Enough Already: A Response to the Clancy Case, Part 2

Standing Alone

Travel back with me nearly 20 years ago. I’m working in education and have been asked to serve on a panel whose sole purpose is to hear and evaluate a twelfth grader’s senior project. The task is designed to be the culmination of this student’s educational experience. She must pass this hurdle in order to graduate.

She’s supposed to showcase her knowledge of a particular topic of her choosing. She’s expected to conduct herself professionally and demonstrate in depth familiarity with the topic at hand.

The young lady does none of those things.

It becomes obvious within the first few minutes that this presenter doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Sure, she’s nervous; who wouldn’t be? But there are criteria for her to meet, and she doesn’t hit any of them.

It comes time to make an assessment. The student’s instructors have provided guidelines for us to follow. I render my judgment accordingly and deliver a failing grade.

I immediately come under pressure from the other members.

“She has special needs! She has a tough home life! She was terrified to speak publicly!”

On and on the excuses go.

Granted, the student in question does have an IEP (individualized education plan), but the panel has not been instructed to offer any special accommodation due to this fact. If we had been, I would have taken that into consideration.

I hold my ground politely but firmly. I refer back to the written rubric in front of us. I reiterate time and again the ways in which the student didn’t measure up.

The pressure continues. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to change my opinion, everyone decides to break and resume discussion after lunch.

Except it turns out my services are no longer needed after the break. Another educator has been found to fill my position. This staff member rubber stamps the kid’s project so she can satisfy the course requirements.

It’s important to note that the student would almost certainly have graduated with or without my passing her. The only result of failing her first attempt would have been a redo. Much like when I failed my first driver’s test and had to try again.

Yes, I cried when the instructor flunked me. Yes, I had excuses why I screwed up the three-point-turn and didn’t stop all the way at the stop sign. Bottom line: the guy assessing me wasn’t concerned with the reasons for my mistakes. He was charged with delivering a safe driver onto the highway, and I didn’t make the cut.

You’d better believe I nailed those two things next time, and nobody rejoiced more than I did when I got my license on the second try.

I keep flashing back to these memories as I watch the aftermath of the Lindsay Clancy trial. Eleven jurors vote to acquit her; one man stands alone, holding her accountable for her lethal actions. The judge declares a mistrial. The defense attorney plays every card he has: he requests dismissal of the dissenting juror; files an emergency petition with the Supreme Judicial Court; suggests a retrial would constitute double jeopardy; even begs the President of the United States to try to influence the prosecuting attorneys.

Simultaneously, a little thing called juror privacy is on the chopping block. The dissenter’s personal information has been leaked, his reputation called into question, and his family harassed, in what his attorney is calling “a full-frontal attack on the U.S. Constitution.” The man has gone into hiding.

If such strongarm tactics aren’t squashed, we’ll have even more trouble populating juries than we do already, and the trial system as we know it will collapse.

Enough already.

Big Picture

Clearly, there are larger issues at stake than the fate of a confessed triple murderer.

To illustrate, remember the ending of Casablanca? Spoiler alert: Bogie doesn’t get the girl. He sends her packing, literally, back into the arms of her husband. Why? Not because he doesn’t love her. Not because he believes in the sanctity of marriage. His sole reason for sacrificing his great passion is because bigger forces are at play, and they’ll be tipped in the wrong direction if he thinks only of himself.

We could use a bit of that philosophy right about now.

I’ve tried hard to remain objective during the Lindsay Clancy trial. I detailed in part one of this series the difficulty I encountered in trying to formulate my opinion about this horrendous case. Like so many situations, this one is multifaceted and extremely complex.

It’s also heart wrenching.

After studying the facts and the footage pretty meticulously, I’ve finally arrived at the verdict I would have rendered if I were sitting on that jury:

Clancy should be found guilty and held responsible for murdering her children.

The reasons ought to be obvious. Three preschoolers were slaughtered by their mother, who claims a previously non-existent voice told her to do it and then went silent, never to be heard from again.

Misplaced Sympathy

Several jurors who served in the trial gave interviews after the judge declared a mistrial. Their primary goals seem to be a) excusing Lindsay and b) attacking the one juror who refused to vote for acquittal. One actually whined that the lone holdout “had the hardest time getting off the fact that Lindsay viciously killed her children.”

Um, yeah. Details like that used to matter in murder trials. Call me crazy, but justice for victims used to carry as much weight as murderers’ mental health. Go figure.

The aforementioned juror bemoaned the fact that the holdout stood his ground and insisted Lindsay be convicted. She railed that he should “forgetting [sic] about Lindsay killing her kids. Everybody knows it. The world knows it. But look at the doubt. That’s all we need to do to get this woman the help she deserves.” Her final word was, “I will support Lindsay to the end here.”

Apparently, we’ve evolved as a society. We no longer dwell on minutiae like children’s brains swelling and blood vessels bursting while their mothers choke the life out of them. In fact, the jurors who wanted to acquit Clancy complained that the prosecutors spent an overabundance of time on the grotesque details of the children’s deaths.

There’s empathy in action. Let’s not dwell on minor points like an eight-month-old’s “brain [swelling] to the point that it had ‘overwhelmed the capacity of the skull’ and was herniating through its base.” Or blood vessels rupturing from the pressure of those exercise bands, causing pain along with asphyxiation. Or the agony baby Callan likely felt while emergency staff taped needles and tubes and catheters onto his fragile skin to try to save him. His siblings had already mercifully died when doctors inserted intraosseous catheters into the bones of their little legs, but Lindsay’s youngest was still alive when that needle or drill pierced his tiny tibia. The medical examiner testified that doctors “attempted” this painful procedure on Callan. Maybe they tried more than once without success. Maybe it wasn’t having the desired effect, so they removed it. Who knows? What we do know is his little body was poked and prodded and punctured ad nauseam, to no avail.

But why pore over incidentals like the anguish an infant suffers when heroes fight to save the life his mom tried to extinguish? Those particulars should be glossed over so jurors can more quickly attend to the pressing need to acquit.

Remember, we’re here to support Lindsay.

I could have stomached watching the jurors opine about Clancy’s troubled state of mind if they’d given equal time to her dead children. That, apparently, was too much to ask. The overarching concern was and is the wellbeing of a woman who murdered her own babies.  

Societal Rot

Why do I get the feeling we’re entering into Hunger Games territory if we don’t watch our step? Seriously. Are we all that far from there? We have now reached a lower point in our collective thinking than I would have thought possible. We seem willing to throw children to the wolves even – maybe especially –   when those wolves are dressed in their mothers’ clothing.

Take, for example, the hundreds of women who supported Clancy throughout the trial. Go a step further and consider the moms who recorded themselves saying and doing outrageous things to vent their frustration at having to care for young children. My usual M.O. is to insert copious links to verify facts and assertions I make in articles, as I’ve done above. I’m deliberately not doing so here. Those videos are best relegated to the dustbin, unless attorneys retrieve them to prosecute women who make terrible choices.

Age-Old Problems

We’re acting as if mothering were something new. As if legions of women haven’t been doing it since time immemorial. I can get behind the viewpoint that women’s lives have become exponentially harder since society started demanding they be supermoms who bring home the bacon while raising children. I did it and can attest to how hard it is. I can agree that maybe we’ve so skewed the differences between men and women that neither sex has any idea how to behave, and that this blurring of role distinctions can cause confusion and even chaos, both of which may be exacerbated in the aftermath of childbirth.

However, I refuse to dismiss the murder of innocent children as a mere facet of mental illness and call it a day.

Zooming Out

Again, I’m having a bear of a time being objective here. The more I learn about the case, the harder it is not to feel tremendous rage for Cora, Dawson and Callan, while simultaneously experiencing great sadness for their tortured mother. But my own mother’s words echo in my ears. She used to say people who sit on the fence never really take a position; it’s better to pick a side and live with it. Reminds me of the rebuke Jesus gave the Laodicean church in Revelation 3:15: “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot!  So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

I must choose a position, and that must be justice for Lindsay Clancy’s children. Because this case matters so much more than what happens to one woman. Whether the 11 jurors who voted for acquittal realize it or not, they’re wielding a wrecking ball – and rather recklessly, in my opinion – against generations of maternal love and protection. Why? Because ultimately, acquitting Clancy will lead to the defensibility of women murdering their children based on hormonal imbalance. 

For example, another juror essentially declared the majority of the panel had an agenda. She then conflated justice for the children with an overhaul of the mental health system serving postpartum women.

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

I’ve spent a grueling amount of hours dissecting the testimony from this sordid case, and one thing that keeps showing up is the expectations and responsibilities placed on jurors, whose job description DOES NOT INCLUDE impacting institutional change. Once the jury veers off into trying to effect outcome for a certain issue, trying to make its mark, as it were – that body has corrupted its one and only function: to consider evidence and make a ruling based on facts.

Besides which, there really is substance to the argument that women can’t have it both ways. Either they can power through hormonal fluctuations or they can’t. It’s one thing to feel lousy, physically and/or mentally, during the hormonal instability associated with PMS, pregnancy, the postpartum window; it’s another thing to act out those feelings in homicidal ways.

I’m not saying anything new here. Many pundits are raising these same alarms because we must wrestle with the repercussions. There’s no getting around them. Either women can be trusted in consequential positions – such as raising the next generation – or they can’t. But it doesn’t make sense to demand equality in the public square, with all the attendant privileges, and then turn around and excuse horrific behavior because hormones are acting up.

More than Enough

I once heard a convicted sex offender state that porn addiction requires constantly new and different stimuli to feed itself. Perhaps we can apply that concept here. Somewhere along the line, people began overemphasizing milestones and celebrating them way out of proportion. Think of the lavish bridal and baby showers we throw these days. Bar and bat mitzvahs that rival weddings, complete with DJ’s, photo booths, chocolate fountains. “Push presents” moms expect in return for giving birth (call me old fashioned, but we used to think the baby itself was the gift). And don’t get me started on kids’ birthday parties, which have gotten staggeringly excessive and expensive.

Enough already.

When we become conditioned to constantly expect bigger and better adventures, it becomes difficult to live in the day-to-day, blasé happenings of life. Not to mention living with the demand to constantly outdo ourselves for every life event.

Perhaps this is part of what happened to Lindsay. She had reached a point where many of her goals had been met. Successful career – check. Marriage to an upwardly mobile guy – check. Three healthy children - check. But when one is always looking for the next captivating experience, it becomes hard to count blessings and realize that this is all there is, and that all there is, is very good.

I know that’s an awkward sentence, so let me illustrate. When my first child was born, my dreams came true. I’ve shared elsewhere that my pregnancy journey wasn’t a cake walk, so giving birth to that little guy with the conehead and scrunched-up face was the culmination of all my hopes. So, guess what I asked when all was said and done?

“Is this all there is?”

The reality didn’t live up to the dream I’d conceived. Besides that, my marriage was teetering on disaster when we became parents. Those disappointments had to be managed before I could appreciate that life could still be very, very good, despite its not meeting my unrealistic expectations.

Things started coming into focus the night I brought my newborn into a support group meeting. I’m sure I was crying over the state of my life and marriage. A wise lady in the room wasn’t having it. She pointed to my little chickee-head (that’s what I called him because, after a bath, his hair stood up like a baby chick’s fur), smiled, and said, “But look what you got.”

So, I did. I looked at that funny little face and realized what I had was very, very good and more than enough. Hard times were ahead, without a doubt, but good times and hard times can and often do coexist.

Another pivotal moment occurred when my kids were much older. My neighbor, Anita, and I were cleaning up after dinner one night. Anita had prepared a feast for us in her tomato-red kitchen, and she and I were scrubbing dishes while the boys tossed a ball around in her backyard. Something about the homespun image of two young guys playing catch while the womenfolk chatted over dishwashing (OK, that’s not politically correct – so sue me) brought a tear to my eye. All I could think of was a song that has come to epitomize my view of life: I Could Not Ask for More. I later danced to that sappy tune at both my sons’ weddings, and it will be played at my funeral.

The Bible expressed this concept long before songwriter Diane Warren did. Listen to the apostle Paul wax eloquent about contentment:

^“But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.” (1 Timothy 6:6-8)

My pastor preached on these verses last week and this week, emphasizing the importance of finding contentment in the content of our lives. He showed the connection between being content (satisfied) with the content (stuff) that makes up our existence. I think this message should be trumpeted from pulpits far and wide. This simple principle has the potential to save so many from falling prey to the materialism and overdoing that characterizes our age.

Blame Shifting

I can think of one other reason to make our greatest goal to intentionally live in a state of contentment. It goes hand in hand with responsibility.

We’ve seen a cascade of blame shifting in the Clancy case. It’s Patrick’s fault. It’s the doctors’ fault. It’s the psych hospitals’ fault. Everyone but Lindsay is to blame for her actions.

Let’s agree on some indisputable facts. First, the poor woman clearly was having a breakdown. Her medical team certainly dropped the ball in inexcusable ways. I recall similar treatment – or lack thereof – when a family member went through a mental health crisis. I could tell by the hurried and harried approach of the caseworkers – who really did care – that the scope of their job went far beyond the hours they had in a day. Disappointed and disenchanted people are glutting the system (this brings us back to the error of overdoing milestones and resultant ill-preparedness for life on life’s terms), which makes it dangerously hard for practitioners to keep up.

Sadly, this is the system in which we find ourselves; sometimes we have to find ways to get the most out of the least.

Also, Lindsay’s husband was imperfect (whose isn’t?); maybe he was even unfaithful. Again, I can relate to the trauma of a troubled marriage. I can even relate to terrifying thoughts and the Herculean effort it took to do minor tasks like loading the dishwasher and bathing my kids. Because when the brain goes into overload, nothing is easy.

But, when push came to shove, I held it together enough to keep both myself and my children alive, by God’s grace. I leaned hard on the Lord, my family of origin, and professional help (which, by the way, had definite shortcomings).

I also considered the potential consequences that could occur if I didn’t move heaven and earth to fight looming madness.

In other words, I shouldered as much responsibility as I could, while simultaneously sucking every bit of support out of every avenue available.

Bygone Responsibility

But herein lies another problem. We train people not to accept responsibility for their own actions, and when they mess up, sometimes lethally, they claim victimhood. Bear with me as I relate yet another aha moment.

Towards the end of my career, I worked with a student who was pretty much surgically attached to his laptop. The district wanted to harness the utility of the internet while also saving a few trees, so it issued devices to all students and staff. This particular kid had a dickens of a time putting the thing away when the lesson didn’t require its use. One day I lost patience and called him out into the hall for a lecture.

“Listen, friend, why don’t you close your computer when the teacher tells you to? Why do I have to repeat her instructions five or six times, and you still don’t close the darn thing?”

Noting that my frustration was falling on deaf ears, I decided to switch gears.

“OK, how ’bout this? Let’s talk about why it’s important to do the right thing when you’re told to do it. You know not to cross the street when a car’s coming, right?”

Of course he did.

“OK, so what happens if a car’s coming and you’re strolling out into the street, and you don’t see it? The car honks its horn, but you ignore that warning. What would happen if you did that?”

And here, dear readers, is one of the most chilling statements I’ve ever heard.

Without giving it a thought, the child answered, “The car would stop.”

No, my precious middle schooler! That’s the whole point. The car wouldn’t stop. You would become part of the pavement.

That’s where this kind of thinking takes us.

When people aren’t taught to sift through actions and consequences, we have a real problem. When lack of contentment meets lack of responsibility, a painful collision with reality ensues.

So, let’s return again to the throes of daily life. The house needs work. The car’s on the fritz. The kids are being kids. Illness strikes.

Where’s the confetti?

We’re used to parties and over-the-top festivities at every turn. We’re used to participation awards just for showing up and spelling our names right.

I submit that we need to start celebrating the mundane instead of chasing the electric.

Final Thoughts

Now, back to the topic at hand: Lindsay Clancy.

I don’t normally ask this, but if any of my points are resonating with you, please share this article. We NEED to get this one right. We can’t afford to misjudge this case because the stakes are nothing less than our survival as a nation. We must halt the death train here, at the doorstep of Clancy’s confinement. And that confinement must include prison, not just a mental health facility, where she may convince doctors she’s well enough to return to society.

The Clancy jurors described defense lawyer Reddington’s approach as “funny, entertaining, arrogant, but compassionate.” Perhaps they’d have made similar observations about the attorney who defended Constance Fisher, whose kids might beg to differ with physicians who deemed her sane enough to walk free after spending a few years in a mental institution. Fisher had been committed there after drowning her three children. Upon her release, she proceeded to murder the three other children she subsequently produced with the husband who stood by her.

Folks, let’s learn from history. And let’s look where we’re headed.

If a model mother, as everyone describes Lindsay (and I don’t doubt she was), can brutally slay her own children, who’s above suspicion? We begin to suspect everyone. Someone’s having a bad day with her kids in the grocery store, and we wonder if we should call 911. As a society, we’ve been on the alert for years, what with school shootings and killings in the public square. But the Clancy case is bringing distrust of one’s neighbor to a whole new level.

If we’re going to talk about Lindsay’s sanity, let’s talk about the insanity of a society that doesn’t lock the door and throw away the key on mothers – and fathers, for we’ve been down that road far too many times as well – who kill their offspring.

We must view parent killers’ actions as the anomaly they are – the antithesis of filial love – and resist the urge to paint them as excusable catastrophes resulting from mental illness or malpractice. 

We've discussed why insanity-driven acts should not automatically merit freedom for offenders. Wrong is still wrong, regardless of what propelled it. This is especially true when lives have been snuffed out and a criminal's future actions may put society at risk.

Regarding the malpractice defense, why not litigate those allegations as well as determining guilt or innocence of the defendant? Why not hold psychiatric teams culpable alongside the killers who claim the establishment failed them? If malpractice can be proven, those practitioners will have to pay their dues as well.

But we must not bow to the wishes of Lindsay’s cheerleaders, who want her excused due to medical negligence. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Again, what this all comes down to is having reasonable expectations for life as it truly is. Dirty diapers have always been smelly. Spouses have always been imperfect in the light of day, once the rose-colored glasses are removed.

People used to understand this. They understood that beauty is fleeting, but love can last if true commitment is present. They realized that life is hard, even unfair, and that spouses aren’t there to change this reality, but to simply support one another.

Overblown expectations and unattainable dreams are always going to lead to devastation. A realistic view of life, including what it can’t deliver, needs to be drummed into our children from the moment they can talk.

In part one of this series, I noted that the Lord will sort out truth in the Clancy case; I stand by that. That said, I would add that God expects humans to use the brains he gave them. As I once heard in a women’s conference, if we try and fail, at least we know we tried. If we do nothing, we have only ourselves to blame.

As always, God gets the last word:

“Keep yourself far from a false matter; do not kill the innocent and righteous. 

For I will not justify the wicked.” 

– Exodus 23:7

Anything But Old Maids

Some may consider Corrie ten Boom and her sister, Betsie, old maids.

The traditional meaning of this derogatory term is a woman no one saw fit to marry. The phrase is rarely employed these days, as many now embrace the single life by choice. However, such was not the case in the Ten Booms’ era. The ideal for most women in the early part of the 20th century involved marriage and motherhood. That was not to be for Cornelia and Elizabeth ten Boom.

Corrie endured a broken heart in her youth when a man she had every reason to believe intended marriage chose another for his wife. Corrie turned to her father, Casper, for solace. He offered her the option of transforming her thwarted romantic love into love for God. Fortunately, she heeded his wise counsel, and humanity is richer for that.

Corrie and Betsie were denied success as the world defined it. Rather than becoming bitter, they found contentment and happiness in caring for their family of origin, pursuing careers in the family watchmaking business, and studying the word of God. When opportunity met necessity, they built a secret room in their house and conducted speed drills with the Jews they took in to see how quickly hunted humans could cluster behind a fake wall.

I submit that these women were anything but old maids. Had they married, their attentions might well have remained on the care and nurturing of their families, rather than saving God's chosen people from the evil inflicted on them by Hitler's henchmen. They likely would have been safely tending their own hearths when Nazis raided their childhood home, the Beje, in Haarlem, Holland. They undoubtedly would have remained ensconced in household duties, rather than ministering to broken people behind barbed wire fences.

And Corrie might never have learned the message she delivered to untold numbers of thirsty souls in a post-war world shattered by violence and grief: “There is no pit so deep, that God is not deeper still.” 

Daddy's Arms

His saucer-shaped brown eyes are full of wonder and curiosity. At 18 months, he's capable of awkward maneuvering, but vulnerable enough to need his parent's watchful eye. His roving spirit is tempered by a homing signal which sends him back to his father's arms between excursions. 

He's an absolute delight, and we all adore his toddler wanderings at Tuesday night prayer meeting.

The other night, he engaged in his usual rambling around the room. He never seems to tire of the over-sized windows and stacked banquet tables, nor the ring of chairs which make up our small group. He weaves in and out of our circle, sometimes allowing his hand to rest on an unfamiliar lap, but ultimately making his way back to Daddy. His tiny footsteps tap the uncarpeted floor, on which his sneakers squeak when he occasionally drops down on all fours.

After a while, he returned to Daddy's seat. Tired of roaming but not content to sit, he made it known he needed to sway. Dad dutifully scooped him up and rocked his child until his arms begged for mercy, at which point he slung the boy around like a backpack ~ the difference being, he would've let the backpack hang. 

He did no such thing with his son. 

Gripping the child under his seat (the one nature gave him, that is), he piggybacked him back and forth for the next 20 minutes. The young explorer rested one hand on Dad's shoulder and let the other dangle. 

Why? Because he had utter confidence in his father's protection. He didn't have to cling tightly because he knew his father had him, and that no ill fortune would befall him in that secure position. 

“The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

~ Deuteronomy 33:27

Check out:  Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

Disappointment

I experienced a disappointment of sorts this past week. It set off the opportunity to clomp around with a chip on my shoulder, feeling irritated and wronged. The Lord, I muttered to myself, is playing games, dangling carrots He has no intention of letting drop into my expectant mouth. 

On top of this disagreeable development, I returned to work after a long and satisfying winter break (in my youth, we called it Christmas break, but that was back when society still smiled on nativity scenes and religious expression). Note, I'm not cuing violin strings to tremble for a spoiled state employee who enjoys long summer hiatuses. I'm merely stating the fact that it's tough to go back after vacation, especially as my job assignment is of a variable nature, and changes are the norm this year.

All that said, the other night I had what I think may have been a mini-panic attack. I felt my heart fluttering and emotions swirling. I could sense my jaw clenching and blood pressure jumping in the presence of family (who had nothing to do with the situation and were just being their sweet selves). I knew I was in a bad place. I decided to go to a quiet space and just deal with the agitation gripping me. 

I sat down and talked with the Lord. I asked blunt questions He may not have appreciated an underling voicing, and wrote Him letters of annoyance and complaint. In short, I poured out my frustration and resentment at His monumental gall in trying to train me in the boot camp I signed up for when I asked Him to save me.

You know what? Nothing changed. The carrot still wavered, although at a certain point I made a conscious decision to stop reaching for it. Work was still challenging, but I'm pleased to report the Lord met me each day on the job and together we completed the week (in fact, many aspects were quite rewarding). 

Nothing changed - except me.

"'Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, 
which you do not know.'"

Jeremiah 33:3

For more like this, check out: Heel Heal Part 2

Their Watch

By the world's standards, they were old maids. Never left home. Worked in the family business. One was rejected by the man she loved, losing out to a rival. The other was in such frail health that she gave up any hopes of becoming a wife and mother, the highest aspirations for women of that era.

Yet history will never forget the courage and sacrifice of these two "unwanted" women.

Corrie ten Boom and her sister Betsie lived quiet lives in Holland while Hitler waged war in Europe. They contented themselves assisting their elderly father in running his watch shop: Corrie found she had a knack for working with time pieces; Betsie was better suited for keeping the home fires burning.

Then came the day they had to face what was happening around them. Hitler's henchmen were rounding up Jews in an effort to exterminate the entire race. The three watchmakers, along with extended family, embraced the role of "underground" workers, making their home a way station for Jews being relocated to safety. They created a secret room - a hiding place for their "tenants" in the event of a Gestapo raid.

When betrayal occurred, all four of the Jews hidden in that tiny space survived, while an equal number of the ten Boom family lost their lives as a direct result of their rescue efforts and subsequent capture by the Nazis. The ten Boom Museum in Haarlem, Holland, where the family took in Jewish refugees, estimates that as many as 800 Jews were saved through the ten Boom family's courageous actions.

According to societal norms of the time, Corrie and Betsie did not measure up. They stood on the sidelines as their siblings entered into marriage and parenthood. Surely they longed for the embrace of a husband and the blessings of offspring; yet these joys were denied them by a Bridegroom who, centuries before, had promised countless children to a childless man named Abram/Abraham, and would later entrust hundreds of those children into the care of these spinsters. During their watch, they would follow their Bridegroom into an earthly hell while protecting His chosen children. They willingly laid their lives and prospects for worldly happiness onto an eternal altar, only to take up gifts greater than any temporal happiness could afford.

My prayer is to be just as faithful - and content - with whatever life situation He ordains for me.

"Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls—

18 

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation."

Habakkuk 3:17-18

"Yeah, But..." Part 2

I've figured out why I want to grab for the brass ring in front of me - no matter how clearly phony it may be - rather than wait for the real thing to come along.


The answer is in the sentence I just typed: because it's right there for the taking. There's no waiting period. No painful self-deprivation. All I have to do is reach out and snatch it, get instant gratification, followed by regrets the next day (or the next hour, depending on how quickly reality sets in).

For me this phenomenon most frequently occurs with food. I want it NOW!  Whatever is going on around me isn't enough to keep me satisfied or stimulated, but this brownie over here, well, that looks interesting. Sitting quietly with my thoughts, trying to find another outlet for my mind or emotions, doing a task that's mundane but necessary - all these are alternatives, but not necessarily pleasant ones.

I did this with my marriage. How many people do you know who went through with a shaky wedding just because the marriage certificate was about to expire? I must have been afraid I'd lose him if I waited (and who wants to pay that fee again?), so let's act now and work out the details of harmonious living later.

I'm at a point in my life where I've had to decide between immediate enjoyment and perhaps indefinitely delayed fulfillment. I can tell I've made progress because I didn't share my excitement about the possibilities with everyone I know (just a select few who offered Godly caution and wise counsel). I kept my expectations reasonable (as best I could, given my flyaway personality).

And I prayed. I asked God what to do; He took His time, but eventually showed me in no uncertain terms that this was not right for me.

So now I'm living with, "Yeah, but."

"Yeah, but there's no other viable alternative that I can see. I've got a plate full of nothing if I don't chow down on these questionable offerings."

The answer needs to be, "So what?"

So what if I have to go hungry for a little while? What's the worst that can happen? I'll lose weight! So what if this man isn't interested or good relationship material? I'll remain single, as I have for 16 years, and God's provided "exceeding abundantly above all I could ask or think."

SO WHAT???

 ^"But godliness with contentment is great gain.  For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that." 1 Timothy 6:6-8

 For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: "Yeah, But..."

Looking Up

I have a beautiful new bedroom. The walls are pale lavendar, the trim a creamy white. Thus far, I have managed to keep it uncluttered (no small achievement for a packrat like me). A dear friend contributed magnificent, lacy curtains (not to mention, expensive), right off her own windows, because she knew how much I loved them.


The one thing that is not so aesthetically pleasing is the floor. As the painting progressed, I toyed with the idea of fully carpeting the room; therefore, I allowed the painter to be less than careful as she worked. In addition, the floor has some nasty scarring, the result of furniture being moved without necessary caution. I selected a lovely sculpted area rug (sage green) that covers most of the unsightliness, but it's there, and I know it.

At the risk of over-spiritualizing (if there is any such thing - after all, God calls us to think about Him every day in every way, Deuteronomy 6:6-7), I think there's a message here. When I look around my room, I'm struck by the glorious, soothing colors, and the way the whole venue comes together. It really turned out better than I ever imagined. However, when I cast my eye downward, I notice all the flaws. So, being fully aware of the damaged state of the floor, I consciously turn my gaze upward, and with it go the corners of my mouth into a delighted grin, which is as it should be. Why should I allow the imperfections of my living space - whether I'm thinking of my home in particular, or the world at large - to discourage me? When the time is right, I'll tackle the marring, but for now I have every reason to be grateful and joyful. Many loving hands put this room (and this planet) together, and I'd be a fool not to enjoy them.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God;

For I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God (Psalm 42:11)

"If then you were raised with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ is, sitting at the right hand of God.  Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth." 

(Colossians 3:1-2)

"Yeah, But..."

I was thinking this morning while chopping vegetables for my son's omelet, that he and my younger boy are right: I'm hard to satisfy.

Let me backtrack quickly. I'm delighted when they bring home a good report card. I'm thrilled when they buy me a Mother's Day gift, no matter how ill-conceived (though they usually choose well). And it tickles me pink when they take my advice (a rarity, but still).

What I noticed, though, as I hacked up yellow squash, is there's this part of me that always wants something I don't have.

What, you may well ask, does fixing an egg have to do with one's satisfaction level?

It's important to understand that my son is 19 years old, and pretty much knows what he likes and doesn't like. He's not a toddler that I have to play airplane with to get food into his mouth. In fact, he has a reasonably adventurous palate and eats a wide variety of items that would probably make the USDA's food pyramid stand on its head (or should I say point?). Furthermore, he had already agreed to a veritable cornucopia of greens, including onion, green pepper and tomato, in his omelet. To these I had added mushrooms, since he's relatively indifferent to them, and I figured he could pick them out if he wasn't in the mood today. So there was really no need for me to spruce up an already vitamin-laden breakfast with yet another veggie.

Still, I couldn't resist the urge to introduce something new, to embellish what he had asked for, to - let's face it - impose my will onto his stated desires. I wasn't at all sure he would eat the squash, and even considered the possibility that this last minute add-on might ruin the meal for him. Sure enough, he lined up every yellow cube nice and neat on a patterned napkin, complaining as he did so.

I once heard a well-known author and radio personality describe the phenomenon this way: you can't have hair flowing down your back at the same time it's in a braid. It can't be done. It's either tidily constrained or cascading freely. You can have either one on different occasions, but at the same time is ridiculous.

Yet, I am the master of "yeah, but."

"I'm doing my homework, Mom."

"Yeah, but why are there dishes in the sink?"

"I'm going on a date with a girl who's polite, hard-working, and goal-oriented."

"Yeah, but have you written that thank you note yet?"

I think this tendency is part of what keeps me from doing what I was born to do: write. Part of it is just plain old laziness and procrastination, but another factor is, if I'm clicking the keyboard I can't be cleaning the kitchen or checking email or having coffee with a friend. One thing has to be put aside in order to accomplish the other. Sometimes I have so many things tumbling around in my head that I get exhausted before I even begin one of them.

So ultimately, I guess it comes down to the "c" word - contentment. If I have two healthy, caring children who aren't striving to be Nobel Prize winners, I can choose to be content with the wonder of who they are.
If I spend two hours outlining a book proposal but the floor isn't washed, I can choose self-esteem over self-flagellation.

Because, when you get right down to it, Christ chose to give up His heavenly throne room - temporarily - in favor of a carpenter's shop.

"Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross." Philippians 2:5:8

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: "Yeah, But..." Part 2