http://www.theblaze.com/contributions/heres-what-you-can-do-about-the-persecution-of-christians-stop-being-a-lazy-coward/
Several days ago there was this article, which I actually took the time to read. I recognized the author's name from something I had appreciated in the past. I ignore a lot of stuff online, because honestly there's just too much and little of it is worth the time.
But I kept reading, because I thought I knew the guy. Or maybe I at least knew his angle.
As I kept reading I gradually, nostalgically felt the only thing on earth I could do to be a "true Christian" is go and die.
Literally.
Go somewhere other than here, immediately, and get beheaded. THEN I'd be worthy of my God's love.
Thankfully, I have a safe space in which to think and I remember--I'm already dying. I am living and breathing and trying really hard to love the people in my immediate vicinity. Love, people. Love! But I'm dying. I am laboring and loving and working, but the days are numbered and the body grows weaker and the mind more befuddled. We are all dying. Sorry. But we are.
I believe with my whole heart that there is a heck of a lot to life and love about which we know nothing. I also believe that being an honest, healthy person in this world is excruciating. Being married to another person in this world is sometimes impossible. Parenting small human beings to be, as we all hope, more free and joyful and committed than we are is physically painful. My heart aches and breaks every single moment of every single day for my people. Chances are if you're actually reading this, you're one of them.
In no way do I want to discount the call and drive of those who go to the most dangerous parts of the world to live out their love. That is nowhere near the subject I'm talking about. Many of us have family members or friends in those dangerous places, and not only this week's news, but all of recorded history makes us stop in our tracks and pray. We beg and plead for their safety. Their lives do not make me think I'm not worthy of love, which is exactly what Matt Walsh is saying with his "lazy coward" bit. My conversations with these beautifully-footed ones *scripture reference* lift me way, way up there into the heavenly realms. Their lives encourage and spur me on to keep loving, keep breathing, keep giving it all up, keep working. Keep trying, girl! Keep trying!
The cancerous problem I'm furious about right now is legalism. All I heard in Matt Walsh's words was legalism and condemnation. (Are the two different in any way?)
What good is this condemnation?
What the heck does legalism do?
Yes, Human Beings are being killed in Libya and Ethiopia and all over the world for being christian, female, young, old, defenseless, or otherwise. They always have been, and always will be. Will we honor those lives or will we break one another down because it's just all too much to internalize? Newsflash: this gorgeous world is broken in a bad way. Why do you then have to tell me I'm a lazy coward? Because I'm not being gunned down, raped, or beheaded? Do your words in any way validate their painful sacrifice? Are your words doing any good for those of us who actually have enough internet connection to read your article? Outside of trying to single-handedly insight God's Great Wrath on all your readers, what are you after? Restitution for your own feelings of disappointment and guilt?
The world is broken, but there are innumerable souls striving to become whole and free in the face of fear and fracture. Persecution takes many forms. It could be the barrel of a gun or a swinging sword. It could also be cancer, lupus, depression, schizophrenia, or a really mean chic in 6th grade. It could be friends who abandon another because the whole faith thing changes things too much.
Every day I live I feel like I'm dying the death of persecution. I am hard-pressed.
"8We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. 9We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed." 2 Corinthians 4:8-9
Honestly, the day's end comes and I have nothing left. I hope the Husband can get the Children to bed without too much from me. I give everything I possibly can to the five souls in this house. If there is any small remnant left I give that to my friends. (Oh, my poor starving friends!) And in all the crevasses between I give to my neighbors and community. Every tiny ounce of energy, food, money, beauty--any possible resource is given OUT.
But I'm a lazy coward? Because I have a safe home and groceries, and my government or some rebel group isn't trying to kill me?
Guess what. Someone or something is out there trying to kill all of us. It is the dreadful, broken part of this world. It is sneaky and sly and uses our own voices to fool us into dying. I fight every day to not die that soul death or be a part of that sinister voice. I fight, and I know I'm not the only one. My life has been about a lot of love and comfort as well as hardship, abuse, and disrespect. I know there are millions of other comfortable Americans who have had lives similar to mine. Life has been hard, but not "hard enough." Some of us were even raised to stive for persecution from infancy. So, really. What voice do we have? We're alive, relatively comfortable, and nobody is literally trying to kill us. We must be lazy cowards.
How dare you, legalistic finger-pointers. How dare you tell me I am a lazy coward not worth my Father's time.
I am freaking brave. It is only because of him and we both know it. So I will continue to live out the rest of these fleeting days dying to the best of my ability. And per usual, I will focus mainly on loving people up into the heavenly realms of faith, hope, and love. But mostly love.
20150424
20150422
There is No Lack of Fear in This World
When Li'l Bit was two years old I realized, quite all of a sudden, that there was no earthly way I could send her away (AWAY!!) to kindergarten. I envisioned the back of her tiny, two year old shoulders as she timidly entered a huge, windowless building which was (obviously) armed with prison guards, metal detectors, and razor wire. Being the calm, nonreactive person I am, I woke her from her nap and went straight to the library to check out gads of heavy books on the various forms of early education. Long story short: the more I read, the more I fell in love with homeschooling. I didn't mean to. It just happened.
So I started "officially" homeschooling her at the ripe old age of two. It has served her very well. She is deep, talented, naive, and brilliant; homeschooling has given her space to read and imagine millions of beautiful, poetic words each and every year. I hope it has served the other two well, but they hit some critical years while I was simultaneously hitting the brick walls of pregnancy, miscarriage, grief, bed-ridden pregnancy, newborn care, post-partum depression, and as if that weren't all enough: healing from childhood sexual abuse.
Wow. That got dark really fast.
Basically, 2014-2015 was meant to be our Finally Catch Up! year. However, two weeks before the school year began we realized I was still very much in the thick of it. So we enrolled our perfect, precious, blameless babies in public school. We were so terrified!
There is no lack of fear in this world.
Do you know what I realize now, eight months later? We were so brave. This year has been all about bravery.
We were at one of the loneliest, weakest points we'd ever been both as individuals and as a couple, and we took this courageous, vulnerable step into the unknown.
We let go.
Homeschooling has more than enough attributes in and of itself without harping on the short-comings of public school education. Nobody needs to be scared into homeschooling. (Or anything for that matter.) Also some truly beautiful people work in public schools and/or depend on them to educate their own perfect, precious, blameless babies. Sadly much of the message fed to homeschoolers is that public school is not good enough, the worst of it being dangerous and pure evil; therefore we must, without choice and with conviction homeschool our kids until they go to college and maybe then there will be a way to home-college them!
I saw this negativity from the beginning and tried to block it out. I tried to stick to my own resolve: classical, academic excellence in a warm, home environment. Pure. Simple. But the message of fear is Loud and Clear whether it pertains to homeschooling, starting a business, sky-diving, or dancing in public. This fearful message made it hard for me to even think straight.
Fear says no.
There is the type of fear that keeps us alive. It says, "No!" to the bad people, bad intentions, and bad situations. Then there is the type that keeps us from living. This type says, "No...better not," to the unknown, unguarunteed, and less traveled way. The latter confuses itself with the former, and in the end we're just counting the hours in the day until we can simply go to sleep and not be afraid for a few unconscious hours.
I know what it's like to be stuck in that fearful place, not just for a while but for a lifetime. One feels powerless and defenseless as well as hopeless and hapless. To this day I declare it a miracle I could find such a fearless man willing to marry me, sequentially procreating these fat, amazing babies we both adore and love fearlessly. How did that happen? I was so screwed up.
I guess that's the message.
Perfect love casts out all fear. I know I love my man, and I KNOW I love my babies. If my gut is telling me where my babies should be in order for me to become the mother they need?
Done. This year has been about healing and bravery, and in order for that to happen my kids needed to be with Mrs. B., Mrs. M., and Mrs. D. for six hours each school day.
This is the first of a few "Going Public" posts.
So I started "officially" homeschooling her at the ripe old age of two. It has served her very well. She is deep, talented, naive, and brilliant; homeschooling has given her space to read and imagine millions of beautiful, poetic words each and every year. I hope it has served the other two well, but they hit some critical years while I was simultaneously hitting the brick walls of pregnancy, miscarriage, grief, bed-ridden pregnancy, newborn care, post-partum depression, and as if that weren't all enough: healing from childhood sexual abuse.
Wow. That got dark really fast.
Basically, 2014-2015 was meant to be our Finally Catch Up! year. However, two weeks before the school year began we realized I was still very much in the thick of it. So we enrolled our perfect, precious, blameless babies in public school. We were so terrified!
There is no lack of fear in this world.
Do you know what I realize now, eight months later? We were so brave. This year has been all about bravery.
We were at one of the loneliest, weakest points we'd ever been both as individuals and as a couple, and we took this courageous, vulnerable step into the unknown.
We let go.
Homeschooling has more than enough attributes in and of itself without harping on the short-comings of public school education. Nobody needs to be scared into homeschooling. (Or anything for that matter.) Also some truly beautiful people work in public schools and/or depend on them to educate their own perfect, precious, blameless babies. Sadly much of the message fed to homeschoolers is that public school is not good enough, the worst of it being dangerous and pure evil; therefore we must, without choice and with conviction homeschool our kids until they go to college and maybe then there will be a way to home-college them!
I saw this negativity from the beginning and tried to block it out. I tried to stick to my own resolve: classical, academic excellence in a warm, home environment. Pure. Simple. But the message of fear is Loud and Clear whether it pertains to homeschooling, starting a business, sky-diving, or dancing in public. This fearful message made it hard for me to even think straight.
Fear says no.
There is the type of fear that keeps us alive. It says, "No!" to the bad people, bad intentions, and bad situations. Then there is the type that keeps us from living. This type says, "No...better not," to the unknown, unguarunteed, and less traveled way. The latter confuses itself with the former, and in the end we're just counting the hours in the day until we can simply go to sleep and not be afraid for a few unconscious hours.
I know what it's like to be stuck in that fearful place, not just for a while but for a lifetime. One feels powerless and defenseless as well as hopeless and hapless. To this day I declare it a miracle I could find such a fearless man willing to marry me, sequentially procreating these fat, amazing babies we both adore and love fearlessly. How did that happen? I was so screwed up.
I guess that's the message.
Perfect love casts out all fear. I know I love my man, and I KNOW I love my babies. If my gut is telling me where my babies should be in order for me to become the mother they need?
Done. This year has been about healing and bravery, and in order for that to happen my kids needed to be with Mrs. B., Mrs. M., and Mrs. D. for six hours each school day.
This is the first of a few "Going Public" posts.
 |
| First day of school. I was so afraid they'd mess their clothes, the younger two had to eat their protein-packed breakfast shirtless!! Yes. I actually made them do that. |
 |
| Terrified to send our big, brave, naive girl off to "the wolves." |
 |
| blurry. ;) |
 |
| more blurry. ;) |
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| well, i guess that's it. our goof-balls are ready for the world. |
 |
| but is the world ready for them? |
20150303
Breathe It Out, Breathe It In
It is my pleasure and blessing to have this friend who is a beautiful, quiet artist. She is enchanting and mysterious as so many great artists are. She wrote this little bit about seeing something truly beautiful, and it got me to thinking.
How often do I see something so captivating it could take my breath away--except before that Great Inhale I frantically try to document it? What if I forget this happened? What if no one else knows this happened? Does if even matter if I'm the only one to see it?
The beauty and wonder of this diametrical world threatens to implode my being at least twenty-five times a day. At least. But more often than not I press the pause button on my soul, so I can make sure I and everyone else knows this just happened. I've always been very ashamed of this hardwiring. I assumed either, 1) I'm so forgetful and thankless, I won't remember this moment unless I have a picture of it. 2) This moment won't mean anything if other people don't see it and marvel at it as well thus gratifying my own enjoyment. Or 3) I'm just like all the other goofs showing only the pristine moments via social media thus proving my dominance in domesticity.
Those are very damning thoughts. Forget shame. I'm going straight for damning because that is exactly what shame feels like. Shame this thing about myself that I wish were different, but it is obviously all my fault, it will never change or go away, and I will deal with this failure for the rest of my live-long days. Damned. Damn, damn, damn shame!
But when I read my friend's words tonight and connected with her experience, I noticed something entirely different happening in my soul...
An entrancing, gorgeous moment takes place before me...Sweet Pea's chubby arms squishing out of her onsie; Gizmo's half-smile attempting to mask his unencumbered joy; the cleanest, coldest air piercing my nose, bringing tears to my eyes; the rare sight of six feet of scum-free snow...
...Surely this moment isn't meant just for me? Something amazing and wonderful like this isn't meant for just right now in this moment when I'm the only one to enjoy it, right? This moment is so much more than I am; it is so much more than just one person. I must record it and remember it and broadcast it, because surely...surely, I'm not worthy enough to simply sit here and take it in. Surely this moment is not just about me and my Father loving one another beginning with Him.
How can I just sit here? Breathe? Relax? Take in all this glory? No. No way. This kind of goodness is not for me. I either need to record it so I can repeat my thankfulness ad nauseam; maybe one day it will be enough. Or I need to show this to everyone I know because...surely...all this love isn't meant for me.
But guess what. It is. It is for me, and for you, and for all of us.
I have been made worthy at great cost. AT GREAT COST I now have the fullest freedom to sit here and inhale this purest of air. My eyes take in the splendor of Van Gogh's warm, wild France battling my pristine New England; my mind quivers with Frost and Rosetti in a frozen, dry landscape; my ears reverberate Copeland's jaunt and Chopin's lament; my body absorbs the weight of the purest love ever known to woman, wife, and mother.
I and my team have been healing from some pretty horrible stuff this year, which means a lot of exhaling. Think, hurt, talk, vomit, exhale. Repeat. I have been so fortunate to have excellent exhalers in my corner. All of the crap comes and comes and comes and then....we breathe out. We've talked it out; I've cried it out, thrown it all up into the toilet. And then we breathe it out again and again.
My gut has known all along the breathing out was leading to something else, but my mind couldn't imagine what. What could possibly come next?
I think maybe it's time to start inhaling...really, truly, freely for the first time simply because I am loved and I love being loved.
His love is intoxicating.
It's time to breathe it all in.
How often do I see something so captivating it could take my breath away--except before that Great Inhale I frantically try to document it? What if I forget this happened? What if no one else knows this happened? Does if even matter if I'm the only one to see it?
The beauty and wonder of this diametrical world threatens to implode my being at least twenty-five times a day. At least. But more often than not I press the pause button on my soul, so I can make sure I and everyone else knows this just happened. I've always been very ashamed of this hardwiring. I assumed either, 1) I'm so forgetful and thankless, I won't remember this moment unless I have a picture of it. 2) This moment won't mean anything if other people don't see it and marvel at it as well thus gratifying my own enjoyment. Or 3) I'm just like all the other goofs showing only the pristine moments via social media thus proving my dominance in domesticity.
Those are very damning thoughts. Forget shame. I'm going straight for damning because that is exactly what shame feels like. Shame this thing about myself that I wish were different, but it is obviously all my fault, it will never change or go away, and I will deal with this failure for the rest of my live-long days. Damned. Damn, damn, damn shame!
But when I read my friend's words tonight and connected with her experience, I noticed something entirely different happening in my soul...
An entrancing, gorgeous moment takes place before me...Sweet Pea's chubby arms squishing out of her onsie; Gizmo's half-smile attempting to mask his unencumbered joy; the cleanest, coldest air piercing my nose, bringing tears to my eyes; the rare sight of six feet of scum-free snow...
...Surely this moment isn't meant just for me? Something amazing and wonderful like this isn't meant for just right now in this moment when I'm the only one to enjoy it, right? This moment is so much more than I am; it is so much more than just one person. I must record it and remember it and broadcast it, because surely...surely, I'm not worthy enough to simply sit here and take it in. Surely this moment is not just about me and my Father loving one another beginning with Him.
How can I just sit here? Breathe? Relax? Take in all this glory? No. No way. This kind of goodness is not for me. I either need to record it so I can repeat my thankfulness ad nauseam; maybe one day it will be enough. Or I need to show this to everyone I know because...surely...all this love isn't meant for me.
But guess what. It is. It is for me, and for you, and for all of us.
I have been made worthy at great cost. AT GREAT COST I now have the fullest freedom to sit here and inhale this purest of air. My eyes take in the splendor of Van Gogh's warm, wild France battling my pristine New England; my mind quivers with Frost and Rosetti in a frozen, dry landscape; my ears reverberate Copeland's jaunt and Chopin's lament; my body absorbs the weight of the purest love ever known to woman, wife, and mother.
I and my team have been healing from some pretty horrible stuff this year, which means a lot of exhaling. Think, hurt, talk, vomit, exhale. Repeat. I have been so fortunate to have excellent exhalers in my corner. All of the crap comes and comes and comes and then....we breathe out. We've talked it out; I've cried it out, thrown it all up into the toilet. And then we breathe it out again and again.
My gut has known all along the breathing out was leading to something else, but my mind couldn't imagine what. What could possibly come next?
I think maybe it's time to start inhaling...really, truly, freely for the first time simply because I am loved and I love being loved.
His love is intoxicating.
It's time to breathe it all in.
 |
| love via chubby legs, braided rugs, and white daylight |
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