Nancy Wilson's Blog, page 39

Them’s Fightin’ Words

Oh dear. I have something embarrassing to report. Hang on to your hats, everyone. A woman by the name of Rachel Held Evans has been scampering about on the great wide interwebs, working herself up into a fever of feminist fury. “What has gotten this good woman so steamed up?” you may be asking yourselves. “Why is she breathing into a paper bag over on her blog and calling for her smelling salts?” Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I’ll just go ahead and say it. It’s my dad.

Yep. Turns out, Douglas Wilson has not made a friend in Rachel Held Evans. I will have to shoot him a quick text to not get his hopes up for a Christmas card this year. I’m afraid that the Furiously-Righteous-Evans has transitioned into her squeaky voice, and we all know what happens when a woman gets squeaky. (And to be perfectly frank, this is a level of squeak rarely caught on camera since the Temperance Movement.) This subtle and yet unmistakable change in tenor almost unfailingly means that a woman is gearing up to hold a grudge of mammoth proportions, and this is what leads me to believe that my father has been scratched off her Furiously-Righteous Christmas list. In fact, she’s gone to the length of getting out her tempera paints and poster board, and is hard at work organizing a trade union strike against Douglas Wilson and all he stands for. She has sent out a call for people to write letters. She’s stamping her little foot over there on her blog, and she means business.

But here is where the Furiously-Righteous has made her bloomer. She’s honked the horn of injustice and oppression, calling all the villagers to grab their pitchforks and rush to her letter-writing-blog-commenting aid, but she’s rather unfortunately gotten her facts mixed. As she was busily shouting, “Do you see the violence inherent in the system?!?! Help! Help! I’m being Repressed!!” it turns out that she was all alone in her room and simply having a bad dream. Douglas Wilson wasn’t actually there in his scary suit with his patriarchal hat on, chasing her around with his horrible red eyes and trying to squelch her liberties . . . but the Furiously-Righteous appears to spook easily. It would be nice if we could all tastefully pretend we didn’t notice anything, and go on as if nothing had happened so as not to embarrass her. But as it turns out, she’s now gotten it thoroughly up her nose and is rather pressing the issue upon everyone’s notice. People are getting wound up. Someone from the Washington Post has tweeted about it. Boycotts and retractions are being called for.

As I understand it, Furiously-Righteous is a feminist. She doesn’t want anyone belittling the abilities or women, or telling them they aren’t as good as the men. If a condescending man was to pat her on the head and say, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about things. You leave it to the men to do the intellectual stuff,” I imagine we would see quite a Furiously-Righteous fireworks display and a lot of smoke coming out her ears. So it would have perhaps been better for her cause if she hadn’t gone quite so public with a blog post that makes it clear to the meanest intelligence that she can’t follow an argument to save her life, and her ability to research appears to be completely nil. I mean, if you don’t want people to think you aren’t as gifted intellectually as the men, then for heaven’s sakes don’t give them blog posts in which you demonstrate your inability to think your way out of a paper bag. Just sayin’ . . .

To take an instance at random, she maintains that Douglas Wilson, “blamed egaliatarianism for the presence of rape and sexual violence in the world.” I hate to say it because I don’t want to hurt the Furiously-Righteous’ feelings, but the only thing more fat-headed than saying that egalitarianism is the cause of rape, would be to say that’s what Doug Wilson was maintaining in that excerpt. If you can’t follow an argument, do yourself a favor and refrain from loudly commenting on it. You could just smile and nod, and then people would at least think that you understood what was happening . . . rather than letting the whole world in on the news that you can’t hang with the big dogs.

I’m just throwing out a helpful hint – but next time it may be better to actually read the book before giving a public synopsis of the argument contained therein, based off of one page of text. I mean, it’s all well and good to bluff your way through and pretend you know what you’re talking about . . . but there may come a day when someone in the audience has actually read the stuff – and then you just look silly. And I’m afraid that day has come.

Dear Ms. Furiously-Righteous – you want to talk about Doug Wilson’s patriarchy? Great! Let’s chat. I’ve had a front row seat all my life. There’s nothing like doing a little research before embarking on a public campaign to smear a pastor’s reputation. I mean, I know, I know, you read a paragraph and you think you have enough ammo in your little gun to go out into the Jungles of Oppression and the Swamps of Injustice and hunt down the ever-so-power-hungry-hephalump named “Dougerwocky the Patriarch.” You’re out there with your vorpal blade, busily saying, “Snicker-Snack,” but I have to break the news to you that he’s a figment of your obviously insecure imagination, and you’re making yourself look ridiculous. Especially when you try to pass yourself off as the Voice of Women. I can tell you right now that my dad isn’t going to knock you flat – not because he can’t, but because he’s a gentleman. But there’s a woman here who’s ready to take you on. Just give me one sec while I put on my pointy stilettos, my biggest rings, and call my sister . . . and then we can step down the alley here.

I grew up with Doug Wilson as my father. He’s the one who gave me an education. He made sure that his daughters were taught formal logic, Latin, rhetoric, theology, philosophy. He’s the one who taught me not to ever take any crap off of any guy . . . or in your case, a woman. If you want to interact with his position like a big girl, fine. Read a book or two and then get back to us. But enough with the flopping for the refs and playing the victim card. It’s unbecoming, unladylike, and just embarrassing.

Update! Follow-up post here.

Guarding Your Heart and Other Indoor Sports

A recent comment on an old post made me suddenly remember that we had some unfinished business regarding the old “guard your heart” discuss we had a while back. There are lots of reasons that this phrase is troublesome depending on how you interpret it, but there was one big ticket item that I had meant to bring up.

The absolute biggest threat to your heart is not anyone else; it is yourself. Boundaries and walls are not mobile. Not only must they keep people out (think pushy, touchy guy), but also, they must keep you in. In my opinion this is the most simple way to never be shrill. These boundaries apply both ways. It is not like one of those police riot shields that help you run into crowds of angry people and then suddenly slam down a line you plan to enforce. It is about you submitting yourself to a standard that is outside of you.

Now! Lest you all run off to be angry about this somewhere, taking the metaphor into places I meant not for it to go – this wall is NOT bondage. This wall is not made of uptight prudish and weird standards. It is not a wall that came about because of the extreme lustiness of men and wantonness of women. It is a wall built of wisdom and strengthened with humility. I would like for you all to erase any thoughts you have of rules about eye contact, or never liking anyone more than anyone else. This is not about trying to live in a world that is void of attraction, romance, or fun. This is not about spoiling your friendships or thinking too much of yourself. It is not about finding a way to get married without having ever become vulnerable. Let me try to explain in an anecdotal way.

When I was in college, I had an excellent relationship to my Dad (still do). I loved my family, loved my friends, and generally had a great time. Most of my good friends at the time were guys – they were by and large much easier for me to get along with. But – I was plain old stupid. I was young, I was naive, and I was having a good time. At no time in this, did anything happen that was inappropriate. My Dad didn’t want me to do things in one-on-one or two-on-two sorts of settings, and I didn’t. I would manipulate situations to keep things from being awkward, by inviting extra people or whatever. If things with one of my friends started seeming a little too something, I would just drop back for a while and wait until I felt like it was  fine again. During this time, I would talk to my Dad and brother about these things and both of them would tell me that I was being too friendly. I would diligently explain what I absolutely firmly believed : “We are just friends! Really!”

My Dad, being the kind of wonderful man that he is, wanted for me to understand this myself. He wanted the standard to BE mine, and not his. And the reason for this is what I specified above. The wall is as much for the person inside as the one on the outside. It is no good to throw up a boundary that is not actually believed in. If my dad had done that – say by limiting how much I could see my friends, or how much fun we could have when together, or all kinds of things – I would not have learned the big life lesson that I learned. And the standard truly would never have been mine.

Now- lest you all think there is some big dramatic testimonial in which I ran off to Scotland with an unsuitable man, brace yourselves for a much more subtle twist in the plot. I believed in all the same things that I had been taught. I did not have a desire to lead on any of my friends. I did not want to litter my past with relationships that went nowhere good. I was happily abiding within the parameters that had been laid out for me. But what I hadn’t done yet was get it. I certainly thought I had, but I hadn’t.

My big turning point had absolutely nothing to do with anything scandalous. It was the summer, and I was the only young person living at home, and consequently the only person who stayed up past ten o’clock. These were the olden days of course. The internet was something that you could access if you were willing to put in five solid minutes of listening to what sounded like a donkey warming up for a recital. I believe we had cell phones, but I think you still pulled out antennas on them, after unfolding them like a pool-side lounge chair. I had an email account, but since the internet took such an amount of commitment to get onto, I only really checked it of an evening. Anyway, one of my guy friends was emailing me during the summer. The content of these emails was completely innocent, and completely not racy. But one night it hit me. I am sitting here in my pajamas, alone, late at night, writing to him. Why am I doing this? Beyond the “we’re just friends, this is totally just friendly” reasons that came to mind. What was I actually doing? It was at that moment that I saw my own behavior far more honestly. I had been living in the kind of mental state that leads people to cheat on diets. Between you and me, let’s not tell me that I am eating this cookie. Let’s keep me in the dark so I can still feel good about it.

Now – while this was no dramatic turning point, it was a turning point that had dramatic results. As the summer ended and school started up again, I was honest with myself. Had this little insight kept me from being able to chat with my guy friends? No. Had it made everything socially awkward and panicky? No. Was I spending all my time reading into everyone else’s motives? No. Did I suddenly notice an abundance of things that I was myself doing that I should not have been doing? Absolutely, yes.  I corrected these things,  putting the appropriate amount of distance between myself and various guy friends, and life went on happily, if a lot more boringly. Being honest with yourself about yourself is not always a party. It does, however, open up the field for a lot more fun.

When my husband showed up in town a year or two after I had tightened up on my behavior, it was very smooth sailing. I liked him right out of the blocks. I’m pretty sure that we were basically unbearable to be around (God very graciously arranged to have all my roommates falling in love at the same time, making us all able to stay friends through the process). There was no weird nervous twitching about being around someone of the opposite gender. I did not struggle with being too afraid to risk anything. But what was dramatically different was that my heart was not a liar anymore. I wasn’t covering up real motives with things that sounded better. My heart, my emotions were all in submission to something bigger. They were certainly not uninvolved, but they were tethered off. If something terrible had come up (like he was already married), my heart was not in a place that would have made up excuses, covered it up, or run away with him anyway. My heart had boundaries that were being maintained from the inside. A heart that has boundaries is a heart that is free to honestly love.

Now my real point is that this is far bigger than those few years of your life after you are old enough to have guy problems and before you get married. This is a life skill. I am still using it ALL the time. I don’t mean that I am battling off the suitors everywhere I go (although I’m sure you thought I was, what with the 8 months pregnant and the five other children in tow). I mean that learning to guard your heart applies to far, far more of life than romantic entanglements. It applies to moments when you need to be real with yourself about how selfish you are being. It keeps you accountable when you might be thinking about getting ugly with your children. It applies when you are working through annoyance with someone, or hurt feelings. I have known married women who clearly were not guarding their hearts as they should have been – when their husbands derailed and went Roman Catholic, the wives went right along as though they never believed anything anyway. Guarding your heart is not about isolating your heart in its own purity. It is about holding your heart- your own heart -accountable.

Many people have mentioned that guarding your heart is not a way to guarantee happiness or a good marriage. And that is certainly true – it isn’t. This isn’t a formula for success, or a works-righteousness endeavor. This is simply Christian living.

“Keep your heart with all diligence, For out of it spring the issues of life.” – Proverbs 4:23

Croquet, anyone?

What do you do with ten or so grandkids on a beautiful summer day? Haul out the croquet set, that’s what!

Natural and Cursed

I may perchance be going out on a limb here . . . so let me state at the outset that I’m not trying to poke anyone in the eye! I haven’t even made it through all the comments on Mom’s recent childbirth posts, so this isn’t directed at anyone in particular. (Not because I don’t want to read the comments, but because I’m with my husband in England at the moment, and our internet opportunities are a bit patchy!)

Anyway, those qualifications having been made, I just wanted to point something out that I think Christian mothers need to keep in mind when they’re in the middle of “birthing option” discussions: You’re Christians. And that means submitting to the Bible as the true and inspired Word of God. It means actually listening and paying attention to what the Bible says, and then . . . believing it. When you hear claims being made regarding childbirth, your first question should be, “How does that line up with Scripture?” Because, as it turns out, the Bible does have some things to say on the subject – and shockingly, they aren’t really the same things you may be hearing from your facebook buddies.

Which things do I have in mind? There are a number of things – but the most fundamental one is this. As a Christian, you should remember that childbirth has been cursed. “I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.” After Adam sinned, God cursed the ground, and gave Adam weeds to fight . . . and he made childbirth painful and dangerous for Eve. Death entered the world. When you hear women telling you that “childbirth is a completely natural process” you need to remember to think about that statement like the Christian that you are. Yes, it’s a natural process – but it’s not the same natural process that it was before sin entered the world. Now it’s broken. Now there are complications. Weeds have arrived on the scene. This means that in childbirth there is pain, there is danger, there is something to overcome. (Childbirth is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.) I hear women all the time talking as if this wasn’t a fundamental truth. I can understand non-Christians not getting this – after all, they have no framework that explains sin and death. But it always shocks me to hear Christian women say it. So let’s analyze this statement from a few different angles:

“There’s nothing to be all wound up about – childbirth is a completely natural process.”

1. From a theological perspective: It’s wrong. The Bible says something different. It’s a completely natural process that got cursed by God because of human sin.

2. From a common sense perspective: In what universe does natural mean safe? Sickness is a completely natural process too. Death is a natural process. “Natural” certainly doesn’t mean risk free.

3. From a historical perspective: Anyone who talks this way is showing a shockingly provincial understanding of life and the world. Do you know how many women have died in childbirth through the ages? For 99% of human history, women went into childbirth the way a man went into battle – not knowing if either she or the baby would come out alive. Have you ever read Anne Bradstreet’s poem Before the Birth of One of her Children? It makes me cry every time. She was writing her goodbye to her husband in case she died in labor. Has that ever even crossed your mind to do before one of your babies? No? Is your biggest worry whether you’ll get the crib painted in time? Whether you’ll get the cozy experience you wanted? Then thank God for letting you live in the 21st century – and don’t forget where you’re standing in the story. You’re standing in the place in history where women have the luxury of acting like little brats about what kind of “experience” they want. (Hopefully that’s not you – but you can’t deny that it certainly happens! Think of the celebrities having babies and tummy tucks at the same time so they can come out with their perfectly flat stomach. Women who are “too posh to push.” Women freaking out that they didn’t get their epidural in time. Other women freaking out that they had to get taken to the hospital when they wanted a home birth.) You’re not on your knees every night, begging God to let you live long enough to be a mother to this baby . . . but it might be a good thing to be on your knees thanking God for that fact.

Think of all the facebook discussions you’ve seen on this subject. Think of all the complaining about “uncomfortable monitors” and “this wasn’t my birth plan” and “sterile, medical atmosphere” and “I didn’t want a c-section.” And then imagine trying to explain those women to Anne Bradstreet. Do you think she might have been willing to deal with a c-section if it meant she was going to live? Do you think she’d have been willing to put up with a hospital room and a monitor if it meant seeing her husband again? Do you think she might have been willing to make do without an epidural?

Moral of the story: You live in an amazingly blessed moment in history. We live with the fruit of insane medical advances. We’re at a point where people can actually forget how “natural childbirth” went for most of history and actually start to think that it’s an innately safe process. You’ve got all kinds of options regarding childbirth. Thank God. But never forget that those choices are privileges and blessings, not rights. Hold them loosely. And, at the end of the day, thank God that your biggest problem is that you might have to have c-sections from now on . . . and not that your husband was left a widower, with a newborn baby and four other kids.

Hold it Loosely

Given the rip-snorting responses to my Mom-zilla post, I feel I had better get back in here and get a few more things said. Thanks for all your comments, ladies. I’m sorry I didn’t get some of them cleared sooner….I’m taking care of five wonderful grandkids for a few days, and the sun has been shining, so my computer has been gathering dust.

Let me restate a couple of things. A bride should make all the necessary preparations for a beautiful wedding, and a mother should make all the necessary preparations to give birth. It would be foolish not to. I have no objection to the bride or the mother who has planned things down to the most minute details. Jesus said it was all right to tithe the mint and the dill, so long as we didn’t forget the bigger issues. We don’t want to get ourselves worked up over having everything exactly as we want it (whether to please ourselves or to gain approval from others who have strong opinions), and fail to see how obsessive or self-centered we have become in the process.

I have no squabble with women’s birth choices because they are their choices, not mine. The issue I was addressing was the need for a mama to hold these things loosely so she doesn’t become a demanding prima donna in the midst of an event that is bigger than she is.

I am not advocating one kind of childbirth over another. I am not arguing for unpreparedness. I am suggesting that we should not become overly distracted with our expectations, plans, and opinions. Everything should be in an open hand before the Lord. I am suggesting that Christian women should approach childbirth as they do everything else:  in faith, with humility and grace. And besides the obvious desire to have a healthy child, every woman should pray that she will birth in a manner that pleases and glorifies God. She should want to please God by being a trooper, by being brave, by being cooperative, by being grateful, by pushing to the glory of God. She should want her husband to be proud of her, not embarrassed. This means she will exhibit the fruit of the Spirit in the midst of childbirth. She will not turn into a mom-zilla.

How does she turn into a mom-zilla? By flipping out at her caregivers, by being demanding and bossy. By being angry when things don’t go exactly as she had planned. By playing the blame game. That’s the mom-zilla I described. Someone mentioned in the comments that we tend to look for the perfect experience so we can film it and put it up on the world wide web. Exactly! In some cases, otherwise modest women become exhibitionists in sharing their (immodest) birth pictures, videos, and stories. But that’s another subject. The point is that we are to be consistent Christians in everything. So by all means women should make birth plans with care and wisdom, but always with a “Lord willing” attitude.

So, thanks again for the comments. I can see it is a hot-button, a tender subject, and one that can illustrate exactly why we need to deal with this….

Mom-zilla

We’ve all heard of Bride-zilla, and we may have even seen one or (horrors!) been one. Bride-zilla is the stereotype of the bride who is self-absorbed to the extreme, impatient with anyone who is messing with “her day” by bringing the wrong color mints or the wrong size boutonnieres or flubbing up in a host of ways that are not exactly as she ordered or dreamed of. The wedding is all about her, not her parents, her guests, or even her groom. She is distracted by her wanting to please herself.

I once had the pleasure of seeing the polar opposite of the bride-zilla, and that was a sweet bride whose groom had the flu and had to sit down during the ceremony. Then, he was so ill that he had to miss the reception entirely while she carried on! She was amazing! She pulled it off gracefully and graciously, more concerned with him than for herself. She danced with her dad and tossed her bouquet, not ruining the party for her guests by throwing a tantrum fit or a self-pity party.

Recently I’ve been noticing what I might call a mom-zilla counterpart to the bride-zilla. Have you ever noticed how much fussing goes on about childbirth? Blogs and Facebook posts are crowded with women fussing about “their day” of giving birth. It must be just so, and how dare anyone give birth or expect a woman to give birth in such a manner as to interfere with the perfect surroundings?

I’ve seen fussing about doctors, about hospitals, about tubs or lack of tubs, about  midwives or lack of midwives, about pain-killers, and monitors. You would think it was the prom rather than bringing forth a child. It is just one more opportunity to become a self-absorbed fusser. And some women get to fuss over and over and over with each child. At least Bride-zilla just has one opportunity.

Childbirth has become quite the controversial topic, and women can become dictatorial about what they want, even to the point of demanding that other women want the same things. Of course we all have to make choices, and as we do, may God bless us all. But we ought to be content with other people’s choices and let it go. Our fellowship is in Christ, not in our birthing choices.

Gratitude is always a good antidote to fussing. Thank God that we have options about where and how to give birth. Thank God that we have different preferences. Thank God that our babies have a much better survival rate than at any other time in history!

It seems obvious that childbirth should be about the baby. But so often it seems as though it’s more about mom and her experience of birthing baby than about the baby itself.

Children are a gift of God, a reward, a blessing. Let’s have less fussing at one another about how the gift arrives, and more rejoicing over the fact of the blessing!

Asleep in Jesus

Yesterday my family gathered to bury my dad at the Veterans’ Cemetery in Medical Lake, Washington. It was a beautiful day, the sky was large and blue. Just the kind of day my dad loved. My husband conducted the service and gave the homily, which I invite you to read here.  Our son Nate delivered the eulogy, which you can read here. God gave us a sweet time of rejoicing together.

This morning I read Spurgeon’s entry for June 29 (from Morning and Evening) and the text was 1 Thess. 4:14. “For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.”  Spurgeon explains that though their bodies sleep, their souls are “before the throne of God, praising Him day and night in His temple, singing hallelujahs to Him who washed them from their sins in His blood.” And at the resurrection on that final day… “what an awaking shall be theirs!”

Hell’s Canyon

So, the Merkles attempted our first ever backpacking trip last week. I should mention that Ben is an old and seasoned backpacker/ climber/mountain biker/ skier/ camper. I, contrariwise, am nothing of the kind. Just driving past an REI makes me glaze over and drop into a state of boredom from which it is nearly impossible to extricate me. I should hasten to add that I don’t feel that way about the outdoors – just about stores for outdoor people. Weirdly enough, I could hang out all day in a hardware store. I love a good hardware store. But plunk me into an outdoor-outfitter-emporium and I instantly wilt. And then I find a nice quiet corner to sit and weep at the tedium of it all. Nalgene bottles – and even worse, Nalgene bottle sleeves – can’t get even a flicker of interest out of me. Everything in those stores costs the earth – and isn’t even a tiny bit stylish to make it worthwhile. If it all looked less drab and neoprene-ish and a little more like British campaign furniture then I could get behind it in a big way. But it doesn’t, and I can’t. Those stores hurt my feelings and that’s all there is to it.

Anyway, for the first ten years of our marriage I got away with this prudent and rational lifestyle because I was either pregnant or nursing or both and we were certainly not going to be hitting the trails with five toddlers. Then once we got through that phase we galloped off to England for Ben to get his PhD. (That was a bit like survival camping.) And then we moved back to the US and lay down on the floor and panted for three years. And now, and only now, we decided that our family was at the point where we could give the old backpacking trip a whirl.

Ben kindly spared me from having to go into any stores to purchase folding shovels, and did all the necessary prep of that sort. The one thing he did throw down about though, was he insisted that I buy a pair of hiking boots . . . his theory being that wedge sandals with an ankle strap weren’t quite the ticket. I was peeved. Every single pair of boots was entirely dreadful – and heinously expensive. I fussed. I tried many many pairs on, and complained that they chafed my Achilles tendon – never mind the fact that I will put up with any amount of foot pain for a really gorgeous pair of shoes. I am also willing to pay a good bit of money for a gorgeous pair of shoes . . . but a gorgeous pair of shoes these were not. (See the above photo for verification of this statement.) What they were actually chafing was my soul. In the end I found the rock bottom cheapest pair that I could rummage up (that also hurt my aesthetic sense the least) and we went with those. I have to say that they were in fact quite comfortable. But I would also like to apologize to anyone who happened to see me in Costco that day as we were on our way out of town. I know someone out there saw me – I was the one trying to coyly hide my feet behind the grocery cart because my husband wouldn’t let me stay in the car.

Anyways, we tootled off to Hell’s Canyon for a bit of outdoor excitement on Thursday. Within 40 yards of the car I had spiritually bonded with Robinson Crusoe, and I was taking back all my criticisms of him and his endless raisin making. Do you not agree that there were a lot too many raisins in that story? But then again, who am I to cast the first stone? The split minute we were on the trail . . . out came the trail mix. It really just hits the spot, answers the questions, and sums it up. And while Robinson Crusoe didn’t have peanuts and m&ms, he did what he could with the raisins.

It was stinkety hot in Hell’s Canyon. We passed a rhinormous rattlesnake skin. Hero fell and put her hand in a cactus. We took the wrong trail and ended up back in a parking lot. We exhausted the water supply before we even found the correct trail. Our m&ms had melted into the raisins. I felt like a bit of bacon spitting and twitching in a frying pan. When we picked our way down to the river to filter some water I paused just long enough to drop my pack, peel off the boots, and I then sat down in the river in all my clothes. (Those who know me well call me Bear Grylls for short – my stamina on these occasions is amazing.)

After this eventful beginning to our hike we managed to refill the water bottles, pick all the cactus needles out of Hero’s hand, lower my body temperature enough that I could remember that I hadn’t taken my iphone out of my pocket when I sat down in the river (it didn’t get soaked thank goodness), and get ourselves onto the trail for real.

After that it was fantastic. The canyon is gorgeous, the hike was fun, and we all had a great time. When twilight was starting to set in we found a promising little patch of cheatgrass, ringed round with a tasteful border of poison ivy, and pitched our tents. I whizzed up our little dinner over the miniature camp stove, and then we lay and watched the stars come out. Totally stunning. Then we proceeded to not sleep a wink all night due to the lumpy ground and lack of pillows, and when we came out of our tents in the morning something had gotten into our little garbage bag and there were three deer in the camp – a buck, a doe, and a fawn. We sipped our instant coffee and thought that it tasted much better than instant coffee ever does. Then we packed up and hiked back out, thankfully before the sun had come over the ridge which meant that even though it was already in the 90s, we weren’t directly in the sun. And then we came home. And I have, ever since, been pondering the question of how an overnight backpacking trip can blitz my house out to this amazing extent.

But all in all we had a terrific old time – and I have a feeling that won’t be the last of our backpacking excursions. Which means that if any of you have any good backpacking recipes I want to know about them. A quick google on the subject will show you that people eat the most awful muck when they go out into the wilderness. I packed orzo, a stick of butter, and a ziploc full of parmesan (which keeps well) mixed with salt and pepper. That was our dinner – and it was pretty bland and lacking in zip. Not bad, but also not very interesting. I won’t be party to a freeze dried ice cream sandwich or tofu jerky – so there’s no use suggesting those, or anything else that falls into that general category!

Granddad

Yesterday my dad, whom the kids called Granddad, went to be with the Lord at age 95. He was vigorous, cheerful, fun-loving, and strong to the end.  And though the end caught us by surprise, I don’t think it surprised him. He was ready. He leaves an older sister, a younger brother,  four children, fourteen grandchildren, numerous great-grandchildren, and my dear mother. We will all catch up to him in due time, Lord willing.

My earliest memories of my dad involve play. He invented games for us and had no end of patience when it came to balancing us on his hands and playing silly games. Bedtime was always a party. He took trouble to see that we kids were having fun, and planning trips and explores were his specialty.

He was a pilot, and he loved to “bore holes.” I remember the thrill of getting to unpack his B4 bag when he got home from trips. It was full of zippers and pockets, and there was always something for us in those pockets. I couldn’t help but think of that old gospel hymn today: “When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away!” Dad flew away yesterday.

He taught us kids to water ski when I was 9 or 10 years old. He got out in the water with us, and came up with his skis outside ours, holding on to the same rope. Then once he thought we had the hang of it, he would drop off and let us solo. That’s how he did things. Boating, snowmobiling, pulling a trailer around the country on camping trips. He loved it all. Especially the water.

Dad was a real character, full of stories. He loved a joke and was such a tease. Doug saved up jokes to swap with him when we would visit. Corny jokes! He had a wonderful big laugh. When my mother-in-law Bessie was visiting one time, he was going to give her a ride somewhere and told her he would go get out the motorcyle. Of course he was teasing, but he had her mighty worried! She recounted that story to us many times.

He was faithful and devoted to my mom. He worked hard, he loved his kids, and he loved the Lord. He read to Mom out of their daily devotional every morning, and I have no doubt he did not skip it yesterday. Once, between waking and sleeping,  he thought he had a foretaste of heaven. He was looking through a crack between slats or boards, and he could see a glorious paradise like nothing on earth. It was just for a moment, and then it was gone.

He was a do-it-yourself kind of man. When he was a boy, his dad had him take a car engine completely apart and put it back together again. He built the house he died in. He could fix just about anything. And he loved to figure things out.

Dad knew how to manage his money. He never spent more than he had, and he left behind no debts. But he was generous, always looking for ways to help needy folks. I don’t know how many times he slipped me a check as I went out the door, and I was not the only recipient of his generosity.

He was full of theological questions, looking forward to the day when he would understand it all. Evolution was his pet peeve, annoyed him no end!

He loved Logos School and was a faithful supporter from the early days, contributing in countless ways to make it succeed. He took an interest in all we were doing, always a participant, never a bystander.

He loved his grandkids and delighted in showing them a good time, building a zip line for them on his property, giving them rides on the motorcycle or in the bucket of his tractor. He loved to see them have fun.

I will miss my dad. He was a rock, and that isn’t just a metaphor. He has left us a large legacy of stories and story-loving which I hope my grandchildren will treasure up for their children. Even at our last visit, he told us a story we had never heard, and he was a great story teller.

What a blessing he has been to and for us, our children and grandchildren. I thank God for his life and for his death, and trust that he is surprised at the size of his bank account in heaven. We are the richer for our time with him. God bless you, Dad!

Lawrence Aubry Greensides, R.I.P.

The Long Term View

Whenever you take on any kind of project, you will run into obstacles. This is especially true of things that will, by necessity, take a long time. Think of losing weight and getting fit. Think of getting organized, redecorating, or teaching yourself some new skill. The thing is, it is easy to get distracted, it is easy to lose your motivation, and it is easy to change your mind. Maybe you lose three pounds and feel better so you start eating cookies again. Maybe you decide the new skill doesn’t really suit you, or it makes a mess, or it is frustrating, so you give up.

But what if this long term project is other people? What if you started out all motivated having children, but now you are tired, frustrated, and feeling lost? In healthy christian communities there will be young people growing up with an admiration for the work of raising children. It is easy to stand on a hill looking out over all the landscape, and see the destination far away, in all it’s beauty. It is easy to see why this is a glorious calling. It is easy, because the view is clear. Many young couples start out their parenting journey with a clear, happy, optimistic perspective. They see, off in the distance, the heavenly city. They cheerfully say “Yes! Give us some children to take there!” Even the shadowy parts look pretty from the top of a hill. They just add shading! What a beautiful, textured view on the way to this heavenly city! They can hardly wait to get started!

One of the main troubles parents will face on this long term journey is discouragement. Because the truth is, once you set out on the actual work of walking through the countryside to get there, it isn’t always scenic. Sometimes those things that seemed inconsequential from afar become actually rather huge obstacles when you get to them. Sometimes, you get down in a valley and you can’t see your destination anymore. Because hilltop views are not what hiking is made of. Sometimes you just flat out don’t want to walk up that hill. Sometimes you realize that you were crazy naive about this when you set out, that you didn’t prepare adequately, that you aren’t enjoying yourself, and maybe even that you aren’t a very good traveler. That is what discouragement feels like. It feels like you haven’t glimpsed where you were headed in a long time. It feels like maybe you didn’t want to go anyways, or maybe that you aren’t skilled enough to get there.

I think we all know what it feels like when nothing seems to be working well. Suddenly all the kids are going through a fussy stretch at once. Maybe they have started back-talking more, or bickering with each other. New sin spurts from the kids often behave in a mother’s life like someone flipping over spiritual rocks. Let’s see what mom has under this frustration rock! We haven’t tried this one before! Let’s see what bounty of centipedes she keeps under here! Maybe we can rustle something out that will startle her as much as it does us! And thus you can find that one of the biggest sources of discouragement in your mothering life is yourself. Maybe you never pictured yourself as someone who would get seriously selfish about sleep. Maybe you always thought you would do lots of crafts with the kids when you had them, but notice your blood pressure rise at the sight of a glue stick, let alone scissors. I don’t think I need to go into too much detail on what this feels like, because I imagine we all know too well. Some of you may feel like this mode is your only mode of mothering. Like you never do get a glimpse of where you are going unless it is the view down into another valley.

But low points and discouragement are actually a perfectly normal part of the job. We are human. This is hard. You can’t head out on a long journey over rugged countryside and expect the whole thing to be something like a fevered dream from the creators of My Little Ponies. The thing that distinguishes unbelief from belief is how discouragement and fatigue are dealt with. We are christians. God has provided for this. Faithfulness does not pitch a camp in the valley. It does not decide to settle down in the swamp because the hill is steep. Faithfulness obeys. It presses on. It trusts. It remembers.

One of the most beautiful things is how obedience and encouragement go hand in hand. Obey, and God will strengthen your steps. Act in faith, and He will reveal the path. When you look to God for direction, He always provides. We have a compass. We know the way. Sometimes, the way seems like an impossible scrabble on your hands and knees, but that is not the same thing as being lost.

Practically speaking, when you have a posse of little kiddos on your hands, there will be times when you don’t know what to do. There will be times when the little problems mount up into something a lot more intimidating. Faithfulness takes a step. And then another. Faithfulness recognizes that this is a tricky part, and begins moving to get through it. We have had times with our children where the feeling of need is overwhelming. But when we ask God for direction on each of the little things, not only is direction provided, but progress is made. Sometimes, you need to ask God to show you each little foothold. That is not a sign that you are failing. It is not a sign that you will never find your way out. It is a sign that you are still on the journey, still obeying, and that you know who to ask for help.

When discouragement comes on a mother, the temptation is to vent. To change the subject. To do anything but take a step. We might want to sit down and brainstorm about the itinerary for next week. We might want to tell ourselves that no one else is making progress either. We develop bad attitudes about the people who appear to not only know the way, but have gone so far as to pack snacks and raincoats. But none of those things are obedience. Obedience is bigger than discouragement, and the two can not live side by side. When you need encouragement, obey. When you are tired, walk. When you feel lost, remember. The more you discipline yourself to overcome discouragement with obedience, the less discouragement there will be to overcome.