On the day before our 18^th wedding anniversary, while Pa was hard at work at Northfield, I bought my own anniversary flowers at the grocery store.  I arranged them into three beautiful displays, and hope they live long enough so I can use them at the Northfield office this week for our open house.  Pa informed me upon his return from Northfield that he had been thinking of taking me to the grocery store to get some flowers.  But he didn’t.

Pa started today by singing ‘happy anniversary baby, got you on my mi-hind’.  Mere moments later, he told me I smelled like a cow.

What he meant was that I smelled like leather (or so he says), but given his advanced age, he couldn’t summon the world ‘leather’ when complimenting – er, commenting on – my aroma.  “Cow” doesn’t exactly bring to mind the most aromatic of smells.  Cow conjures up splat patties, methane-filled barns, mud-encrusted fur.   Perhaps I really do live on the prairie.

The day quickly went sideways when I came downstairs, presented Pa with the card I oh-so-thoughtfully procured from the drug store the day before our anniversary, only to receive nothing in return.  Nada.  No card.  Not expecting a gift, but NO CARD. 

In his defense, Pa exclaimed ‘but I was working at Northfield all day yesterday!’  Humph.  There are 364 additional days in the year in which he could have purchased a card for me, his true love.  Yes, I did mention this to him.

So Pa quickly set to the task of making me a card.  Not the construction paper and crayon kind known to spring from juvenile fingertips, but one from actual card-making software. 

In typical Pa-DIY fashion, Pa likes the freedom to craft his own prose.  Pa likes being able to quick-like-a-bunny run to the computer and make a card, when he hasn’t taken the time to go get one.  And Pa hates to spend money.  So I’ve received one of these cards on pretty much every momentous occasion since Pa discovered this software.

Why, just this past Christmas, Pa penned a lovely message, praising me for the sacrifices that are routinely mine in this family.  Like wearing socks with holes, or eating the food nobody else wants (the chilluns and Pa call me the family goat). 

But in his haste to complete my Christmas card, he forgot a critical step in card-making:  spell-check.   

My sacrifices became transformed into scarifices.

Pa did not have a ready definition for ‘Scarifices’.  I have been left to ponder the Freudian meaning and symbolism behind this transposition.  Did he really mean ‘scary faces?’  I do a mean chicken impression.  And a gorilla impression.  And pig noises.  And the evil eye.  Maybe I should stop now…

Perhaps he meant ‘scar faces.’  I do have a scar on my face, from a bike accident when I was 9 years old.  I forget about it, it’s faded so well.  I remember feeling like a total freak with the stitches and the healing process so prominently displayed on my face, right out there for all to see.  I remember my parents disagreeing about whether or not plastic surgery was needed, implying that my face would be hideous without it.

Or maybe what he really meant, in his kindly misspelled way, is that he really appreciates my sacrifices.  Being the coupon queen of America, eating the leftovers, driving a 14 year-old car (whenever I need to travel with a fire extinguisher onboard, that’s my limit.  That was my limit with the last car we replaced), all so we can keep our kids in their wonderful pioneer Christian school.  Working hard to open Northfield for residents and the weekend program, so other women trapped by the eating disorder demons can be set free, even though I’m paid no salary for what I do.  Or maybe it’s because he sees me lay aside my dreams and desires so others can achieve theirs. 

I am a blessed woman, and it’s not because Pa is going to purchase me anything encrusted with diamonds to make up for the stunning lack of a card this morning.  No, I am blessed because every day, he tells me he loves me, he tells me I’m beautiful, and he means it.  Of course, he can’t see without his glasses at all, but isn’t that just like God?  As I’m nearing that threshold of attractiveness, about to cross the Styx river of beauty, from which no one returns, Pa’s eyesight is failing in direct proportion and speed to the increase in wrinkles, age spots and gray hairs sprouting unsightly all over my pioneer body.

Thank you Lord, for 18 years of married life with Pa. 

In the midst of suffering, shame

In the midst of chaos, a clarion

Herald the coming of the Name.

In the midst of fury, forgiveness

One, amid obscurity

From tribulation, triumph

Earthly powers behold Purity.

In the midst of malice, mercy

Amid annihilation, Noel

In the midst of grief, God’s glory

Spirit bursts forth, now to dwell.

In the midst of violence, virtue

Begotten gentle dove

In the midst of murders, a manger

No purer form of love.

In the midst of evil, Emmanuel

Freeing souls from their captivity

In the midst of kings, the King

Princes prostrate before Nativity.

In the midst of atrocity, alleluia!

In the midst of pain, relief

In the midst of desperation, deliverance

for this unworthy thief.

In the midst of heartbreak, healing

Amid injustice, joy

Turning sorrows into solace

Greatest gift, sweet baby boy.

(c) Catherine Boyle 2002

Pa and I and the chilluns spent Thanksgiving in south Florida with relatives.  In case this is news to you, Pa hasn’t always lived on the prairie.  He hails from seafaring Florida stock, and has repeatedly attempted to kill me with watercraft.  Though this post is likewise about a near death experience, Pa is not wholly responsible.  Much to my dismay, my lucky fin is partly to blame.

Over the river and through the woods is the wimpy version of our bi-annual trek to tropical climes.  The overstuffed wagon can practically drive itself.  We routinely sojourn at all the same rest stops (which says something about the predictability of our liquid consumption), restaurants, hotels and gas stations.  We know if Pedro has put up a new sign to advertise South of the Border.  In this most recent trip, we learned that South of the Border has an actual spa.  I’d advise against testing the veracity of that claim.

Since our previous trip to Florida, the relatives procured a pair of kayaks.  The chilluns could not wait to try out said kayaks, and in fact were water-bound within 15 minutes of our arrival. 

I love the fact that the chilluns love the water.  Though a lifelong land-lubber, I have always been drawn to the peaceful rhythm of the ocean.  I don’t need to touch the ocean with any part of my person, but it is quite delightful to be ashore.

Shortly after the chilluns’ maiden kayaking voyage, Pa had his turn.  The chilluns and Pa all raved about the experience, and so encouraged me to become a kayaker.  Reality is that they all mercilessly heckled me until I agreed to drive-crew-steer-captain the kayak. 

Hard to believe, but true, I had already decided to give kayaking a try.  Our Florida locale is quiet water, just a simple dock moored in an imperceptibly moving watery bayou.  That, and people who can barely propel themselves on land routinely paddle softly past the in-laws’ home.

Getting into a kayak some four feet below the level of the dock without a ladder was a challenge, but Pa helped (while uttering some less than charitable expressions about my gracefulness).  With paddling skills honed from a recent parent-kid triathlon, I was soon moving forward. 

Twist, dunk, pull; twist, dunk, pull.  What could be more simple?

Pa advised me not to kayak alone (not entirely sure what THAT was about), so I dutifully followed the son towards a nearby sandbar.  Nearby is a relative term; in kayaking-distance it took about 15 minutes, or at least 5000 paddle strokes, but who’s counting?

Padding proudly past the verdant gardens and homesteads of fellow kayakers, my heart swelled with pride.  I was now one of the boat-people.  With every stroke and pull of the paddles, with every splash of sea water on my bottom, I was one with the water.

The kayaking excursion went ~ well, swimmingly ~ until the son exited the bayou into the churning intercoastal waterway.

The intercoastal is a series of bodies of water that are practically open ocean, water between barrier islands (such as the one where Pa grew up) and the mainland.  Jet skiers, power boats and touristy cruise ships zipped by in immediate proximity to the purposeful paddling of my son.

Bravely facing the danger ahead, I did exactly what any good pioneer would do:  I made the executive decision that my kayaking fanny needed to head back to land.

Go ahead, call me a chicken.  So I don’t love swimming in seawater; there’s nothing wrong with that! 

Turning my watercraft steadily 180 degrees, I heard faint shouts from my son.  I ignored them. 

Mere moments later, I had masterfully (okay, a little less than that) turned my kayak around.  Paddling back down my safe little bayou-bubble, I agreed with myself that this was the most sane course of action.  No need to get too crazy with the first kayaking expedition.  No need to kayak into white water or even water with a hint of chop.

Nearing the family dock, I summoned Pa with my lovely lilting voice.  (Pa does a heartless mocking impression of my voice, something akin to a screeching chicken.  The things I endure.).  Pa arrived, chided me for deserting the son, and instructed me how to decamp from the kayak. 

On an unstable object on actual moving water. Where there’s no ladder.  Four feet below the dock.

I’m not sure how any human is supposed to actually do this, much less one who has just become a true ‘boat person’, but this was my task. 

You can guess the rest.

I really became one with the water.

Blame it on Pa (who to his credit was able to retrieve me from the water in spite of his obvious amusement with the situation), blame it on kayaking inexperience, blame it on my lucky fin.  I’m clearly imbalanced as it is, with this short right leg that has caused multiple years of pain and suffering, and required a small army of doctors, treatments and physical therapy.  But stop your mockery right there!  ‘Imbalanced’ does not apply to my mind.

Given the way I over-think most things, it didn’t take too long to start looking for a lesson in this traumatic experience.  Was my ‘unexpected bath’ merely a reminder of my lack of physical grace?  Did my refusal to kayak mean that I really do lack courage?  Even if Pa and the son thought it wimpy, wouldn’t my life insurance agent be happy with my kayaking decision?

I’m in an intense season of life.  It’s not just Thanksgiving-Christmas-one kid birthday-one Pa birthday-our wedding anniversary season, it’s crazy get Northfield Cumberland Home open season too.  And it’s the end of the year, a time when this big head tends to think too much about goals accomplished and goals yet to attain.

My experience ‘in the drink’ so to speak reminds me of not just one, but the sum of my life’s spiritual lessons.  When I avoid the turbulence long enough, eventually I get thrown right smack into the middle of it, oftentimes not of my own choosing.  I can’t forever avoid getting wet or messy.  Much as I want my life, my person, my house (which is still not 100% ‘back’ since we finished the floors) to be perfectly ordered, that seems not to be God’s preferred means to accomplishing His will.  I have my lucky fin and quite a few other weaknesses that throw me off balance, rocking my tidy little world. 

Being in ministry is to at once live in the middle of turbulent white water chop, while at the same time, experience superseding peace (most days anyway).  In some ways there’s more inner calm when there’s more turbulence.  The turbulence paradoxically proves that I’m on the right track, for I’m living what Christ promised real believers. 

I can laugh about the kayaking mishap now; I’m sure it was hilarious to watch.  God frequently proves to me that He has quite the sense of humor.  So go ahead, join Pa and the chilluns ~ and me ~ and apparently the Lord Almighty ~ in chuckling over my kayaking finesse.  Even though I don’t always enjoy rough waters, and I really hate being cold AND wet, somehow this is exactly where He wants me. 

Now, can anyone tell me where to find a good deal on a dock ladder?

My natural bent for quickly devouring and dissecting books took over with Wagon of Fools, leading to a snap judgment of its tone and intentions.  Too preachy, too transparent, blatant proselytizing.  At once repellant and magnetic, even for me, an evangelical Christian. 

But then I read page 2.  And page 3.  And the longer I read, the more I was moved, the more I felt the author’s heart.  Like very few other books I’ve read, Wagon of Fools left that indelible impression of an author who has gone deep places with God, places of sorrows and joys that most people will never know.  Insights of this depth are hard-won badges of spiritual honor.  The spiritual tone of Wagon of Fools constantly reminded me of The Shack.  Both authors have swum in the deep end with God.

The author wrote under a pseudonym, understandably so.  I suspect that he or she is closely associated with the secular Jewish worldview dominant in American Judaism and even in Israeli culture.  Truth is usually poorly received, especially when delivered by one of your own.  The desperate hope of this author is clearly to tear off the blinders from those who will not listen to his voice.

Wagon of Fools contains seven short stories, ranging from topics as diverse as autism, secular Judaism and Christianity, miraculous provision for Jewish refugees in World War II-ravaged Europe to the story of an unloved wife.  Threaded throughout the stories are searing insights seldom seen in print. 

In the first story ~ the one I initially judged too harshly ~ this Christian was reminded that the rest of the world doesn’t think like me.  The narrator remarks that “unlike the people in the village – even the Rebbe (rabbi) – my father thought one could talk with God like a man talks with his friend.”   Of course, I DO talk with God as with a friend.  But many of my neighbors and friends don’t think this is possible.  I know this intellectually, but seldom deeply absorb this truth in my open yet somehow still-insulated world.

“Macushla,” the story of the unloved wife, is peppered with poignant prose:  “…[Macushla] wondered why it sometimes required pain and blood and loss for…flashes of insight to penetrate the human consciousness” and “when hope dies, self-discipline carries out the casket.”  Methinks the author knows of which he speaks.

Other truth and wisdom threaded throughout the book included “…A true heart loves best that which most reflects God’s own heart”;   “…death had been used to heal death as sin is sometimes used to kill sin” and  “if we have the heart to do His will, He will make known to us what that will is.” 

The most powerful if impossibly improbable story dealt with autism.  “When Revelation Kissed Reason” described autism as a “…concentrated symbolic manifestation in one human being of mankind’s condition without God…” and “…an analogy physically manifested in the lives and behavior of autistic children that represented mankind’s spiritual condition apart from God.”  We are utterly helpless without God; we are all like autistic children when we navigate this world without Him. 

If you allow it, Wagon of Fools will peel off your blinders.  Without Christ, we’re all the unloved wife; we’re all the refugees hiding from a cruel and savage tyrant, who wants to steal, destroy and kill us.  We’re just a group of fools, fumbling around without understanding without Him as our guide.

Samuel Benjamin Gray (whatever your real name is), you have artfully and thoughtfully made your points.  May those for whom you care so deeply receive this work in the spirit in which it is presented.

A review copy of Wagon of Fools was provided by the publisher through www.bookcrash.com.

With all the media focus on OPM (pronounced ‘opium’, and just as addictive), whether it’s government graft, Wall Street excesses or the clueless occupiers (almost all of whom are living off someone else’s worked-for funds), it’s no surprise Hollywood has recently released a movie titled ‘Margin Call.’  Truth be told, I’d never heard of it until writing this post.  What a shocker:  the plotline revolves around a financial crisis at an investment bank.

Though our investments are as solid as investments can be these days, much to my dismay, the rest of our life seems to be operating without a margin. 

Flying without a net.  Hit it and get it.  Hardly any time for analysis, much less analysis paralysis.

There’s the mandatory carpooling and grocery shopping and food prep and medical visits and homework help and problem solving that goes with the territory of kids.  There’s the nearly endless floor project that will almost certainly steal my sanity if it extends beyond Thanksgiving.  There’s the cheerful wifey stuff I should but rarely ever do, irritating the ever patient-Pa.  Nothing X-rated in that comment.  When it’s time to collapse at night, I want to snuggle with the feline for a few moments.  There’s not room for the feline AND Pa.

There’s my work with Northfield; so close to opening, and yet so far away.  Most of our issues would be resolved with money.  Brother or sister, can you spare a dime?  Or 20 or 30,000? 

And then there’s my writing.  Right where you can’t see it, there’s a book being birthed, made up of madcap adventures on the prairie.  Only time I seem to write is times like now (when I’m supposed to be cheering my kids at a sporting event; here comes the guilt) or sometime prior to 6am. 

So on this day of too many things demanding more than I can give, I throw my hands up and pray Lord, be my margin.  You’ve promised to be my rest.  Thank you because I have energy for all of these crazy things, when even a year ago (as my kids put it) my legs didn’t work after 8:30pm. 

Thank you for leading me and refreshing me every time I spend time in your word, even when my prayers are mostly missiles, too much like barked orders, rather than a languid conversation over a hot cup of tea.  Maybe it’s better this way.  Those missiles are usually launched from a spiritual posture of clinging to your feet.

Lord, be my margin.

But Pa keeps me grounded.  He’s always there, with a quick smile and quick wit, often at my expense.

Take for example, his recent amusement.  While driving to an unscheduled appointment for the car (how dare the car need work when we’re so busy!!), Pa burst into laughter because of a very miniscule, technically insignificant flaw in my personhood.

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, part of my body sprouted one virtually microscopic hair, truly invisible to anyone other than a close family member, which Pa found at once hilarious and hag-like.

Alas, this small, atom-sized hair grew from a small imperfection on my otherwise very young and very firm neck.

In his great kindness (or lack thereof ~ you be the judge), Pa declared that I had a new career on the horizon:  female singer with the band ZZ Top.

Pa is a fine one to speak of physical imperfections.  Though he does not bear many signs of the dreaded abdominal apron known to plague inactive pioneers, he has his flaws. 

One of his flaws just happens to reside not in an infinitesimal tucked-away spot on his neck, but right out in the open, in the middle of his face.

That’s right, Pa has an Albert Einstein eyebrow.

This growth, were it left untrimmed, could easily annihilate anyone within a 3 foot radius of his head. 

In the many years of our marriage and life on the prairie, I’ve come to realize that spouses are in our lives, in part, to keep the other one humble.  Children serve that function too, but in a lesser way than a spouse.

When the daughter informs me how ancient I look and that I need a Lifestyle Lift TODAY, I hug her and kiss her.  She’s still young and naïve. 

When Pa offers ‘constructive criticism,’ in his special loving way, I take that seriously.  I do what any good wife does:   pretend to listen.  With appropriate facial expression, his voice is just a dull roar in my ears.  Just kidding, Pa!

I’ve heard it said that we come into this world as square pegs, but our experiences and those we live with help smooth off those rough corners. If I’m square, I don’t move well, get stuck even in ruts that are shallow.  But as a round ball, I can go just about anywhere, up and over anything. 

This is what a good spouse, some good friends and a good God can do.

Now it’s easy to give out the kind of helpful ZZ-Top-esque comments that Pa dishes out, but it’s not so easy to take them.  But good spouses (and at least a few children putting you in your place) are a great way to build your humility. 

Humility is one of those gifts of the Holy Spirit that is most noticeably in short supply outside the body of Christ.  Those who aren’t spirit-led find it difficult to be polite and patient; those who are spirit-led feed from a spring that holds tempers and refrains from being foolish.  You can’t manufacture humility.  It comes from time spent in the Word and time spent talking with Him. 

I struggle to have a daily quiet time.  I could fill 24 hours of every day with work I need to do for someone else, probably for the next year, and not be finished.  My favorite quiet time is spent reading my Bible for 15 or so minutes, looking up select Hebrew or Greek words, mulling over the meanings, then typing my prayers in an electronic journal for 30 minutes.  I consider it a luxurious vacation to have that kind of opportunity once a month.

Though I rarely get this time I love, God continually feeds me from the time invested in relationship with Him.  Knowing Him and seeing Him with more clarity has yielded stunning epiphanies that are always paired with a greater sense of my smallness.

Humble souls stand out starkly, because they’re in such short supply.  It’s hard to even talk about humility (is it humble to think you might have some?), but it’s a character-quality that is revealed in a thousand little ways every day.

Pa and I have both met random people on airplanes who clearly thought we were extraordinary, mostly because we were interested in them, rather than just talking about ourselves.  A fellow traveler once thought Pa was a pastor because of the way he spoke of his nuclear family and his church family.  A 70-something French woman declared that I was not like most Americans (nor like the British). 

So while I struggle to have that time for reflection, reality is that whenever I seek Him with all that I am, my whole life becomes worship.  When times are too crazy for my luxurious prayers, in my seeking Him God oozes out anyway, filling me to overflow.  He’s faithful to pay a return on my time investment.

I can’t quite figure out why He deems it important to give me random hideous hairs at this stage of life, but perhaps those stray vestiges of ugly are there to keep me on my knees and looking up, all at once.

Pretty lovely arrangement, wouldn’t you agree?

I’ve read hundreds, perhaps thousands of articles about all aspects of 9/11.  I’ve watched countless television programs about the events of the day, the perspectives of the leaders and the spouses of the heroes and those who have analyzed the events from every conceivable direction.

The chilluns and Pa can’t understand why I watch and read so much about this, and, truth be told, I don’t totally understand it either.  Maybe it’s because what happened on 9/11/01 is so aligned with the biblical judgment God warns about, inflicted by our enemies when we leave His path.  Maybe it’s because I’ve always had such a big sense of God’s judgment, but less so of His mercy.

Some aspects of 9/11 remain very unsettled in my spirit.  I don’t believe our government perpetrated this atrocity, yet the collapses of three buildings (that’s right, three, not just two) defy the laws of physics.  Did God in His mercy allowed the buildings to come down like a controlled demolition, or was something more sinister at work? 

So on this anniversary, I feel compelled to share my experience and perspective.  Perhaps in telling you my 9/11 story the unknown forces that nag at my spirit will be quieted.

My 9/11 story starts much earlier, in 1990.  That year, I came to a real relationship with Christ, invigorating every aspect of my life.  Life made more sense and held more promise than ever before.

I stayed on the mountaintop with Christ for quite a while, but eventually I had to come down.  Nothing grows on the mountaintops, so God thrust me back into the valley where my faith muscles could grow strong, where I would be tested and strengthened and learn to run the great race He puts before all believers.

Off the mountaintop, old familiar disappointments crowded my view.  Single, bored with my career and tired of feeling like I was marking time, I began a quest for a new life in a new city.  New York City.  So early in 1992, thinking that God wanted me to go, I began my quest.

For several years, I had worked with investment bankers and bond salesmen and women in New York and Washington.  So I culled my contacts and learned of job openings and set up interviews.

My first interview was in February, 1992, on the 97^th floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center (WTC).  Sumitomo Bank occupied several of the uppermost floors of the building.

Two weeks later, I had a second interview in the same offices. 

Eventually, a hiring decision was made.  I was not offered the job.

I had several other interviews during this time, but did not receive any job offers.  The lack of Ivy League connections certainly did not work in my favor.

A few weeks passed.  I met my husband, future Pa.  We began dating and immediately knew our relationship mattered, to both of us. 

In a few more weeks, I was contacted by an executive recruiter about another New York City job.  After some deliberation, I decided not to pursue it.  I chose another path God laid before me, the one towards life on the prairie as Mrs. Pa.

For four more years, I continued working with bankers and analysts based in New York City.  Pa and I got married and had two munchkins. 

Early on the morning of September 11, 2001, I took our oldest to preschool, then headed to a ‘Mommy and Me’ gymnastics class with our youngest.  Shortly after the class began, another mom and child arrived late.  Apologizing for her tardiness, she dropped a bombshell:  two planes had hit the World Trade Center and another had struck the Pentagon.

Nearly frozen with fear, I went through the motions of the class with my child, barely able to resist leaving early.  Then no customary post-class camaraderie; with somber faces the teacher, parents and children all hurried to leave.

Arriving home shortly after 10am, I put on a children’s movie for my daughter and turned on the news.  Images that have since become part of our nation’s legacy filled the screen.  Horrors multiplied before my and every other viewer’s eyes: living people made the horrific choice to jump out of an inferno to another form of certain death, 1000 feet below.

I burst into tears.  And I didn’t stop crying for 4 days.

When the first building collapsed, I sobbed loudly.  My almost 2-year old came into the room where I was transfixed by the world ending.  She burst into tears because she had never seen her mother so distraught. 

I pulled myself together enough to mother my child.  And to pick up my other child from preschool, and muddle through the day until my husband came home from work.  After dinner, letting our children play at the end of an inappropriately beautiful day, the silence outdoors spoke volumes.  No one in our neighborhood was driving or even outside.  Everyone was indoors, watching television, trying to make sense of the new reality.

The following night, like so many other churches, ours held a special prayer service.  Mere moments into the prayers and scripture readings, I bolted to the restroom, choking back sobs. 

On Friday, September 14, like many Americans I watched the service at the National Cathedral.  What struck me hard was the realization that every critical position in our government would have been held by a different person had the 2000 election gone the other way.  No wonder the battle for the presidency had been so fierce, no wonder I had been prompted to pray for the outcome so strongly for several months before the actual election.

After the service, I forced myself to stop crying.  My children needed me.  My husband couldn’t understand the depth of my grief.  I couldn’t explain it to him because I didn’t get it either.

As the weeks went by, curiosities began to unfold, passed around in emails in the days before Facebook.  Photos of demonic images in the billowing WTC smoke were commonly shared and easily accessible on the internet.  One photo, the image of a dark haired man from the waist up, has haunted me all these years.  No, he didn’t look like Osama bin Laden, but he was terrifying nonetheless.  I’ve only seen the photo once, on a news website in September 2001.  I’ve looked diligently for it in recent years but can’t find it.

And then there was the epiphany about the James Taylor song, ‘Fire and Rain.’  News articles were written about the eerie pertinence to that beautiful September day, a sunny day that we all thought would never end.  One article theorized that perhaps God allowed the song to be written when He did so that it would be in our national consciousness, as a means to comfort us, even in the horror of it all.  James Taylor certainly could not have known the prophetic implications of his song when he wrote it. 

Long amazed by the power of scripture, Isaiah 33 rocked my world when I read the words of verses 18-19 several weeks after 9/11, in the NIV: 

In your thoughts you will ponder the former terror:
   “Where is that chief officer?
Where is the one who took the revenue?
   Where is the officer in charge of the towers?
¹⁹ You will see those arrogant people no more,
   people whose speech is obscure,
   whose language is strange and incomprehensible.

English, with its blend of speech and culture has long been regarded as one of the most difficult, even incomprehensible languages in the history of mankind.  And arrogance is practically a virtue in America.

Could Isaiah have known what he saw?  Could any of the prophets?  No, and I don’t think it matters.  I read recently that until the last 200 years biblical scholars believed that every passage of scripture had at least 4 meanings.  At a minimum, scripture pertains to the past, present, prophetic and personal. 

In those early months after 9/11, I mentioned these verses to a few people.  Most quickly said ‘no way, that has nothing to do with 9/11’.  I think the horror of what had happened was too fresh, too severe.  It took some time for most of us to accept that God had known about these attacks, yet in His sovereignty He let them happen anyway.

September moved into October, then November.  Throughout that fall, like many Americans, I grieved.  I felt as if previous goals and dreams no longer mattered.  But in time, I came to see that God was going to lead us through this new normal.  He allowed one event to shape not only the course of our nation, but to steer those who love and follow Him in the way He wants us to go. 

Though I could have been working in New York, God ordained ‘not so.’  I don’t know why; I just have to trust that God has His reasons.

God doesn’t love me more because I chose not to move to New York City.  He doesn’t love the people who died in the WTC less because they were there.  For many just like me, so aware of my own shortcomings and failings, God allowed this moment of national judgment so I’d paradoxically better understand His mercy.

Whenever I reflect on 9/11/01, I’m reminded that my job is to live each day with fervor and passion, equal to my first love on that mountaintop.  His plans for me are not the same as His plans for those who died that day.  And though I rightly grieved for those who died and their families who remain, my grief was not meant to last forever.  I have more work to do; my work matters.  The race He set before me in 1992 and 2001 and today is far from over. 

The same is true for you.

Unplanned pregnancy cuts across all socio-economic groups, ethnicities and faith backgrounds.  Growing up in church or being a Christian often makes little difference when it comes to this issue. 

Among my friends and acquaintances (many of them ‘churched’), there have been many abortions.  I chaired a women’s retreat several years ago, and over the course of the retreat, learned that six of ten women in one small group had had abortions.

I’ve known two women who gave up a baby for adoption.  Several others kept their babies, some as single moms, the rest got married.  My own husband was born to an unwed teenager, and adopted at birth.

I do not condemn, I feel compassion.  But for God’s grace, these choices could have been mine. Interestingly, Jesus was not especially harsh towards those with sexual sin.  He knew our fleshly weaknesses, and our overwhelming desire for intimacy. (Hungry Souls: What the Bible Says About Eating Disorder, page 100).

Deliver Me is relevant to the work I and others do through Northfield Ministries because of the connection between abusive relationships in the past and dysfunctional relationships in the present.  Dysfunction and abuse take many forms, whether emotional, verbal, physical or sexual.  Each of these can contribute to a young woman unwittingly seeking comfort and love but settling for sex and finding herself pregnant.  Each of these contributes to the development of an eating disorder. 

Sexual abuse is an important building block for eating disorder. At Northfield Ministries, we have learned anecdotally and from many therapists that upwards of 70% of eating disordered women have been sexually abused.  Improper sexuality is connected to eating disorder and can easily lead to unplanned pregnancy.

Whether or not a woman has been abused, there is a fundamental connection between eating disorder and sexual disorder.  Sexuality is completely entangled with the view of self, and view of self is completely entangled with disordered eating.  To quote Hungry Souls again, “It is much easier for women with eating disorder to redefine boundaries in other areas of life, particularly regarding sexuality, if they believe they have escaped God’s boundaries for food.” (Page 105).

What was great about this book:  Dianne Butts compiled and edited Deliver Me.  Ms. Butts is a writer and passionate supporter of pregnancy resource centers (PRC), having served on the board of directors such a facility in Colorado.  The stories selected for the book were not the usual fare of just ‘a girl in trouble,’ but stories from the perspective of every individual involved in an unplanned pregnancy, including the father, grandparents, and even the PRC workers.

Real stories are compelling, and one of the most compelling yet subtle components of the book was the volume of stories written by PRC workers who had themselves experienced unplanned pregnancy.  Whether they struggled with post-abortion syndrome or merely sought redemption by preventing further abortions, they each lived out the importance of 2 Corinthians 1:3-7, comforting others with the comfort we’ve received from God, and from people. And the sheer volume of these people now working at a PRC bears witness to the powerful need for redemption felt by individuals who have chosen to abort, even years after the fact.

Deliver Me provided excellent statistical references on a variety of issues surrounding unplanned pregnancy.  Poorly educated, young, low-income, non-white females choose abortion far more often than any other group, making abortion a de facto means of birth control for this population.  These women often lack full knowledge of the facts of pregnancy, resulting in an essentially uninformed choice to abort.  Not surprisingly, the statistics and commentary strongly suggest that free ultrasounds offered by many PRC’s persuade most women to choose life for their child. 

Other meaningful statistics in the book indicate that fewer than 1% of abortions occur due to rape or incest.  Perhaps abortions for these reasons are underreported, but perhaps this isn’t the enormous problem that abortion proponents would like everyone to believe.

The stories were sympathetic to the plight of poor women who feel trapped with no good options.  Highlighted in at least two stories were the cries of two women who believed that the PRC workers only cared about the unborn babies, but not about the women themselves.  Recent rebranding of ‘crisis pregnancy centers’ to ‘pregnancy resource centers’ conveys that the PRC’s exist to care for the welfare of every person involved in the pregnancy, not just the unborn child.   Deliver Me gave examples of the various services offered by PRC’s, ranging from parenting classes to help finding housing to adoption resources.  And PRC’s  post-abortion healing and recovery groups offer a much needed resource in a country where more than 40% of women will experience abortion.

Deliver Me also highlights excellent resource materials at the end of each chapter and as end notes for the book.

Could use some work:   Deliver Me contains some typographical errors and questionable layout flow from one topic to the next.  I’m a bookish girl, and those things bug me.  Connections Press should edit their next book more carefully.  But don’t let some typos detract from the message.   

Recommended reading?  Yes

Next time I see my friends who volunteer at PRC’s, I’m going to give them special hugs.  They are the unsung heroes of the good work that God is doing through PRC’s.  God will undoubtedly use Deliver Me to make decisions for life, both for the unborn and for those who have made a choice they cannot undo. 

A complimentary copy of Deliver Me was provided for review by the publisher through www.bookcrash.com.

In spite of our pioneer lifestyle, I do not relish letting go of the luxuries to which we’ve become accustomed.  And truth be told, Pa and me and the chilluns did not suffer much more than inconvenience in the past week.  

Though we felt the earthquake, it did no damage to Little House nor most structures in our community, and was truly inconsequential by California standards.  Pa and I experienced ‘the big one’ in 1994 in Los Angeles en route to Hawaii for our honeymoon.  And yes, we have heard every stinkin’ comment about the earth moving on our honeymoon.

Though we lost power pretty early on in the hurricane, some aspects of the powerless days were downright delightful.  We had the pleasure of eating hot dogs by candlelight.  Pa and son got to flex their MacGyver skills when we realized that nary a match nor lighter could be found in Little House when we needed fire; fortunately, in their improvisation, nothing exploded.  We made up a goofy word association game in which the one who loses is the one who laughs first.  Pa divulged to us all during said game that he cannot maintain a straight face upon hearing the word ‘bodacious’ or the word ‘kilt’ (when spoken just after the word ‘Scottish’).  The teenage son now knows the definition of ‘bodacious,’ which promptly became one of his favorite words.

Some aspects of the last week I deliberately choose to view in a positive light.  The melting of various foodstuffs not hauled to the neighbors is merely God’s way of confirming that yes, it truly is time to defrost and clean out the refrigerator and freezers.  And the absolute joy on the faces of my children upon the return of the electricity indicated that temporary deprivation was for them a useful lesson.  And I will not permit myself to dwell on the fact that Pa owns every tool known to man but we do not own a generator.

As the powerless days and downed-tree cleanup have drug on (and on and on) for some, delightful is the very last adjective most in my community would use to describe this time.

Proof of this sentiment came in a quick shopping trip to the local Target.  In one ten-minute excursion, I heard and saw multiple crying children, screaming parents and a plethora of grumpy expressions.  One shopper wore a shirt clearly spoofing the ‘Life is Good’ shirt series; her shirt said ‘Life is Crap’.  Her facial expression supported the thesis of the shirt.

I have great empathy for deprivation.  Remember, I’m the one who could barely reach the underwear drawer for nigh unto a month!  Until the last few days, the interior of Little House looked like a tornado blew through, due to the floor replacement project.  Happily, Pa and I are back in our own space.  The project is slowly gaining traction, brought forth, like all children and projects, with at least a pound of my flesh.

But the shopping trip and comments by many over circumstances for which we have no control have led me to the sad realization that the majority of us are total wimps.  How did we ever descend from people who sailed across an entire ocean for months on end without fresh food, fresh water, bathrooms, beds, chairs, or any privacy whatsoever?

I conclude that God likes to throw a monkey-wrench into our plans, just so we remember who’s really in charge.  Natural disasters remind me that man plans, but God laughs.  I don’t believe He’s allowing hissy-fits of nature to punish or merely provoke, but I do believe there is a message from Him to us in such circumstances.  We ignore His instruction at our own peril.

In Genesis 1:2, God tells us that the earth was formless and void.  Tohuw, the Hebrew word for formless, means desolate, empty, confused, emptiness, vanity, wasteness.  The word ‘was’ (hayah), rather than just being past tense, suggests a progression:  it came to pass, it became.  Void means just plain old darkness.

So way back when, the earth became less than what God originally had in mind.  It became a dark place, desolate and confused.  It was a waste.

Sounds kind of like the world today!

Could it be that the apparent increase in natural disasters worldwide are not merely Gaia earth rejecting the abuse of trees and woodland creatures, but a God-driven cleansing, a herald for what God promises will come at the end of His-story as recorded in His book?

In the original creation, as we know it, if the earth went from formless and void to filled with creatures and oceans and the Himalayas and Alps and the Grand Canyon, there must have been some pretty traumatic activity taking place.  For God to get everything into position, there must have been a lot of crazy movement…like earthquakes and hurricanes. 

God is definitely shaking things up.  But this time, He’s moving everything around to prepare for something bigger than the mere creation of earth.  What’s coming is not just new mountains or volcanoes or land formations, but the return of a King.  Not just any king, but THE King.  He’s preparing the hearts of His children and even the very earth upon which we live and move for a new Heaven and a new earth, whether here or somewhere else.

My pastor says that when God shakes things up, it reveals what’s most true in my life and changes my perspective.  So the next time the earth throws a hissy-fit, remember, it’s not time to do likewise.  Rather than entertain you or dismay you with a temper tantrum in Target, I think I’ll spend my time holding my temper and helping my neighbors and relishing my relationship with the one and only all-powerful God.

The really insidious part of this project is that it’s inside.  At least last year’s ridiculously difficult, time-consuming giant project and all of the accompanying pieces and parts had the decency to stay outdoors.

No, this project is the very definition of ‘Renovation Hell.’

Don’t believe me?  How’s this for a small list of this project’s flaws?  Tools that don’t work; floor staples that bend instead of entering straight into the wood, requiring me (yes, me, not Pa, but me) to go to a tool store in the ‘scary’ part of town; splits in expensive, difficult to replace wood.  Several days ago, earnestly doing my part to move this project forward, I lobbed a mallet with all my might into my left index finger, which was holding a crowbar.  (Stitches were optional).  Because of this *$#%* project I can barely reach my underwear and I can’t walk through most of my house.  In fact, the interior of Little House currently looks like the most beautifully decorated lumberyard ~ and site of a future Hoarders episode ~ you’ve ever seen.

Oh, we’ve had some laughs because of this project.  Well, maybe one.  Last week, Pa had to quickly move down a hallway stuffed full of furniture to his home office (HIS office, not mine.  Mine is in the kitchen, where I can be barefoot, unpregnant, and make him a sandwich at any moment) when he became trapped in the small space between wall and underwear drawer.  Arms in spread eagle position, one hand holding an uncovered glass of soda and the other suspending a plate full of food, he cried out for help, unable to circumnavigate the maze.

Two weeks into this project, Pa and I (and the chilluns) are weary of the slow progress.  Weary from heavy lifting, unexpected delays and tedious work.

Reminds me of actual Hell.

Hell is one of those concepts that is frequently bantered about, even discussed quite seriously, but is still just a concept.  As long as Hell shows up outside your life, like a Far Side cartoon, it’s kind of okay.  But once Hell comes inside your inner life, you can’t think of anything else.   See why the renovation project is analogous to Hell?

Wimpy people often describe situations that are ‘hell’ (oh no ~ does that include the floor project?).  People can be hellish to deal with.  One weather-related joke has made its way across the entire US this summer (Satan wants his weather back).  My kids like to say ‘Hell’ because it’s a pseudo-cuss word that they can get away with saying without a sharp look from “Oh Great and Mighty Feared One” (that would be me).

But in the past few years, Hell has been discussed much more seriously in a much more damaging way.  Hell as an afterlife reality has gone quite out of fashion.

Several books in the marketplace right now essentially state there is eternal reconciliation for ALL, since Christ died for ALL the sins of ALL time. 

I haven’t yet read an entire book on this subject, just bits and pieces.  And I have no problem with serious controversial study of scripture (ever read a book called Hungry Souls?).  I certainly believe that Christ died for the sins of all people, for all time.  Even Hitler.  Even bin Laden.  Even me.

But somehow, in the analysis of Hell, Christian Universalists and those of similar views overlook the godly premium on personal choice.  And tragically, this outlook negates the desperate need to go tell the rest of the world about Jesus.

The logic of Christ ‘dying for all sins, therefore all will eventually be saved’ falls apart in Christ’s admonition to tell the whole world about the gospel.  Christ wouldn’t have implored his followers to not fear man but to fear the One who can send your soul to Hell if it weren’t true.  The first century disciples certainly went out of their way, to their very deaths, to risk telling people who really didn’t want to hear about Jesus and Hell that both the man and the place are real.

The entire point of evangelism is moot if we have no part whatsoever in our afterlife.  Satan wouldn’t have worked so very hard from the beginning of creation to divert humanity from God’s way if there isn’t an eternal reason.

I don’t relish the idea that some people I know will go to Hell.  (For the record, I don’t know who you are).  It’s unthinkable.  God means for it to be this way to motivate me.  This is also why Hell ~ and speaking out against sin in general ~ is so unfashionable.  No one wants to think they or the ones they love will end up in Hell.

For those living apart from relationship with God, life can only be unbearable Hell, a series of disappointments, frustrations and disconnected purposeless events.  For those of us who have found our lives by losing our lives in relationship with Him, we’ll never know Hell, because Heaven starts the instant we are His.  I take great comfort knowing this is true.

Thank you Lord, that all of your followers will never know Hell.  Including me.  And since I’m counting all things joy, I grudgingly thank you for the spiteful Brazilian Cherry which gives me a much clearer picture of what I’ll be missing!