Thoughts on the Suicide/Addiction Epidemic Among our Youth

"Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.

And in Your book they all were written,

The days fashioned for me,

When as yet there were none of them."

~ Psalm 139:16 ~

Forget the pandemic for a second (I know, I know). Let's focus on the epidemic of young people in the United States killing themselves with drugs and other forms of addiction, or just plain killing themselves, despite the "enlightened," postmodern, post-Christian, post-truth society we have created for them. 

In 1973, we legalized the killing of unborn children. In 1997, Oregon became the first state to legalize "death with dignity," AKA, physician assisted suicide. Eight states and the District of Columbia have since followed suit, disdaining Hippocrates' long revered prescript that doctors do no harm. Odd juxtaposition: abortion kills before birth; assisted suicide kills before death.

Oh, wait. That same oath declares that would-be physicians should refuse to end life in the womb. My bad.

A lot seems to ride on the definition of health care, which over the last two generations has expanded to include provision of death services. The National Institute of Health admits as much in its 2017 bioethics position paper, "Doctors Have no Right to Refuse Medical Assistance in Dying, Abortion or Contraception." Ponder its concluding statement, which concedes medical professionals' right to their own moral compass, while subsequently denying them the freedom to exercise that right in the most fundamental of their duties - the preservation of life:

"Reasons and values are essential to medicine. Doctors like others should have values that reasonably track what is right. Individual values ought not to govern delivery of health care at the bedside. Doctors can campaign for policy or legal reform. They can also provide advice with reasons, based on their values. But they have no claim to special moral status that would permit them to deny patients medical care that these patients are entitled to."

After that somewhat longwinded but necessary rabbit trail, let's return to the main point - why are young people today ending their lives in droves? It staggers the imagination, in an era where self-esteem is elevated to the point of self-worship, and self-identity is touted as the antidote to all manner of youthful confusion, that our youth are not seeing their intrinsic worth and acting accordingly.

Could it possibly be that we're sending mixed messages? On one hand, we proclaim the value of children to the extent that everyone wins a prize just for showing up (that's another article right there); on the other, we insist upon and legally sanction the right to murder the unborn and to commit suicide. While we're at it, we attempt to silence the consciences of medical professionals who opt not to participate in these death rituals.

I don't see how our kids can fail to form one of two troubling conclusions. One, they and only they matter; the unborn don't, and those who find their lives not worth living should be taken at their word and granted medical help to put an end to it all (as opposed to being offered hope and opportunities to serve in whatever capacity they can, which is the basis for self-respect). Two, the adults around them are simply blowing smoke when they proclaim the value of each and every individual, since laws and trends indicate otherwise. 

At the risk of self-promoting, I'm going to give my protagonist, Tanya, from my yet to be published novel, Belabored, the last word. The following excerpt describes a young girl's experience in caring for her dying grandparents, and how they still managed to give back, even from their death beds. The scene and storytelling are drawn from my family's own memory banks, and still bring a tear to my eye.

While it may be unrealistic to expect heroic exceptionalism of all who face pain and difficulty, is it so unreasonable to encourage sufferers not to hasten the end of their lives because things are tough? Wouldn't the truly heroic course of action be to persevere and seek ways to serve until one's life comes to its natural end?

I pray Tanya's anecdote will prompt thought and soul searching about what it really means to be alive, even when spirits sag and bodies betray us.

Chapter 18 Tanya

“Blessed is the servant who loves his brother as much when he is sick and useless as when he is well and can be of service to him.” – Francis of Assisi

            As if I’m not upset enough after my own debate debacle, I have a feeling this next one’s gonna give me nightmares. Carl Zeppo and Zara Patel are presenting on physician assisted suicide, and oh man, is it bringing stuff up for me. Literally.

            As Zara speaks, I find myself back with my grandparents in their room – the one at the top of the stairs that’s been mine ever since they died. When they were alive, I used to squeeze into their double bed between them, and Granddad would tell me bedtime stories. When I got too big for that, they invited me to set up my sleeping bag and camp out on their rug whenever I wanted. Mom was fine with it as long as I got to sleep on time, and Grandma and Granddad always turned off the TV the minute I crept into their room. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t want to turn off a show in the middle, but if it bothered them, they never showed it.

            While Zara’s making the case for physician assisted suicide, my mind switches gears and I can smell the disinfectant that permeated Grandma and Granddad’s room in their final years. I can hear the tiny “pppft” sounds coming from the oxygen machine, and see the long cord snaking across the bedroom floor, tethering their elderly, ailing bodies to what was left of their lives.

            They both got pretty sick, ending up on hospice with visiting nurses, that kind of thing. Both were unconscious at the end, which was really sad, except Mom said they could probably still hear us, so we whispered in their ears about seeing them in heaven, and prayed they had accepted Jesus into their hearts so that would actually be the case. At the time, I bought everything Mom said about such things, but now I’m not so sure.

            I guess Zara’s argument reminds me of all this because her main selling point hinges on physician assisted suicide being a “humane” alternative for the sick and elderly. “Death with dignity,” they call it, as opposed to the messiness and inconvenience (not to mention expense) of having to be taken care of. According to Zara, quite a few states have legalized patients’ rights to choose the time of their own death, and doctors are supposed to help by supplying some sort of lethal injection. So much for the Hippocratic Oath.

            The way Carl tells it, though, from the con side, sometimes there’s a big push from family members and society in general for such people to hurry up and die so everybody else can get on with their lives.

            When he says that, I feel the breakfast burrito I consumed two hours ago rise up in my throat. I will myself to keep it down by recalling the last time I saw Grandma alive.

            “Read to me, Tiny Tanya,” she urged. That was her affectionate name for me as long as I could remember, and she’d no doubt disregard my protruding gut and still call me that today. Her cancer-ridden body had made it impossible for her to get out of bed. Macular degeneration and cataracts had done their worst, and she could barely see.

            “OK, Grandma,” my younger self replied while settling into the chair by her bed. I opened my backpack and pulled out the novel my fourth grade class was reading. “This is great! I can get my homework done and still hang out with you!”     

            Looking back, I remember the plot bored even me and probably sent Grandma more quickly into her pre-death coma. But if the book made her yawn, she never let on.

            “Oh, Sweetheart, you are just what the doctor ordered!” she beamed, squeezing my hand. “How did you get to be such a good reader?”

            Evidently, she hadn’t picked up on the mispronunciations and skipped sentences my teacher was always calling me on. To her, I was Meryl Streep doing Shakespeare.

            I shift in my seat, trying to focus on the here and now. Zara and Carl have caught a break. Sickles the Interrogator is absent today. With any luck, he’s caught something non-contagious but terminal. I’ll be the first to send flowers to his funeral.

            Despite my best efforts, my mind wanders again. This time it’s two years after Grandma left us, and pretty much a bad rerun: Granddad in his final days, and Mom again muddling through with the help of hospice nurses and home health aides. But everyone on the medical team was home sleeping when Mom could’ve used help that November night at 2 AM.

            I woke to hear Granddad sounding agitated, insisting on going to the bathroom by himself. He wasn’t strong enough to get out of bed on his own, but what he lacked in physical strength he made up for in sheer will.

            “Shhh, Dad, you’ll wake Tanya,” I heard Mom saying as I made my way to the doorway of his room. By that point, she was fumbling to get his 200-pound frame onto the bedside commode. Even at age 12, I realized this wouldn’t end well. I instinctively stepped in to take some of the load. Mom flashed me a smile that warmed the dark room like sunshine, and said she’d never been prouder of me.

            After that, I kind of became her right arm. I mean, I still went to school and everything, but when I came home, I would ask Mom what I could do to help. She showed me how to change his adult diapers when he got too weak for the commode, and together we would roll him back and forth so we could fasten the strips of tape on the sides. I won’t say it was pleasant, and I know it made Granddad feel weird, but in a strange way, I think he felt good that we cared enough to do something like that for him.

            One day when I got home, Mom was in a state trying to get somebody to hang out with Granddad so she could do some errands. She looked older that day than I had ever seen her, and I could tell she’d been crying.

            “Don’t worry, Mom,” I reassured her. “I’ll stay with Granddad. Everything’ll be fine.”

            Two lines formed between her eyebrows while she considered this.

            “I don’t know, Tanya. It’s a huge responsibility.”

            I kind of pushed the issue, reminding her how much I had already done for Granddad, and that I’d been staying alone for short periods for quite a while. I could tell she was still undecided, so I rested my case with, “Besides, Granddad’s not going anywhere, is he?”

            That did it. She smiled indulgently, grabbed her purse, barked a few orders, and flew out the door.

            Granddad was still pretty alert at this point, unlike how he was at the end when the drugs controlled both his pain and his mind.

            “Hey, TT Pot,” he began, using his pet name for me. I didn’t like it, but never had the heart to tell him.

            “How’d you like to hear a story? Just like when you were a little girl. It’s been too long, don’t you think?”

            “Sure, why not?” I answered, not knowing that would be the last time he’d ever tell me one. I knew I couldn’t relax like I used to as a kid, when his bedtime stories would put both him and me to sleep. Still, I lowered the side bar of his hospital bed and cozied up to him as best I could without disturbing the cord from the oxygen tank, which wound their way across the floor and ended in two prongs that had an annoying habit of slipping out of his nose.

            “Oh, Tanya, don’t ever make the mistake Washer did!” he cautioned me, referring to the title character in the story, an overly curious raccoon who wandered out too far in the river near his home and ended up going over the falls. “Mother Raccoon couldn’t reach her little Washer because he went just a little too far.”

            A coughing spell interrupted him. I gave him a few sips of water and waited for him to continue.

            “Well, you know what happened next. Sneaky the Wolf captured him and took him by the scruff of the neck back to his den! He planned to serve little Washer to Mother Wolf and the cubs. But Mother Wolf ruled the roost,” he chuckled, “so you know that never happened.

            “In fact, she took a liking to little Washer, and so did the cubs. They became playmates, and Mother Wolf decided to adopt Washer and raise him with her other children.

            “There was just one problem, and you know what his name was!” Granddad laughed and waited for me to answer, as I had done every one of the thousand times he’d told me this story.

            “His name was Sneaky!” I cried with the gusto Granddad expected.

            “That’s right, TT, his name was Sneaky. Sneaky threatened to eat Washer one day, until Mother Wolf pounced on him and caught his flesh with her massive jaws.”

            Here, Granddad assumed an ominous, yet feminine, voice. His speech was weak and somewhat breathless, but he carried off the inflection the way he always had.

            “‘What are you doing with my cub, Sneaky?’ Mother Wolf growled through her sharp teeth.”

            Granddad then took on a sniveling tone for Sneaky. 

            “‘What do you mean, your cub?’ Sneaky replied. ‘That’s not one of our cubs! That’s going to be our dinner one of these nights!’

            “‘Oh, no, he’s not, Sneaky!’ said Mother Wolf. ‘I’ve decided to raise him and teach him

to hunt with the others. He can teach our little wolves things they could never learn otherwise.

It’s been decided!’

            “Well, you know what happened, TT Pot. They argued for a while, but Mother Wolf won

out, as usual.”

            Granddad was beginning to sound hoarse, so I gave him more water.

            “Thanks, T,” he said gratefully. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Mother Wolf brought Washer to the big pack meeting to meet Black Wolf. He was the pack leader, and a fearsome sight to behold. Mother Wolf pleaded with him to let Washer into the pack, but, uh, but, lemme see –”

            “It’s OK, Granddad, you need to rest,” I said, seeing he was fading.

            “No, no, it’s OK, T,” he protested. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, and he started rambling like he used to when he got too tired. I guess the dark room and warmth of the covers made him sleepy, and he always ended up nodding off and mixing bits of his dreams into the story.

            “Well, you see, Mother Wolf went to the White House and the Obamas were all there, too, of course –”

            I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh. It was just like old times, but with painkillers added in.

            I let him drift off, silently filling in the details he had left out. Sneaky’s visit to Black Wolf before the pack meeting, where he got the senior wolf to promise that Washer would be dead meat if he showed up. Black Wolf’s surprise defense of Mother Wolf when the rest of the pack descended on her, trying to get to Washer. And how Mother Wolf finally realized if she truly loved her adopted cub, she had to let him return to his own family of raccoons, where he would be safe.

           Granddad slept for about half an hour, but then I began to detect an odor I knew only too well. I considered my options. There was a good chance Mom would get home soon, so maybe it could wait. But then Granddad started squirming, trying to get comfortable, and I knew only one thing would accomplish that. I wrestled an adult diaper out of the full package and went to work. At first, he resisted, saying he could wait till Mom got home, but from the smell of things, I knew sooner would be better than later.

            I patted his arm and tried to sound confident.

            “It’s OK, Granddad. We’ll get this on in no time.”

            With a weak smile, he relented, and 20 messy minutes later, the deed was done. It wasn’t on straight, and shortly after I finished, a yellow trickle made its way down his left leg via the gap where his hip met his thigh. But my pride was unconquerable. When Mom walked in the door, she burst into tears, saying I was the best daughter anyone could ever have, and she wished she could do something to reward me.

            She didn’t realize she just had.

            So, listening to Zara’s case for assisted suicide, all I can think of is these are the moments I’d have missed out on if that had been law of the land when my grandparents were dying. Sure, my life might’ve been easier if I hadn’t gone through all that stuff, but no one can tell me those two old people didn’t have something rich to contribute even from their death beds. I count those last days with them among the sweetest in my life, and if I could have them back, I’d gladly tuck in next to them in those God-awful hospital beds and be just as content as I was camping out on their rug when I was a kid.

            Suddenly, my throat feels like it’s got a huge glob of peanut butter stuck in it, and I catch a tear escaping from my eye. I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, and swallow hard. It’s no use. The lump is there to stay.

            I force myself to listen to the Q and A. Let me tell you, Dr. Chase doesn’t grill Carl and Zara the way he did Sophia and me. He just makes them clarify a couple of points, then everybody asks their stupid questions, and we move on to the next pair of debaters.

            I slam the door on other memories that threaten to unleash themselves at this inopportune time. There’s one thought I can’t chase away, though – I wish Dolly could’ve gotten to meet those two wonderful people before they died.

***

Author’s note: The story Tanya’s grandfather tells her is adapted with appreciation from: Walsh, George Ethelbert. Twilight Animal Series: Washer the Raccoon. Philadelphia: John C. Winston Co., 1922. Print. 

Mélange of Mishmash

The Artist

I want to give a huge shout out to my nephew and dear friend, Brian Quirk, who recently released his first solo album, What Makes You Happy. Let me tell you, his happiness makes me happy! All partisanship aside, this is an impressive piece of work, with clear, strong lyrics that will resonate with listeners, and hummable melodies which wend their way into one's consciousness and find themselves welcome to stay!

The Angst

I must admit, though, Brian's success is causing me a bit of angst. I had a chance to chat with him the other day, and he shared some of the marketing tools he's been using to make his work known. He really is quite the self-promoter, and shares himself with the public in such a winsome way. Alas, the old comparison monster has reared its ugly head, and I'm finding myself wanting to "catch up," so to speak, with where he has landed, and do more to launch my product.

Numerous blog ideas have made their way into my mind of late, but I haven't taken them to the next level. They haven't graduated from scribbled notes into finished pieces of composition. I'm just irritated enough with myself today to try to change that.

The Whining

One reason for my procrastination has been general busy-ness. School has started, and this isn't like any other year. Normally by this time, the lay of the land would be pretty much settled. Educators might not adore each and every class or student, but they would have their schedules and routines well in hand. 

Not so in 2020. COVID has seen to that. Staff and students alike are feeling fatigued over the unpredictability of each new week, and the (literal) extra layers - think PPE - that have been added to each day.

This writer is no exception. 

I don't mean to sound petulant. My superiors are working their posteriors off to adapt to the constantly changing school landscape that used to be so straightforward; all people like me have to do is jump through each new hoop they lay out for us. And on that note, the chain of command has taken time they really don't have to add a new role - cheerleaders to those of us in the rank and file, making sure we know our efforts are appreciated, and mistakes, forgivable - to their already cornucopia-ish plates. And let's not even mention health care workers and policy makers, who have been camping on the front lines for months now.

Still, the fact is I've been tired. Physically tired, but also ministry-weary. My dearest friend and I have taken an active approach in that department, teaching Bible studies and hosting prayer meetings, and we've ramped things up since the virus came along. We've been tag teaming each other (truth be told, her share of the load has weighed heavier than mine much of the time), and we've even built a day off into the picture, but the work is as real as the needs, and we feel both keenly.

Again, I hear myself sounding whiny. I could easily edit out the complaining, but I'm trying to be honest here. Honest with myself about why I'm not popping out book proposals as fast as Netflix churns out ill-conceived "art" for unsuspecting viewers to devour. And honest with my readers, which is something I always strive for. If I can't be transparent with my audience, I ought not to call myself a blogger, let alone an aspiring author.

Enough already! I said I had things to blog about, but the ideas that have been rattling around in my brain are no closer to making it onto the page than they were when I started this post a week ago! So, without further ado (or excuses), I'm going to spit them out in the order they present themselves to me.

The Waste

I recently saw a gorgeous Lincoln Town Car. The vehicle was well cared for in every way, inside and out. For example, the owner had placed antique model cars and a pillow bearing the image of Abe Lincoln on the rear deck, along with a carefully folded American flag. The upholstery and body were immaculate. 

Sadly, though, a trespasser (and maybe his gang) had wreaked havoc on the otherwise pristine automobile. Atop the hood lay the unmistakable results of some ignoble, winged creatures having mistaken this work of art for a public restroom. 

Moral of the story: nothing in this life is perfect. We can dress ourselves up and strive for perfection, but life is messy and bird poop finds all of us eventually.

The Tongue

My latest affliction of middle age is sleep apnea, a condition apparently caused by the tongue relaxing during sleep and blocking the airway. I've been duly diagnosed through the use of a home sleep test, which involved rigging myself up with an octopoid set of wires, then trying to ignore the clumsy apparatus and nod off.

Having achieved the impossible and fallen asleep, the unthinkable happened. That's right - the other curse of midlife, which I affectionately call the "wee hours wee" - only on this occasion, there were one or two encumbrances to, uh, work around.

A good night's sleep was had by all. Not so much.

There are several treatments for sleep apnea, none of which excite me. I could invest in a CPAP machine, a cumbersome nuisance which will add to an already somewhat complicated bedtime routine (rebellious joints require nightly exercises, and of late, we've thrown an inhaler into the mix). Another option is a dental appliance which will shift my jaw position to keep the troublesome tongue under control (I haven't managed to do that in 57 years, but, hey, who knows). Last but far from least, there's a pacemaker-type deal which gets surgically implanted under the tongue (and a few other places), the net result being to shock the offending organ back into compliance.

Um, I don't think so.

Who knew all these years my tongue has been the enemy? 

I mean, I have known it to be a bit unbridled at times in the eating and speaking departments, but up until now, I hadn't viewed the thing as a life-or-death offender. So, now, apparently, not only do I need to reign it in during waking hours, but when I'm unconscious as well.

Good to know, even though it'll never happen.

Takeaway: James was right when he condemned the tongue!

The Tragedy

COVID-19 has done its work and done it well. It's cost this world in general and our nation in particular untold numbers of lives and jobs, not to mention any sense of normalcy. Now it's threatening the body of Christ. Never-maskers won't go to church because masks infringe on their freedom, and always-maskers stay away because they fear the germs from never-maskers.

Here's a thought: while the virus has absolutely provided an opportunity for gross overreach among governing authorities, it is most definitely a very serious and contagious condition. Since medical professionals can't all concur on the importance of masking, how about Christians agree on the need for consideration of fellow believers? Unless I'm mistaken, the weaker brother passage is still alive and well in the Good Book. Seems like this might be a fine time to dust off that concept and exercise it accordingly.

Before adherents to either position get their feathers ruffled, I disclaim any disrespect to either viewpoint; both have valid reasons for their positions, and as has been noted, even the medical community has not reached complete consensus. But it would truly be a tragedy if, in defending our freedom of conscience, we actually helped worldly authorities destroy church life in America.

The Dynamic Duo, AKA, Hovering and Covering

I'm going to end here on a positive note. While we are nowhere near Passover in the calendar year (either Jewish or Julian), I have recently gained insight into this holiday of deliverance that I hope will encourage many.

The Hebrew word "Pesach," which is usually translated "Passover," has shades of meaning. One of its connotations has to do with hovering in an effort to protect. The impact of this is that, not only did death "skip over" the Israelite households during that awful night, but the Lord Himself hovered over the homes of His people to save their children from destruction.

The Jews were already familiar with the idea of blood being needed to atone for, or "cover," a person's sins. On the night of Passover, the lamb's blood covered the Israelites' doorposts, keeping them safe from the angel of death. 

While no one can promise believers immunity from disease or calamity, it's pretty comforting in these times to know our great God has a history of hovering over those who fear Him, and covering their sins for all eternity.

Do you know the safety found in the Savior? If not, I pray you will leave a comment below asking for more information about this vital subject. It would be my privilege to help you make His acquaintance!

Look to History

"I will remember the deeds of the Lord; 

yes, I will remember Your wonders of old." 

~Psalm 77:11~

If the past few months have taught me nothing else, they have indelibly impressed on my mind the need to have a working knowledge of history - both one's own, but also on the grand scale.

When the COVID nightmare began, I hurried and scurried to do my part. I threw my hat into a lot of rings, some of which worked out excellently, and others which turned out to not be my calling. The only thing I knew was that many were suffering with the disease, and still others were doing double duty to keep the world afloat. It seemed the most sensible things I could do were a) pray without ceasing and b) offer anything in my power to support those who were doing all the "heavy lifting." 

Little did I know what lay lurking around my own corner.

As my daughter-in-law posted on her Facebook page, our family has had to beat back an ugly cadre of characters in the last 30 days or so. I don't mind telling you, I could have used the help of a stud like Hercules to fend off, sever and (please, God!) cauterize the ever-springing heads of misfortune which seemed bent on destroying us. As one of my friends put it, I felt trapped at every turn.

I think what has been hardest for me personally has been fighting COVID. First of all, there's a stigma to this illness, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Let's face it, corona is the modern day version of the plague, and nobody wants to be hobnobbing with that interloper.

The illness itself has been frightening and unpleasant, but I've survived worse. What makes this beast so brutal is the isolation he imposes. For the past three weeks, while my son and I took turns with the virus, I felt alone - but not quite. We basically each had to segregate in our own sections of the house, while scrupulously cleaning common areas after every use (not something one feels like doing when one's most fervent desire is to sleep away all the symptoms and fears that come with this nasty invader). In short, when one most needs people as a buffer against terror and uncertainty, one must settle for aide from a distance, phone communication, and the wonders of modern technology.

Let me assert, though, that, while such devices may be poor substitutes for flesh and blood, they become most welcome when one considers the possibility of making due without them!

Let me also hasten to add, assistance has been in great supply for us! Countless offers of shopping, errands, and "anything I can do to help" have flown in from unexpected quarters. These have stood us in good stead, as even post-virus, one does not dare set foot back into the community until one hears from a medical person those marvelous words, "All clear!"

So, why do I link all this with an historical perspective? Because it's critical! Throughout everything our family has endured this last month (seems like a decade), my mind has continuously cycled back through the pages of history. For instance, pondering infant mortality rates under the best of circumstances before vaccines and medical advances made their arrival has shifted my gloomy perspective about our twins' lonely NICU stay into sheer thanksgiving that such help is available in this day and age. What Colonial mother wouldn't have cheered at the chance to entrust her newborn into the care of strangers if that meant her cradle would one day be filled?

The past has lent clarity to economic concerns as well. We all have times of financial struggle, and COVID has dealt a huge blow to many a household cookie jar. Study of the life of George Mueller has helped me banish self-pity and concerns for worldly security. Wandering through the pages of this Godly man's life, studying his secrets for success and prayerful provision for all the destitute children who relied on him, has given me pause and new lenses through which to view my own life's uncertainties. Simply put, if Mueller could do it, I can do it.

I could add more, but my body is telling me it's time to rest. I really just wanted to share that, when depression has reared its diabolical head in recent days, I have found solace and assurance through the lives of my forefathers, whose perseverance took the phrase, "stiff upper lip," to extraordinary lengths. I have also found it useful to review my own overcomings, especially over circumstances which "threatened to undo [me]." Somehow, the recollection of past "Hydras" being slain on the altar of faith has made today's bogeymen no less scary, perhaps, but infinitely more slayable. 

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, 'For your sake we are being killed all the day long;  we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

~ Romans 8:35-39~

Kicking Chaos to the Curb

Years ago, I had an acquaintance named Alice who made a big impression on me with one sentence. After explaining that she and her husband were parents to four kids of their own, plus raising the children of their drug-addicted siblings, all in a saltine-sized house, she stated calmly, "I love order, but I've learned to function in chaos."

This past week has felt like quicksand in a lot of ways. I'm having to deal with many things that are out of my control and, despite nearly 40 plus years in self-help groups, lack of control still makes me feel irritable and edgy. Oh, I'm wonderful if you're the one going through chaos; then I can be all sunshine and light, encouragement and reason. But, in the immortal words of Marcia Brady when reminded of her own philosophy about sucking up defeat and trying again, "This is different; this happened to me!"

Like Alice, my "fairy godmother," Anita, who lives down the street and bakes yummy things and utters delicious phrases of warmth and reassurance, is good for what ails me. Tonight, while chatting on the phone with her, I accomplished the mind-numbing job of adding phone numbers for several letters of the alphabet into my new cell phone. Yes, I know, this is a first world problem, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. Did I mention I HATE having to redo things, especially after spending hours on the phone with the vendor, who promised it would be a cinch to import everything into the new device? That's one reason I hate the job of dusting (you're never actually finished, it always has to be done again) - but I digress.

Anyway, though she didn't realize I was multi-tasking, I know Anita would have heaped praise on me, had she known. She probably would have beamed and crowed something like the following: "My, that's wonderful! You're making progress! Little by little! Oh, and look at that drawer you cleaned out yesterday. That's one less thing you have to do. By the way, did you notice this corner of the table I cleared today? See, I'm making progress, too!"

That little lady sure knows what's what.

Another friend, Rosemary, upon hearing complaints about how Satan has been upsetting a lot of my plans lately, listened sympathetically before announcing, "That's enough about Satan. Let's talk about what God's doing!" After that loving reminder, she and the rest of our prayer group proceeded to spend the rest of our time reminding ourselves about the power we have as children of God, as opposed to the shenanigans of that wily serpent, who gets what's coming to him in the end anyway.

It's the serenity prayer all over again. We work with what we have, instead of whining about what we don't have.

While my prayer buddies and I were commiserating tonight, the Lord brought to mind another dear friend, Kass, who suffered with multiple sclerosis for decades. I watched her decline, but I also marveled at how she continually used whatever function she had left after each new setback to do for herself and others. For years, she clipped coupons out of the weekly ads and passed them along to me to save both of us money. She hadn't driven for years, but still remembered her way around better than any GPS; she used to delight in suggesting the simplest route I could take for unfamiliar sojourns. She refused to let others do for her what she was still capable of doing for herself.

I am humbled and enriched by having such undaunted people in my life. Gives me courage to take the next few steps on my own bumpy path.

"And in this matter I give my judgment: this benefits you, who a year ago started not only to do this work but also to desire to do it. 

So now finish doing it as well, so that your readiness in desiring it may be matched by your completing it out of what you have. 

For if the readiness is there, it is acceptable according to what a person has, 

not according to what he does not have." 

~ 2 Corinthians 8:10-12 ~

God, Grief and Grandbabies

To my beloved grandchildren –

Luca, you have set a fine example for your younger sisters. They have a tough act to follow! Before you were born, I couldn’t imagine loving any grandchild as much as I do you, but, lo and behold, I found out that what I’ve always been told is true: we don’t have to divide our love when new babies come along – somehow, it miraculously multiplies!

Luca, you have a very special middle name. David was your great grandfather Parrish’s name. He would have eaten you up (if his wife, Grandma Barbara, didn’t get to you first, that is)!

Kira and Greer, you came at such a perfect time! Your beautiful mommy has been a real trooper, waiting for you to arrive in this hot, sticky summer. I think she was really ready for you to make your entrance! We were all eager to meet you, and our great God knew He would be taking Grandpa Mike (AKA, “Grandma Mike,” according to your big brother) home to live with Him in heaven. The Lord knew we would need tiny smiles and gentle coos to comfort us. He also knew Luca needed some built in friends to come live with him, so He sent you girls to do the job! I pray the three of you will be good friends, and not let quarrels and disagreements go on too long. Try to remember what your Grandma Parrish told my sisters and me when we were growing up. Whenever we would argue, she always said, “Oh, girls, I want you to love each other!”

All three of you have such wonderful names. Kira, one of your middle names is Michaela, which your mommy and daddy added to honor Grandpa Mike. Greer, your name starts with “G” just like Grandpa Fred’s middle name, George, and the Cameron part of your name was your great grandma Winnie’s maiden name.

By the way, Granddad Parrish was Jewish, and in Jewish tradition, loved ones who pass away are honored by naming new babies after them. So, you see, as part of your Jewish heritage, you all have extra special names which will help us remember family members we miss. They were much loved people, and would be thrilled to share their names with you. Thank you, dear hearts, for bearing those names so beautifully. Your grandparents would be proud.

Speaking of family, all three of you were born into a good one. Oh, don’t get me wrong – there will be lots of hovering and advice giving, but there will also be heaps of praise and encouragement. We take care of our own in the Williams and Hoell families!

Well, you’re all still pretty young, so I should let you get to bed. I think I’ll “tuck you in” with the song your daddy, who is also an amazing man, wrote when we brought Uncle Ethan (AKA, Uncle EZ) home from the hospital. I’m not kidding, your daddy at age five composed these loving lines:

Go to sleep, little Ethan, and you will be alright

Close your eyes, little Ethan, and you will be OK

If the sun doesn’t dawn in your dreams tonight

Be sure to wake me with the sound of your fright

Go to sleep, little Ethan, and you will be alright,

Close your eyes, little Ethan, and you will be OK!

When I sing this to you, I will, of course, substitute your names for Uncle EZ’s, but you get the idea.

Thank you all for the incredible happiness you have given me, even before I met you. I love you all dearly, and eagerly await the moment when I can hold my new little grand girls (and I do mean grand)! In the meantime, I’ll keep snuggling my Luca and give him some extra squeezes for his sisters😊

Oh, one more thing.  These Bible verses from the Old Testament speak of God replacing sorrow with something beautiful and good. Your mommy experienced the pain of giving birth, and we all feel sadness over having lost your grandfathers so young. Having you three to hug and hold helps to transform those sorrows into joy!

“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me,

Because the Lord has anointed Me

To preach good tidings to the poor;

He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,

To proclaim liberty to the captives,

And the opening of the prison to those who are bound...

2 

To comfort all who mourn,

3 

To console those who mourn in Zion,

To give them beauty for ashes,

The oil of joy for mourning,

The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;

That they may be called trees of righteousness,

The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.”

~ Isaiah 61:1-3 ~

God bless you all, my sweethearts, and nitey nite!

Love always,

Mom Mom

Unrepentant Sin

Apologies, readers, for the inconsistent text fonts, which are the result of this starting out as a response on Facebook, then being copied into Word, and finally transferred here. The "travels" were hard on my little post, but hopefully, you will still find it worth the read.

My friend, James Watkins, posted the following on Facebook the other day. Thank you, Jim, for allowing me to springboard from your post to share what God laid on my heart:

"After years of being taught 'follow your heart,' we have a culture of hearts following racism, sexism, nationalism, and narcissism. What we need is regeneration of hearts filled with God’s unconditional love for all." Then he quoted Jeremiah 17:9.

That post really set me to wondering. I went to sleep pondering the whole matter of unrepentant sin, which drives many of the "-isms" Jim cited. Woke up, did some praying, some thinking, and some research. In the final analysis, I couldn't find any ground to stand on that affirms God has changed His mind on this very vital subject. Couldn't find any basis in Scripture for affirming ourselves or our children in sinful behaviors, be they matters of sexuality, disregard of authority, or any other form of self-destruction.

What I did find was lots of evidence of God using parents and His word to correct and steer the next generation down a healthy, God-fearing road. Here are just a few examples:

“Behold, happy is the man whom God corrects; therefore, do not despise the chastening of the Almighty” (Job 5:17).

“My son, do not despise the chastening of the Lord, nor detest His correction; for whom the Lord loves He corrects, just as a father the son in whom he delights” (Proverbs 3:11-12).

“Chasten your son while there is hope, and do not set your heart on his destruction” (Proverbs 19:18).

“’My son, do not despise the chastening of the Lord, nor be discouraged when you are rebuked by Him; for whom the Lord loves He chastens, and scourges every son whom He receives.’ If you endure chastening, God deals with you as with sons; for what son is there whom a father does not chasten? But if you are without chastening, of which all have become partakers, then you are illegitimate and not sons.  Furthermore, we have had human fathers who corrected us, and we paid them respect. Shall we not much more readily be in subjection to the Father of spirits and live? For they indeed for a few days chastened us as seemed best to them, but He for our profit, that we may be partakers of His holiness. Now no chastening seems to be joyful for the present, but painful; nevertheless, afterward it yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:5-11).

“As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. Therefore, be zealous and repent” (Rev. 3:19).

And, perhaps most convicting: “Woe to those who call evil good, and good evil; who put darkness for light, and light for darkness; who put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!” (Isaiah 5:20).

Isaiah punctuated his warning with an exclamation point, something the Bible uses sparingly, suggesting the dire situation one places himself in when he condones that which ought to be lovingly corrected and dismantled. How much more this admonition must apply to parents, to whom Jesus said, “Or, what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!” (Matthew 7:9-11).

This last verse also carries an exclamation point, suggesting the extreme importance of providing healthy guidance to one’s children – “feeding” them, as it were, on life-giving fare, rather than approving a “diet” that will destroy them.

Indulge me for a few more moments, as I relate an extraordinary occurrence that took place yesterday. I was readying myself for the day and had my medicine cabinet open. It so happens that my particular unit is faced with three mirrored panels which each open out (it sounds fancier than it is). I had the door on the left open almost 90 degrees, which gave me a view into the hallway to my right. The reflected hall appeared different from the actual hall, placing a doorknob on the opposite side, for instance, and making the entire runway present as longer than it actually is. A few minutes later, after thinking I had closed the left panel, I realized it was still slightly ajar. This oversight, when combined with the reflection of the center mirror, produced a new distortion, giving my drop ceiling a kaleidoscoped, “fun house” look, and doubling a painting of a turtle that we added to said ceiling for the kids’ amusement during bath time.

In considering these strange misrepresentations of reality, I see a connection with the subject at hand. Parents may mistake their good intentions for God’s best. What may seem like a loving attitude – tolerance for and even approval of behavior which God deems sin – is, in actuality, deceit, and dangerously misleading. When we go along with and condone a child’s missteps, we are no better than the parent who gives his offspring a tooth-shattering stone instead of wholesome bread. We collude in destroying the very people we were put here to nurture.

So, what ought a parent’s loving response be when faced with a child whose decisions are propelling him towards disaster? I know of one loving couple who offered their erring son the choice of following parental rules or finding another place to live. This young man was desperately involved with drugs and the whole lifestyle it takes to maintain such a habit. The parents – for his sake and the sake of his younger siblings, who were looking on to see how Mom and Dad would respond to their brother’s rebellion – brokenheartedly insisted their son leave when he refused to make efforts to change.

The troubled fellow ended up on the street. From time to time, he contacted his parents, whose hearts he knew remained open, even as the door to their home stayed closed until he changed course. The parents welcomed the opportunity to meet with their son in neutral places like restaurants, where they happily picked up the tab to feed their child, whose body was now ravaged with malnourishment. Each time, they assured him of their ongoing love, while reiterating the boundaries they had established. Tears were shed – lots of them. But these wise parents knew there would be more and bitterer tears if they didn’t hold to the Rock-solid principles the Bible defines as love.

That, folks, is called tough love. It’s not only tough on the target, but achingly tough on the provider of such love. This type of love affirms God’s tried and true plan for success, rather than affirming shifting cultural values. It affirms and elevates the truth of Scripture over an individual’s perceived “truth” for his or her life. In short, it calls for conformity with what God calls right, and requires repentance over what He repudiates. It diminishes “following one’s heart” to its rightful place, replacing that flawed concept with following the Creator’s heart. 

There's no safer place to land than in the camp of the Redeemer.

Rolling Bandages Part 2: 100 Ways I Avoided Doing Housework During the Quarantine

Alright, that's an exaggeration. But I am going to offer up a number of ways I've managed to avoid doing domestic chores during this crazy time. My reader, should he or she choose to accept the mission, is welcome to take up the slack.

Housework Heebie Jeebies

I hate housework. Always have. I'm well aware that many who were homebound during the COVID-19 quarantine spent bunches of time catching up on home duties. That makes sense, and bless their hearts. There's a part of me that feels I should have done likewise, as I, too, remained mostly at home for weeks on end due to the pandemic.

Don't get me wrong. I love tidy. My sons will tell you, I'll wake them up from a cozy sleep to come downstairs and fold the blanket they left strewn on the chair last night. OK, that may be a stretch, but you get the idea. But to me, tidy is a way of life, while clean may just be a way of death. I can't understand folks who find it burdensome to put a glass in the dishwasher or toss a gum wrapper into the trash, but neither can I relate to friends who pencil in spring cleaning on their calendars and - horror of horrors - actually accomplish the task.

I just couldn't wrap my head around the thought that this isolation was imposed on me for the sole purpose of making my floors sparkle and my end tables gleam with lemony luster.

So, instead of fighting the guilt that reared its ugly head every time I viewed a Facebook friend's account of waxing the floor or detailing the car, I owned it (if others can embrace their shortcomings, so can I). I decided if this was how God made me, He must have had other tasks for me to accomplish during this time of national peril.

Successful Laziness

My older sister lives by the motto, "Organization is the key to successful laziness." Her hall closets and refrigerator, in all their orderly splendor, make me want to scream. However, I've given her philosophy a chance during the quarantine, on the slim chance that she might be onto something.

It seemed logical to start by implementing a daily routine, even a loose one, and trying to stick with it. This included an early wake up time (OK, it's gotten later as time has gone on), getting dressed in clothes (as opposed to just changing bathrobes), and trying to build a bit of exercise into each day (I'm pretty lax on this one - walking counts, even from bedroom to bathroom, and so does breathing).

Not wanting to live in total slovenly squalor, I've allowed a few small cleaning jobs and mini house projects to make the list, but room overhauls have been strictly off limits. Progress, not perfection, has been the goal. I've kept in the forefront of my mind that, if self-discipline is a continuum, I was born on the wrong end of it.

Next, my prayer partner, whose walk with God is only a step down from Mother Teresa's, "suggested" it might be wise for me to clear some space in my dwelling. This idea met with reluctance, as cleanouts aren't too far a cry from doing housework (which, as I said, isn't in my genetic code). However, one oughtn't to argue with a chip off Mother Teresa's block. Suffice it to say, my garage and basement let out sighs of relief when unneeded stuff found its way to the curb; cobwebs have been swept away and precious floor space reclaimed.

For the record, I'm not finished yet. My friend keeps reminding me that other rooms, drawers and closets await my intervention, like mythical monsters waiting to be fed.

Knowing that some days would be more productive than others has allowed me the freedom to make mistakes without chucking the whole organizational endeavor. Also, having some built-in structure, such as morning and evening prayer times with other believers, has encouraged me to get back on track if it's been a less than stellar day.

The Ever-Present Need for Bandage Rolling

In a previous post I discussed an important way I found to "roll bandages" during the corona lockdown. Specifically, I described the vital work of sharing the gospel with folks who may have been more open during a deadly pestilence than they otherwise would be to considering eternity. This work was an outgrowth of one of the first ideas God gave me - to check in on others far and near, to see how they were doing and try to help if I could.

As our nation inched its way towards the Yellow Phase of COVID seclusion, we simultaneously careened into the anguish and ensuing violence of a nation still agonizing - well over two centuries since our country's inception - over race issues that could have been addressed with a few pen strokes by our founding fathers.

Hear my heart. I don't wish to oversimplify an incredibly complex and tragic issue. However, it does seem painfully clear that the institutionalized racism on which our country was literally built continues to plague us to this very day, leaving wounds which are not only unhealed, but still gushing actual blood.

A city not ten miles from my home was ravaged by looters and violence. This proximity caused me to fear for the well-being of many brothers and sisters I worship with - many of whom hail from another continent, and whose racial backgrounds differ from mine. Their homes and/or businesses sit right in the heart of or just around the corner from that sacked city.

For this reason, my calls and notes evolved from inquiring after folks' health to checking on their physical safety, and that of their properties. These small actions, along with countless hours of communal prayer, are for me baby steps towards reunifying a battered America.

Sharpening Skill Sets

Other doors have opened for ministry and learning. I learned to navigate some new online communication platforms, enhancing my skill set along the way. Technology is a wonderful thing, and it has been used to its fullest during this health crisis. Prayer meetings and Bible studies have sprung up over phone lines and computer networks. Many pastors began preaching from virtual pulpits and continue to do so. I felt compelled to take advantage of these opportunities, to put some "currency" into my own spiritual "bank account," since my future, like everyone else's, remains unsettled.

There's nothing selfish about rolling bandages to stock one's own medicine cabinet.

In addition, I switched the biweekly Bible study I teach to a phone format, and upped its schedule to every week. I felt the accelerated pace would benefit the group, as well as build extra spiritual muscle into the instructor.

No one ever accused me of being altruistic.

I also had the chance to finally finish several books which have been on my back burner longer than the Ty-D-Bol Man's been out of business. No, that's not an allusion to where I did the reading, although it did feel cathartic to check them off the list.

Novel Pursuits

These meaningful activities still left me with time on my hands, so I jumped back on the publishing bandwagon. Compiling a book proposal isn't quite as much fun as getting a root canal, but then again, you don't need dental insurance to query an agent.

Alas, the person to whom I sent my manuscript seems not to comprehend the true worth of the gem she holds in her hands.That's a face-saving way of saying I've heard nothing. Sadly, the distasteful job of tweaking my pitch to send to other agencies now looms over me the way a final exam scoffs at a student with a raging case of senior-itis.

At least I won't die of boredom.

First Things First

Clearly, there's no end to the cornucopia of things one can find to do that don't fall into the "H" category - and I haven't even scratched the surface. Let us not forget facetiming with loved ones, trying out new recipes, praying through church directories, writing letters and articles like this one, keeping up with social media, managing finances, dubbing certain days "retreat days" to simply soak in God's splendor, learning fun, new skills like how to use the weedwacker (it's so simple a child could do it), finding fun, new skills like how to break the weedwacker (hint: it's only supposed to be used on skinny weeds, not husky wonders like beanstalks), finding ways to repair the weedwacker (I'm still working on that one)...

The one thing I knew going into the imposed isolation was, I couldn't fill that glorious gift of time with nothing but scrubbing and polishing. A little, yes, but for me, that can't be a career. While I admire those who keep house meticulously, I lose interest and heart if that's all I have to do.

So, for me, the quarantine hasn't been boring. Scary, yes. Anxiety- producing, no question. Did I mention the many frightening dreams I had early on, and sometimes still have, as I ponder my employment future and the rough road that lies before our country?

Still, I find the surest way to shake off those fears is to start and end my day with the Lord. Somehow, the rest always falls into place.

"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; 

and all these things shall be added unto you."

~ Matthew 6:33 ~

Paternalism ... or Protection?

The men in my church take a protective attitude towards women. One way this shows up is in the way we "do" prayer meeting. In sad contrast to the prayer gatherings of other churches I've attended, a large percentage of men from my church can and do come out on a regular basis.

Prayer, if you haven't noticed, is not specified by the Bible as an activity exclusive to women. Yet, to see the way many men avoid this weekly, one hour gathering, you'd think perhaps it was a baby shower rather than a meeting with the God of the universe.

No, wait. Recent baby showers I've attended have included men, and were better populated by Y chromosome bearers than a lot of prayer meetings I've been involved with.

If I sound angry, I am. As a single mom who raised two sons, I resent the failure of some men to step up when it comes to prayer. Now, I know resentment is a character flaw, one cautioned against in the Bible, and yes, I'm working on it. Perhaps this piece is one way for me to exorcise some of the negative feelings I carry surrounding this issue.

Don't misunderstand. I had boku help with raising my boys. Many men of the church I attended at the time (not to mention the males in my family) showed great interest and offered much insight and assistance - I mean, concrete assistance - in the formation of my sons' characters. These were God-fearing fellows who took seriously their responsibility to assist widows and orphans - which we were essentially, if not technically. I, however, had not yet realized the importance of weekly prayer, so couldn't tell you how many of those blessed men showed up when the doors were open on Wednesday nights.

But I'll bet it was more than a few.

Sadly, I personally have more or less begged a number of men - including pastors, on whose watches prayer meetings were regularly taking place, but who could not find time to attend - to bless us and God with their presence. I even played the "L" card, citing how much it would mean to have our leaders actually lead us in this essential activity. Responses ranged from excuses about scheduling conflicts (isn't there something in the Bible about if you're too busy to pray, you're too busy? Oh, and here's a novel concept - how about not scheduling other activities on the same night as prayer meeting), to excuses about not being "gifted" in this area (since when is appealing to the Almighty a gift given only to a select few?), to - I shudder to recall this one - cold stares.

But I digress.

The purpose of this post, which seems to have taken a muddy turn into a scathing rebuke of male refusal to step up in this crucial area, is to commend the church I currently attend for the way men run our prayer meeting.

No church gets it right in every area. That's why Christ had to die for the church in general, and all of us flawed humans in particular. Sure, there are issues on which my church and I differ, but the one matter on which we find full agreement is the necessity of prayer in the life of a congregation.

And I do mean life.

Without prayer, a church can fall prey to languishing at best and descending into deep sin at worst.

And it should not be up to the women of the church to carry this heavy, discipline-demanding ball single-handedly.

That's why God didn't let Adam get away with passing the buck to Eve about gobbling up that forbidden fruit. Oh, he tried, but God hadn't forgotten the order He established, naming Adam the leader and Eve the "help meet."

My church understands this, and that's why a bunch of men show up on a regular basis to run prayer meeting.

I can hear some of my feminist friends screaming that this practice is paternalistic, that women should have as much right to lead church gatherings as men. I'm going to steer clear of this issue, not because I feel the need to dodge it, but because it's secondary to the point I'm trying to make. While Scripture clearly asserts that men are charged with taking the helm in the church setting, many would debate the relevance of this directive to a culture vastly different from that of the first century in which those words were penned. My purpose is not to argue whether this was a cultural admonition that has since lost its validity, or whether it can stand the test of time (as if a time-defining God needed to defend His Word against such things as passage of time or cultural shifts).

Rather, my point is simply to thank the few men who clear their schedules and their throats in order to lead the church they love in the very vital activity of prayer.

When I was married, I used to love enfolding myself in my husband's arms while we slept. There was something about that posture that bespoke protection, or at least a willingness to protect. I'm not sure how much better my spouse would have fared against lethal danger than I would have - he was, after all, only flesh and blood, and battlefields have been strewn since time immemorial with the guts of men whose brave spirits were bested by bodies that gave way to bullets.

But I felt my husband's willingness to care for me and for our children in that simple gesture. Most couples today are chore-sharing, bread-winning partnerships; family life has evolved, and I doubt the structure of this institution will ever return to the pre-feminism patterns of the 50's - and maybe it shouldn't. As so many marriages fell short of the guidelines established in Ephesians for success, it became necessary for women to demand a level playing field in the workplace so they and their children could survive.

But even as women have donned military uniforms and hardhats, I daresay many of us still appreciate strong arms of support from loving men after a hard day on that tough playing field.

So, when the men of my church take the lead role in our weekly prayer gatherings, I, for one, want to thank them. For taking the time. For taking the initiative. And for taking care.

Our society could use more of those things.