all wailed together, albeit quietly since we were in a public place not two thousand feet from Bard's dorm.

Now, before you come down too hard on me, you have to realize a couple of things:

• I never put my child on the kindergarten bus;
• I never watched her drive away after getting her license (she still isn't a driver, at 19);
• I never saw her whisked away on her first date by some strange boy.

It's not that she was sheltered or prohibited from leaving home, unsocialized or awkward. It's just that the choices we made together, the choices she made alone, never necessitated those little bits of leaving. Sure, she boarded a plane to Italy, China, and Germany, in addition to her domestic travels. But this thing? This leaving-for-college thing? That was different.

Because unlike women I've overheard sighing disdainfully in the early August school-supplies line while their children finger every impulse item on the shelf, I have never uttered the words, "I can't wait until they're back in school."

And this is because you have to realize something else, too.

I like my kids. I like my daughter. She's my friend. And I miss her when she's gone.

I'm glad she's at school, having fun, making new friends and keeping the old. It's cool that she's a course assistant this year and that she'll be starting into some of the classes for her majors. It's nifty that she used her summer-job-at-the-greenhouse money to buy a new cherry sunburst Fender Strat and a Line 6 amp and hopes to play in a band with a group of friends.

It's great that moving day went extremely well, that Houdin and the girls helped extra much and Bard's friend Grape tagged along to lend a hand, since Monet was at school and husband Bo was at work (though we did stop by for a brief hug).

It's fabulous that we got to spend moving day shopping for a new pair of Chuck Taylors (can you believe she's been wearing the same pair since her freshman year in high school?!?), eating at ChicFila, and arranging her new dorm room, a suite she'll share with five other girls.

And it's cool that I'll put the finishing touches on cleaning her room today, and it will stay clean in between visits.

But it'll be awfully quiet around here without her midnight music, her insane sense of humor, and her great companionship.

When you like your own child enough to miss them when they're gone, I do believe that's a good thing.

::: made the bus in seconds flat :::

I was pretty much a dead woman until I realized that the annoying "blat, blat, blat" crashing through the wall of my dreams was the persistent nagging of the alarm clock. I forced my eyes open, tried in vain to see the blue numbers, then flopped back down.

"What time is it?" I asked my husband Bo, who sleeps closest to the clock and had just succeeded in shutting it up.
"Muttermuttermutter," he muttered.
"What?"
"Muttermuttermutter!" he remuttered.
"I'm sorry," I tried to say this very gently, "but I didn't understand you," though I kind of thought I did understand him, in some strange way, and I didn't like what I thought he said.
"mmmmmMMMMMGHrzZZ! I said, 'It's SiiiiiiX. Twentyyyyyyyy. TwooooooooooooOOOOOoooo!'"
"What?!?" Now, in case you think me an idiot, I heard him that time. The final "what" was a rhetorical question, because it wasn't what I was expecting to hear. It wasn't at all what I wanted to hear.

I jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs (which is pretty hard to do, considering that it's usually necessary to have access to one's ability to see in order to run down stairs with any measure of success), hollering (or at least muttering incoherently in a slightly loud voice), and shook Monet awake.

All of this because the alarm had been changed.

Because, see, Bo's morning hours change depending on what his job duties are that day. And even though we have two alarms on our clock, we seem to only use one. And while I had set the alarm to wake up at 5:45 to get Monet up, allow him time to get dressed, eat breakfast, gather his soccer things, and drive to the bus stop, Bo had re-set the alarm for 6:20 in order to give himself enough time to get clothes on and leave for work.

In other words, we were going to be late.

For Monet's second day of school. Second. Day. What kind of mother lets her son be late for the bus on his second day of school?

Who's late for their second day of anything?

Monet was a good sport. When I shook his sleeping body and screamed into his sleeping ears, he awoke, jumped into his clothes, and let me shove a bagel and some grapes into his mouth. His school and gym had been packed the night before. I threw him into the car--no dragging a comb across his head or a brush across his teeth--and sped like a demon to the bus stop, approaching the parking lot three minutes before the scheduled pick-up time.

Where the bus was waiting.

I pushed Monet out of the speeding car, propelling him toward the exiting bus where he grabbed the front crossing arm and held on for dear life.

Okay, he leaped out of the moving car directly onto the bus stairs.

Okay, I brought the car to a complete, albeit abrupt, stop, and he quickly opened the door and ran to the stationary bus, receiving a polite "hello" from the smiling bus driver.

Fortunately for us, the bus route was changed, and Monet's is now the first stop on the route. The driver was waiting for some other students, so someone else was making him wait. Not us.

Today, I bought the boy a travel toothbrush, hairbrush and some Clif Bars and shoved them in his backpack, just in case.

And I set the second alarm.

::: first day :::

He couldn't sleep last night.
His allergies were bothering him this morning.
But he was ready nonetheless.
His button-down shirt and khakis were laid out,
And his soccer gear was packed,
And he got a good breakfast
of scrambled sour-cream eggs,
whole wheat toast
and cold watermelon.
So what if he had to go find another pair of socks
because he couldn't find the pair he'd found
last night?
So what if he forgot to brush his teeth
because he was busy making sure that
his hair wasn't sticking up?
We arrived at the stop on time,
a big, empty parking lot,
and we had a bit of conversation,
and he was nervous, unlike last night.
We watched the minutes tick by.
6:40.
6:41.
6:42.
"There it is."
"Is that it for sure?"
"Yep."
"Uh oh. He's stopping over there. Run!"
A quick goodbye shout,
a mental hug and kiss,
and his foot lands on that first
black treaded step.
He's on the bus now.

::: it's a school night :::

A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer. The alarm clocks are set for 5:45 a.m. A shower will be taken, bedtime snack consumed, lunch packed. Then, there will be teeth brushed, tucking in and prayers, and maybe, if we're lucky, some sleep.

Life is about to change.

This hot mid-August brings with it new experiences for the Thicket Dweller household, and I'm not all that sure that I'm ready for them.

But ready or not, here they come.

Tomorrow morning, fourteen-year-old Monet will, for the first time, board a school bus and bump along into a brand new chapter of his life--high school. After fourteen years of learning at home and all around, he will be adding a new set of teachers, a new schedule, new bedtime and morning routines. He's excited. I'm excited.

And a little bit scared.

Will he be ready? Will he pay attention? Will he be organized and responsible? Will other students be kind to him? Will the lunches be okay?

His first experience with this new school has been two weeks of practice with the junior varsity soccer team which, for Monet, has done it's share of socking him. His body, a little soft from too much computer time and not enough running around, has had a really hard time adjusting to the new rigors that a team sport requires, and he has come home from two-a-day practices dog-tired and more than a little discouraged.

But he has stuck with it, in spite of threats to the contrary, and his coaches have been patient and encouraging as he lopes slowly around the track during laps, sometimes even loping along with him.

And the day after he spends his first day in school, nineteen-year-old Bard will return to college to begin her sophomore year as a course assistant for the college experience class, helping the incoming students get acclimated to college life. She's excited, and I'm excited for her, but I'm not all that thrilled that the summer has flown by so fast. There was so much more I wanted to do with her during break! Tonight, she and Bo are out shopping for a new electric guitar for her year at school, purchased with the money she made working at the greenhouse this summer. This in lieu of a car. Wise move, in my opinion. Guitars get better mileage, the insurance is cheaper, and there's very little maintenance.

As if that's not enough, in September, eighteen-year-old Houdin will begin training for a ten-month term of voluntary service in northwestern Africa. It was too painful for me to write about my grief when Bard started college. The period between July and September 2008 is conspicuously empty. And she was only going to be an hour away! Though I know that this leaving is a good thing, that he will grow and learn so much, that, if he stayed, we would be at each other daily, I'll miss him terribly and will undoubtedly bawl upon his departure.

And while I'll have two delightful young girls at home, going through Ambleside's years one and five with me, and my husband will be by my side, and our home will be full of laughter and learning, I'm wary knowing that bits of my heart will be scattered all over the world.

So, while, as a homelearner, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, I have to enforce some bedtime rules, because tonight's a school night. It makes me a little sad that this bohemian household will be tamed a bit by outside forces.

But maybe it's just what we need.

::: an august midnight :::

by Thomas Hardy

I

A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .

II

Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
- My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I. 

::: scenes from a graduation party :::

::: from my front porch looking in :::

This little heart is breaking because the neighbor girl came to the yard but didn't want to play with her. She wanted to play with the older sister instead. And I could see that sad face, but, even more, I could see those golden rays playing with her amazing curls. I was in the yard, working to make my front walkway acceptable for Houdin's graduation ceremony and party on Sunday, and I looked up to see this. So, being the cruel (and dirt-covered) mother that I am, I hurried her up to my room to retrieve the camera. "Go! Go! Before I lose my light!" And off she went.

Shouldn't there be a smile on that lovely face? Isn't it amazing what lack of companionship, hope deferred, can do?

If only we could see how much the Son loves us, how He lights us up, even when we're distraught, how His love caresses us until we're practically glowing.
Then maybe when others don't love us, it wouldn't hurt quite so much.

::: seizing double :::

I recently read that you can reduce the number of chewing surface cavities you get by chewing on a stick of celery after your meals, which removes trapped food and helps saliva neutralize acids that cause tooth decay. I mentioned this to my husband, Bo, saying that it makes sense that 14 year-old Monet has so many chewing-surface cavities. We never eat celery!

"I like celery," Bo said.

19 years of marriage, and this, I never knew.

And as Bard was reading this, she said, "You didn't know that Dad liked celery? I like celery."

So while wandering in and around the produce department of my local grocer, I remembered that fact and reached out to score myself a bundle of crunchy greenness, plopped it into the cart, and reached for a second. I had to stop myself. It was a struggle, really. Not a physical struggle, no, but a mental struggle.

Why?

Because I'm afflicted with a terrible disorder. I seem to only be able to purchase things in twos.

I have no idea how this habit started or what my reasoning has been, if there has been any. But I remember discovering it for the first time.

I was standing in line at Stuff*Mart, placing my items on the conveyor, adding up my purchases in my head, when I became aware, through another strange habit of mine which is counting things, that I seemed to be bothered if I placed just one of something on the belt. One bottle of vitamins or one lampshade or one copy of Nacho Libre should be enough, if that's all I need, right? So why did it seem that the majority of my cart's contents came in multiples? And not in threes, or fives, or sevens, but always in twos. If there was one pound of butter, there was a second. One loaf of bread...two. One bottle of shampoo, one can of beans, one bag of rice? Yep, always a second one.

Now, to be fair to my slightly obsessive self, I do have a large family. With five kids in the house and usually one or two guests, plus a husband and a dad, we obviously go through more food, and more toilet paper, and more, well, more everything than a lot of people I know. But please. Who really *needs* two jugs of Tiki Torch fuel?

And also to be fair, it's often cheaper to buy two smaller containers of an item than the "family size." Have you ever noticed that? That family sizes can actually be more per ounce than the smaller ones? And that it changes, so you have to stay on your toes? Shame on those marketers. Shame, shame, shame.

So I've been trying to reform. I don't need double. I don't need double. and I certainly don't need to PAY double. While at the store today, I resisted the urge to toss in two boxes of allergy medicine. I chose three bottles of soda, in three different flavors. One bag of ice. With lots and lots of individual ice cubes inside the bag. I won't even attempt to count those. And even though I struggled in front of bargain bakery rack, I put back the fourth petite loaf of La Brea Roasted Chopped Garlic bread, leaving me with an odd number that only looks good in certain types of architecture.

From now on, I'll try to buy in twos only when absolutely necessary. Like in the case of pant legs. And Reese Cups. And pounds of baby swiss cheese. And extra-large glazed donuts from the local bakery. And strawberry rhubarb fry pies. And anything on clearance sale.

And Tiki Torch fuel.

::: are you watching? :::

There's an incredible display in the sky tonight. We're cuddling up on the trampoline under a mound of blankets to stare at the dark canvas filled with pinpoints of light. Every few minutes, if you were within earshot, you'd hear us gasping and, if it weren't so dark, you'd see us pointing at the quickly disappearing tail of a darting meteor.

Can you go out now? Can you watch them shatter the darkness? Can you watch them skip across the deep blue sea of the atmosphere?

Then do it!

Image from here.

Mastering the Art of Midnight Cooking

It was a long day of soccer practice, piano lessons, cleaning to prepare for the upcoming graduation party of Houdin, and, as if we weren't busy enough, a service planning meeting at church. Sometime during the day, I decided that it would all end with loveliness, so on the way to our meeting, I implored of my husband to not begin any lengthy discussions, to not bring up new topics, to cut to the chase, and I would do the same. I didn't want to sound short or bossy, but I knew I had to tell the other meeting attendees up front that we really needed to leave by 8:30. And I was pretty serious about it. I'm afraid I may have pushed the meeting on a bit--so I guess I was bossy in spite of my best mediocre attempts not to be.

And when we finished our meeting at 8:26, I think I actually hooted with glee.

My husband and I were going to go home, rush our two eldest and our young friend Lemony into the car (the two younglings were at a friend's house for the night), stop long enough to transfer Monet from another soccer parent's minivan to ours, and head north to the Medium Sized City for a 9:55 p.m. showing of Julie and Julia. My dear husband, who had awoken at 5:30 a.m. and would have to be to work at 7:00 a.m. the following morning, was completely game. We even scraped up enough money in this economically depressed month to pay for all of our tickets, the elder children chipping in all that they had. And when we got there? It was bargain Tuesday. $4.25 for tickets. Bonus!

No popcorn. No milk duds. Straight to the theater we strode, because I knew that, waiting at home for us, was a fresh batch of pesto and some crusty bread.

Bad idea.

See, the film was just packed full, as might be expected, of incredibly mouthwatering foods. They walked by amazing foods. They talked about amazing foods. They ate amazing foods. And we, hungry and amazed, watched helplessly, drooling, oohing and ahhing. Loudly. We were, by some miracle (maybe that it was the 9:55 p.m. showing) the only people in the theater, giving us the freedom to laugh loudly, discuss the food, and make slyly disparaging comments about the film's antagonists.

Meryl Streep was, as you've heard, amazingly incredible. Stanley Tucci was adorable. My only regret was that I had not been Julie Powell, had not stood in a moment of quiet desperation and committed an act of psychotic cooking bloggery. I could have done it (as everyone says). It could have been me. And, just like Powell's character in the film, I would have loved Julia, and I would have believed that Julia loved me, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

I had decided that the day would end in loveliness, and I got my way. Julie and Julia was delightful, even with its flaws (my middle child got half-way through the film before he realized that the parallel stories were taking place during different decades..and he's a pretty bright kid). I found myself with the perfect opportunity to practice my very limited, very sad excuse for French. I nudged my daughter in the row ahead of me when Julie visited Julia's Cambridge, Massachusetts kitchen at the Smithsonian, because I, too, had been there just a short month and a half before. And after the film was over, as we were driving the long trip back home to my Little Village just after midnight, I was taking a mental inventory of what ingredients were scattered around my kitchen at home. My hope was to crack open my thrifted copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and duplicate, albeit more successfully, the poached egg scene in the film. I'd never poached an egg. I've never liked eggs.

Alas, it was not to be. My copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Volume 2, which doesn't contain the egg-poaching pages.

But my eyes landed on a recipe that featured eggplant, and, as luck would have it, I'd just plucked a few nice eggplants from my garden and a few more from the farmer's market just that morning, so I gathered all of the ingredients (can you believe I actually had scallions in my kitchen? I rarely have scallions in my kitchen! But there they were, as was everything else, and so, at 1:00 a.m., my husband, kids and Lemony were eating pesto and peeling eggplant as I made the sauce and chopped the tomatoes.

This dish is supposed to be eaten cold, but I just couldn't wait. I'd already lost my husband, who had finally staggered off to bed, and Monet, who couldn't stay up any longer due to an impending early-morning soccer practice (they're doing two-a-days this week), so as soon as I folded the tomato/basil/garlic sauce into the simmered/sauteed eggplant, I was ready to eat. Houdin heaped it onto a piece of crusty bread, but I just scooped it into a dish and grabbed a fork. Delicious.

A small dish was set aside and refrigerated so that I can see what it's "supposed" to taste like once it's chilled.

With just a few short hours left of this morning before I have to rise and begin another day, I'm heading to bed, garlic on my breath, dreaming of my next meal.

::: ann voskamp :::

If you've not visited Ann Voskamp's blog, Holy Experience, who offers "just a bit of listening, laundry, liturgy... life," you really must. Her word pictures are touching and poetic, and her pictures, worth so much more than a thousand words, are an elegant and beautiful compliment to her craft. Today's post is so touching, I had to read it twice.

Enjoy.

Readily and Freely

I know that sometimes, when people see a verse from the Bible posted on a blog, they skip right over it. Some people are just turned off by Bible verses--even Christians--but do me a favor. Read this one. Because sometimes, I think it's a very good thing that everyone, both followers of Christ and those of other faiths, know and understand the things that Christians are supposed to do.

These passages are taken from The Amplified Bible.

²⁹Let no foul or polluting language, nor evil word nor unwholesome or worthless talk [ever] come out of your mouth, but only such [speech] as is good and beneficial to the spiritual progress of others, as is fitting to the need and the occasion, that it may be a blessing and give grace (God's favor) to those who hear it.

³¹Let all bitterness and indignation and wrath (passion, rage, bad temper) and resentment (anger, animosity) and quarreling (brawling, clamor, contention) and slander (evil-speaking, abusive or blasphemous language) be banished from you, with all malice (spite, ill will, or baseness of any kind).

³²And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, tenderhearted (compassionate, understanding, loving-hearted), forgiving one another [readily and freely], as God in Christ forgave you.

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

One of my little side hobbies is to do videography for weddings. While I'm at the event, I just can't help snapping a few stills, though the bride always has an awesome photographer of her own.
This evening, I took some shots at the rehearsal dinner in preparation for tomorrow's wedding. What a beautiful couple who chose a beautiful setting, the tree farm of a family friend. Mary's parents will play a lap dulcimer piece and part of Whitman's Song of the Open Road will be read during the ceremony.

Mon enfant! I give you my hand!

I give you my love, more precious than money,

I give you myself, before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself?

Will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other

as long as we live?

Your Thoughts on Healthcare Reform?

I've been reading through the bill on the proposed health care reform and I'd like to know what your respectful, educated opinion is on single-payer health care.

Thoughts?

The Whole Law=One Precept

pre·cept: \ˈprē-ˌsept\noun

Etymology:

Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin praeceptum, from neuter of praeceptus, past participle of praecipere to take beforehand, instruct, from prae- + capere to take — more at heave

Date:

14th century

1 : a command or principle intended especially as a general rule of action
2 : an order issued by legally constituted authority to a subordinate official.

Leviticus 19:18
Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.

Matthew 5:43
"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.

Matthew 19:19
Jesus replied, " 'Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother,' and 'love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Matthew 22:39
And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'

Mark 12:31
The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."

Mark 12:33
To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.

Luke 10:27
He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind' ; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Romans 13:9
The commandments, "Do not commit adultery," "Do not murder," "Do not steal," "Do not covet," and whatever other commandment there may be, are summed up in this one rule: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

James 2:8
If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself," you are doing right.

Galatians 5:14
The entire law is summed up in this one precept [see definition above]: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

Download a copy of the poster above by clicking on the image or going to The Plow.

::: admonition (ad-mə-ˈni-shən) noun: gentle or friendly reproof :::

"Does it strike anyone else that much of christian parenting wisdom conforms to the kingdom of the sword rather than the kingdom of the cross?"

~Tonia at Study in Brown

I know you're all going to think I'm nuts, and that's okay, because I think I'm nuts, too. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

I think God is doing something amazing in the hearts of his people.

I really mean this. I do believe that the world is about to turn, and I'm one of the lucky human beings to be ON it when this happens.

Because, see, for years I've had a really hard time talking to other Christians about parenting, because what the experts in the field of Christian parenting advice seem to be bent on putting out the message that love must be tough, that training up a child has to involve physical force, that all of those things Jesus said about love and forgiveness and mercy and grace? That wasn't meant for children, just for strangers, neighbors (even if you don't like them) and enemies.

So when I started feeling very convicted about the idea of punishing my children with a belt, rod, switch or hand, I tentatively began talking to other people, both believers and non-believers about my thoughts, and when I discussed this with believers, you would have thought that I was considering giving up my faith to follow Marilyn Manson or drink cyanide laced Flavor-Aid.

There were, however, a couple of people who talked with me about my questions in a rational, conversational tone. There was no anger or fear in their voices.

When I brought up the oft-repeated argument that we are to use the "rod" on our children, she gently reminded me that the rod was used for sheep, was used by the shepherd to guide the sheep.

"If the shepherd hit the sheep with the rod, what do you think the sheep would do the next time they saw the shepherd coming with that rod?"
"They'd run from it," I answered.
"And that would be terrible for the shepherd, right? Because, you know, how can you guide someone with something that scares the tar out of them?"

And this made sense to me.

It's funny how people take that one tiny verse in the Bible, that one little place in Proverbs, and they hold on to that as a mantra. Why not hold onto the verse before it that says, "Much food is in the tilled land of the poor, but there are those who are destroyed because of injustice," and fight for that cause? Or obsess about the one that says, 'Throughout the generations to come you are to make tassels on the corners of your garments, with a blue cord on each tassel?" Why not commit yourself to that verse?

Or why not hold onto the one in Colossians (3:21) that says, "Do not provoke or irritate or fret your children [do not be hard on them or harass them], lest they become discouraged and sullen and morose and feel inferior and frustrated. [Do not break their spirit.]"

Or the one in Ephesians (6:4) that says, "Do not irritate and provoke your children to anger [do not exasperate them to resentment], but rear them [tenderly] in the training and discipline and the counsel and admonition of the Lord."

It's the same thing Jesus did with so many of the other laws we were bound to Before Christ. It's like all of the teachings that Jesus took and turned upside-down. While others were teaching the ethic of reciprocity with words like, "Do not to your neighbor what you would take ill from him," Jesus was taking it a step further by saying, "Whatever you desire that others would do to and for you, even so do also to and for them, for this is (sums up) the Law and the Prophets [emphasis mine]." Don't just avoid doing what you wouldn't want done to you. Think about what you would want and do it. Because, in a nutshell, that's what the spirit of the Law and Prophets was really getting at.

So, we have this line in Proverbs that says, "A refusal to correct is a refusal to love; love your children by disciplining them," which is not at all untrue, but after we're reunited with God through Jesus, we get, "Take them by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master." In other words, let's get to the heart of the problem before there is a problem. Let's be proactive instead of reactive. Let's use our hands to hold theirs, to lead them gently in the right direction.

Because, honestly? That's what I need the most work on. I know how to be reactive. I know how to lose my patience. I know how to anger and exasperate my children pretty well. I'd like to say that rearing them tenderly is what comes naturally to me, and I think, at the center of it all, it does, but then fear and selfishness creep in, and I find myself forcing my will, filling with pride, demanding my way. I think this kind of parenting, the kind I stumbled into motherhood being taught by well-meaning Christians, has done great damage to me, and to my relationship with my children. Particularly with my sons, who need to not feel inferior and frustrated. Because when they feel exasperated? Lord knows we both feel exasperated.

It's a good thing that people are beginning to see and teach another way. Women like Tonia are beginning to question and speak, are realizing that we like the quick, simple idea of punishment because we are not patient. Men like Shane Claiborne and Greg Boyd are bringing another way to the forefront of discussion, a way of service and peace on a more global level, not just with our children, but with all human beings, a way of doing the things that Jesus truly taught, that paradoxical, upside-down way that the world finds foolish but that leads to the spread of the Kingdom. Writings by John Howard Yoder are leaking into the mainstream. And people are resonating with it.

I'm learning more about servanthood than I've ever cared to learn by bumping into these folks as I wander around this thing called "life."

And I'm finding that a lot of other people are learning about it, too, talking about it, and putting it into practice. People are really beginning to actually read and apply what Jesus taught. There are more people beginning to reject the world's way and enter into a more narrow way.

And I think that's the amazing thing that God is doing in the hearts of his people.

Go to Bed

Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count sheets. ~Leah Stussy

My younger kids might as well not even have beds. Somewhere in the course of their lives, they've decided that bedrooms are overrated and every night, I find that they have migrated from their respective rooms, their respective comfy lofts or bunks, to the couches in what we call our Big Room. I can make whatever pleas, threats, bargains I like, but they somehow still end up here, all three of them.

And while you can't see it very well in this photo, they will also all end up on the same couch. See The Baby and Sweetheart on one end? See Monet's jeans jutting out from the other direction (that's the other thing. Why can't he wear pajamas like the rest of us? Do all fourteen-year-old boys wear the same clothes for days at a time unless they are pried from their kicking, screaming bodies?) We have two couches down there, see, a long one and a love seat, both scored at My Favorite Thrift Store for a song, and they're in pretty good shape (much better shape than the white one we'd picked up from freecycle which started out fine but ended up with us sitting on the floor), but I'm afraid these children are going to wear the fabric off of this one before I can even think about looking for another set.

And, as you can see, Pippin the cat must be wherever the girls are sleeping, If they happen to shut the door to wherever they choose to lay their heads, Pip will howl like the wind and cry like a rainstorm until I allow her communion with her children once again.

As for me, I'll take my own bed, thank you, and I'm so cruel as to not allow any animals to sleep with me.

Do your children sleep in weird places?

Teaching as Doctrine Rules Made by Men

I started out this morning with a post about the work the family did in the yard and garden yesterday, which will still show its face, I'm sure.

But I just couldn't bring myself to do it right now, because I'm feeling a bit bothered by some things, and I'd like to get them off my chest. Here is as good a place as any.

First, let me preface this by saying that I'm not a highly political person. I abstained from voting in the 2008 presidential election because there was not a presidential candidate who represented me. I went to the polls, yes, and I voted on other issues and positions. But when it came right down to it, voting my conscience meant not casting a vote for president.

I was, however, excited about Barrack Obama's election. I think it's an amazing time in history, and, had I voted, I probably would have voted for Obama. Between the two, Barrack Obama lined up more with my political and faith beliefs than did McCain. And while I didn't vote, I'm proud to call Barrack Obama my president. This doesn't mean that I agree with all of his policies or actions, which is partly why I abstained.

But here's what's really on my mind. Ever since the presidential election, I have witnessed some of the ugliest, most selfish, ignorant behavior by my fellow Christians who live in these United States. Immediately after the results were announced, I heard and read young Christian friends say things like, "We're screwed," (by a thirteen-year-old Christian girl) and "My family's moving to Canada," and "I'm stockpiling guns" (by an eighteen-year-old Christian boy) and other things I can't repeat. They've been tossing about terms like "socialist" and "anti-christ" and "commie" and "Muslim" and "terrorist."

But even before the election, this type of talk began flying around in Christian circles, with partial thanks to conservative alarmists who make money by creating fear and anger. Early in the presidential campaign, when I first started hearing about this controversial figure named Barrack Obama, I began watching his speeches online. It was in his Call to Renewal address that I heard him speak these words:

"Faith doesn't mean that you don't have doubts. You need to come to church precisely because you are of this world, not apart from it; you need to embrace Christ precisely because you have sins to wash away - because you are human and need an ally in your difficult journey.

It was because of these newfound understandings that I was finally able to walk down the aisle of Trinity United Church of Christ one day and affirm my Christian faith. It came about as a choice, and not an epiphany; the questions I had did not magically disappear. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South Side of Chicago, I felt I heard God's spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself to his will, and dedicated myself to discovering His truth."

Just a few days later, while I was coaching a Christian speech and debate club, one of the teenage girls who I know fairly well warned a group of teens and me that there was a previously unknown Muslim man who must be defeated running for president, that he had even used the Qur'an to be sworn into office (Office? I thought. Didn't you just say he was unknown?), and that he had to be a terrorist; his middle name is Hussein! She and others asserted that we could NOT allow him to be president; his very name sounded like Osama bin Laden's!

I listened patiently, but I was disappointed. Here before me was a young Christian whose hobby was debating and giving speeches, which involves a lot of research into political issues, which involves finding truth, and she was making this claim against a man I had heard days before speaking to an organization which I trusted and respected and making a confession of faith in Christ, submitting himself to God's will. Furthermore, the statements she was making were eerily similar to the ignorant, fear-mongering viral e-mail I'd seen in my inbox earlier that month, an e-mail that could easily be debunked by a quick trip to snopes. The rest of the teens in the room were eagerly nodding their agreement with their peer.

"Have you heard him speak?" I asked.
"No," she answered.
"He's not a Muslim. In fact, he's made a confession of the Christian faith. He's a practicing Christian. He's a fellow believer."

She seemed stunned. I felt like a heathen. I knew that this was not the accepted view in conservative circles and wondered if the parents of these students would shun me. How could this man, a black democrat with a Muslim-sounding name, be one of us?

And while young people are fully able to form opinions of their own, I believe that much of this misinformation, quick judgment and fear-mongering forms around the kitchen table and in the family car. Since the beginning of the presidential race, I've heard many adults spout similar ignorant nonsense.

Just a few weeks ago, I was volunteering at my favorite thrift store when I noticed a female shopper wearing a white t-shirt bearing this message, hand-written with fabric paint in red and blue:

"(Our county) Tea Party: Freedom or Socialism."

When she approached the register, in lieu of a greeting she said to me, "Have you heard the news?" I immediately thought of all of the "news" I've heard over the years that has shaken me--the 9/11 attacks, the Challenger explosion, the Ronald Reagan assassination attempt--and I braced myself.

"We're not a Christian nation," she huffed indignantly.
"I'm sorry?"
"We're not a Christian nation. That's what that Obama is going around the world telling all the other countries."

Because I was representing my favorite thrift store at the time, I didn't feel that I could respond the way I would if I were representing myself, my country and my faith. I wanted to tell her that, yes, President Obama did make the statement that we do not consider ourselves to be a Christian nation...or a Jewish nation...or a Muslim nation, but a nation of citizens bound by a set of values. That even George Washington made it clear, stating that "everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid." Our tenth president, John Tyler, touted the U.S's "total separation of Church and State" saying that "no religious establishment by law exists among us" leaving the conscience "free from all restraint and each is permitted to worship his Maker after his own judgment." He offered the U.S. as a welcoming place for all, saying, "The Mohammedan, if he will to come among us would have the privilege guaranteed to him by the constitution to worship according to the Koran; and the East Indian might erect a shrine to Brahma, if it so pleased him."

Why is this? Why can we not call the U.S. a Christian nation? It's because our country was founded as a republic, which is a state without a monarch, a state in which the rights of the individual are protected by a charter, in this case, the Constitution, not the Bible. You can have a communist republic or a socialist republic. Your country can be a republic but also a democracy. And, if I'm not mistaken, socialism and communism are economic systems, not forms of government.

Having said all that, let me go back to how all of this affects me personally.

I made a declaration of faith when I was sixteen years old, decided to become a Christian after a young man named Nicholas Giaconia jumped onstage in cut-off blue jeans, shoeless, with guitar in-hand, during a talent show I was judging, having been the reigning Old Fashioned Days queen the previous year. After his performance, I talked to Nick about the song he shared, how it moved me, and he invited me to a concert where he opened for a group called Glad. In the darkness of that hall, I stood and made a commitment to Christ. I was a young girl. I was moved greatly by my emotions. I'm not sure I entirely knew what I was committing to. But in the months, and, indeed, years that followed, I took that commitment seriously, reading my Bible and learning what it meant to be a Christian, one who lives to follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. I wasn't really part of a Christian culture. I hadn't been raised in a church. My parents were not believers. I guess you could say that I was a Berean, that I studied the Scriptures daily to know how to live this life I had chosen, without much input from others.

Here are a few of the things I discovered that Jesus taught:

• Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.
• Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
• Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
• Whoever strikes you on your right cheek, turn to him the other also.
• If anyone sues you to take away your coat, let him have your cloak also.
• Let your will be done, as in heaven, so on earth.
• If you don’t forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
• You can’t serve both God and Mammon.
• Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you.
• He who seeks his life will lose it; and he who loses his life for my sake will find it.
• Every idle word that men speak, they will give account of it in the day of judgment.
• I was hungry, and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a stranger, and you took me in. I was naked, and you clothed me. I was sick, and you visited me. I was in prison, and you came to me.
• Put your sword back into its place, for all those who take the sword will die by the sword.

These are the words that, as a sixteen-year-old girl, I had committed to live by. And the more I read the words of Jesus, the things He taught, the more I realized that He knew what He was talking about. I remember, shortly after my commitment to Christianity, having a conversation in my high school civics class centered around politics. I thought it was very simple, and I said so; if we all followed the teachings of Jesus, our biggest world problems would be solved.

I still believe that today.

This morning, as I was hanging out on my favorite social networking site, one of my young politically conservative Christian friends posted this as her status message:

• Socialism: If you own two cows you give one to your neighbour.
• Communism: You give both cows to the government and the government gives you back some of the milk.
• Fascism: You keep the cows but give the milk to the government, which sells some of it back to you.
• Obamaism: You shoot both cows and milk the government.

Several people commented after her, agreeing and laughing, but I couldn't help remembering the day I was representing my favorite thrift store, and the woman who proudly wore her "Freedom or Socialism" t-shirt.

What is it called when you freely give your cow to your neighbor?
Your food?
Your water?
Your time?
When your allegiance isn't to a country?
When you don't serve the dollar?
When you freely, voluntarily, give your life?

Because if the church were doing this first--whatever it is called--if the hands and feet of Christ were freely giving to those in need, the government, which nonetheless rests on the shoulders of Christ, wouldn't need to bother.

I think it's time that the Christians take seriously the words of Chronicles 7:14:

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble [emphasis mine] themselves...then will I hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

Because in addition to those red-letter words I mentioned before? There's this one, which I definitely don't want to be guilty of:

• These people draw near to me with their mouth, and honor me with their lips; but their heart is far from me, and in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrine rules made by men. ~Matthew 15:9.
  

An Owlish Kind of Morning

Often early in the mornings, my dad, who lives with us, will come knocking on my door either to ask me for help with something, or to tell me he's going somewhere or to show me some critter. This morning, much earlier than usual, I stumbled to my bedroom door, managed to find the doorknob, twisted it open and, saw this:

It took me a few minutes to realize what it was, but then my brain adjusted, and I realized that it was an Eastern Screech Owl. Apparently it had flown into the cabin on our property where my dad is spending his summer and he caught it to send it back out into the world, but not before we woke everyone in the house to show them what Pop had found, each in turn saying sleepily, "What is that?" or "Is it real?" since it sat so perfectly still within Pop's firm grip. Then we took it onto the porch where it flew off into the east, on its search for a quieter place to sleep for the day.

Since I'm not usually up that early, I strolled around outside with my camera.