tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25660551977304225332024-03-13T18:50:07.961-05:00Concordian Sisters of Perpetual ParturitionIf you seek a Lutheran natalist echo chamber, circumspice.Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.comBlogger1209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-38878822746727223382013-08-22T05:24:00.003-05:002013-08-22T05:31:13.007-05:00Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well folks, I just can't promise to
blog any more, but I wanted to let you know I'm still here thinking
crazy thoughts, and to everyone on the cross end of your posterity,
at least we've learned that there are like five or six of us out
here, and to all y'all who get your jollies from bashing your brothers
and sisters in Christ who doubt the wisdom of rejecting what
posterity God would offer, I hope your souls don't get too corroded.</div>
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Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-89458482211787631042013-08-05T10:47:00.001-05:002013-08-05T10:49:30.894-05:00The confirming of suspicions<div id="pStyle84X0" style="font-size: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: GraecaII;">Courtesy of <a href="http://lareopage.free.fr/a&g/main.htm" target="_blank">BAG online</a> (the first edition of the Greek lexicon your husband refers to all the time while he writes his sermons, or would if he didn't actually know all those words which he totally does):</span></div>
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<span id="textStyle0" style="font-family: GraecaII; font-weight: bold;">sumpovsion</span></div>
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<a href="http://concordiatheology.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Screen-Shot-2013-07-05-at-6.08.01-PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://concordiatheology.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Screen-Shot-2013-07-05-at-6.08.01-PM.png" width="133" /></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2566055197730422533" name="t417"><span id="textStyle1" style="font-family: GraecaII;">sumpovsion, ou, tov</span></a> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">(</span> <span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Theognis</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">+=drinking-party, banquet [so </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Philo</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">, Op. M. 78; </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Jos.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">, Ant. 8, 137; 12,<br />231]; </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">X.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">+ also=hall where a drinking-party or banquet is held; also </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">pap.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">, </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">LXX</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">in both </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">mngs.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">) </span><span id="textStyle6" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-style: italic;">a party</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">or </span><span id="textStyle6" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-style: italic;">group</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">of people eating together (so </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Plut.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">, Mor. 157</span> <span id="textStyle8" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px;">D</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">; 704</span> <span id="textStyle8" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px;">D</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">) repeated, in a distributive sense (Bl-D, §493, 2 and </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">app.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">; </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Mlt.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">97): </span><span id="textStyle1" style="font-family: GraecaII;">sumpovsia sumpovsia</span> <span id="textStyle6" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-style: italic;">in parties</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Mk </span><span id="textStyle5" style="color: navy; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">6:39</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">(</span> <span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">cf.</span> <span id="textStyle9" style="color: red; font-family: GraecaII;">prasiav</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">). </span><span id="textStyle3" style="color: green; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">M-M.</span> <span id="textStyle2" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">That's right, girls. Symposium does not mean, "A bunch of really brilliant and holy pastors getting together and having profound thoughts and conversations for the betterment of the Church of God during which it is your privilege to stay home with all the kids for 3-15 days and pray for his mind and soul to be cultivated most salutarily." A symposium is a drinking party.</span></div>
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Just kiddin guys. You know we totally <3 you. ;)Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-64981955005202947792013-06-17T17:06:00.000-05:002013-06-17T17:10:41.510-05:00It's over!On Friday, June 14, at 1:41 p.m., God turned my anguish into joy. Our little son was born weighing 8 lbs. 13 oz. He was just about 21 inches long. He has dark hair, a pert nose, and chicken legs. We like him very, very much.<br />
<br />
Christ graciously enlarged His Church in the baptism of our son on Saturday morning. Now all that's left to do is sleep off the birth. Thanks terribly for your prayers, dear readers.<br />
<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14546489539063088564noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-8165622020732788042013-06-10T09:22:00.001-05:002013-06-10T14:12:33.225-05:00Break on through to the other side<a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2011/02/birth-pains.html" target="_blank">This again</a>. But let's look at it from a different perspective this time:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>He stood in the next room, his head leaning against the doorpost, and heard shrieks, howls such as he had never heard before, and he knew that what had been Kitty was uttering those shrieks ... </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Doctor! What is it? What is it? By God!" he said, snatching at the doctor's hand as he came up.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"It is the end," said the doctor. And the doctor's face was so grave as he said it that Levin took "the end" as meaning her death.</i></blockquote>
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<i>Beside himself, he ran into the bedroom ... Kitty's face he did not know. In the place where it had been was something that was fearful in its strained distortion and in the sounds that came from it. He fell down with his head on the wooden framework of the bed, feeling his heart was bursting. The awful scream never paused, it became still more awful, as though it had reached the utmost limit of terror, suddenly it ceased. Levin could not believe his ears, but there could be no doubt; the scream had ceased and he heard a subdued stir and bustle, and hurried breathing, and her voice, gasping, alive, tender, and blissful, uttered softly, "It's over!"</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>He lifted his head. With her hands hanging exhausted on the quilt, looking extraordinarily lovely and serene, she looked at him in silence and tried to smile, and could not. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Falling on his knees before the bed, he held his wife's hand before his lips and kissed it, and the hand, with a weak movement of the fingers responded to his kiss. And meanwhile, there at the foot of the bed ... like a flickering light in a lamp, lay the life of a human creature which had never existed before, and which would now with the same right, with the same importance to itself, live and create its own image.</i></blockquote>
<i>Anna Karenina</i>, Leo Tolstoy<br />
<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14546489539063088564noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-53119119762726554122013-06-07T16:02:00.002-05:002013-06-07T16:02:47.301-05:00Sentence fragmentsNot actually sentences.<br />
<br />
Nope.Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-42273199963092828462013-06-05T15:27:00.000-05:002013-06-05T15:27:19.379-05:00The game of global domination<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No matter what one is doing in life,
there are people who know what one ought to be doing instead. Once
people give up on talking you out of having so many kids, they will
change tactics and try to talk you out of having kids when you're old
(unless, of course, you have no kids and are old; then it is still OK
for you to have a kid and actually not really OK for you not to). </div>
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Since we are very knowledgeable
nowadays, the reason old people with kids should not have kids is
that it's dangerous for old people to have kids. All your kid making
components are rotting (and so are his, even), so you're going to
have rotten kids, and having a rotten kid would be really bad and
actually even selfish and pretty much almost immoral.</div>
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This is basic eugenics, and we are all
naturally eugenicists in our own ways. It's just one of those things
we have to recognize and learn our way out of. Here are the basic
lessons for dealing with this particular line of eugenic thought:</div>
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--God puts an end date on each woman's
fertility. When she's too old to have kids, she can't. If she can
still have kids, she's not too old. (I mention this just to help us
keep from mixing biology with ethics or morality.)</div>
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--Every human life is worth living, no
matter how miserable it looks to the strong, the healthy, the gifted,
the intelligent, the rich. To consider another life and say that it
is not worth its own cost is nothing but prideful condescension. This
judgment does not happen in a vacuum. To say, "You shouldn't
risk having a Down's baby" is to look at a living person with
Down's and say, "There should not be another person like you."
There is only one person of whom God ever said, "It had been
good for that man if he had not been born," and it wasn't
because that man had a genetic defect.</div>
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--There is no person so un-rightly made
that he does not show forth the image of God. There is no human so
poorly endowed that she cannot receive the gift of forgiveness and
salvation. There is no one so ugly, so weak, so sick, or so empty
that he is beyond our risen Lord's power to make all things new.</div>
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--You don't know what baby you're going
to have until you have it.</div>
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<i>To avoid the increased risk of genetic
problems or whatever other harms to which the children of older
parents are more subject is to take the wrong gamble. </i>So here is the
general answer I have on hand for the caring people who want to make
sure I know there's a bigger chance now that a baby I have could have
something wrong with it:</div>
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"Thank you for telling me about
that risk. I read an article about it too. If our Lord sees fit to
give old people like us another baby, the greatest likelihood is that that baby will be healthy and well."</div>
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Practice it in your head so you can say
it instead of what you're really thinking.</div>
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Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-64916761853834317682013-06-03T08:57:00.000-05:002013-06-03T08:57:26.631-05:00Law as mirror<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The real reason to dress modestly is
not to smother another's lust, which is impossible, but to cover
one's own pride. That's why the notion makes ladies angry. </div>
Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-35874906043786046642013-05-29T07:46:00.000-05:002013-05-29T07:46:31.528-05:00Defying the laws of physics and mathematicsSome universal laws are upheld quite regularly around here. Like gravity: We’re always dropping stuff. And the second law of thermodynamics: Yeah, entropy always increases. Always. Then too, we’ve got the fourth law of thermodynamics down pat. (Didn’t know there was a fourth law of thermodynamics? Wikipedia helpfully points out that “Murphy’s law” has been referred to as such. Heehee.)<br />
<br />
But Newton’s third law of motion? Reach back into your high school physics memories and recite it with me now: for every reaction, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. That one, we’ve got beat. By which I mean, for every action in this house, I can nearly guarantee you that there will be multiple and disproportionate reactions. I guess that means my kids have some kind of superpower…<br />
<br />
Also, the math problem: If there’s technically a 50% chance that a toddler will put her shoes on the wrong feet, why does it happen 89% of the time?
(Mind you, I’m thrilled to have a toddler who can put on her own shoes and who does so cheerfully. But I’m just askin’.)
Reb. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06827521306898397100noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-80386324119883983932013-05-20T16:02:00.000-05:002013-05-20T16:03:05.699-05:00The old Must Be Nice<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You know, you work real hard on
something basically pointless like your kid's braids or a cake or the
Valentines or some other mother's child's costume for the play and
every once in a while some jerk comes around and takes a look and
then compliments you by saying, "Must be nice to have time for
stuff like that!"</div>
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Flrblkjtlimbbb.</div>
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Garowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwk</div>
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Xchamu! XCHAMOOOOG I SAY!</div>
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But actually, it is nice to have time
for stuff like that. Thank you God and, to the extent that he will
allow me to credit him, husband. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's not my fault people like that are
jerks, and if they dropped off their kid at my house in the morning
I'd braid that scraggly kid too (solely as a favor to the kid,
however).</div>
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<br /></div>
Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-81735258217366089312013-05-14T19:35:00.001-05:002013-05-14T20:37:32.988-05:00Part the last of a long story about a broken leg<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>As promised, here is the inspiring conclusion of this pulpy rag. But you don't have to take my word for it. </i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I hobbled in
the boot for about three weeks. Every day, the pain got a little less poignant
and the swelling a little less colorful. At the end of these weeks, the bottom
of my foot was still noticeably bruised, but my shin stopped throbbing whenever
I stood up, and my ankle got downright comfortable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My mood was
… mercurial. My husband still listened to a lot of crying and soothed a lot of
panicking. But I had good days, too, especially once the sun started shining
more and our asparagus patch started producing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It also
helps that this baby I’m carrying is a really good baby. This has been my
easiest pregnancy. If I hadn't broken my ankle, I would have nothing to
complain about. Which is probably why I needed to break my ankle? Yes, insane
self. That must be it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Moving on:
We went to see the surgeon again, per the appointment made for us by the nurses
on surgery day. My X-rays looked tolerably good. Progress was progressing.
Everyone was sort of confused about my being there. Wasn't I all better already?
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Surgeon</b>: So,
have you been walking on that ankle without the boot?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Me</b>: No.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Surgeon</b>: You
haven’t?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Me</b>: I was
waiting for permission.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Surgeon</b>:
Huh. Well, go home and try walking on it and see what happens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Me</b>: Like,
just stand up and walk?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Surgeon</b>:
Yeah. And we’ll see how it goes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Do I
need special shoes or anything? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Surgeon</b>: Oh,
whatever <i>(his phone rings, so …)</i> Nice seeing you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I went
home, took off my boot, and ... yeah. I tried to walk, but it was very
frustrating. My entire leg felt frozen. My range of motion was embarrassingly
poor. And with the exertion, my ankle no longer felt comfortable. It had only
been kidding about that. In reality, it was both wasted and somehow so swollen
I looked like a Cabbage Patch doll. Purple cabbage. Which was rather
appropriate, depending on your perspective. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But, full
steam ahead and daum the torpedoes, right? The surgery-man had said to walk, so
I figured I’d better just do it. I went back to the crutches for a day or two,
which amounted to a lot of pretending to walk. Every once in a while, I
double-dog dared myself to stand up and go for it, and then I would make a
short trip down the hall and back, using the wall to keep myself upright. Getting
around was possible, but for the most part I was really torturing myself. My
brain must have figured that since we hadn't been using that left foot for so
long, it just as well jettison any information it had stored on its function
and purpose. Sin, man. It’s bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a week
of this, I called the surgeon’s office and begged for some help. They referred
me to a physical therapist, whom I've been seeing for about two weeks now. She’s
been immensely helpful. She’s given me tools to fight back against my specific
problems, and she provides an objective gauge to help me see where I am
progressing and where I am not. Because of her efforts and the exercise program
she’s prescribed, I can put one foot in front of the other and move under my
own power. I am not walking normally, but I am upright and bearing all my own
weight. Which is rather prodigious just now, so good job, stupid ankle. But,
you know, try harder next time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can’t expect
things to start really normalizing until after this baby is born. For instance,
I cannot very often fit my foot comfortably in a shoe even a whole size larger
than what I am used to wearing. My OB tells me that because a full 30% of my
blood volume is being directed through my placenta, my ankle is not being
flushed of fluids as it should be. Then there’s the extra relaxin in my system.
And the extra weight. And the 95-degree days. All in all, I’m as barefoot and
pregnant as I can get. I still need to wear the CAM walker whenever I leave the
house. And I can’t yet trust my ankle to carry me up and down stairs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
However, while
I am still operating under an artificial light, I can finally see the sun
shining on the other side of the curtain. The pain is gone. Any discomfort I
have these days is just a pitiful little band of rebel soft tissues trying for
control. We’re quite safe from their friends here. The bruising is mostly gone.
When I am diligent about stretching and exercising my ankle hourly, my gait is
almost sort-of normalish. I can make my children breakfast. I can lift my
toddler son into his crib at naptime. I can fetch the cinnamon off the high
cupboard shelf. I can drive. And as this parsonage isn't all that big, I can
usually catch up to people in time to stop most naughtiness. Not too bad for
having broken myself a mere ten weeks ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In five or so
more weeks, this baby will be born healthy and well (God have mercy) and the
real healing on my ankle can get going. Even so, it will be another nine or so
more months until my ankle can be called reborn. About a year, then, of general
weird living and not hiking and getting through it. But what’s one year in the
greatest scheme of things? Christ is coming back. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. </div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14546489539063088564noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-86561174792500847572013-05-13T19:35:00.000-05:002014-12-06T16:08:20.996-06:00Part two of a long story about a broken leg<i>I just wanted to mention that the reason I am recording this thrilling tale of my broken ankle is because my second favorite not food-related activity just now is Googling for stories of pregnant women who have broken their ankles. Remarkably, there aren't a whole lot of these stories available. So I really feel like doing my part to provide someone who might someday be pregnant atop a broken ankle with a story to read, should she love Googling for camaraderie as much as I.</i><br />
<br />
The next day was a Sunday. My husband called his head elder to run through Matins rather than leave my father at my mercy all morning. Turns out getting to the bathroom and the like is rather improbable with a broken ankle dangling unfixed at the bottom of the leg, and I really needed my own husband by me. When it comes to pushing the “for worse” envelope all out of shape, I really know what I’m doing. But we made it through. I even got my dishwasher fixed; two men playing nursemaid to a crippled pregnant chick get bored between bathroom calls.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon, my mother and children arrived, and my mother declared that she was moving in with us for as long as it took. This cheered everyone up immensely, as no one, not even I myself, runs my house as well as my mother.<br />
<br />
And then it was surgery day. There was a lot of being pushed around in wheelchairs and being transferred between here and there and getting poked with needles. The anesthesiologist opted to perform a nerve block on my bad leg; putting me under was out of the question and I don’t respond well to procedures involving my spine. Once on the operating table, it became clear that I don’t respond well to nerve blocks, either, so I got a dose of some sort of dozy potion that wasn't general anesthesia, but that set me to dreaming about <i>Downton Abbey</i>.<br />
<br />
And then I woke up to an ankle held together by a plate and 12 screws. A liaison from the OB floor had been in the operating room with me, monitoring the baby throughout. The baby came through it fine. So they gave me a couple of hours to let the drugs clear my system and then sent me home.<br />
<br />
And! Then I was home, back to living bathroom break to bathroom break. I was given some pain meds that claimed to be safe for my baby, and I took them. Sort of. For a couple of days. I couldn't really shower or anything, as my leg was not in a proper cast. Rather, it was wrapped in scads of padding and bandages and whatnot. Lying down was painful. Being upright was horrible. I was marooned in my room and utterly helpless to do anything for myself or anyone else. It was a tough week.<br />
<br />
And then that week was over. And my husband took me to the surgeon’s office. A PA took out the surgical staples and cleaned me up a bit and put me in a CAM walker. She told me not to bear any weight in my CAM walker, and to sleep with it on my leg. But I could take it off to shower and loosen it a bit while being still. And with the CAM walker, crutching around the house became possible, which meant I could take my own self to the bathroom and my husband could go to the office sometimes and my mother didn't have to discipline the toddler all by herself. It was like having a single, bare light bulb turn on in a basement somewhere. Which is to say, everything still stank, but it was better than being in the dark.<br />
<br />
Another two weeks went by, wherein I still spent most of my time in my bed with my ankle elevated on pillows. I worked through the magazine pile and watched a really stupid movie. But even better, my Kindergartner got a lot of reading lessons. My other kids got a lot more freedom than usual, and they used it to help Grandma and to be generally agreeable. My mother continued to prove herself the Best of All Mothers. My dad came over on the weekends to take care of my mother. My Ladies' Aid group coordinated the most intense supper drop-off in history. And my husband listened to me cry, soothed my panic, smacked my pride, and brought me communion as often as I wanted it. What am I complaining about? I’m exceedingly rich.<br />
<br />
At the end of this two weeks, we went back to the surgeon’s office and actually saw the surgeon. Our conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
<b>Surgeon</b>: Are those your crutches there?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Yes.<br />
<br />
<b>Surgeon</b>: What are you using them for?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Um … to move?<br />
<br />
<b>Surgeon</b>: You don’t need those to move. You can bear weight in that boot.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: I can?<br />
<br />
<b>Surgeon</b>: <i>(a bit exasperated)</i> Yes. You should have been bearing weight all this time. Get rid of those crutches. Goodbye.<br />
<br />
So, I got rid of the crutches. It took me a couple of days. I started out just standing in the boot. Then I gingerly tried taking steps every now and again. Then I dropped one crutch. Then the other. And then I was walking. Well, let me be more honest: I was hobbling. Like, clud-THUNK, clud-THUNK, clud-THUNK. But, what the heck? I was ambulatory. I could get a bowl of yogurt out of the fridge all by myself. I could clud-THUNK into the grocery store and drive around on one of those silly little scooter things that squeal every time it's put in reverse. My mother was able to return to her own house and life. And best of all, I was able to go to church on Easter morning. That bare light bulb was burning in, like, the laundry room all of a sudden.<br />
<br />
And that was how I spent the first four or so weeks of having a broken ankle. Tune in next time for the inspiring conclusion. I'll even try to make it like a Michael Landon program, just for you. <br /><br /><a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2013/05/part-last-of-long-story-about-broken-leg.html" target="_blank">Part Three</a>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14546489539063088564noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-19285540654367895262013-05-11T18:29:00.001-05:002014-12-06T16:07:51.936-06:00A long story about a broken leg<i>This post has very little to do with perpetual parturition, being a girl, the LCMS, or any of our usual topics. It is merely a chronicle of my recent experience with a trimalleolar fracture of my left ankle. Read it and weep, if you like, though I warn you that it’s pretty long and cobbled together about as well as my fibula. Feel free to read something else. Ciao, darlings.</i><br />
<br />
Ten weeks ago, when I was 25 weeks pregnant, I was carrying my two-year-old son down my parents’ carpeted stairs when my foot slipped and I broke my ankle. Kazaam. Just like that, everything about everything changed.<br />
<br />
People like to ask me for details about my fall: what did I think while it was happening? was I able to manipulate according to the laws of physics for the best possible outcome? did I hear my bones pop? did it hurt right away? do I miss the rains down in Africa? Disappointingly, there aren't any more details. One moment I was walking down the stairs; the next I was sitting next to a screaming toddler and watching my ankle balloon into freak proportions. I rather wish I had a video of the moment, because I can’t imagine how it happened. I didn't even properly fall. My foot slipped and hit the next step toe-first. I felt the bones give. I sat down hard. I didn't drop my son. I didn't bonk my belly. I just sat down, saw the Jackson Pollack show unfolding at the end of my leg, and began to scream.<br />
<br />
My husband wasn't with us at my parents’ house, so it was up to my dear parents to tend to everything. They ran as soon as they heard me screaming, which was really something given that I wasn't alone in the activity. My toddler son, scared but blessedly unhurt, was screaming. My four-year-old daughter, who had been descending several steps behind me, was screaming. My eight-year-old son, who had been standing at the bottom of the steps, was shouting. Four voices raised together in song. Must have sounded really fine.
<br />
<br />
My father reached me first, and asked me what happened.<br />
<br />
“I broke my ankle!” I screamed.<br />
<br />
“You broke your WHAT?!?” he asked. I later found out he thought that my water had broken, but no, no. Not just yet.<br />
<br />
“My ankle! My God, I broke my ankle!” I screamed again. And then my mother tells me I started begging Jesus for mercy while turning a dull shade of gray. I just remember being very, terribly cold.<br />
<br />
What I remember henceforth is that my father hauled me into his car and drove to the closest rural hospital around. I was X-rayed. The X-ray technician clearly thought I was grossly incorrect about being broken. Hence the following conversation:<br />
<br />
<b>Tech</b>: <i>(manipulating my badly swollen foot here and there to get the most perfectest picture ever)</i> My goodness! You’re sparkling!
<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: <i>(gritting teeth and trying hard not to beg desperately for death)</i> What?<br />
<br />
<b>Tech</b>: Your skin is sparkling in the light!<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: . . .<br />
<br />
<b>Tech</b>: Are you a vampire?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: . . . Yes.<br />
<br />
After getting what passed for perfect, the tech dangled my foot over the edge of a giant foam thing and traipsed back to look over her snapshots. In between my own sobs, I heard a long, low groan. Then the tech immediately returned to me, placed my poor leg in a far less painful position, and left the room to fetch the doctor.<br />
<br />
The first thing the doctor said to me upon entering the room was something like, “Your ankle is really busted. You need surgery. I can’t help you here. I’ll cast you up, I guess, but you need to get to a bigger hospital. You likely need surgery right now.”<br />
<br />
I immediately whirled into a furious panic. But my father took hold of me and calmed me down. He stood behind me and stroked my hair. He calmly warned me whenever he saw the doctor was about to touch my leg. He answered all the nurses’ questions for me and made all the necessary arrangements for my transfer to yon bigger hospital. He saw to it that I got to hear the baby’s heartbeat on Doppler. He was absolutely heroic. My father is among the greatest men living, and not just because he is so very, very good to me.<br />
<br />
But back to the star of this show: my stupid ankle. The doctor put me in a fiberglass cast up to my knee, which he then split all down the front to allow for the onslaught of swelling he assured me would come. Then the nurses deposited me in the back of my father’s car, wished me luck, and we were off to the next ER in a hospital three hours away.<br />
<br />
Girls, if you ever break your ankle in an area that can’t accommodate your broken ankle, DO NOT LET THEM CAST YOU.* I was in agony—YES! Agony!—for the entirely of that three hour drive. The split in that cast was far from the Platonic ideal of split. It was worthless. The swelling had no place to go but hell, and it took me with it. Gah. I worked to be calm and to keep my blood pressure stable, but I think I might have failed a couple of times. I finally started “vocalizing” through the pain, for the sake of both my baby and my father, as neither would benefit from my sprouting horns and attacking that cast with my teeth. My father later told me he just kept thinking to himself, “What a nice song she’s singing. What a very nice song.”<br />
<br />
Somehow we both came through that trip sane.<br />
<br />
My husband met us as we were checking into the big hospital ER. He brought with him a backpack filled with everything I needed for a hospital stay (he even thought to include the lip balm, because he’s a man among husbands). And while I had to wait for every nosebleed and toothache to be cycled through before me, I was eventually given a bed, patted nicely on the head, and told the surgeon was on his way. At this point, it was close to midnight.<br />
<br />
My husband and father sat up with me and tried to keep my mind off the pain—a Sisyphean task. I was run through an MRI. I was told why, for the sake of the baby, I couldn’t be given any real pain relief. I, in turn, explained why, for the sake of the baby, I would not accept any fake pain relief.. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.<br />
<br />
The surgeon finally arrived and decreed that while I did need surgery, the swelling would have to go down significantly before they could cut me open. He (finally!) removed the hated cast, but then started probing my ankle to determine whatever it is surgeons need to determine in ERs at 1 a.m. His probing revealed one interesting thing: one of my fractures was perilously close to the skin. The surgeon chose to reduce it then and there. His method: grab my foot by the big toe, lift my leg thereby, and shake the whole mess until things got back into place.<br />
<br />
I’m going to skip the gory details and just admit to this: I would rather suffer a Pitocin-induced labor exacerbated by a failed epidural than go through that bone reduction ever again. Moving on.<br />
<br />
Once satisfied with the shaking and reducing, the surgeon wrapped my lower leg in miles of padding and bid me goodnight. I was scheduled for surgery first thing Monday morning and sent home. My menfolk carried me into the house, secured me in my bed, and I managed to crash into a rock-hard sleep.<br />
<br />
Well! This has gone on long enough for one day. I’ll get on with it later. Ciao to you darlings who are still reading, and I’ll see you next time.<br />
<br />
<i>*Except that this won't be a problem, as I am patenting this splendid thing and no one will ever be able to break her ankle ever again. Too bad for you.
</i><br /><br /><a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2013/05/part-two-of-long-story-about-broken-leg.html" target="_blank">Part Two</a>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14546489539063088564noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-33052012686567786312013-05-06T14:39:00.002-05:002013-05-06T14:39:45.890-05:00Call of the wild<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://spiritwaterblood.com/pix/Victoria_Woodhull_caricature_by_Thomas_Nast_1872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://spiritwaterblood.com/pix/Victoria_Woodhull_caricature_by_Thomas_Nast_1872.jpg" height="320" width="206" /></a></div>
<br />Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-13048647112505127462013-05-04T07:37:00.000-05:002013-05-04T07:37:04.718-05:00Where's the baby?<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some months back we ran into someone we
hadn't seen in a while. He asked, "Where's the baby?"
"There," I said, pointing to the one-year-old running
around. And then, "I guess she's not much of a baby any more."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even less on this day, when she is
exactly as old as our firstborn was the day our secondborn was, um,
born. To our knowledge, there is no one else on the way.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So much for <a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2012/03/ten-years.html" target="_blank">this</a>. There's not much to
say about it and even less to do about it.</div>
Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-82132998235547637702013-04-29T07:27:00.000-05:002013-04-29T07:27:21.256-05:00Name it and claim it<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I spent the first seventeen years of my
life meeting only three people with my name. Then in my first week at
Seward I met about 35 other Rebekahs and Rebeccas, in addition to a
huge surplus of Rachels and Sarahs. Apparently the matriarchs were
the baby girl names to be had among families with a heavy investment
in LCMS culture from 1975-1985.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I bring this up because if families
with a heavy investment in LCMS culture are still sending their kids
to Concordias 10 years from now, I think the places will be overrun by
Anastasias, Marys, Evangelines, and Lilys.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-19328713043571319472013-04-25T08:09:00.000-05:002013-04-25T08:09:13.998-05:00Book, Recommended: Pew Sisters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Look, I know it's all the rage to be disgusted with women's Bible studies and roll our eyes at whoever the
stupid women are who read them and mope over why SOMEBODY thinks
women are so dumb and doesn't pay US lots and lots of money to write
GOOD women's Bible studies instead. Yes, yes, dears. We're all very
smart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But get real: I know very few (no?)
women of any intelligence, education, or field of interest who don't
enjoy hearing about other women's lives and judging them. Quit faking,
read some stories about other women, and judge away. You know you'll
like it. You can do it with <a href="http://www.cph.org/p-21751-pew-sisters.aspx?SearchTerm=pew%20sisters" target="_blank">this book</a> by <a href="http://katieschuermann.com/Home.html" target="_blank">Katie Schuermann</a>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.cph.org/images/Product/medium/204152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.cph.org/images/Product/medium/204152.jpg" /></a>Careful, though. <i>Pew Sisters</i> will make
you mad. You will want to know how, <i>freaking exactly</i> and I'm talking
mechanics here, Marianne forgave. You will trip on how things worked
out for Diedre. You, you Concordian Sister of Perpetual Parturition*, will wonder if Anna could really be that tired if she wasn't
even nursing and how Claire's situation could possibly turn out that
way under those circumstances. You will wonder if Emily's story ever
really happens or if that's just a weird Lutheran fantasy. Your
ongoing Mary/Martha problem still won't be solved by this book,
darnit! Why is Julia OK and Faye not (or are they)? What ended up
happening to Christine, for crying out loud, and what about poor
Laura? Why the easy answer here and the hard one there? What kind of
sick freak wrote this? (A Lutheran, of course. Nobody else ever likes
us. :D )</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's the other problem with <i>Pew
Sisters</i>: it is not really going to feel sorry for you. It is going to stick
your nose in suffering and say, "What are you going to do about
it, sinner?" So what are you going to do about it? We sin.
That's why rotten things happen, and that's why the message of the
cross is neither baby food nor boring. Hear it again, sinner. You
suffer because you sin. Jesus suffered without sin to end your
suffering. If that message is beneath you, you're above God.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My recommendation: read this with some
sisters. I don't mean your friends from class, because they're not
your sisters (sisters are rarely the same age). Read it with your pew
sisters, the ones who call the same guy pastor and the same church
home. Do what the author says: call that pastor and have him speak
from Scripture to the questions this book is going to bring up**. Judge
and be judged, and be reminded again of real justice, the supreme
beauty of grace, and to whom such things belong.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://www.williamhenry.net/battle23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.williamhenry.net/battle23.jpg" height="268" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*Full disclosure is that if you give
someone this book, they might suspect you of ulterior motives when
they get to Gabriella. On the other hand, you're a real person too.<br />
<br />
**It will still be a women's Bible study with a pastor there. Do your girl talking first and schedule him to come in 45 minutes after your start time.</div>
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Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-21691907520197663362013-04-05T13:55:00.001-05:002013-04-05T13:55:20.637-05:00Alimentary, my dear Watson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Maybe it is the time I spend with fourth grade science books that makes me think this depiction of the life of an overture to the LCMS convention is a little TOO clear.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/542666_10151371598083580_770575480_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/542666_10151371598083580_770575480_n.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-14687203770212653972013-03-21T22:44:00.000-05:002013-03-21T22:44:08.330-05:00...loves even me.<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’d like to say that I carefully read all the mail we get
from missions and institutions and organizations that we support (or that would
like us to support them), and that no such missives are ever tossed unopened,
but in truth they’re subject to triage like any other aspect of my life at this
point. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Recently, I was hovering over the trash can during a
desperate counter-clearing effort, doing a pre-pitch skimming of the newsletter
from one such mission, when this story changed my trajectory: </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>[These two toddlers/preschoolers] are children of a single
mother and unknown father. She is a drug addict who works cleaning windshields
on the highway. They had lived, or survived, under a bridge fed only on street
food, soda, and cookies. Their clothing was ill-fitted, dirty rags. They were victims
of indifference. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>[When the country’s social services brought the children to
the mission], they hadn’t eaten</i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>all day. [The boy] was wearing only a t-shirt and a diaper
that hadn’t been changed all day. But the</i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>smiles on both of their faces, their affection, and their innocence
was unforgettable. After eating, bathing,</i><i> and being dressed in our best, the looks on their faces were
indescribable. Yet, they both cried a lot in the days that followed because
they missed their mother. Since then, they have adapted well and stolen our
hearts. </i></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It wasn’t merely the brokenness of a world in which such
stories are all too common, nor the accompanying photos of the children that
brought the tragedy to a personal point, that stopped me cold. It was that last
bit--did it catch you too? The part that stopped me in my tracks, that accused
and humbled and consoled me all at once? Those babies were rescued from filth,
neglect, and abuse—<i>Yet, they both cried a
lot in the days that followed because they missed their mother. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I feed my kids veggies and whole wheat (at least some of the
time). I bathe and clothe them. I’m married to their father and I might even
look to some (distant and casual) observers as though I’ve got my life somewhat
together. But the really true truth here is that I’m no less in need of
forgiveness than the mother who left those kids under the bridge. Nor is this
desperately-needed forgiveness available to me in any other special place <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+5:8&version=ESV" target="_blank">than it is for her</a>, homemade yogurt and hygiene notwithstanding.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And—astoundingly, humblingly—when my desperate sinfulness
spills over, as it too often does, onto them, my kids are just as grudgelessly ready
with their love and their seemingly effortless forgiveness, as were those
precious little ones whose mother failed more publicly than I. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rebekah wrote <a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2008/06/god-loves-me-dearly.html" target="_blank">this one</a> a long time ago, <span style="font-size: small;">and</span> I still think
about it. <span style="line-height: 115%;">I think about it because at the end of every day
I can count so many times that I’ve screwed up this motherhood thing, <i>again</i>, and
yet I can’t count a single time that a child of mine has gone to bed with anger
in his heart against me. All this love and trust in their hearts, their eyes,
their arms, always at the ready, all undeserved—an overflowing of grace, pure
grace, the grace their Heavenly Father so richly and recklessly bestows—thanks be
to our prodigal God!</span></span></span></div>
Reb. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06827521306898397100noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-48833288077312979202013-03-21T09:11:00.000-05:002013-03-21T09:11:18.067-05:00Cost/benefit analysisThe preschooler and the toddler have been upstairs together for 15 minutes
now, and it’s been very quiet. Do I go and check on them, possibly ruining the
longest stretch of peaceful independent-together play that they’ve had in quite
awhile? (The other possibility, of course, is that checking on them will save
me a lot of, er, <i>aftermath</i>, if they’re up to no good.)<br />
<br />
Ah, the perennial questions of motherhood.Reb. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06827521306898397100noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-32514072113688136262013-03-20T07:55:00.002-05:002013-03-20T07:55:49.581-05:00Husband talk<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I find women differ much, both in the degree and manner in which their feelings will permit them to talk about their husbands. I have known women set a whole community against their husbands by the way in which they trumpeted their praises; and I have known one woman set everybody against herself by the way in which she published her husband's faults. I find it difficult to believe either sort. To praise one's husband is so like praising one's self, that to me it seems immodest, and subject to the same suspicion as self-laudation; while to blame one's husband, even justly and openly, seems to me to border upon treachery itself.</blockquote>
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<i>The Vicar's Daughter</i>, George MacDonaldRebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-6335257010287424822013-03-14T12:54:00.001-05:002013-03-14T12:55:09.577-05:00Family makeout photography<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I don't think a straight man thought of it.</div>
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<a href="http://i1297.photobucket.com/albums/ag29/rmgcurtis/a659bd24-929e-4012-a26d-6d13cdf1f6e9_zps8b615955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="http://i1297.photobucket.com/albums/ag29/rmgcurtis/a659bd24-929e-4012-a26d-6d13cdf1f6e9_zps8b615955.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-12775025255624998422013-03-12T10:09:00.001-05:002013-03-12T10:09:08.047-05:00A is A<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thinking is not praying.</div>
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Caring is not praying.</div>
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Rejoicing is not praying. </div>
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Marveling is not praying. </div>
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Loving is not praying. </div>
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Worrying is not praying.</div>
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Crying is not praying.</div>
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Only praying is praying.</div>
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<br />Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-77255493037062420842013-03-11T09:25:00.000-05:002013-03-11T09:25:28.488-05:00Ad menopausumKatie is incorrect in referring to me as wise; it is precisely that lack of wisdom that keeps me talking. :P<br />
<br />
It is an honor to have been offered a soapbox at <a href="http://heremembersthebarren.com/2013/03/11/playing-god/" target="_blank">He Remembers the Barren</a> today. (You've bought <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1613270011/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=katieschue-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1613270011" target="_blank">this</a>, right? And <a href="http://www.cph.org/p-21751-pew-sisters.aspx" target="_blank">this</a>?)Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-70136046135037236562013-03-07T14:13:00.000-06:002013-03-07T14:13:07.216-06:00Learn from the animals<br />
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From a friend whose cat just had her
first litter of kittens:</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Buttercup had another baby at about
10:30pm, so 3 orange and 1 grey. She is a horrible
mother, all night I would wake up to kittens crying and she would
be sleeping soundly with me and not her kids. I am afraid I may
end up bottle feeding them. Mercy, what a little dummy.</blockquote>
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Buttercup, I am right there with you.
What you just been through sista! You need some SLEEPSES!</div>
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Rebekahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129136210164478753noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566055197730422533.post-63303680268438370402013-03-05T21:37:00.001-06:002013-03-05T21:38:54.087-06:00Trumpet needed<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A friend was telling me about the
disapproving glances she gets from certain older women at her church whenever
her kids get a bit rambunctious in the pew. She exclaimed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t want to be one of those old ladies—the fussy frowny type! I
want to be the wise kind, the kind that just rolls with everything, the kind
that has deep joy. </i>She paused, and then she added, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But I’m afraid—do I really want to go through what it takes to get
there? </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That, in my humble opinion, is an
entirely reasonable fear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once upon a time, I thought (or
perhaps merely hoped) that simply having a statistically above-average number
of children would be a sort of automatic piety-booster for me, a jump-start to
personal sanctification. I mean, how could I spend most of my waking (and some
of my would-be-sleeping) hours tending to the pressing needs of others, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>end up less selfish for it? Well…quite
easily, actually. Rebekah touched on the topic in <a href="http://concordiansisters.blogspot.com/2008/11/book-recommended-on-balance-acedia-me.html" target="_blank">this ye olde (but goode) poste.</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The terrible truth that I understand
more fully than I care to admit is that I can all too easily feel this crowd of
children pushing me, not toward a more pious dependence on the giver and
sustainer of life, not toward a life of selfless good deeds, but toward the
Other Edge instead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I should have known better, even all
those years ago. Doing what has to be done, simply because it has to be done,
is not a magic formula for personal piety. If I’m not careful, in fact, the
hodgepodge of daily duties combined with periodic crises (of childrearing and
of life in general) becomes the perfect recipe for resentment and even despair.
And too often, I’m not careful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yet <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m afraid—do I really want to go through what it takes to get there?</i>
goes even deeper than<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the constant war
that must be waged against crankiness. It goes down deep, to the basement closet
of a mother-heart—the door that we daily hurry past, shuddering, never opening
because we’re ashamed of the horrid things that lurk there. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m afraid—</i>what would happen to our
family if we got another kid like the complicated one (to say nothing of the
potential for more complicated complications)? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m afraid</i>—because after a miscarriage, there’s no such thing, ever
again, as a blithely-contemplated possibility of pregnancy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m afraid—</i>because as my children grow,
I realize anew just how little control I have over Outcomes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m afraid</i>—because I go through long dark
stretches where it seems like every day, my head sinks just a bit lower under
the waves, and how many times can I reasonably expect to add more ballast and go
under and yet come up again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m
afraid—</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">because I forget that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what it takes to get there </i>is, after
all, never anything more or less than the cross. <i><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=hebrews%2010:14&version=ESV" target="_blank">For by a single offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified</a></i>. Perfected for all time—safe in the Shepherd’s
hand; while yet being sanctified—treading this via dolorosa. To wish for an
easier way is only human; even our Lord himself did <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=matthew%2026:39&version=ESV" target="_blank">mention it wistfully once</a>.The answer, however, remains <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=matthew%2016:24&version=ESV" target="_blank">the same</a>.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What
it takes to get there </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">may prove
to be every miserable thing in that basement closet of mine. And more. But through
it all, I will yet remember to sing, even shout, that greatest of triumphant
rallying cries: <i><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=romans%208:31-39&version=ESV" target="_blank">Killed all the day long--More than conquerors!</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Find me a trumpet, someone; I’m
going to learn to blast out that anthem til the quivering closet slitheries cower
and realize the pitiful limits of their wretched reach. </span></div>
Reb. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06827521306898397100noreply@blogger.com4