The Bethlehem Walk. And Advent.

Sharon said she'd always wanted to participate in the Bethlehem Walk and asked if we'd go with her. It started, this year, two days after her birthday; it's free; and Cade and I hadn't participated for five years (Jim and the little kids never), so we decided to go for it. The seven of us loaded up in the minivan and headed over as soon as Jim got off work, arriving a good thirty minutes before it started. We got assigned Group #35, nonetheless, and had to wait about 2.5 hours.

Totally worth it.

Incredible how much time and work goes into the Bethlehem Walk, and afterward, we talked about our favorite parts. Charleigh loved the Baby Jesus part, and Clementine the part with the animals "for sale": especially the bunny, she said. All I know is: toward the end, she ran up to me in a panic because she'd lost the shekel with which she'd planned, evidently, to buy a calf after slipping into the town without paying her tax. (Oh, dear.)

I appreciated everything about the Bethlehem Walk, but above all how it brought my last (my only other) Bethlehem-Walk experience back to me. Five years ago, Cade and I participated with Scott and Rachel. That was a much colder night: snowing, in fact, and big, fat lovely flakes. Magical (Is it wrong to use that word in this context?), but Jim had decided against participating because, 200+ pounds ago, he thought it might be a bit much for him. He worried especially about falling on the uneven ground. Cade wasn't yet nine, and I was pregnant with Clementine (2+ months from giving birth to her). Charleigh and Chip were beyond my wildest dreams.

I couldn't help but take a minute to consider, the other night, how the Lord has shown up for me over the past five years. My husband has transformed into an able-bodied man, confident in the legs and feet under him. The young man who was not yet nine is very nearly fourteen, now, and a Black Belt. The daughter with whom I was pregnant is bumping up against five and reading. And I've brought two other children into the world--ages three and one--who spill so much sunshine into my days.

Truth be told, I've already struggled somewhat, this Christmas season. You should see my prayer list: so many of those closest to me on it, and not for piddly crap, either. Huge, scary, yawning issues: life-or-death-type issues, in several cases.

And I may well be the world's worst for fixating on what's wrong. I suspect it's the dark side of my spiritual gift (mercy), but in a heartbeat, I can enter a loved one's pain and despair and have a heck of a time getting out of there. I may be able to acknowledge fully that things are well with my household and me, but I struggle in trusting that wellness, let alone celebrating it. It just feels like something could go wrong at any minute; I mean, look at what's going on with so-and-so, for crying out loud.

But God has been good, so good, to me. And during this season of Advent, I want to express gratitude that I'm not truly waiting for anyone or anything. Jesus has already been born into this world. He's already been born into my heart, too, and--in good and bad times, alike--He reigns there. Within my heart and my home, at least (at last?), this moment is beautiful, and I'm lifting my head, just now, and offering my thanks.

Prayer Meeting of the Blogosphere (18)

Jumping right in, this week:

Heavenly Father, so many people I love are facing serious challenges this holiday season. I come thanking You for placing these people in my life: not because of who I am, but because of who they are. I recognize the heaviness in my spirit as the dark side of a blessing; I wouldn't feel so burdened if I didn't love these people so much. Help me know how to best pray and care for them, Father, and help me to trust that You're working even now on their behalf. Thank You for loving us so much that You sent Your Son Jesus into this broken world, and help us to keep Him (His birth, His death, His resurrection) forefront in our minds, this season. In His name I pray and ask these favors, amen.

Now it's your turn! Would you like to participate in an old-fashioned prayer meeting of the blogosphere? Here are some ideas:

• You can pray about my prayer request.
• You can share a prayer request by means of a comment.
• You can share a prayer request on your personal blog and direct me to your post by means of a comment.
• You can pray about a participant's prayer request.
• You can write a prayer about my, your, or someone else's prayer request (in comments hither or yon, on your blog, etc.). If your prayer is somewhere other than this place, please direct me as you can and  will.
• You can join in praying my or someone else's prayer.
• You can share an update regarding a prayer request you've made here, in the past. 

Thank you for joining me, Friend. May God bless and keep.

The Great Flood of 2013

My head is crammed and crowded with stories bumping against one another, begging to be told, and all I know to do is tell them one at a time, letting go of chronological order and choosing whichever story is rattling hardest at the moment. In this case, the Great Flood of 2013.

My mother-in-law Lorene inspires me for many reasons, not least of which is the devotion of her sons: the sort of devotion one earns over decades of sacrifice and unconditional love. Nothing quite rattles these men like the idea of something's being amiss with Mama, and I guess they'd do about anything to help her out or even just make her smile. Late Thanksgiving night, "anything" involved their buying and installing a new dishwasher.

Just at the start of installation, Jim got slightly too aggressive with a water pipe under the sink, and it busted, hot water spraying into the kitchen like what sprays from a fire hydrant in a cartoon. There was much hooping and hollering and racing to and from Lorene's bedroom closet (in which the hot water heater hadn't been touched or even spotted for many years) and the water main out at the road (which hadn't been messed with, most likely, for a decade or more).

My sister-in-law Jill, our teenagers, and I were very much at a loss as to what to do, but Lorene waded through the lake of her kitchen and started casting bathroom towels into the water. The effect was very much like casting a few Cheerios into a bowl of milk (and a gigantic bowl, at that), but having no better idea, Cade and I (baby on my hip) waded through the kitchen, too, and back the hall, where the water was flirting with the edge of the carpet.

The girls were asleep mere feet behind us, and most all the stuff we'd brought was in those back bedrooms, so Cade and I set about trying to create a barrier of sheets and towels between the linoleum and carpet. I was just asking Jill to call 9-1-1 when the sound of spraying water stopped.

Jim proceeded to use a carpet shampooer to suck up water, Jill emptying the canister into the kitchen sink every few minutes, and (at this point in the story, early on Black Friday) Terry and my older niece Jasmine ran out to K-Mart to buy a Shop-Vac.

Later, after things had slowed down somewhat, I said to Terry: "It was crazy to be standing where Cade and I were standing when the water stopped. It stopped just as it started to flood the carpet."

Terry nodded. "It was wild what happened at the main, too. Jim and I had both tried to turn the valve several times, and it wouldn't budge. And then suddenly, it just gave."

The guys were concerned initially that water had poured down a vent in the kitchen floor, but interestingly, the vent is built up such that the water circumvented it entirely; the shaft was bone dry. Water hadn't flowed into the carpeted living room, either; it had stayed almost precisely on the linoleum of the kitchen and hallway. Lorene pulled up the edge of the carpet in the hall and set a fan there for a few days. Amazing how little the damage considering the quantity of water that poured into that trailer.

Much later, after Jim and Terry had replaced the broken pipe and installed the dishwasher, they discovered that one of the shut-off valves under the kitchen sink was leaking. Yes, their mama agreed, it had been leaking off and on for some time. The guys bought and installed new valves under the sink. They bought, too, a tool to turn the valve on the main.

I wonder what would've happened had there been a serious leak when Lorene was alone and know in my heart that the Great Flood of 2013 was providential in more than one respect.

Jim's Mom and Chip, the Day before the Great Flood

The Rock

While in Tennessee, I called my childhood friend on the phone. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said. I told him what I wanted to see, and he reminded me of the whereabouts but said he wasn't sure what, if anything, remained of it. When I conveyed the information to my dad, he said (of my friend): "That's who you need to call to take you in there."

"He can't, Dad," I said. "He's in the hospital. He's been in the hospital for over a month."

"I wish your brother could take you in there," Dad said. (My brother was--is--in Baltimore preparing for another surgery.) Dad sighed. He'd talked me out of taking the girls, already, and knew I wouldn't be dissuaded further.

"We'll drive over that way, but it's not like it used to be," Dad said, and later: "You see that real people live here, now, but I don't want to disappoint you. I'm not opposed to knocking on this man's door and asking for permission."

I nodded. "Ask him exactly where it is, too."

Dad glanced at me. "I know exactly where it is, based upon the sun," he said, "but go on and ask him yourself." And--having learned a long time ago to ask for what I want--I opened the truck door without hesitation. The man stepped out of his house to greet me well before I reached his door. I extended my hand; told him my name and my dad's name; told him what I was after.

"Of course," he said. "You're more than welcome. I'll take you there, myself." So we walked together (the man, Dad, Cade, and I), the man answering my questions on the way and after we'd arrived, too, as Cade and I explored and I photographed. He'd made the area so much better (cleaner and more easily accessible), but the thing was just how I remembered, and the creek below, too, flowing through mountain laurel.

Most everything seems smaller when you're older, but this didn't, and--especially in seeing my young teen there (his face so like mine used to be)--I slid back more than two decades despite a pull in my left knee. When we finished, I thanked the man: told him he'd blessed me, that I'd show the photos to my friend in the hospital, that I'll return soon with my daughters. He was glad for all of it.

My dad--having never seen it before--was glad, too. "I'm glad you pestered me about it," he said. "I'm glad I didn't miss the adventure."

I wish I could say what I feel but haven't words, really: so many things I miss from my days of play in that place: my horse and my friend's horse (both dead and in the ground); my friend's health; my brother's health; so many of our playmates lost to themselves, me, or all of us. And though in good health, myself, I feel threatened because my witnesses (the witnesses to so much of what I hold dear) are in jeopardy.

I feel as though, at any moment, the best parts of who I am might slip away. I'm tired and frightened, beat down and sore. I want to be an emotional rock, and I'm not. I'm just heavy.

Prayer Meeting of the Blogosphere (17)

A day late, a dollar short: this is so often me, but welcome to the seventeenth, old-fashioned prayer meeting of the blogosphere.

Today, I'm going to pray over the season:

Heavenly Father, I want to thank you for these past few days with my family. Help us to never take for granted those occasions when we can gather together. I missed my brother, this Thanksgiving, and ask Your hand upon him as he prepares for another surgery. Please, Lord, may it be the last of its kind and bring an end to his pain. Continue to watch over his wife and children, and help us to trust You and experience Your peace. Father, I lift up to You those for whom these holidays are difficult because of loss or pain or grief. May we cast a little light into their darkness, Lord; open our eyes to how we might bless. In Jesus's name I pray, amen.

Now it's your turn! Would you like to participate in an old-fashioned prayer meeting of the blogosphere? Here are some ideas:

• You can pray about my prayer request.
• You can share a prayer request by means of a comment.
• You can share a prayer request on your personal blog and direct me to your post by means of a comment.
• You can pray about a participant's prayer request.
• You can write a prayer about my, your, or someone else's prayer request (in comments hither or yon, on your blog, etc.). If your prayer is somewhere other than this place, please direct me as you can and  will.
• You can join in praying my or someone else's prayer.
• You can share an update regarding a prayer request you've made here, in the past. 

God love you, Friend. I hope to hear from you.

Thoughts on Feminism

Oh, the ongoing uproar on the subject of feminism.

First, my story: I was raised in a household in which my dad functioned as head. I followed his rules for the most part, and I was motivated to do so because I loved and respected him and didn't want to disappoint him, but also because I didn't want to suffer the consequences of disobeying or embarrassing him: i.e., he had a long, black belt. All of the above is true for the years we were and the years we were not a church-going family.

I've always found myself attracted to men like my dad: broad-shouldered with a commanding presence. My ex-husband doesn't fall into that category at all, and I'd tell you I don't know how I ended up with him, but that would be a lie because, in fact, I do and just don't want to get into it right now. 

At any rate, my ex-husband had been raised primarily by his divorced mother, who was and is a strong and God-fearing woman, and my ex-husband seemed perfectly comfortable and content with the idea of a true and equal partnership between us. 

Problem was, I didn't know how to function within that sort of construct. I couldn't be trusted. I ran amok. He wasn't a saint, either, and our marriage fell apart.

So, now: Jim. Jim is much more like dear old Dad than my ex-husband. I consider him the head of the household, and under his leadership, I walk much more closely with the Lord than ever before. I feel fairly comfortable with the way our marriage works, although we've had to hash a lot of it out, and some of it with a professional. 

Jim holds the purse strings for real and will absolutely put his foot down in other areas, as well, but I can honestly say: I've never come to Jim regarding a Jesus calling that he hasn't backed me 100%. (I take that back: he's still not on board with the idea of our adopting a baby girl from China, but I trust that--if it's a true calling--he'll get there.) One of my favorite things about Jim is his desire to delight me. He reads and supports my writing; he surprised me with my camera and supports all my dabbling in the realm of photography; he supported me through my season of excessive cookie baking; and probably most importantly, he supports my every effort to do God's work.

Now, who's to say how screwed up I am or my marriage is, and why should anyone care, really, so long as I love the Lord and do His work...so long as I love and please the husband God's given me...so long as we're happy together (or working on it)?

And when the rubber meets the road, the feminists and non-feminists alike pluck my nerves because everyone's trying to convince everyone else of something, and I don't give much of a big, fat hairy crap about any of it.

Who am I to say whether or not some chick's been called to preach? I grew up in an Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist church, and a female preacher works for me to about the same extent as a female gynecologist, which is to say, hello, not at all, but I'll readily admit: 1) I'm probably totally screwed up; 2) I have zero interest in messing with God's anointed; 3) a female preacher may well work beautifully for someone else; and 4) I don't know how to get around Galations 3:28. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Please, Lord, don't ever call me to preach because my sad, little zit of a brain would just pop.

In terms of our marriages, though, Lord have mercy! Why must we feel the need to tell one another how to be married? I say: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths (Proverbs 3:5-6, KJV, again: I told you: Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist upbringing).

If anyone cares...if anyone's listening...my best advice for your marriage is simply this: make it your God-centered marriage. Get down on your hands and knees. Get up in the Word. Pray. Pray with your spouse! If the Lord's truly calling you to speak into other people's marriages, that's one thing, but be sure. Be careful! I suspect that most of you would do well to concentrate on your own person and your own marriage because...well, because...you're nothing but a hot mess like the rest of us, and you're not changing anyone's mind about anything, anyway.

What I Want You to Know about My Sordid Past

Photo by My Anjelina (Anjie Kay)

I read a Forbes article, the other day, on our biggest regrets. I relate really well to #21, about failing to live in a health-conscious sort of way, also to #23, about failing to visit a friend before his or her death.

#12, though, about failing to save a marriage, isn't among my personal regrets.

My life would have been easier had it not included divorce. That was a painful, little chapter, although not as painful as the marriage that preceded it, okay? I in nowise mean to write ill of my ex-husband, either; it was just a poor match of immature people.

The hardest thing about divorce, for me, was experiencing the hurt and disappointment of others. Our son was very young (four) and has always seemed to handle the situation well, but I knew I was letting my parents and grandma down. One aunt seemed particularly sad, which made me sad.

My parents are still married; my grandparents were married until parted by death; even my little brother and his wife are still married: sixteen years, now, in fact. I just never pictured myself the divorced one in the family. So there's that.

At the time of my divorce, I didn't (couldn't? wouldn't?) see or accept my responsibility for it. Many years after the fact, after I'd rededicated my life to Christ and remarried, I came to see and accept just how responsible I was--more responsible, in fact, than my ex-husband--and ask God's forgiveness for specific failures on my part. It was a painful process.

My life would be easier, today, if I were not divorced. First of all, there's the sharing thing. My ex-husband and I share custody of our son, and we share beautifully. Still hard. My family doesn't feel complete without my oldest darling in the mix, and he's very often gone. When I'm missing him, I know I'm experiencing a natural consequence of my failure and sin. I've been forgiven, yes, but consequences remain.

Another painful consequence comes in the form of other people's judgment of me as a divorced person. I can't even say how much is real vs. imagined, and in the end, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I allow the enemy to mess with my head over it. For example, when I feel as though my words are being dismissed by another Christian, my go-to thought place is: oh, (s)he doesn't respect my words because I'm divorced. That hurts, and every time.

My greatest regrets revolve around my being unkind to others, including my ex-husband. But you understand, surely: I can't regret marrying or lying down with either of my husbands without regretting one or more of my children. I would do any of it, all of it--in the same sinful ways, if necessary--all over again to get my four children exactly as they are: each so much of the best of his or her dad. I have produced the first (and, so far, only) male heir for two different families: beautiful, strong boys; how can I not hold my head up high?

Don't pity me for any reason (history, situation, or mentality).

And here's another thing I want to get off my chest, a truth so precious to me: I am not jealous of you. I would not trade places with you for a second or even entertain the thought. It makes no nevermind to me who you are or what you have or how perfectly or righteously you've acquired it. 

God bless you, Friend, and I mean that with sincerity. I don't think I'm better than you by any stretch of the imagination, but I'll take it: I'll take my life, my story, my testimony, my children, my consequences.

I'll take my own, personal and extravagant redemption through the blood sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Without hesitation, I will.