Deuteronomy 5:12"Observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy, as the LORD your God has commanded you.
Exodus 31:14" 'Observe the Sabbath, because it is holy to you. Anyone who desecrates it must be put to death; whoever does any work on that day must be cut off from his people.
Exodus 16:23He said to them, "This is what the LORD commanded: 'Tomorrow is to be a day of rest, a holy Sabbath to the LORD. So bake what you want to bake and boil what you want to boil. Save whatever is left and keep it until morning.' "
Jeremiah 17:22Do not bring a load out of your houses or do any work on the Sabbath, but keep the Sabbath day holy, as I commanded your forefathers.Jeremiah 17:22Do not bring a load out of your houses or do any work on the Sabbath, but keep the Sabbath day holy, as I commanded your forefathers.
Mark 2:26-28 the days of Abiathar the high priest, he entered the house of God and ate the consecrated bread, which is lawful only for priests to eat. And he also gave some to his companions." Then he said to them, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. So the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath."
It is a joke for women of small (or many) children that Sunday is a day of rest... and yet our Lord reminds us that the Sabbath was created for us.
Our responsibilities don't end on Sunday. In fact Sundays can be congested with getting children ready and transported to church, the feeding of families and the tending of homes. Even when laundry and and vacuuming are abstained from there is a great deal to do daily. So how are we women to carefully observe the day of our Lord and keep it holy?
It is a struggle and I am sure it is no accident that the pull of Monday exerts strong control over even the atmosphere of even the most leisurely of Sunday afternoons. The modern life tries to fit as much as possible into our weeks, and the eve of those weeks could be seen as prep day. Those of us who own businesses have the added burden of keeping that running while maintaining a sane home life, and for those of us who also homeschool it is a trial to not try to "get ahead" on this day set aside for rest. It is a challenge to NOT shop on Sundays. It requires more planning on Thursday or Friday to be prepared through Monday. It is a challenge to swim upstream against a society who would love to conduct business with us on the Lord's day, treating it like any other day of the week, degrading it.
Our family has resisted the invitations to sporting events on Sundays. That means no club teams. For many families whose children are physically gifted and wish to pursue specific sports for recreation this would not be an option. For our family this would not work. For others they see it as a time to spend time together encouraging one another.
In my personal time I try to keep Sunday holy by consciously avoiding talking on the phone of planning meeting for the time, and trying to control the media I read. I find my psyche needs a break from the worldly news, the trials and pains for a day. I try and be purposeful in my prayer.
Still, I am an exhausted person who cries out to pursue hobbies that I have little energy for. I find myself more frustrated on Sundays than on other days of the week as I try and find an hour to myself, a moment of peace and quiet. I struggle with feeling selfish when I try and take some time, angry that the neighbor has to run his lawnmower and disturb the quiet I finally found outside, annoyed when telemarketers call and interrupt dinner... Am I angry because there are so few like minded people in my life outside of church?
I desire for my children on the Sabbath to have peace in their hearts that they might get the joy and refreshment that comes from resting in the Lord. I desire that for myself as I have such a hard time putting down my spoon, my car keys, my wallet for today so that I can take up the opportunity to be replenished spiritually for the week to come. Why is it so hard for me? Do I so need to control the aspects of my life that I feel out of control of that fear of being able to fulfill all my responsibilities dominates the time I should spend resting?
I pray that I am able to allow myself to be used and perfected by the spirit of the Lord so I can have a greater depth of understanding of how He would like me to observe His day.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
surprise
"Are they all yours?" Her Russian accent curled the "r" around her mouth as she stood slightly stooped over the table to take our drink orders. Yes, I replied, inwardly cringing at what the next response would be, they are. "Oh, well God bless you!" she said.
My shoulders release, my curses bitten back I ask for an iced tea.
My shoulders release, my curses bitten back I ask for an iced tea.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A new heart address
I am not a mover. Nope. When I live in a place I put down roots- sometimes literally- with plantings, but I really get into that home. I was a pink bundle carried over the threshold where I called home until I was 21. College years excluded, I do not fancy changing addresses. Part practicality (bloom where you are planted), part entrenchment ( I am NOT updating my address book again and getting boxes!!) it is nonetheless a part of who I am.
In the evening when I survey my yard, my front door, listen to the hum of my children inside I feel a thrill inside- a warmth. I feel like I am at home. I am not one to imagine myself pulling up roots and sailing away to some far off place just because- too impractical, expensive, self-centered. I have parents here who need me, and whose needs in the future I anticipate will increase. I have built a life in this community. I love to travel; the smells, the different language, the dialects- they all beguile me. But home is sweetest- after all my sweet heart is there and my heart with legs and names live here too.
We are feeling called by God to journey to a different church home. I have been at my current church for 24 years. My mother, my aunt and my kids all are members. I met my husband there, married him there. I have some of my best friends and sisters in Christ there. But God is calling us and his call was long enough ago that I fear we are staying into disobedience if we do not act soon. I am grumpy and mentally exhausted when I consider starting all over. But then when we moved into our current house there was a thrill at all the possibilities, a thrill at the work ahead as we pondered the future within the walls. Perhaps I can gain a bit of energy and encouragement from that comparison.
In the evening when I survey my yard, my front door, listen to the hum of my children inside I feel a thrill inside- a warmth. I feel like I am at home. I am not one to imagine myself pulling up roots and sailing away to some far off place just because- too impractical, expensive, self-centered. I have parents here who need me, and whose needs in the future I anticipate will increase. I have built a life in this community. I love to travel; the smells, the different language, the dialects- they all beguile me. But home is sweetest- after all my sweet heart is there and my heart with legs and names live here too.
We are feeling called by God to journey to a different church home. I have been at my current church for 24 years. My mother, my aunt and my kids all are members. I met my husband there, married him there. I have some of my best friends and sisters in Christ there. But God is calling us and his call was long enough ago that I fear we are staying into disobedience if we do not act soon. I am grumpy and mentally exhausted when I consider starting all over. But then when we moved into our current house there was a thrill at all the possibilities, a thrill at the work ahead as we pondered the future within the walls. Perhaps I can gain a bit of energy and encouragement from that comparison.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Black Trash Bags
Seemingly innocuous, over the course of my life, these transporters of trash have have held much more than trash and signaled changes to come or a departure from a state (literally OR figuratively in this case) of where I have been.
My first memory of black trash bags were of the garden variety. Good for grass, their humble, tidily bunched and tied forms lined our street after my father mowed the lawn. Nothing spectacular. Later, in high school, I remember sorting through one in a desperate bid to rescue a paper of some sort I had been writing for a class and misplaced. Black bags were for more serious jobs than the white, kitchen variety.
Then there was the time my high school sweetheart and I finally called the relationship over. His stuff was handily transported and personally delivered with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms to his apartment in the Black Bag. This moment of time and my use of the Bag changes. It is no longer just a vehicle for trash but one for belongings, its contents carefully placed inside.
I began college, and in a self-centered and prideful move I insisted on going to an out-of-state university. Having a very small car of the Japanese persuasion, boxes did not easily fit its curved backseat and diminutive trunk. Being over 5 hours from home frequent trips back and forth to retrieve items from home were not an option. The black bag fit the bill for the crushables: blankets, comforter, clothes and the like, packed carefully with my Mom to arrive for the only time on my bed and in my drawers folded. Upon arrival at the dorm, the Bag was easily tossed into the trash- an economical version of luggage. It was not long before I bravely journeyed east to the coast to work at my first corporate job. Again, the Bag is put into hot use. The car a little older and less water tight held my few precious possessions as I lugged them up 3 flights of stairs to my first apartment with 2 mean roommates. This time the Bag was also used for trash. The mean roommates and I shared the responsibilities of lugging the Bag down the scary back stairs to the scary dumpster. Never living in a city previous to that, well aware of my femaleness and youth I carried the Bag a bit protectively like a shield and making sure I had a good handle on the slippery top in case I needed to fend off back alley rats, cats or worse, scary men.
Later I move home. Bags in force. My mother journeys to my coast town and helps me pack/shove/push/tamp the many Bags into my car. Amazing what two women can do when pressed for time and space! The Bag features as inexpensive luggage again, but this time also as a ticket to freedom from a sort of oppression I encountered in that city. I was free!
Now many years later and many moves under my belt, the Black Bag has featured in many ways in our household: as an impenetrable-to-the-sugar-crazed-eye Christmas candy hiding spot, Easter basket storage, Christmas tree needle catcher, broken mirror and glass receptable and even apparel for my children as they toss eggs to one another in a game (after all, black looks good on everyone).
Today I filled many black bags. Some bound for charity. Others bound for the dump. I was sickened to see how much STUFF we have accumulated; how much we waste. Some of what ended up in the Black Bag I gleaned from its cousin the white kitchen bag that was being used as storage. Today, just as with the many other times I have filled Black Bags, marks a departure of sorts. I will not allow so much stuff into our home. The old adage: "What goes IN must come OUT" is certainly true with homes. I do not care to pay the emotional toll that goes along with owning so much stuff- the organization, the care of the article, the fear of its break/loss/theft. As a parent I struggle to organize my children's things, glean the good, judge its value to the owner and decide the item's fate. Stuff is often a burden and the Black Bag- a trash bag- is the vehicle to transport it to the curb, or guiltily drop it at the docks in the back alley of the Goodwill and speed away. Today I will begin to pay closer attention to the bags that come IN to my house- the gift bags, white kitchen bags thoughtfully packed with hand-me-downs, shopping bags and grocery bags. I will weigh the value, and the cost much more closely.
My first memory of black trash bags were of the garden variety. Good for grass, their humble, tidily bunched and tied forms lined our street after my father mowed the lawn. Nothing spectacular. Later, in high school, I remember sorting through one in a desperate bid to rescue a paper of some sort I had been writing for a class and misplaced. Black bags were for more serious jobs than the white, kitchen variety.
Then there was the time my high school sweetheart and I finally called the relationship over. His stuff was handily transported and personally delivered with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms to his apartment in the Black Bag. This moment of time and my use of the Bag changes. It is no longer just a vehicle for trash but one for belongings, its contents carefully placed inside.
I began college, and in a self-centered and prideful move I insisted on going to an out-of-state university. Having a very small car of the Japanese persuasion, boxes did not easily fit its curved backseat and diminutive trunk. Being over 5 hours from home frequent trips back and forth to retrieve items from home were not an option. The black bag fit the bill for the crushables: blankets, comforter, clothes and the like, packed carefully with my Mom to arrive for the only time on my bed and in my drawers folded. Upon arrival at the dorm, the Bag was easily tossed into the trash- an economical version of luggage. It was not long before I bravely journeyed east to the coast to work at my first corporate job. Again, the Bag is put into hot use. The car a little older and less water tight held my few precious possessions as I lugged them up 3 flights of stairs to my first apartment with 2 mean roommates. This time the Bag was also used for trash. The mean roommates and I shared the responsibilities of lugging the Bag down the scary back stairs to the scary dumpster. Never living in a city previous to that, well aware of my femaleness and youth I carried the Bag a bit protectively like a shield and making sure I had a good handle on the slippery top in case I needed to fend off back alley rats, cats or worse, scary men.
Later I move home. Bags in force. My mother journeys to my coast town and helps me pack/shove/push/tamp the many Bags into my car. Amazing what two women can do when pressed for time and space! The Bag features as inexpensive luggage again, but this time also as a ticket to freedom from a sort of oppression I encountered in that city. I was free!
Now many years later and many moves under my belt, the Black Bag has featured in many ways in our household: as an impenetrable-to-the-sugar-crazed-eye Christmas candy hiding spot, Easter basket storage, Christmas tree needle catcher, broken mirror and glass receptable and even apparel for my children as they toss eggs to one another in a game (after all, black looks good on everyone).
Today I filled many black bags. Some bound for charity. Others bound for the dump. I was sickened to see how much STUFF we have accumulated; how much we waste. Some of what ended up in the Black Bag I gleaned from its cousin the white kitchen bag that was being used as storage. Today, just as with the many other times I have filled Black Bags, marks a departure of sorts. I will not allow so much stuff into our home. The old adage: "What goes IN must come OUT" is certainly true with homes. I do not care to pay the emotional toll that goes along with owning so much stuff- the organization, the care of the article, the fear of its break/loss/theft. As a parent I struggle to organize my children's things, glean the good, judge its value to the owner and decide the item's fate. Stuff is often a burden and the Black Bag- a trash bag- is the vehicle to transport it to the curb, or guiltily drop it at the docks in the back alley of the Goodwill and speed away. Today I will begin to pay closer attention to the bags that come IN to my house- the gift bags, white kitchen bags thoughtfully packed with hand-me-downs, shopping bags and grocery bags. I will weigh the value, and the cost much more closely.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Unscripted. This is for real.
Early morning light accuses my eyes that they are still open. The baby has called and crowed even before the rooster- if in fact we had one (which thankfully we do not.)
Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.
Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.
After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.
FIRE
As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.
Queue the phone.
Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)
My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.
My response. "Sure."
Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.
Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)
Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.
Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.
The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.
Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.
"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)
Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?
I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.
Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.
May I live through tonight...
Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.
Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.
After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.
FIRE
As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.
Queue the phone.
Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)
My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.
My response. "Sure."
Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.
Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)
Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.
Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.
The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.
Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.
"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)
Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?
I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.
Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.
May I live through tonight...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
As if parents don't have enough to worry about...
Well another teen starlet to go down the tubes ... http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/28/business/media/28hannah.html?ex=1367035200&en=e341467feda0a9f4&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink. The next thing we will hear is that she is
a.) pregnant
b.) shaving her head bald
A fifteen-year-old girl semi-nude in Vanity Fair? Silk sheets around her?? Please. Our nation has hit a new low that this rag would market this to us, fully expecting to continue to sell magazines after such a stunt.
Of course there are obvious questions. Among them what were her parents thinking? What was Annie Leibovitz hoping to portray through this work? Or has she utter sold out to her benefactors? The very cynical side of me wonders if Disney is actually behind it? Do they need to so alter her current pop-girl image to a more sexualized adult one? Ratings down? (though that would be difficult to believe since everywhere you go you see a Hannah Montana shirt/bag/shoes/poster/sunglasses/lunchbox. Aren't there classier more tactful ways to do such a thing?
Hannah Montana was one of the VERY few singers that I did not have any reservations with our 5 girls listening to. Granted, I think the hyper-commercialization a la Disney is objectionable and obnoxious, but it IS Disney. There are so few role models that the kids think are **cool**. It is sad a bit scary to think that another precious life- Ms. Cyrus's is slipping down the gunky Hollywood tube.
a.) pregnant
b.) shaving her head bald
A fifteen-year-old girl semi-nude in Vanity Fair? Silk sheets around her?? Please. Our nation has hit a new low that this rag would market this to us, fully expecting to continue to sell magazines after such a stunt.
Of course there are obvious questions. Among them what were her parents thinking? What was Annie Leibovitz hoping to portray through this work? Or has she utter sold out to her benefactors? The very cynical side of me wonders if Disney is actually behind it? Do they need to so alter her current pop-girl image to a more sexualized adult one? Ratings down? (though that would be difficult to believe since everywhere you go you see a Hannah Montana shirt/bag/shoes/poster/sunglasses/lunchbox. Aren't there classier more tactful ways to do such a thing?
Hannah Montana was one of the VERY few singers that I did not have any reservations with our 5 girls listening to. Granted, I think the hyper-commercialization a la Disney is objectionable and obnoxious, but it IS Disney. There are so few role models that the kids think are **cool**. It is sad a bit scary to think that another precious life- Ms. Cyrus's is slipping down the gunky Hollywood tube.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
depraved day
Fat Tuesday is followed not by
denial
sacrifice
gratefulness
rather a garish daily mardi gras
a bawdry parade of loud and proud misfits
attention addicted "psychologically-challenged"
bead-wielding, slatternly women
deep-fried dirt and grime- on a stick if you like
even cell phone thumb chatter
can't drown the siren's ill-sung song
SEX!
MONEY!
POWER!
the spit-polished-bought-on-credit-chrome-wearing Escalade
reflects our national values
...and cringing I can't help but stare
denial
sacrifice
gratefulness
rather a garish daily mardi gras
a bawdry parade of loud and proud misfits
attention addicted "psychologically-challenged"
bead-wielding, slatternly women
deep-fried dirt and grime- on a stick if you like
even cell phone thumb chatter
can't drown the siren's ill-sung song
SEX!
MONEY!
POWER!
the spit-polished-bought-on-credit-chrome-wearing Escalade
reflects our national values
...and cringing I can't help but stare
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