Digging Out

 

Red alert! My bedroom is more of a disaster than usual lately.

I’d love to tell you that this place is a safe haven, Hollywood-esque, complete with matching furniture and all things beautifully arranged in picturesque simplicity. Conducive to relaxation and contemplation.

When I first had it painted a number of years ago, it more or less matched that description. Freshly ironed curtains, crisp new bedding, everything warm and pristine. But the room quickly took on other functions. Office. Writing space. A place to hold long conversations with my children. In recent years, squirmy grandchildren have nestled with me for not-so-sleepy sleepovers.

And now we’re into the Christmas season. Added to which, yours truly is beginning a new life phase at the end of January. I’ll be closing the door on my career and venturing into new horizons, some of which are as yet poorly defined. My bedroom is taking the brunt of all this activity, serving as gift wrapping station and depot for all things retirement. As I write, my desk and surrounding area are cluttered with correspondence from Social Security and insurance estimates, while the bulk of the space hosts holiday cards, winter themed paper, and good wishes for friends far and near.

Did someone say overload?

My “fairy godmother”, Anita, understands. She, too, is constantly in motion, sorting through this pile, straightening that corner, bringing a meal to this loved one, sculpting a pot for that newborn. Her house, at any given time, can be topsy turvy, too, and it’s because she’s alive and cares about the living. She’s let me in on her secret: little by little, progress is made. And sometimes – most of the time, really – disorder is a prerequisite to progress.

A present here and a present there, shuffled from upstairs to downstairs, equates to a bit more breathing room.

I miss the years when Dad handled the wrapping. Not only did he handle it, he thrived on the whole process! All I had to do was collect the stash, label with sticky notes who got what, and set him in motion. Voila! A room full of gifts was transformed into Santa’s workshop and all I had to do was commission the chief elf.

I’m also tackling ongoing projects – the type that never seem to be completely finished. One is reading/sorting through old mail. Some can go right into the recycle bin, but other correspondence is from groups I pray for and support. These missives contain valuable updates and information that are worth the effort to glean through.

Also, I’ve taken on the monumental task of scribbling on the backs of old photographs for posterity. Gang, this is important – so much more important than wrapping Christmas gifts that may end up with a ho hum reaction (not trying to be cynical, but we all know how this works). I can’t tell you how many photos I wish I’d had my parents label before they died so I’d know the identities of nameless faces staring out at me from sepia tones.

Oh, and did I mention I’m having some health problems? So a cane and medical notes are adding to the confusion.

My car, too, is behaving more like a receptacle than a vehicle. When I apologized for the mess while picking up my granddaughters from school, an understanding employee dubbed it a “Mom Mom’s car” – and it certainly is. Two car seats, a “project box” with things to do on a rainy day, and my own personal stash of necessities – Bible and notebooks, extra pair of gloves and shawl because, well, you never know –  and whatever portables I have in there at any given time (giveaways for charity, bags for the store, party goods for a grandchild’s special day, you name it).

Oy vey!

With so many items coming and going, this feels more like a storage unit than a place of repose.

Breathe.

I’ve written about Christmas craziness before – Grinch Pinch and Woe is Me… or Who is Me? come to mind – but for the reasons I’ve outlined above, this is more than the normal holiday rigamarole. I’m striving to find sanity in an insane situation, knowing these current circumstances are temporary and  believing they will grow me – if I get out of their way and let them be as they are.

My mother-in-law was a wonderful example of living sanely amid insanity. Whenever there was a messy house project going on or holiday havoc, she had this way of keeping whatever she could organized, blocking off the chaos, as it were, and keeping things arranged as tidily as possible around the madness. As a result, I can’t ever remember her losing her serenity in such situations. She never articulated her strategy, but she modeled for me how to try to stay organized when organization was elusive, and that lesson stuck… mostly.

But this is life, folks. I wouldn’t want to live like this permanently, and I don’t intend to. Hence, my efforts to dig out of the chaos, bring things in while getting other things out. Like my brother-in-law (who dubs household overload “Shack-itis”) says, if one thing comes into the house, something else better go out to keep disaster at bay.

A dear woman who was only in my life for a brief season once described her life thusly:

“I love order, but I’ve learned to function in chaos.”

This precious saint and her husband, who were not people of means, were raising their own four children as well as two born to drug-addicted relatives. These people were doing God’s work, no doubt about it, and I’m sure their house didn’t look like a page from Better Homes and Gardens.

But, oh, the love that must have permeated those four walls.

So, I guess my prayer during this season of rush and readiness is for patience while digging out, and joy in the journey.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men,  knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ.”

~ Colossians 3:23-24 ~

 

 

Giving Birth

“I'm scared!” I told my husband in the delivery room. It was go time. We were awaiting the arrival of our first son over 30 years ago. I had longed for this moment, prayed, like Hannah, for God to favor me with motherhood, yet there I lay, unable to corral my fears of the moment and beyond.

“I'm scared of the whole thing!” I whimpered. “Scared of having the baby. Scared of raising the baby. I don't think I can do this.”

Shortly thereafter, the nurse came in with pain medication, which calmed both body and nerves. I turned to my husband with full sincerity and wondered, “What was I so afraid of?”

All these years later it's just a whimsical story that every expectant mother can probably relate to. But back then, in the heat of the moment, at the finishing line, those fears were very real and loomed impossibly large in the face of what was to come.

I'll be giving birth in just a few days. It's a planned delivery, one that's well overdue. Pregnant women, when their gestation time waxes long and perhaps goes into overtime, become cranky and uncomfortable. Quite bluntly, they want that child out! Having endured sleepless nights, a contorted body shape, and too much time to think about the what ifs, they want to see their baby, hold him, hear his tiny cries. At the same time, there's a panic button that sounds at the moment of truth, and the whole thing just seems impossible.

Like I said, I'm at that point in my maternity journey. Exhausted from labor and uncertain of the outcome. I want this baby dearly. I've longed for her, prayed for her, spent grueling hours planning for her arrival. Still, now that the moment has arrived, I feel a hesitancy that's hard to put into words. 

Maybe it's because this birthing process has been hugely different than my other two. For one thing, it's been 10 years in the making. There were many false starts and false hopes. I endured plenty of losses along the way, disappointments that made me despair of ever trying again, yet somehow, I lived to fight another day for what I felt sure was God's will for me.

Enough suspense. I suspect my astute readers have surmised that I'm not talking about welcoming a rosy infant; rather, at the end of this month my novel, Belabored, will hit the proverbial shelves via Amazon in both eBook and paperback forms. There have been innumerable fits and starts in this arduous process, but the big moment has finally arrived. The eBook is currently in pre-order status, meaning it can be ordered in advance of its actualization, which will be June 28. The paperback is slated to be available on June 30.

Woo hoo!

So, why am I so nervous?

Could it be because I've never done anything like this before? Because the anticipation may not live up to the reality? Because the pre-birth process is only the beginning of a lifetime commitment?

Let's face it – some things in life don't lend themselves well to do-overs. I've worked and reworked this book, to the point where I'm almost sick of it. But there's something terrifying about knowing this is it. My finished product will be in readers' hands; any sentences phrased awkwardly, or concepts delivered poorly, will be permanently etched in black and white. I get that authors update their publications, but realistically, how many readers can be expected to revisit a botched first effort for further consumption?

Belabored is being brought to bear via “indie publishing”. In short, I am self-publishing through Amazon's Kindle Direct platform. The pro side of this process is that it: a) costs nothing; b) removes the pressure traditionally published authors face to maintain a high-volume social media presence; and c) eliminates the marketing commitments traditional publishers expect of their authors. On the cons list is the fact that their publishing software is proprietary and therefore, doesn't readily interface with the word processing program I used to create my book. I wrongly assumed that, after making my final edits (famous last words) to the Kindle Direct document, I could download the same into an easily retrievable Word document, then with minimal effort transfer the manuscript into a print version.

Um, not so much.

I was prepared for this wrinkle, though, because I have at my disposal a wonderfully talented web developer/designer who is affordable, personable, and has a positive knack for being able to untangle my most daunting computer problems. This dear girl had no prior experience with Kindle Direct, but she has oodles of programming know-how. After first digging my blog out of the technical abyss which had swallowed it, she turned her attention to helping me navigate the ins and outs of Amazon publishing.

If we're following the birth analogy, the Lord conceived this “baby”, I carried it to term, and my tech guru “midwife” helped Belabored emerge from my hard drive into the light of day.

A true labor of love all the way around. I pray my audience finds the book worth the wait and worth their time. To God be the glory.

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

In the Spirit of Jefferson… and Tina

There’s an easily overlooked detail leading into the climax of the epic movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Jefferson Smith – our hero, probably so dubbed because his first name channels the great statesman who penned the Declaration of Independence, and his surname depicts everyman – is ready to turn tail and run. He’s at his lowest point, “licked” as he describes it, by the political machine that runs Washington, DC and by extension, the whole country Smith was called from his useful but limited life to serve. Then Clarissa – the girl of the dreams he never knew he’d have the chance to fight for – comes through in the clutch, talks sense into him, and convinces him to fight another day.

Then she picks up one of his suitcases and together they walk out of the Lincoln Memorial and back
into the lions’ den. 

My dearest friend, Tina, is always calling for community in the body of Christ. She knows of what she speaks, having left all to follow Jesus. The details aren’t important; what does matter is that she’s the closest living example I have of martyrdom (in the proper sense – dying to self for the sake of the cross – as opposed to the modern-day idea of a hangdog pushover who seems to enjoy taking blows everyone else delivers for no sensible reason). Tina realizes her life is limited by physical factors beyond her control, and that the Lord who endowed her with said limitations also devised a plan to circumvent them. She relies on fellow believers to be the hands and feet of that almighty plan every time she makes an appointment or goes shopping or almost any other mundane activity that most of us can accomplish unaided.

In short, Tina is following in the footsteps of Jefferson Smith when it comes to allowing others to share her burden. In 1939, when this iconic film was produced, it made no sense for a woman to assist a capable man with his luggage. Early in the picture, Smith even had the audacity to remark that his leading lady had “done well for a woman” – thus encapsulating the prevailing view of women’s capabilities (and lack thereof) in the early 20^th century. In 2024, when women like Tina have been crashing through glass ceilings for decades, this phrase sounds absurd at best and sexist at worst. But in pre-World War II America, women had yet to take up the reins left by men absent from their posts due to military service. Clarissa Saunders – capable though she was, and far more knowledgeable about the inner workings of the behemoth called Washington – simply had no business helping Jefferson Smith heft a heavy valise through the streets surrounding the Capitol.

Our fictitious hero, Smith, used his gifts and talents to make a dent in government corruption; my friend, Tina, uses her abilities to serve the Lord constantly in ways great and small. The common thread I see in both their stories is a willingness to humble themselves and ask for help to accomplish the mission their Creator has set before them.

What Herculean task am I being called to? What lost cause that everyone else has given up on am I supposed to champion? What windmill am I fearful of tilting at?

More importantly, am I even in the game? Will I show up today to do battle in whatever arena God has placed me? Or will I hide under the covers, comfortable and complacent, unwilling to wrest myself from the familiar to venture into the great unknown?

Jefferson Smith opined that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. God forbid I be found under the covers when there’s a lost cause to be won.

“Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to think of anything as [being] from ourselves, but our sufficiency is from God.” – 2 Corinthians 3:5

“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” – Psalm 37:5

“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm; but how can one be warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

For more like this, check out:

Called Off the Bench

Under the Covers or Under His Wings? Going Deep Without Getting Buried, AKA, Metaphor Overload 

Thornless

I attended a funeral recently. The casket was cream and gold, and the tone of the service in keeping with those joyous colors. The whole program was chock full of hope and expectation of meeting dear Rosie in the life to come.

I noticed something interesting during the proceedings. The family provided glorious white roses for everyone to lay on our dear friend's casket. I handled mine gingerly, trying to avoid thorns, then suddenly realized there weren't any!

The prickly things had been whittled off my otherwise perfect, intact rose – as if to protect the vulnerable fingers of one already grieving. When I commented on this phenomenon to a neighboring mourner, she lamented, “Well, mine has thorns!”

There I stood, alongside another for whom pain was a distinct possibility, something to be aware of and guarded against. I, on the other hand, felt safe and secure within my thornless situation.

Famous last words...

The rest of my day was thorn-filled! Admittedly, the majority were First World problems, but thorny, nonetheless. Rosie’s life, too, was beset by troubles within and without; one of her children confessed at the close of the memorial service that much of her path had been strewn with sorrow and poor choices. She thanked her faithful sister for standing in the gap while she pursued regrettable aims. She even referred to herself as “the prodigal daughter” while begging forgiveness. Her sister kept whispering, “You’re loved” while literally extending open arms. Rosie herself never spoke anything but love for her wayward child, only ever praying for her safety and well-being.

Thorns removed. Nothing but beauty remains.

Just like Jesus, who took our thorny, life-ending problem of sin and replaced it with His glittering, spotless grace. He even took the crown of thorns on His own head, as if to underscore that the ones who really deserved that agonizing headgear would never have to wear it.

In Luke 4 Jesus quoted from the following passage, stating that He was the fulfillment of those wondrous promises. What a Savior!

The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,

    because the Lord has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor;

    he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

    and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;

2 

to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor,

    and the day of vengeance of our God;

    to comfort all who mourn;

3 

to grant to those who mourn in Zion—

    to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning,

    the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;

that they may be called oaks of righteousness,

    the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.

4 

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

    they shall raise up the former devastations;

they shall repair the ruined cities,

    the devastations of many generations.

~ Isaiah 61:1-4 ~

Rosie’s favorite song: Testify to Love

        The other two songs played at the service:

The Only Name (Yours Will Be)    I Can Only Imagine

Primrose Path

Hey readers! I'm back in the blogging business after a long hiatus working with my tech guru to iron out some bugs. As you will note, some bugs - such as formatting - are still present and accounted for (not the fault of my tech person, but glitches in the program). What I find most annoying is that the whole piece looks wonderful when I preview it, but upon publication, things go awry.

It's interesting, though, that one of the lines of text that refuses to stay "inside the lines" is the incredible promise from Scripture, "Death is swallowed up in victory!" Upon noticing that, I decided to stop fighting with the format and let the Lord emphasize and, indeed, shout this amazing news.

As always, to Him be the glory.

Welcome to my garden, such as it is!

My neighbor, Anita, AKA, “the little old lady down the street”, AKA, my fairy godmother, planted this colorful primrose several seasons ago. No special soil, no complex instructions. Just a mild suggestion to keep the ground hydrated and fingers crossed. It hasn’t always bloomed “on schedule” – spring, summer, on a good year maybe even fall. Matter of fact, I thought it was dead last summer when its pretty purple petals did a noticeable no show.

 Fast forward. Here we are, several years and not a few weather misfortunes later. Our little slice of the country has endured strong winds, drenching rains, and most recently abundant snow in the many moons since Anita inserted that tiny plant into my Pennsylvania clay. It’s the end of February, folks (well, it was when I started writing this piece)! Winter is definitely not part of the primrose bloom cycle. When I took the photo below, the thermostat read 25 degrees with snow on the ground.

Some contend that climate change is responsible for such erratic behavior. I’m not a science expert, so I’ll sidestep that one. That being said, I am well acquainted with the Fellow who holds sway over climate, weather, and all things seasonal. The Entity that created my pretty primrose wields dominion over its blooming or lack thereof.

Consider the following passage from 1 Corinthians 15:

But someone will ask, “How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?” You foolish person! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. For not all flesh is the same, but there is one kind for humans, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.

So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, “The first man Adam became a living being”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first but the natural, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so also are those who are of the dust, and as is the man of heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.

 I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.”  “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

I know this is a mouthful, so let’s clarify a bit. The apostle, Paul, is writing in the parts highlighted in yellow about what occurs when believers are resurrected. After their physical bodies die, they receive new, resurrected bodies. The teal references to first Adam/man, last or second Adam/man, man of dust vs. man of heaven describe the difference between humans, who are flesh and blood like their earliest ancestor, Adam, and Christ, who was both human and God. Just as mankind differs enormously from the perfect Man, so our resurrected bodies will differ from our earthly ones.

Now that we’ve got those ideas nailed down, let’s dig into the big picture. Since I’m the farthest thing from a gardener (I appreciate those who grow flowers and veggies more than I can say – just as I am humbly grateful to those who transform cows into burgers – but please don’t ask me to do the dirty work to make those things happen), I looked up the idea behind Paul’s assertion that a seed dies before becoming a plant. As far as I can discern from the various sources I consulted, this is more metaphorical than literal. The idea is that the seed takes on a whole new form and physicality when placed into the ground. It morphs into something totally different from the way it started out. In essence the seed “dies” to its old being and transforms into a new and different entity, i.e., the plant.

The key point here is the process. The seed doesn’t transform immediately into lush, magnificent, rain forest-quality greenery. These things take time.

Phew! What a relief.

Like my fickle primrose, I frequently “bloom” at all the wrong moments and fail to do so at the appointed times. When I’m reading Scripture or praying at church or at home, it’s easy to delineate between right and wrong and postulate about the right course of action in moral dilemmas. But when push comes to shove and it’s time to actually stand on what I say I believe – sadly, I sometimes wilt.

My walk with Christ is unnervingly sporadic, complete with fits and starts and all the inconsistency that goes with them – but like this enduring plant, I keep poking my head up into heavenly sunshine (Sonshine). Oh, there's debris in my life, much like the dried up leaves that are trying to obscure the beauty of this plucky primrose. But amazingly, my Lord stays patient and keeps nourishing me with heavenly nutrients, all the while seeing in His halting servant the potential to thrive.

What a Savior. 

For more like this, check out: Weeds  Weeds 2  Tenacity

Muddy Mangers

                         “Where” there are no oxen, the manger is clean,  but abundant crops come by the strength of the ox.  – Proverbs 14:4

There’s a lot of talk about mangers during the Christmas season. We see them on holiday cards and people’s lawns, and there’s always a pink-cheeked cherub nestling snugly among crisp, yellow hay. 

But have you ever thought about what the above proverb is suggesting? That mangers aren't the tidiest or most sanitary of places? That they're likely to be contaminated by all manner of things if the stable they occupy is of any use? Because where you find service animals, you’re also going to find, shall we say, animals' leavings. And where animals reside, messes are sure to follow. Proverbs 14:4 reminds us that stables are places where hard, backbreaking work takes place in the day-to-day production of life-sustaining commodities. A clean manger would suggest no animals were nearby needing sustenance for heavy lifting. Essentially, it would mean no work was getting done.

Now let’s talk about the, ahem, aromas that assault your nose where mangers are found. Stables don't smell like candy canes or chocolate chip cookies or even fir trees. To be blunt, they stink of dung and maybe mildewing hay if the barn roof is leaking. They evoke nothing like the scenes depicted on Christmas cards and Renaissance paintings.

So, yes. Mangers, along with storing food for weary animals, can also house germs and other undesirable things.

Why, then, did the God of the universe choose to make His son’s first crib a slovenly feeding trough instead of a davenport in a stately manor? Or any decent bed with a clean scent and comfy mattress and crisp-edged sheets?

I suspect it’s because life is messy and muddy. Most of the time, life is more mucked up than cleaned up.

Take babies, for example. They’re cute and cuddly in Hallmark movies, but in real life, they spit up and throw up and wake up screaming. And let’s not even talk about what their nether regions produce.

But parents have to wade through the nasty stuff that accompanies their children’s growing up years in order to get to the good stuff from having raised functioning, contributing adults.

Likewise, old people produce messiness. Body parts they once commanded now call all the shots.

It used to be considered a privilege to tend to infants and elderly people. Now, as often as not, our society deems such service a burden. Day care centers and nursing homes have replaced friends and neighbors who used to fill gaps that families alone couldn’t bridge. Few and far between, but mercifully not gone altogether, are the hands that deem it an honor to care for little ones who can’t give anything back – yet – and for wrinkled ones who gave till they could no longer give, and now face the ignominy of having to receive on a regular basis. Abortionists and “physicians” wielding lethal needles stand ready to end the “inconvenience” of unwanted lives.

But I digress.

Now let’s consider the grease and grime of transportation. Who doesn’t love tooling around in a polished ride with leather seats, but have you ever seen a well-scrubbed mechanic? Even on date night, there’s dirt under his fingernails. In all honesty, though, would you trust your car to a guy with a manicure and French cuffs?

I think not. Because those less than pristine hands bespeak work. Hard work born of expertise and a willingness to dig around in areas that aren’t pretty to keep motors running in top notch condition.

Just as caring for the young and the old and even automobiles is dirty, unglamorous work, so was the work of salvation. If, as the Bible proclaims, the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked beyond comprehension, it stands to reason the cure for what ails the heart wouldn’t be lilies and rose water. It took something strong and impenetrable to combat the magnitude of sin – the death of God Himself.

The muddiness of Christ’s manger bed prefigured the bloodiness of His brutal death. He didn’t come into a tidy world, and He certainly didn’t expect to keep His hands clean. Even the profession He inherited from His earthly father – carpentry – called for calluses and blisters.

What a Savior.     

Reach Up!

Many Christmases ago, I posted a piece called Low Branches about how our great God bridges the gap between our feeble efforts and His perfection. As I was praying recently, that concept reemerged into my mind, but in greater detail.

I thought of Moses climbing Mount Sinai to obtain the ten commandments, those two stone tablets which provide God's instructions for holy living. I recollected how this paragon of faith, in a fit of righteous indignation, smashed the words written by God Himself.

But our God is a God of second chances. He gave Moses and the people (not least Moses’s brother, Aaron, whose actions provoked Moses’s rashness in the first place, and who blamed his foolishness on the very people he led into idolatry) a second set of commandments after Moses destroyed the first.

What a patient, forgiving deity. 

This same divine being sent His Son to earth to wash away the sins of believers and grant His children unlimited access to His presence, even though our sin warrants the very opposite.

I'm going through a time of frailty (aren't we always, when we get right down to it? but some seasons of living just feel more fragile than others). As is so often the case, this period of fragility is finding me wakeful, watchful, and wistful. I'm reaching up with extra gusto to seek God’s hands, using the vehicle of prayer that never fails to get me to the right destination. I’m counting extra hard on the Lord’s cleansing nature and open door policy for believers, subjects about which I wrote quite confidently years ago. 

Did I mean it then? Do I believe it now?

Reaching up is the only way I know to find out. Vulnerability can be a companion to desperation or determination. By God's grace, I'm leaning towards the latter.

To quote Tiny Tim, whose words still ring true nearly two centuries after Dickens penned them, “God bless us, every one.”

Not My Will... AKA, Counting Blessings amidst Disappointment

The holidays are upon us, and with them, the disappointment of unmet expectations. The coronavirus has robbed our family of several celebrations, and this year illness is yet again shrinking the numbers at our Thanksgiving table.

But how blessed are we that these sorrows are only temporary? So many have lost loved ones permanently to this disease and others. Empty chairs will never again be filled by those held most dear.

Others live with estrangement. Death of affection, as opposed to physical death, has left gaping holes in family gatherings. Our family has experienced its share of strained relationships that took years to repair, but by the grace of God, those fences were mended this side of heaven.

Thank You, Lord.

I must honestly confess to feeling sad today. I can't have what I want when I want it. Or, rather, I can't have who I want at my house this day. 

But there will be other days. 

My sons and their wives will again congregate at Mom's house over turkey and pie. Little feet will again traipse through Mom Mom's kitchen spilling bits of food and gobs of laughter.

It will be OK.

Beloved nieces and nephews will pause their busy schedules to spend time with their aging auntie. Yummy aromas will fill our senses, and tummies will be over-filled with stuffing and other wonderful stuff.

How blessed are we?

I can feel gratitude growing in me as I count these blessings. The things that are troubling me haven't gone away, but somehow they're less palpable when weighed against my treasures. And most of those treasures aren't the kind that put pounds on me, but rather, lighten my load considerably.

I feel lighter already.

Years ago, a Sunday school teacher brought my attention to Psalm 42, in which the writers force themselves to focus on God's goodness even as they grieve. I'm inserting this rich piece of literature here in its entirety, along with a link to a reputable commentary on the psalm to help elucidate the inspired words. I pray it reaches my readers as it has me on this morning of mixed emotions.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and may we all rejoice, whatever our circumstances.

As a deer pants for flowing streams,
    so pants my soul for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God,
    for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
3 My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember,
    as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
    and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
    a multitude keeping festival.

5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

My soul is cast down within me;
    therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
    from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
    have gone over me.
8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
    and at night his song is with me,
    a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God, my rock:
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
    because of the oppression of the enemy?”
1As with a deadly wound in my bones,
    my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

SOS

Extra busy week now behind me. New assignment at work keeping me on my toes. Lots of stress combined with lots of support.

Thank You, Lord.

Sitting down to pray, I find it hard to concentrate. Mind keeps zoning out. Early Alzheimer's or merely leftover stress?

These words form in my mind: "Holy Spirit, this would be a good time for You to jump in."

"The Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." ~ Romans 8:26

I want to get this right - this season in my life. These new unfamiliar tasks. This opportunity to obey my Lord, through whom all other directives are either driven or permitted.

"I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.” ~ Psalm 40:8

But I'm forgetting things. Balls I'm trying to juggle aren't staying aloft. 

Feeling like I've been tossed into a ball pit – and the pit is winning. 

Lord, keep me from forgetting the important things. Please catch any balls I drop.

Let's roll.

 

What's in a Name Part 2: In the Name of Gender

Apologies for the variations in font and spacing. Sometimes the computer makes up its mind for me on such things when I cut and paste text and/or quotations. I hope readers will find the research and content sound, even if the formatting is a bit off.

Gender “Transitioners”

In part one of this series, I discussed the relevance of names and noted with dismay the current practice among some youth who are casting off their birth names as part of a sociocultural trend that has developed over the last few years. This often occurs as part of an effort to change gender. A person attempting to change sex often refers to his or her birth name as a dead name, and asks acquaintances to refrain from using that name and henceforth substitute a new name of his or her choosing.

The idea of referring to one’s birth name as a dead name seems both harsh and antithetical to the self-esteem movement. If one’s name is dead, doesn’t it follow that one’s whole identity while bearing that name is dead as well? If one’s birth name is now meaningless, and the life an individual led while carrying that name spurned as inauthentic, such “broad brush” treatment represents a lot of years, experience, and even existence that count for nothing. With suicide numbers among youth ever rising, wouldn’t it be wise to reconsider encouraging members of this population to repudiate their former lives and identities? 

This practice of deadnaming ties into a bigger phenomenon which some young people are declaring malpractice – the “gender-affirming care” paradigm for gender dysphoria, which consists of chemically suppressing puberty, then administering opposite sex hormones, and ultimately performing gender reassignment surgery. A growing contingent of gender-affirming care recipients begs to differ with this protocol. 

"Detransitioners"

Rejecting one’s birth name to participate in a cultural trend seems but an extension of a larger rejection of a much larger entity – God Himself. If, as He claims, He fashions us in the womb, that creation would seem to include our gender. To refuse to accept the sex that He and He alone has a right to assign – without any help from the delivery team, despite the popular phrase “assigned female or male at birth” – seems a bold usurpation of divine authority. By rejecting birth gender, one is casting off one of the first and most fundamental gifts God has given. 

Furthermore, where is a person left if he or she later decides, as many do, to return to the name and gender of their birth? Experts agree the teen brain’s decision-making processes remain underdeveloped until the mid-20’s. Not surprisingly, therefore, a “detransition” movement among youth is gaining traction – young transitioners reverting back to their birth sex after undergoing varying degrees of gender-affirming treatment. Testimonies from individuals who have desisted from their transgender identities – many of whom started their transition journeys at very tender ages – include Chloe Cole, Laura Perry Smalts, Helena Kerschner, Walt Heyer, Sydney Wright, Oli London, Sophia Galvin, Scott Newgent, Soren Aldaco, Layla Jane, Prisha Mosley, Keira Bell and Ritchie Herron. Listening to their stories, one notices common threads in the lives of many who have undergone gender transition: heavy consumption of social media, past trauma, and comorbidities such as autism, anxiety, and depression. Given the uptick in lawsuits being brought by young detransitioners, is it a stretch to conclude that this population is falling victim to misdiagnosis at best or malpractice at worst?

Concerns to Ponder

Another question that ought to be asked in connection with the detransition movement centers around the mental and emotional status of individuals who have undergone gender-affirming treatment, then later desist from their new identities. Once someone has renounced his or her birth gender and identity as a cosmic mistake, wouldn’t it be logical for that person to feel very adrift upon renouncing the identity that was adopted to replace the original one? If both the old and new identities have proven unsatisfactory, wouldn’t it make sense to conclude there’s no hope?

Statistics would seem to confirm this conclusion. Sadly, this population is at greater risk of the ultimate expression of self-harm – which includes a higher than average percentage of suicide attempts and completed suicide. 

On that somber note, Lois Cardinal, a natal male who gender transitioned, is fighting for the right to receive “medical assistance in dying” due to unhappiness following transition. Although this scenario is playing out in Canadian courts, it’s important to realize that in the United States physician assisted suicide is currently legal in ten states and the District of Columbia. It wouldn’t be a far stretch geographically or philosophically for our country to emulate the scenario that is playing out with our northern neighbors. We must also remember that a transitioner in Belgium obtained assisted suicide “after a botched sex change operation… left him a ‘monster.’” I mention these stories at the risk of muddying the waters because assisted suicide is another outgrowth of the already tragically high self-harm statistics among the trans population.

It also makes sense to consider a seeming inconsistency being propagated by no less an authority than the National Institutes of Health (NIH), which is the source of the suicide statistics and definition of gender dysphoria linked above. This organization’s self-proclaimed mission is “to seek fundamental knowledge about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that knowledge to enhance health, lengthen life, and reduce illness and disability.” This agency, an arm of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, condemns female circumcision as mutilation, yet endorses mastectomies and hysterectomies on healthy dysphoric women as gender-affirming care. The incongruity in these two positions seems obvious, yet many physicians who would never consider performing female circumcision are irreparably damaging young women’s bodies in accordance with the NIH’s misguided gender policy.

Physicians and Experts Question Gender-Affirming Care Among Minors

Thankfully, a broad group of physicians representing various specialties and not a few countries is sounding an alarm on the gender-affirming care model for treating dysphoria in young people. These entities cite a dearth of long-term evidence to support current protocols, particularly among minors. Dr. Armand Antommaria, “a professor at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center, who serves as an expert witness for the LGBT groups… concedes that of the 28 recommendations in the Endocrine Society’s guidelines [for transgender care], ‘three are backed by moderate-quality evidence, fourteen are backed by low-quality evidence, five are backed by very low-quality evidence, and six are backed by no evidence at all.’”

Is it any wonder that psychiatrist Miriam Grossman urges the medical establishment to pump the brakes on hormones and surgery, and instead probe underlying issues and root causes behind a desire to change gender? Similarly, Dr. Lisa Littman’s research into the disturbing trend of “rapid onset gender dysphoria” among youth (most notably young girls) suggests a social contagion factor; this possibility ought to spur practitioners to thoroughly investigate young would-be transitioners’ full mental health profiles, as opposed to fast tracking minors into hormones and surgery. 

On an interesting side note, Dr. Littman draws a comparison between the socializing tendencies of young people with gender dysphoria and those suffering from eating disorders. She describes a ranking component (those with the most extreme conditions are awarded hero status, while those with less pronounced behaviors draw less recognition) as well as a teaching and modeling phenomenon (sufferers with more experience coach neophytes on ways to persist in the behavior instead of complying with treatment interventions). 

Given these similar patterns, one might ask if it is any kinder to affirm gender confused individuals than it is to agree with those experiencing eating disorders. Since both conditions can cause irreversible harm to patients, why are the treatment models so far apart? No reputable doctor would assist an anorexic patient with weight loss strategies, yet many whisk out drugs and scalpels when dealing with gender dysphoria. The difference seems to be the credence afforded to a patient’s self-diagnosis: with eating disorders, an objective standard (healthy weight guidelines) is contrasted with a patient’s self-perception of being overweight, and objectivity prevails when rendering treatment; with gender dysphoria, a person’s self-perception of having been born in the wrong body is accepted as fact, despite millennia of scientific understanding regarding gender being a fixed chromosomal reality.

When did the scientific community start subjugating objective health data to patients’ subjective beliefs about their bodies? 

More Voices

Dr. Jennifer Bauwens, a clinician who specializes in providing care for trauma survivors and teaches on this subject in several graduate programs, has also raised concerns about assisting young people to gender transition. Bauwens, who holds a PhD in clinical social work from NYU, testified before Congress this past July, stating that “compared to other psychological disorders found in the DSM V-TR, gender-affirming care is the most invasive and unnecessary physiological intervention connected to a psychological issue. Gender-affirming care is also in direct opposition to the basic practices of good mental health treatment.” Bauwens went on to cite the findings of UCLA’s Williams Institute on Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity Law and Public Policy that “45 percent of transgender-identifying people reported childhood sexual abuse… 44 percent of transgender-identifying people reported childhood physical abuse… 75 percent of transgender-identifying people reported childhood emotional abuse.” Such soaring numbers ought to prod practitioners to probe and treat underlying factors that may contribute to a young person’s desire to change gender, as opposed to offering a one-size-fits-all gender-affirming protocol.

Jamie Reed, former case manager at Washington University’s Transgender Center at St. Louis Children’s Hospital, also advises against pediatric gender transitioning. Reed echoes the concerns about fast tracking treatment and ignoring comorbidities already mentioned. After four years in her position, Reed left the gender clinic, and now speaks out against gender-affirming care for minors.

The aforementioned list of practitioners calling peers to rethink the current model of gender care among minors is far from exhaustive. The Society for Evidence Based Gender Medicine (SEGM) describes itself as “an international group of over 100 clinicians and researchers concerned about the lack of quality evidence for the use of hormonal and surgical interventions as first-line treatment for young people with gender dysphoria.”

Lest the assertion be made that this issue is only troubling to conservatives, let the record show that many who question the wisdom of performing these procedures on children hold more progressive beliefs. Jamie Reed describes herself as “left of Bernie Sanders.” Dr. Julia Mason, pediatrician and cofounder of SEGM, is a “lifelong democrat.” Two parental groups that are “critical of the dominant paradigm regarding transgender politics and treatment” – Transgender Trend and 4thwavenow – refer to themselves as “left-leaning and liberal.” Gays Against Groomers, who identify themselves as “a nonprofit organization of gay people and others within the community” have joined the chorus of voices opposing “the sexualization, indoctrination and medicalization of children under the guise of LGBTQIA+.”

Clearly, critics of gender-affirming protocols for children fall on both sides of the political aisle.

Final Thoughts

The turmoil that must precede a decision to alter one’s body chemistry and appearance in an effort to conform to a perceived gender identity is beyond my comprehension – yet it is not beyond my compassion. As I have stated elsewhere, I believe many who are providing gender-affirming treatment do so out of a desire to help those suffering from the anguish of dysphoria. Nevertheless, it behooves us as a society to consider the long-term consequences of such well-meaning “care” and to heed the warnings of the many voices urging caution in this largely uncharted area.

That said, many contend that gender-affirming care for minors is intellectually dishonest and morally indefensible. 

Let’s take these one at a time.

A skilled physician may be able to alter a patient’s body and make it appear like that of the opposite sex, but no procedure can change the person’s chromosomal makeup. Since most of us aren’t geneticists, let’s compare this to something to which we can all relate – food. Suppose I declare a stalk of celery a mozzarella stick, and even make it look like one by encasing the vegetable in cheese. However, one bite will alert the eater that he is, in fact, gnawing on a crunchy, stringy veggie that is only dressed up to look like a gooey cheese stick. Also, the two foods contain different vitamins and minerals and metabolize in the body differently; regardless of appearance, the essence of the edible remains unchanged.

Is it any more accurate to assert that biological realities of gender can be changed than that celery can morph into mozzarella?

Secondly, gender treatment for minors is morally indefensible because of the immaturity of young minds. A case could be made that no one under age 25 should be a candidate for gender-affirming care, which would give the brain a chance to fully develop before making a decision of such magnitude; it might be an easier sell to pair the legal age for gender transitioning with the legal age for consuming alcohol (21), which would still be an improvement over the current state of affairs. At the very least, this risky treatment should be denied to minors.

The NIH, which we have referenced frequently throughout this discussion, combines these final points well. The NIH’s chromosome fact sheet asks, “Do males have different chromosomes than females?” The publication answers that question by stating that humans “differ in a pair of chromosomes known as the sex chromosomes. Females have two X chromosomes in their cells, while males have one X and one Y chromosome.” The piece goes on to explain that “serious problems” such as “mental disability…  impaired fertility… [or] kidney or heart problems” arise when variations occur in the numbers of sex chromosomes people inherit. Furthermore, in the NIH’s paper on benefits and risks of genetic therapies, the organization declares it “does not perform or fund studies on genome editing targeting sperm, eggs, or embryos in humans. These changes would be passed on to the patient’s children and could have unanticipated effects.”

In other words, the NIH acknowledges that underlying chromosomal differences exist between males and females, and in an abundance of caution veers away from attempts to alter those differences as they manifest themselves in reproduction.

Bottom Line

In a previous article on this topic, I stood with Martin Luther. Now I cast my lot with the brave detransitioners who are speaking out against the harm done to them by the silence and complicity of adults. These young people aren’t hiding behind pseudonyms as I once wished to do; they are facing the issue square in the face and speaking the truth. 

If adults won’t ally themselves with these young people, where can they turn? 

There’s a reason the silent majority is so named. There are precious few things in life that require individuals to rouse themselves and fight for what they believe is right. When such issues beckon, too many of us stand alone with our principles conveniently obscured by daily chores and obligations. I submit that few responsibilities are more pressing than pushing back against the gender identity movement which is threatening the minds, bodies, and futures of our kids. There is definitely a “Children’s Crusade” component to this fight, as so many young people who have suffered as a result of gender-affirming procedures are taking action to prevent the same thing from happening to their peers.

Will we leave them to battle alone, or will we sideline our fears and enter the fray alongside them? If we turn our backs on our youth who are looking to us for support, future generations will judge us just as they have other historical figures. Surely, we are called off the sidelines for such a time as this.

“Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.” – Proverbs 31:8-9