Why I Write: Young Adult

Continuing my summer series on Why I Write.

Last week I explained Why I Write: Fiction.

Today I'll tell you Why I Write: Young Adult (or YA). I didn't intend to write YA when I began. I was reading a lot of Francine Rivers and Deanne Gist back then, and beginners emulate. It's the way of many creative pursuits.

Well into my first draft I began to have some doubts. Was my character too young? Were her problems too juvenile? Were her friends too immature? Near the halfway point, I had a sudden, liberating realization: I was actually writing YA.

This freed me in many ways, and excited me. I have always loved YA. My favorite course in college was Dr. Shively's YA Lit class, where I was reintroduced to brilliant authors like Lois Lowry, Chris Crutcher, S.E. Hinton, Sandra Sisneros, Harper Lee, and L.M Montgomery. I had read their books as a kid, but now, studying them as an adult, their work became something new, fascinating, and wonderful to me.

They speak a different literary language. They're frank, bold, and unapologetically serious about problems that plague young adults.

They don't shy away from topics, or water things down. I love that. They don't talk down to their audience, or assume their young readers need words, sentences, issues, or stories simplified. They respect their audience, and the stage of life their audience is in.

Young readers need that. I needed that.

I was such a confused, love-sick, angst-filled young reader myself. I know this because I left a paper trail of all my confusion and heartache. I desperately needed to know I was not alone. I needed to know God was still real, and he was still near; still active and working in my life and in the world.

It was a time of questioning, and doubting, and seeking answers in the wrong place, and being so darn sure about every single thing I decided was true. It was a time of rebellion, of taking risks, of making mistakes. It was when I realized how important friendship was, and now that I'm an adult, I see how important my choice of friends was.

Most tragically, it was a time when I was obsessed with trying to figure out what would make me happy. The world was constantly shoving down my youthful throat that my happiness was all that mattered. Not my parents, not my future, and certainly not God.

"Do whatever makes you happy," is Satan's battle cry. It's an insidious command that leads to irreparably broken relationships. Young adults are so dangerously susceptible to it. Even faithful young adults.

That's why I write YA.

This question of personal happiness is my character's biggest struggle. It's why she teeters on the edge of a family that expects her to obey, and why she might miss out on sharing in their great destiny on the Mayflower. She believes obedience will lead to a life of misery, and she has an opportunity to leave her family and seek her own happiness. Will she take it? Will her desire for what she thinks will make her happy win in the end? What will become of her if she chooses happiness over duty, sacrifice, and perseverance?

Readers, even young readers, who have much to learn about consequences know the answers. They know her desire for happiness will lead her down a dark path, even though they may despise her father for saying it. They still know.

It's different to see this play out in someone else's life rather than one's own. An observer can see more clearly, with less emotion.

Readers will (I hope) yearn for her to choose obedience, to see her make the treacherous ocean crossing with her family, and watch her persevere with the rest of them in the New World.

And my earnest, constant prayer, is that readers will be encouraged by this story, so that when the time comes for them to choose obedience or happiness, they will be ready, strengthened, and buoyed. Capable of seeing the grand scheme, the next step, the joy to be had in a life of steady perseverance.

The Value of Keeping a Journal

Thinking today about the importance of telling my own story as it's happening, instead of retroactively. There's something useful about that, I think. Not knowing how the story will end, but telling it anyway.

I've been a nearly lifelong journaler, though not with any sort of rigorous discipline. I do it when I feel like it. Sometimes I write two days in a row. Sometimes a week goes by. Sometimes a year. Somehow I've managed to fill several volumes over the years. These are the ones I've managed to preserve.

In the green box at the top of the heap are my earliest scratchings when I was an angst-filled, love-starved teenager. I didn't have a fancy book with a built-in ribbon bookmark back then. It was simply lined paper ripped from a spiral notebook in which I also did homework, folded up, and tucked away some place where no one would find it.

I don't know how they survived intact and unread all these years, but I found them this morning, stuffed in a storage bin in my closet, the breathings of my 17 year old heart, and I read them for the first time in nearly 20 years. When I plucked a random folded paper from the box, unfolded it, read my old bubbly script, tried to recall my world, my circumstances, and my heart, I cringed, as you might imagine.

It was painful to see how confused I was about the world, how obsessed I was with trying to figure out what would make me happiest, and especially, how far I was from God.

I was headed down what, I am confident now in saying, was a path to destruction. I was dating a boy I had no business going out with, probably as an act of rebellion against my parents, who I was sure were disappointed in me, and who, I frequently admitted in my writing, had no reason to be proud of me. It was also a rebellion against my sister, who had been doing things right, and was about to be married to a wonderful man.

I suppose you could call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. A head-first dive into a whirlpool in which I would be sucked voluntarily into a downward spiral. My shame in my poor decisions was compounded by each deliberate step I took down that path. And when shame doesn't result in repentance, it turns into something altogether different: contempt, anger, haughtiness, and pride.

I wrote many rambling pages before and during my relationship with this boy, justifying, rationalizing, and explaining why it was okay. Despite the youthful bluster, there is a sadness in my writing. A reigning cluelessness, a desperation to avoid pain and regret.

I spent a lot of time thinking (I had forgotten this) about moving out of my parents' house before I graduated. I had a job, after all (in 1997 minimum wage was about $5.15 an hour). And the people I had been hanging around--the family of this boy--were my picture of what this life looked like, which, in a word, was poverty.

But I didn't care. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be away from my parents. I didn't see it at the time, but now I recognize that what I really desired was to be done feeling ashamed, which I felt every time they looked at me, or tried to talk to me.

That was a powerful longing, but there was a still more powerful being at work in me, and I didn't even know it.

I broke up with the boy before summer was over, though I feared he would probably never talk to me again (he didn't). I wrote on one of these folded up papers, "I don't know what changed. I just see things differently now."

That chapter ended--just like that. The page was turned and a new chapter began. Within a year I would be far away from that town and that life, studying for a teaching degree, and reconciled to my parents. I didn't pull myself out of that pit by my own maturity, wisdom, clarity, or strength. I had none of that. I was dragged out by my collar with a mighty hand, unwitting and unwilling, by a God who had already ordained my eventual salvation.

It would be another 6 years, a college education, a husband, a teaching position, and a child, before I would be converted. But the work was begun during that awful time of rebellion. My journaling revealed that to me.

God saved me by his restraining grace and I didn't even want it at the time. He took me off that path of destruction and set me on a path that will ultimately culminate in righteousness, and I can take no credit for it.

How I thanked him this morning when I read those cringe-inducing words of my youth. How grateful I am that he prompted me to write them down, even while I was in the pit, with no desire to get out of it, so that I could, 20 years later, sit on the floor of my closet, with tears in my eyes, praising him for the good work he began in me so long ago.

That's why I spend my days writing and editing a fictional story for young adults. It's why my heroine is 17 years old, why her heart churns with the same dangerous concoction of pride and shame that mine did so many years ago. It's why she teeters on the edge of a family that expects more of her, and comes dangerously close to missing out on sharing their great destiny.

This story is my witness to the world, in the way I know best how to communicate. It's my testimony to the faithfulness of God, my response to his saving grace.

Where would I be if he hadn't pulled me from that path of destruction?

Where would any of us be?

What's your story?

How are you sharing it?

Being a Good Wife: Recipe for Apple Turnovers

"Be All The Wife He Needs!" it says.

Choke.  Sputter.  Gag.  Cough.

I know.

Husbands are supposed to be the butt of jokes today.  They are never right; they make us roll our eyes at their ineptitude.  Have you ever seen a commercial where the husband knew more than the wife?  Or the kid?  Start paying attention while you're watching TV.  You'll notice the trend.  They're always sitting on the couch, screwing something up, or just not smart enough to figure out what the wife knew all along.

Here's one.

Here's another one.

And another.

There are dozens more.

Why should we respect men?  We don't need men anymore.  We can work, we can raise the kids (or pay others to do it), we can call a repair man for things that break (better do it before hubby gets his hands on it-HA HA HA).  When they get too grating we just get rid of them because marriage is disposable now.

What a grand "empowered" society we've created for ourselves.

There was a time when men were needed.  In all their imperfections, we couldn't live without them because they brought into our world something that could not be found anywhere else.  It wasn't just money to keep the lights on, although that was a big part of the equation.  They were strong and unemotional.  They slayed our dragons, and kept the bogyman away.  They went out and killed something and drug it home and yes, it fell to the woman to cook it for him.

And why shouldn't she?  She got to stay inside where it was warm and safe (because he made it so), teaching and raising her own children (because he did what he did, giving her that luxury).  She did those things with joy and was grateful to her man.  He did those things with joy because providing for his woman and children gave him something to live for, to be strong for, to be the best version of his masculine self for.

Tell me...why did we unravel that perfectly woven marriage tapestry?  Why did we think it would be better to emasculate our men?  When did we stop seeing the nobility of making a house a home and bringing our children up in it?  When did we stop being grateful for it?

I'm not always a "Good Wife" but I am grateful to my husband.  He has done so much to give us the life we enjoy today.  I respect him.  I want him to be a "Happy Husband."  I want him to look forward to coming home in the evening.  I don't think it makes me oppressed to go out of my way to fix him something I know he likes.  Even if it takes a couple of hours from start to finish, and makes a huge mess in the kitchen, and requires a trip to the store because I don't have all the ingredients.

A few days ago my husband said apple turnovers sounded good.  I don't make them often for the reasons just stated.  They are my, "I want you to know I love and appreciate you." food staple.  I made them for a birthday once, I packed them in tupperware, and drove them all the way from Kansas City to San Antonio so that he could have them for Thanksgiving while he was in AIT.  I made them last Friday even though it's our designated "Sheet Pan Pizza and a Move Night" and I already relegate myself to two hours in the kitchen making pizza from scratch (here is the recipe for that).  All because he said they sounded good.

Call me old-fashioned, but when he walked in the door after work, saw them cooling on the counter, took one, flopped down on the couch without even taking his boots off, and mumbled, "These are so good," it was totally worth it.  And I'm fairly certain that in that moment I was "All the Wife He Needs."  *wink, wink*

Apple Turnover
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 T. granulated sugar
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into little squares
1/4 cup cold shortening, cut into little squares
1/2 cup cold water
Put dry ingredients in the bowl of a food processor.  Pulse to combine.  Add butter and shortening.  Pulse 10 or 12 times until you get a sandy texture with chunks of fat no larger than a pea.  Slowly add water while you continue to pulse.  Let it whirl until it forms a ball.  Dump it out onto a floured surface, divide in two, wrap in plastic (it will be helpful later if you go ahead and flatten it out as you wrap it up).  Stick it in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
*You can also make the pastry in a bowl, by hand.  No need to break out the appliances (less to clean later!)

3 cups chopped apples (2 granny smiths and 1 smallish red delicious work well together)
1/4 cup orange juice (usually half of a fresh orange produces enough juice)
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 T. butter
Combine ingredients in a large nonstick pan.  Bring to a boil, cover and let it cook for 3-4 minutes.

4 tsp. cornstarch
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 T. water
Stir to combine, add to apples, stirring constantly to avoid lumps.  Let it cook one minute more, then remove from heat and let cool.

Roll one of the pastries out to about 1/8" thickness, as close to a square as you can get it.  Trim edges with a sharp knife, divide into four squares.  Place a heaping tablespoon of apples in a square, fold over to form a triangle, seal edges with a fork. Brush with milk and sprinkle with sugar.  Repeat with other squares.  Do it all over again with your other chunk of pastry.

Bake for about 20-25 minutes at 375.

Takes some practice but once you get the hang of it, they come out nice every time.

Here's a pic of mine.  Not the most beautiful things in the world but *meh* he likes 'em.

When God's Call Requires Change

The Curse of the Comfortable Life

Melanie did not have an easy life.  Her parents were passionate and impulsive, which sometimes meant laughter and excitement, but more it often manifested itself in screaming fights, and moving, and periods of fearful uncertainty.  As a result, she grew into a woman who deliberately contradicted everything about them.  She was gentle and soft, she never raised her voice, and she agonized over the tiniest decisions to the point of making herself sick.

Only one decision came easy to her: marrying Rob.

Rob was not a man in the way that her father was.  If the toilet was clogged, Rob was useless.  It also fell to Melanie to roll up the newspaper and smash the wasps that continually found their way into the apartment through a gap near the dryer vent which, it never occurred to Rob to repair.  But that didn't matter to Melanie because he was a man in the way that it mattered to her.  He would protect her with his life, and nearly did one night when they were visiting friends downtown.  Perhaps the incident wouldn't have come to that but Rob didn't back down.  The next day he asked her to marry him and she said yes before he got the question out.

Rob didn't have much luck finding a job.  He tried working in sales and hated it.  He had moderate success in IT but was laid off.  In a complete departure, he worked in landscaping for a year and didn't mind it but couldn't see supporting a family that way.  Though Melanie had always wanted children (and still did) she asked one night how Rob felt about nursing school.  "If that's what you want to do," he had said with a shrug and she thought, perhaps, he was a little bit relieved.

She took her time, researching, deliberating, weighing each program, predicting how it would fit into her life, deciding which one would make her happiest.  When she finally selected one, she found it to be much harder than anticipated.  But the day came when she sat on a cushioned stool in front of a real live patient for clinicals, the smell of latex in the air, a throbbing purple vein before her, and she reached down and found the magic balance between cold detachment and warm compassion.  She plunged the hollow needle into the vein and watched as the tube filled with dark blood.  Her patient had said, "That wasn't so bad," and she knew she was born to do this.

It didn't freak her out when Rob came to her one day and said he wanted to enlist in the Army.  She knew that it would be a long process, if it actually happened (which she doubted), and that she would have plenty of time to accomplish her goals, so she told him to go ahead and talk to the recruiter.  It couldn't hurt to ask questions.

He burst through the door of their apartment that same afternoon, flush with excitement, a thick packet of papers in his hand, and said, "They want me on a bus to Fort Sill in three weeks."  He spoke rapidly, breathlessly, telling her the unusual circumstances of his immediate ship date but she didn't hear any of it after he said, "We'll be at our first duty station in four months."   He put his hands on her hips and did a little suggestive dance and said, "You'll be playing the little Army wife in no time."

She shoved him away and said, "You expect me to be happy about this?  What about my career?  I've worked so hard for this and I'm supposed to just throw the last eighteen months in the garbage?"

They didn't speak for two days. 

After that, Rob was angry and she was sorry because he had a right to be.  Two years ago, she was as desperate as he was for him to have a good job so that they could have a good life.  She would have followed him with no regrets.  But now she was creating her own good life and she was so close to the finish line.  There was such promise ahead if she stuck to the nursing program, and what could Rob promise?  A tiny house on post with old cabinets and an endless job search for her, an under-qualified woman who would never, ever finish anything she started because she would have to follow him wherever he went?

When so much time had passed that they began to feel that they were wasting what little time they had left, she wiped her eyes and said, "I love you, Rob, but I need to stay here and finish what I've started."

Rob shipped out and Melanie got her nursing degree.  She landed the job she'd always wanted.  She stayed faithful to Rob and he to her despite the distance.  This was not exactly the life she planned but she was making it work and that little part of her that craved stable, predictable life was happy enough.  Rob didn't hold it against her.  He understood.  He always held out hope that she would give up her version of a good life for the one he promised.

This is a story that I've seen played out many times.  Sometimes it ends badly but sometimes, like with Rob and Melanie, the end is not necessarily bad, but you get the feeling that it could have been better, don't you?

I think that's how we are so often when God has called us to something that has the promise of greatness but the risk is just too big and we're just too comfortable where we're at.  There is a story in Numbers in which the Israelites are about to go into the Promised Land.  It's been 40 years since they left Egypt and now all they have to do is muster the courage to cross the Jordan and fight to obtain it.  They've waited their whole lives for this, for the "land of milk and honey," for God to make good on what He promised their parents.  There are good things, finally, to come for them. 

But three tribes, Rueben, Gad, and the half tribe Manasseh beg Moses to let them stay where they are.  They've built up their livestock, and the land they're on now is good enough, and, well, they just don't want to cross the Jordan right now.  Things are going ok for them, so why take the risk?  Moses is initially furious with them and thinks they are being unfaithful but they assure him they are not.  They pledge their young fighting men to go when duty calls but they say, "We simply want to build pens for our livestock." 

If they are willing to accept this portion of land instead of the one that is waiting for them in the Promised Land (Numbers 32:16-19), what is left for Moses (and God) but to say, "Fine.  If this is what you want, I'm not going to drag you kicking and screaming.  The choice of whether or not to enter into God's will is ultimately up to you." 

This is the question we have to ask when we have made our choices and we are satisfied with our lives the way we have ordered them: Am I shrinking from potentially great things because of the risk that stands in the way?  Have I ever led my family to shun comforts in favor of the hard work of obtaining promises seen from a distance?

We are at such a disadvantage as Americans who "create our own destiny" and amass wealth that tricks us into thinking our lives are just fine, thank you very much.  When you're settling in at the end of a comfortable day, looking ahead at another comfortable day tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and hoping that it just goes on this way for 30 years so nothing ever gets uncomfortable, do you ever wonder what you might be missing?  I promise you, God does, for He did not call you to a life of fear and timidity.

The Big D: Life Has To Go On

02 June
It's a new month! It's always kind of a big deal for me to turn the page on the calendar during these times of seemingly endless waiting.

June promises to be a busy month for me. My husband made me promise we would stay active and busy and we are but I'm learning another difficult lesson as I get into summer and that is: if I want to enjoy the things we've always done together while my husband is away, I'm going to have to learn to do some things without him. That leaves me torn because there is a little piece of me that thinks I am not allowed to have fun in his absence and he is not allowed to have fun in my absence (little rabbit trail...near the end of AIT the movers came to pack up our stuff. So my already bleak existence--sharing a room at my parent's house with my three kids while 90% of my stuff was in storage--was even bleaker. My sister took the kids for the night so I didn't have them underfoot during the packing and I found myself in bed after a long day, all alone, with a pathetic little bowl of popcorn in my lap that was my dinner. My husband picked that precise, miserable moment to text me to say that FTX was over and he went to Fago De Chao in downtown San Antonio in his dress blues with his buddies to celebrate and it was sooooo wonderful and amazing and he gorged himself himself on 7 different kinds of meat and had sooooo much fun. So I did what women do and felt sorry for myself and got mad at him for having fun while I was miserable and engaged in an ugly text fight. Not my proudest moment. I admit with equal parts shame and pride that I texted him back 20 minutes later, apologetic, and telling him he had my permission to blame this all on my "time of the month," which was partly true. ).

Now I find myself, after receiving an invitation and talking it over with my husband, having agreed to drive down to Florida later this month to meet friends and go camping. Gulp. I've never even thought about attempting camping without my husband (who earned his Eagle Scout at 16, btw, and can do anything camping related). I'm even raising the stakes by renting a pop-up from the MWR (something we always talked about doing together). I'm slightly scared to death to pull that thing for 354 miles alone but my friend's husband has been informed that it will be his job to back it into the campsite once I get there. It kills me to think of doing this without my husband. He would really enjoy this trip.

I'm going to pour a little more salt in his wounds while I'm there and go to a Tampa Bay Rays game because our Kansas City Royals are in town. Correction--HIS Kansas City Royals. Not mine. I'm a fan only because he is (one of our first dates was the cheap seats at a Royals game ).

 And I'm the one who gets to see them play in Florida. He will be sitting in the back of a first aid truck in the middle of a 15 hour shift, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the desert, waiting for someone to need him and his medic bag while I am proudly wearing my jersey that he got me for our first Christmas together, eating peanuts and ducking pop-flies. It just doesn't seem fair.

THIS is the hard part of being an Army wife, I think. Missing them when you're bored and lonely and miserable is one thing. But missing them when you're out there, living a life you are supposed to be living together is a special kind of torture. But I will do my best to have fun with my friend and her family. I will take lots of pictures and tell him how I wished he was there every second and it will be true and he will believe me. And he may secretly want me to be as miserable as he is but he would never say it out loud. I wouldn't hold it against him anyway--I would be a hypocrite if I did. So I will soften the blow by telling him how much better the trip would have been if he was there, and how we'll do it again next summer when he is home. What else can an Army wife do? She still has to live, as weird as it feels to be doing it without her soldier.          

The Big D: Our First Skype Fight

Sometimes I love FB. It's my main line of communication with my hubby. It has been a great way to get to know new people at my FDS and I've also been able to keep in touch with friends back home. I can post a pic of my 7 year old with her just-pulled tooth between her fingers instead of having to call all the grandmas individually. It's great. But sometimes I believe that FB is the freaking spawn of Satan and has no earthly business distracting us from our real lives with virtual pseudo-crap that masquerades as real life. But I digress.

 My husband and I fling arguments back and forth for a while on FB chat but he has to go to work and I have to take my daughter to art class so hours go by without responses and a conversation that should have taken 20 minutes and been done with dragged out ALL DAY LONG. That is not good for women--to stew all day on stuff like that. It makes petty little things grow and fester into malignant, all-consuming problems. Yes, it was a horrible, horrible day.

So, here's what I did and why I'm telling you guys about this. I've been around long enough to know the destruction that can be wrought during a fight in which the words you use are typed/written instead of spoken. Once you click "send" he can read your words over and over again. He can read in between the lines and infer things you didn't mean. You can never take the words back, even if you apologize and say you didn't mean it--the words are still THERE, hurting each other for internet eternity. So I thought on that and prayed before every single reply I wrote to him. There were some messages that I typed while my heart was thumping and smoke was pouring out of my ears that I deleted and started over because it was more important to me that he understand why I was ticked than to just know that I was ticked. I could have called him names (and believe me I wanted to) but I didn't. I didn't want to pretend nothing was wrong either, so I kept my words honest and focused on me instead of accusing him (he didn't hurt me intentionally and I always knew that even though it didn't diminish how hurt I was). It wasn't about venting or harping at him either. That's not communication. I tried really, really hard, as mad as I was, to keep an even temper while I was writing and tried to anticipate his reaction to what I was saying. Honestly, I didn't know for sure. He said he thought he was being funny and meant nothing by it. I could have been makings worse but hoped I wasn't.

And you know what? I woke up this morning to a lengthy, apologetic, sappy, romantic message and I wrote him one right back. Can I tell you part of what he said? It makes me smile.  "I'm waiting to come home to you because you are the most beautiful woman I know. You are the mother of my children, the love of my life, my best friend, the person I would die for." I would have rather had hot make-up sex, of course, but this wasn't a bad substitute. And now we have those loving messages full of kind words that we can look at over and over, for all internet eternity.

Love prospers when a fault is forgiven, but dweling on it separates close friends. Proverbs 17:9.          

The Big D: Passed the 100 Day Mark

09 July
Ok, the kids are in bed and it's late but I'm going to crank this out while it's on my mind.

A while back someone asked me why I moved to our FDS when my husband deployed so quickly. I responded hastily and without much thought that I am 33 and too old to be living with my parents and gave her a little smiley face. This is all true, but after spending a LOT of time with my family on a little "vacation" (that's only half over--ugh!) I kinda feel like I owe it to her to find that thread and let her know that my reasons really go much deeper than that.

I love spending time with my family. They spoil me in some ways--not in others--but generally, we are a happy, healthy, functional bunch.

At an amusement park over the weekend after the 4th, my sister and I are in this little boutique that sells bath salts and body lotions and stuff. I'm sniffing bath salts and there's this one I keep going back to. I nudge my sister and tell her she needs to smell it too because I really like it. She takes a sniff and says, "Ew. It smells like a man." I tip back the container and see that it is called "American Cowboy," and is, in fact, a man's scent. Oops. I sheepishly put the lid back on and tell her I guess it's because I haven't smelled a man for so long. She quirks her eyebrows and shudders a little bit like she doesn't know if she should be amused or grossed out and leaves the shop but I steal another sniff because I realize that it faintly reminds me of my husband and I'm not ready to pull myself away from it yet.

I consider buying a little package of it but don't feel like explaining to my family why I'm buying men's bath salts so I just let it go.

When our day is nearly over there's a free concert when the park closes. They do this big patriotic tribute and ask the veterans to stand up and be recognized and there's the usual smattering of gray-headed old guys in leather vests from Vietnam who stand.   No big deal. But then the guy on stage says that last year a soldier who had just come home from Afghanistan personally requested that he also thank the families of those deployed, specifically, the wives and children who are left behind. I just about lost it. I'm shrinking in my seat, trying to hold back tears and my 7 year old spins around to flash me a big smile because she knows that guy is talking about us. I give her a watery grin and hope she doesn't notice and ask me why I'm crying. I wouldn't be able to speak if I had to and even if I could, I wouldn't because there isn't anyone here who understands.

That, friends, is why I couldn't stay home, 120 miles from the nearest Army post, 1000 miles from where the home is that I will share with my husband. He may not be there with me right now but the promise of him is. His things are there: his uniforms hang in the closet, his tool box is in the garage, his soap is under the bathroom sink. The office where he will work when he gets home is down the street. And there are thousands of people there who have been right where I am. They're living it right now. They know. You don't have to put words to what you're feeling when you are so lonesome for your husband you could cry. They don't baby you and they don't need to because in the presence of those who've gone before you and endured one or two (or more) deployments, you feel a little stronger and you know you'll survive it too.

I am here tonight in my parent's living room, surrounded by people who know me and love me and feeling a little bit lonely. I am actually sitting on the same old hard blue couch that I grew up with and finding myself homesick for our duty station, where I now feel that I belong, even though I had never stepped foot in the state prior to moving there in January. It makes me marvel at how wonderfully, miraculously adaptive we human beings are. We can pretty much get used to anything that's thrown at us and have the capacity to make the best of anything. Everyone has this capacity, I think, but most people are so afraid of pain that they avoid change in order to cling to a thin thread of comfort (which is really only just a facade, isn't it?). Those people really sell themselves short. We Army families are lucky in a way to be forced into big life changes without being asked. I would have never said to my husband, "Let's move to another state and start over," but here we are, happily adapted to it, calling it "home," and craving the new comforts of it.

Night, all. *Yaaawwwnnnn*          

The Big D: And Marriage

26 July
Well, I am back from the longest vacation EVER, and glad to be home. I loved visiting my family and my husband's family but it's nice to wake up to reveille every morning again.

I have learned a little bit more about deployment. For instance, one of the biggest health issues my husband treats is...er...pooping problems. Do your husbands a favor and tell them to eat the fresh fruit that is offered at the dfac every chance they get, lol. That will keep them from knocking on the medic's door and asking all sorts of embarrassing questions while the medic's wife waits patiently on the other end of Skype, snickering quietly and honestly feeling bad for the guy who's never experienced these..."problems" and their side effects before.

Other than that, things have been pretty quiet for my husband and his unit. They continue to work at their mission and have nearly completed it. They have begun talking about making preparations to return to kaf, and then to return home even though they're barely more than halfway through the whole deployment. I'm learning that it takes a lot of time to get things put away, packed up, inventoried, and ready to out-process (by the way--helpful tip: "Redeploy" means "come home"). They are even spreading rumors about coming home early but I don't believe them for a second. My husband was given a target date at the beginning and that's what we're looking at as a countdown day but we all understand that everything is fluid and subject to change.

Ironically, things back home have NOT been quiet at all, I discovered as I spent time catching up with old friends. Three families we knew split up. Three. Two of them were not surprising, but one of them was a total shock and it makes me want to cry to think of it.

So many of us in this Army life worry about the separation the Army causes and the toll it takes on marriage and kids but in my little universe, it's living in the real world that is more destructive to a marriage. This family I know...they had it all together.  They had some issues due to job losses but they still got to live in the same house and be parenting partners and figure out how to get through their trial together. I envied them their "togetherness" when my husband was yanked away from us by the army. And yet that family chose to separate.

I felt so bad for the wife, my friend, until she started talking about the therapy she was going to and how it was time for "her" now and she deserved "respect" too and in a way she was relieved by the separation.  A part of me wanted to pull my hair out and scream that she GETS to be with her husband and CHOOSES to do life ALONE!?!? I'm so sick of doing life alone and I long to be with my husband again and no, things are not perfect in our marriage--no one gets to say that. Sometimes he is selfish and sometimes I am selfish. We had a particularly difficult time in our marriage a couple of years ago when I wanted to throttle my husband and was so mad at him I wouldn't speak to him for days. Some might have said that I would have been justified in leaving him but no matter how much my feelings were hurt I couldn't deny that deep down he was a good man, and I picked him, and I considered myself "stuck" with him. Now that we are past that trial we had, I can say it with a smile. And I can tell you what a GIFT it is to be married and to have a partner in life--even when he is on the other side of the world.

I've said it before I feel so strongly about it, I'll say it again. Deployment is NOT the end of the world. It is not the worst thing that could happen to a marriage. There are ways to stay close and connected and we are SO BLESSED with technology that keeps us in contact every single day. It is hard work, yes. It's not the same as having him here with me. It's not what I would choose. And I have no idea what it's going to be like when he's actually home and we have to relearn how to do life together after being apart for essentially a year and a half (with a few hectic weeks thrown in there between training and deployment). But life rarely turns out how you plan it. It just doesn't. You don't always get to choose how things will be and even if you did, there is a limit to what you can know about the future so your choices will be flawed and leave you with a feeling of discontent. All you can do is to learn to be content in every circumstance--whether you have a little or a lot, whether your stomach is full or empty, whether you wanted things to be this way or that. This is not some kind of phony "positive thinking" mind game you play with yourself. It can sometimes only be accomplished through prayer and dependence on something you believe is in control when you realize you are not.

If your husband is near you right now, do me a favor and give him a big hug and tell him you're thankful for him. If he's not, write him a love letter and tell him you're doing ok and that and you're thankful for him. And if you're a praying person, toss one up north and tell God you're thankful for your husband even when things aren't exactly as you thought they'd be.


 "It would be the greatest of tragedies to sacrifice others in the effort to find ourselves." Erwin McManus    

The Big D: Countdown to the end

12 September
Every day that passes gets me closer to the end of this.  Until then, I just continue to carry on and stay active, putting things on the calendar and taking care of things that need taking care of but I think this last little bit is going to feel like the longest of the whole deployment.

I have a handful of friends whose husbands just returned in the last week or so and I'm not going to lie to you. It is so hard to see them with their husbands. I had to watch a friend and her family sit in front of me at church last Sunday and their little boy (who looks SOOO much like his daddy, who I had never seen before) was crawling all over him, clinging to him and whispering in his ear, and I knew how happy they were because I watched her cry, 10 days before his return, overwhelmed by the absence they had endured and the excitement of him finally coming home. But there I was, still alone and fighting the urge to be insanely envious of her. In those moments, it feels like I still have SO LONG to wait!

There are so many of those hard moments when it feels like this separation will never end, and maybe it even feels like the cost of this life is just too great.  I've heard from several women who are struggling and I'm the kind of person who says we have to be master of our emotions and turn to something that encourages us.

I happen to be reading "Bonhoeffer," right now, a book about a German pastor who stood up to Hitler in the years leading up to WWII and was arrested and executed for his part in an assassination attempt. He spent 18 months in prison before being executed by the Nazis but during those long months he was permitted to write letters and he had a fiancé named Marie who received many of them. Something he said to her in one of his letters has encouraged me and I go to it in my mind every time I want to feel sorry for myself or I wonder if this is all worth it:

"No, you needn't have a moment's worry--I'm not worried either. You do, of course, know from the little we've said to each other that danger exists not only out there [on the battlefronts] but here at home as well, sometimes rather less so, sometimes rather more. What man of today has the right to shun it and shrink from it? And what woman of today should not share it, however gladly the man would relieve her of that burden? And how indescribably happy it makes the man if the woman he loves stands by him with courage, patience , and above all--prayer." Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I want to encourage you who are struggling. The separation will end, the hard moments will pass, and when you are reunited, the painful memories will fade. I don't say this as an expert because I am still living through it. I say it because I believe it will happen. Be courageous, have patience, and pray.  If all else fails...

    

The Big D: The end is near and the pressure is on

02 October
With my mind on reintegration (we have such an unbelievably short time left--and the date is still holding!!) I've had some strange thoughts swimming around in my head and I've resolved some of them, which has removed a huge amount of pressure I stupidly placed on my shoulders, so I thought I would share some of my stupidity and how I am getting past it:

I am an over-achiever. Let's just get that out there. You might have been able to figure that out through reading my other posts, or if you know me personally. If you ask me to do something, I will not only do it, but I will do better than that if at all possible. I also like order. I like when things make sense and that's a big reason why I am even writing all of this. For so many young wives, enlisting in the army and sending a husband off to BCT makes them feel like their life is a suitcase that's been dropped down the stairs and all the insides have been dumped out and scattered all over the place. I like to walk up behind you, pick up your things, fold them neatly, tuck them back in, then hand you back your suitcase with a smile, having made sense of it all for you.

So now you will understand, maybe, the range of emotion that has been running through my brain at having such a close homecoming date to hold on to. I have gone from "This doesn't feel real yet," to "I've got to drop EVERYTHING and make the house perfect," to "Forget perfect, I need to finish this project before he gets home because he will totally not 'get' why I'm spending so much time on it and I won't be able to work on it much after he's here," to "Crap. What else about the way I've been doing things is going to have to change?"

Let me clarify...it's not "change" that scares me. We've been married a long time and have been through lots of things that have changed us as individuals and as a couple. Change is just a part of the marital package. What's had me all wound up is the fact that I have ordered my life in a very intentional way that makes sense to me. I have priorities--for me, they're spiritual things (church is where we are on a Sunday morning; yes, Bible study is an hour away twice a week but I wouldn't miss it for ANYTHING, if there is a social thing or a service thing going on with church, I do my best to be there). Doing life this way is how I feel I am being obedient to God (maybe if you're not a person of faith you have nothing to relate this to, but maybe you do, so I'm just going to put it all out there).

A couple of days ago, I had this raw, panicky thought: how do I continue to live in what is, for me, a God-honoring way, when I now have to share my daily life and these priorities that I have had the ultimate say in, with another person--a person who hasn't been on the same journey as I have and who isn't where I'm at spiritually? My husband and I make a really good partnership but my walk with God is something about me he appreciates from a distance, y'know? Anyway, this thought really threw me for a loop and I shared my concerns with my bible study friends (who are much smarter and wiser than me, lol) and one of them said to me, "Can I say something? You're breaking my heart a little bit by thinking you have to have everything perfectly ordered when your husband comes home. It doesn't have to be, ok? Just take it a day at a time and quit trying to be everything to everyone." I burst into tears when she said that. It was such a relief to hear someone say those words and I didn't even realize that's what I had been doing in trying to anticipate what my husband's reactions would be to the way I'd ordered our lives (let's face it--it's been a year and a half since we sold our house in Kansas City and had anything resembling a normal life as a family unit so there's bound to be some surprises for him), and trying to fit all the mixed up pieces together beforehand.

So, I'm not doing that anymore and it is SUCH load off! I do anticipate that some of my habits will have to change but I will give them up and not require my husband to conform to my routines because it just shouldn't be that way...in my very old-fashioned opinion, anyway. My husband has never been one to aggressively be "The Man of the House" and he's never played that card with me to get his way, but I think deep down, that's what men really are when they are at their best, God-given potential as leaders, lovers, providers, and protectors. I want him to slip back into that role without being hindered by my whining about what I'm giving up. And even though it feels like what I am giving up is good (and I've been fortunate to have the alone time to develop some of the life-long disciplines I didn't have before), I am resting in the knowledge that by submitting to the way my husband wants to order our lives--it's ok, because God gave me my husband and in being a good, and happy, and undemanding, and uncomplicated wife, I'm still honoring God with my life. It will look a little bit different after the big day but I'm not really losing any ground with Him. He knows.

Wowza. That ended up being really long. I'm sorry if this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, lol. But I still hold onto the off-chance that there is someone out there who can use this to make sense of their own unique situation and so I'll hit "post" instead of "delete."           

Responding to Grace

Tis not the work of force but skill

To find the way into men's will.

Tis love alone can hearts unlock.

Who knows the Word, he needs not knock.

Richard Crashaw - 1652

Grace loved Chester but Chester didn't love Grace in return.  She knows it.  You can feel her insecurity in the letters she wrote to him in the summer of 1906. 

My Dear Chester,
...I think I shall die of joy when I see you, dear.  I will try not to worry so much and I won't believe the horrid things the girls write...

You can also tell that Chester wasn't a very good person but Grace didn't mind.

...You have said you would come and sometimes I just know you will, but then I think about other things and I am just as certain you won't come....

She loved him anyway and held onto the hope that he would come for her.  She had given him everything there was for a girl to give to a boy and she waited anxiously for him to respond to her proclamations of love.  He never spoke affectionately in the 3 letters he wrote back to her dozens.  She even apologized in one letter for how affectionate she was in hers and tried to mimic his curt, businesslike tone.  But by the next letter, she was back to worrying over why he hadn't written, and proclaiming her love again, and wondering when he would come.

Unrequited love is so unfair.  I see Grace as a young woman who has taken a gamble by baring her soul to a man who may or may not love her back.  She stands there trembling and naked before him, while he remains fully clothed and buttoned up, from his hat all the way down to his boots, arms firmly crossed over his chest, revealing nothing, risking nothing.  That way she is the only one who stands to lose.

This happened once in the bible.  Not in a romantic way but the risk was no less inherent in the gamble Jonathan took when he proclaimed his undying loyalty to his friend, David.  1 Samuel 18:3-4: "And Jonathan made a solemn pact with David because he loved him as he loved himself.  Jonathan sealed the pact by taking off his robe and giving it to David, together with his tunic, sword, bow, and belt."  We don't know what David's response was because the bible doesn't give it.  The scene shifts abruptly and Jonathan is left standing there, naked and defenseless, and without a response to this lavish display.

We know a little bit about Chester's response to Grace through her letters.  He accepted her affection enough to get her pregnant before almost totally ignoring her.  She begged and pleaded with him to take responsibility and not be a coward, to come to her parent's house where she was burdened with her secret--his baby--and take her away.  She worried to the point of making herself ill and confessed to fainting when she received a letter from a girl Chester knew, admitting to things that Chester did in Grace's absence.  But it was too late for her to walk away with any dignity.  She needed him to come for her and she desperately wanted him to love her. 

Forget for a moment that life was different for an unwed mother in 1906.  These are things we all long for.  When we have physically, emotionally, and spiritually given all we have to give, we want it to be given back in full measure.  We will be forever incomplete and feel cheated if it's not.

In the surprise of the young century, Chester did show up at Grace's door, told her to pack her bags, and took her away.  You can just bet that everything about that day got instantly brighter for Grace, can't you?  The twinge of morning sickness evaporated.  The shadows on the front lawn, which once seemed so ominous and foreboding, were now merely dappled evidence of the sunshine which was finally going to beat down on her face as she joined her savior on the front stoop, carpetbag in hand, future secure.  I imagine the relief, the feeling of pure joy, that must have seeped through her veins at the sight of him standing there before her.  I imagine the way she must have thrown her arms around his neck and basked for a wonderful moment in the assurance of his love for her. 

They went to a resort in the Adirondacks and stayed in a hotel for the night.  Grace must have assumed he would take her to a chapel or to a Justice of the Peace to marry her quickly and quietly.  But he didn't.  The next day he killed her and dumped her body in Moose Lake.

Tragically, Jonathan lost his life too in a senseless killing.  Not because of David, though.  In fact, we learn in 1 Samuel 20 that David fully reciprocated Jonathan's friendship and loved him just as fiercely.  They often risked their lives for one another and kept each other alive when King Saul would have killed them both.  It was the original bro-mance!  So why did the prophet Samuel, author of his first book, leave us hanging for two whole chapters, wondering at David's response to Jonathan?  Maybe what's left out of the bible can be just as telling as what's left in.  Maybe by leaving David unresponsive, Samuel is giving us a sneak-peak at the coming of a Savior who would give of himself so lavishly, all that would be left would be his naked body, trembling, and dying in front of people who didn't know what to make of Him.  He still evokes a range of responses in us.  Some of us fall on our faces in a twisting anguish of undeserving gratitude.  Some of us weep quietly and make a simple promise to start going to church again.  Sometimes there is no response at all.  He knew this was a risk He was taking but it didn't stop Him from coming and giving everything there was to give.

What's your response?  Are you preoccupied like Chester?  Are you too busy living life, and having fun, and skirting responsibility, and doing things your own way to stop and notice what's already been given to you?  You can stand there with your mouth shut like David in chapter 18 and leave Him hanging.  You can even turn away from it and ignore Him.  That's your right as a human being who was made to choose.  But it's been done so you have to choose one way or the other.

You can choose to respond like Chester did when he dumped his gift in the lake, preferring life without it.  But your choice won't be ignored forever.  Grace was known by the people in Chester's life.  She was missed when she was gone.   The authorities drug the lake and recovered her body.  The truth could not stay hidden and Chester would have to answer for his choice.  He went to trial in a case that captivated America.  Grace's letters were read to the jury and when they heard her plaintive cries for his love, and felt her vulnerability as she sat and waited for him, it moved them to recommend execution for young Chester, who only ever wanted to have fun.  He died by electrocution on March 30, 1908.

Friends, if you think there is nothing more to this life than having a little bit of fun before you die, go ahead.  No one will stop you.  You may not go to the extremes Chester did to cling to that thin thread of independence, but you know your life will one day come to a grinding halt.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe in 70 years.  But know too that you have been given a lavish gift.  Consider it with awe and wonder.  Respond to it.  Reach out to Grace now.  Take its hand, and then let it throw its arms around your neck and say into your ear, "Finally.  I've been waiting for you."



Quotes from Grace's letters come from the book, "A Northern Light" by Jennifer Donnelly.  Information about Chester's execution comes from (I know, I know) Wikipedia.

Delivered

Evelyn settled herself into the cushioned chair, set her purse on the floor, and used her orthotics-clad foot to slide it under her seat.  There were 20 or 30 chairs in this small, shadowy room and thanks to the thoughtful design of stadium seating, the spectators would get a great view.  As if they had come here to watch a movie or a ball game and not to watch somebody die.

There was an armed guard standing in the corner, wearing a baseball cap of all things (the casualization of society, she called this), watching people trickle in.  There were a few she figured were reporters.  Who else would want to memorialize this event with a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen?  Some faces she recognized from the trial as families of the victims.  One of them was a victim.  Evelyn tried not to look at her.  She sat two seats away and one row down.  The woman had been shot and raped and left to die but somehow survived.  Her testimony at the trial was horrific and is probably what convinced the jury to vote unanimously for death.  In a perverted sort of way that Evelyn would have denied if anyone had asked her about it, she hoped the woman got some kind of satisfaction out of today.  Then at least one good thing would come out of her son's life.

She kept her eyes on the window in front of her and wondered if it was a one-way glass.  Maybe Richard wouldn't even know she was here.  Maybe it was best that way.  She thought of him as a boy and how he would stick out his hand, and wave a big goofy wave, and say, "Hi, Mom!" when he saw her, the way he did when she was 15 minutes late picking him up from school once.  He was the only student left and stood on the sidewalk with a teacher who lifted her watch and stared at it when Evelyn arrived.  Richard never doubted that she would be there for him eventually.  She hadn't once come to visit him in prison.  

Time had stopped for her around the time he was convicted 11 years ago.  She knew intellectually that he was no longer a boy and that a grown man of 29 would walk through the door on the other side of that glass, but she preferred to live in her memories, a time of promises made, before she knew they wouldn't come to pass.  Not in Richard's lifetime anyway.

The door to the room beyond the glass opened and Richard walked through in his baggy orange jumper, hands behind his back, followed by a physician and a man in a suit.  Richard said, "You want me to sit?"  Evelyn was shocked she could hear voices.  She thought it would be sound proof and panicked a bit at what she might hear in his last moments.  Despite everything, she didn't want to hear him suffer.  The man in the suit told him not to sit just yet and took the handcuffs off.  He bumped Richard lightly as he moved around him in the small space and Evelyn heard her son's voice again saying, "Pardon me," as he rubbed his wrists.

They nudged Richard toward a gurney in the center of the room and sat him down on a plastic green mattress and hooked him up to a heartrate monitor, which seemed to her like a waste.  Thin black velcro straps dangled limp from the sides of the bed, jostling with Richard's weight in a grotesque little dance. 

Richard was calm.  More calm than she'd ever seen him, though to be fair, the last time they were together he was on drugs.  For six excruciating years, his eyes were either dilated and darting all over the place or glazed over, hollow and sunken.  Now they were clear and blue.  His face was clean shaven.  He looked so...healthy.  There wasn't even a tremor in his hand as he stretched his arm out to have the inside of his elbow swabbed with alcohol by the physician, another waste of time it seemed to her, and have an IV started.  

He laid down and inched his body up the mattress a bit to position his head on the little white pillow.  The man in the suit fastened the velcro around Richard's arms and legs.  He mumbled something she couldn't hear and Richard looked up at him and nodded.  She thought Richard would be scared but he wasn't.  He was just expectant, as if he was being strapped into a ride at an amusement park and had just been asked by the bored, sweaty, zit-plagued employee if the straps were tight enough.  "Enjoy the ride," the teenaged boy would say, and it would have been vaguely appropriate here but that's not what the man said.  He asked Richard if he had any last words.  Richard stared unblinking at the ceiling and said, "Life is death, death is life. I hope that someday this absurdity that humanity has come to will come to an end.  Life is too short. I hope anyone that has negative energy towards me will resolve that.  Life is too short to harbor feelings of hatred and anger. That's it, Warden."

Evelyn gripped the arms of her chair.  It was all she could do to keep herself from standing up and facing the room and giving a proper statement for Richard.  She wanted them to know that he was sorry for killing his own brother with a 20-gauge shotgun.  He was sorry for shooting those two other women, raping one of them, and leaving them all for dead.  He had to be.  She wasn't mother to a monster. 

She labored for 26 hours to bring Richard into the world.  His head was stuck for so long in the birth canal, when he finally emerged it was misshapen and lopsided and covered in meconium.  His nose never did quite straighten out but she loved him even more for it.  "Look what we did!" she had whispered excitedly to her husband in the dark early morning hours after his birth.  "This is the one.  Our deliverer," she said, welling with pride over her beautiful boy.  He was born with the promise of greatness and he could get Evelyn back home where she belonged.  She didn't deserve to go back after what she had done but the promise had been made and she trusted that it would be kept.  Richard would save them all.

She reminded him of it often, even when he began resenting her for it.  The summer Richard turned 12 was when her faith in him began to waver.  He'd been in trouble more than he was out of it and she stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta and letting him have it.  In her mind, she liked to see herself as June Cleaver with her apron, flats, and pearls, in control of every situation, telling him why he needed to stop this behavior and come to his senses.  "We're all depending on you, Richard.  Don't forget that."  But in reality, she was barefoot, uncombed, exhausted, stressed to the point of sickness, and the pasta water had boiled over, hissing and bubbling, scorching the glass stove top. 

"I don't give a (the foulest expletive in the English language, in her opinion) about the promise!" Richard shouted.  Her fingers froze, just short of the knob to turn the heat down, and she stood like a statue while he railed at her.  "Andy never gets this bull(another vile expletive that makes her cringe to remember).  Why don't you do this to Andy?  You leave Andy alone and you're always on my back!"  Of course that was peppered with proclamations of hating her and wishing she was dead, but that wasn't what haunted Evelyn about the exchange.  Later, she scrubbed furiously at the stovetop with her brillo and Softscrub, stunned that he was jealous of Andy.  If anyone had a reason to resent her, it was Andy, who was always being overlooked and disregarded in favor of Richard. She didn't mean for it to be like that but so much was at stake for Richard and Andy just...was.  Andy, eternally sweet Andy, never held it against her.  He loved everyone and did everything that was asked of him without complaint.  He was probably professing his love for his brother right up until Richard shot him.   

Evelyn was constantly going over the years leading up to that nightmare in her mind, redoing scenes in her imagination that might have changed the trajectory, if only she would have known what Richard was capable of.  One scene she would have like to do over was the evening her husband had been working late in the fields.  Richard approached him and demanded to be paid for his labor.  His father laughed in his face and told him his labor was unacceptable, and that it took a lot of nerve to walk up to him in this field with his hand out, as if he owed Richard something.  Richard faunched and fumed and sputtered horrible things about hating his father then too. 

Evelyn would have gone beyond praying if she had another chance at that night.  She would have begged and pleaded with him, disgracing herself if need be, to get him to return to his father with a contrite and humble heart, knowing her husband would never turn him away.  Nothing would have worked though; she knew that now.  Richard's resentment morphed into an all-consuming bitterness.  The whole family walked on eggshells around him.  His anger bubbled to the surface any time he didn't get his way.  Drugs entered their house.  Richard dropped out of high school.  A stolen car led to jail, then probation.  Finally, the unthinkable in a field 16 miles outside town.  An act so heinous, Evelyn refused to believe it until she watched Richard in the courtroom, cold and remorseless, not denying that he had done it.

Richard came back to the house after killing Andy to sleep off a drug-induced high.  He woke up famished, drank half of a gallon of milk while he stood in front of the open refrigerator, and kissed Evelyn on the top of her head before walking out the door to take care of his "business," which she now knew was to pay off a drug dealer with money from an earlier robbery.

She shuddered in her seat, remembering that kiss, as the warden gave a little nod.  Someone somewhere was flicking a switch, or pushing a button, or depressing a plunger that was shooting poison into Richard's body.   Seconds passed and Richard twisted his head back, raising it up off the pillow, to find the warden who stood behind him. 

"Wow!" Richard shouted. Evelyn jumped in her seat at his outburst.  "That is great. That is awesome! Thank you, (that foul expletive again, an adjective this time) Warden!"  His head fell back on the pillow at an angle that looked like it should have been painful.  His mouth and eyes stayed open but everyone watching from the other side of the glass knew the end had come for Richard.  He was gone.  But the promise wasn't gone with him. 

It was foolish of her to believe that it would be her son.  Her own sins were too greivous.  She never thought in a million years that murder would be the result and she would give her life to undo her mistakes.  But she wouldn't spend the rest of her life grieving Richard either.  He always believed he had a right to his anger and his life reflected that.  He chose to hate and to hurt others.  Now, looking at his dead body, Evelyn could see that the one who was really destroyed was him.  

All around Evelyn, hugs were exchanged, sighs of relief that had been held in for 11 long years were expelled.  But the woman who had been raped hadn't moved.  She stared at Richard's body, seeming totally unsatisfied, maybe even feeling a little jipped.  She probably came here to see him suffer or cry like a pathetic, scared child.  Evelyn wished she didn't feel the inclination to apologize to the woman because her son wasn't more pathetic but there it was.  She was burdened for this woman who would walk out of the room this day with a choice to make as well.

People began to trickle out.  They had seen what they'd come for.  Now it was dinnertime and they would celebrate as they broke bread together at the TGI Friday's across town.

After 15 minutes the doctor entered the room and pronounced Richard dead.  They unhooked the heartrate monitor and wheeled the gurney through the door and out of sight.  Evelyn had already checked the boxes and signed the papers for the prison.  There was nothing left for her to do except to leave this room as well and go home to get on with the rest of her life.  She pulled her purse out from under the chair, hooked it over her shoulder, and stood up, realizing that the woman had remained in her chair, staring through the glass into the now empty execution room.  They locked eyes for a second and Evelyn looked away. 

"You had another child," the woman said rather than asked.  Evelyn choked out a hoarse, "Yes."  She cleared her throat and said it again, clearer this time.  On the one year anniversay of Andy's death, baby Seth had arrived via c-section to her aged body.  In the quiet, early morning hours after his birth, she had whispered to her husband through tears of grief, "The Lord has given us another son in the place of Andy."  Her husband had agreed at the time but as Seth grew, Evelyn realized that Seth was different than Andy. Seth was obedient like Andy, but he also had a love for God that came from somewhere beyond Evelyn's doing or understanding.

Evelyn shuffled through the narrow path between the chairs and timidly laid a hand on the woman's shoulder.  "Choose love.  Choose life."  She paused and said, "So that you can live long after this life is over."  The woman remained stiff and unaffected but Evelyn gave a motherly squeeze and left the room.

Seth had a son named Enosh.
Enosh
Kenan
Mahalelel
Jared
Enoch
Methuselah
Lamech
Noah
Shem
Arphaxad
Shelah
Eber
Peleg
Reu
Serug
Nahor
Terah
Abram
Isaac
Jacob
Judah
...
David
...
Jesus, the promised Deliverer, referred to himself as a Son of Adam (Man) more often than as the Son of God.  





This allegory of Genesis 3:15-4:25 is loosely based on the story of Texas inmate, Richard Cobb's execution in Hunstville on April 25, 2013 as reported by Michael Graczyk, AP.
http://news.msn.com/crime-justice/man-put-to-death-for-texas-store-abduction-slaying

Lot's Lot In Life

My first college roommate was named Lindsay.  She was tiny, athletic, artistic, had a ton of friends, and was an identical twin.  She was also funny.  One day, while hanging out in our room in Phillips Hall, her sister took a wipe off marker and wrote on the full length mirror that was on the back of our door, "I like to get naked and poop."  It was just good, harmless fun all the time with them because they were, above all, Christians.  I was not at the time and they drove me crazy. 

In 1998 the internet was still relatively new.  I lost my internet virginity in that room in Phillips Hall by signing up for my first ever email account.  Lindsay was much  more worldly than me, and had been online long enough to have an assortment of AOL messenger friends.  She would chat with them at all hours.   I would be laying in bed at 2am and hear the thunder of her fingers on the keys: "dadadadadada."  Followed by the cheerful AOL, "Ding-dong!"  And then she would giggle at the screen, her face glowing white in the otherwise darkness of the room.  At 2-freaking-am!!  It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing my pillow into my face, writhing around on the bed and moaning, "For the love of God, STOP IT, PLEASE!" 


And she had 8am classes and I didn't.  Every morning she was up before me.  I didn't mind that.  But there was something inside one of her drawers that she kept in a walmart bag.  The rustling of that stinking walmart bag at 7:30 am when I didn't have to be up for another hour was enough drive me batty.

But I never said anything. I may not have been a Christian at the time but I was a nice person and I was polite.  She and her perky sister didn't have the market cornered on "nice."  Even us heathens could pull that off.

Before long Lindsay had a boyfriend from third floor Phillips.  It was common knowledge that Lindsay and Nick had never "done it."  I don't know if he was a Christian or not but he respected her enough to hold out for her.  He was incredibly smart.  One of those people that you can just tell will go on to get a masters, or maybe even a Ph.D.  (He had a fondness for Carl Sandburg.  Being an English major, I thought I should too so I bought a book of Sandburg poetry at the college bookstore.  I never even cracked it.  The following year, some of my friends who stayed in touch with his visited the house he shared with several other guys.  I went into his room and saw that he had copied lines from Sandburg's poems with a sharpie on his walls and ceilings.  Out of a book he borrowed from the library.  I had never felt like such a fraud.  Last I heard he was attending a Grad school in Wyoming and was married to a girl named Sadie.)

I had a boyfriend too.  I wish I could say that I took advantage of the wonderful, godly example that God placed in my path.  But I can't.  I threw myself at him like a love-starved teenaged girl and held nothing back.  At the end of the school year, he had already packed up his room and needed a place to sleep.  I said he could sleep in my room (which I had hardly been in since we had met--couldn't stand to be around that holier-than-thou crowd, y'know).  Lindsay put her foot down and said she wasn't comfortable with it.  My boyfriend and I had to unload his car and sleep on the floor in his room instead.  I was so mad at her, I don't think I ever spoke to her again after that.  School ended (and so did our boyfriends) and we moved on and our paths never crossed again.

It's painful for me to dredge up all those memories.  I don't really like who I was then and I can't help but think of the what-if's.  What if I would have let myself be influenced by Lindsay?  How would my college experience and consequently, my life, have changed?  How much shame and regret would I have been spared? 

The reason I am thinking about them this morning is because I have been looking back on Genesis at the completion of my monumental nine month study and the story that haunts me the most is the story of Lot.  He seems like a relatively minor character.  Though he survived the destruction of Sodom, he will forever be remembered for his wife being turned into a pillar of salt and for offering his virgin daughters to the pack of disgusting animals that waited outside his door.  Great legacy, right?

He did have a small portion of faith.  How could he not, having spent so much of his life in the shadow of his uncle, Abraham?  To Lot's credit, he believed the angels who came to warn him about the impending destruction.  Though he had become desensitized to sin after so many years in Sodom, he knew enough of Abraham's God to know that He didn't mess around.  He went to his daughters' fiances (I bet he neglected to mention what he almost did to their future wives) and told them in Genesis 19:14a, "Quick, get out of the city! The Lord is about to destroy it."  The bible doesn't describe Lot's life in sodom but one can pretty well guess how far he had strayed from Abraham's godly influence by the reaction of his future sons-in-law to his terrible news.  "But the young men thought he was only joking," Genesis 19:14b.

After dragging his butt, arguing with the angels, hesitating, and waffling, he barely makes it out.  All he has are his two daughters.  He has influenced no one in Sodom, not even his own family.  He had an opportunity, having lived in a depraved land and having witnessed God move in the life of his uncle, of saving hundreds or thousands, or maybe even hundreds of thousands.  God would have spared the city for 50 righteous people.  45 righteous people.  40, 30, 20--even 10 righteous people would have saved them all (Genesis 18:24-32).  But Lot's witness was totally wasted.

Well maybe not wasted.  Nothing is wasted, right?  Every word that finds its way into scripture is there to teach us something.  Lot's life made no impact on the world around him but his story still shows us today how a person can be saved and still be useless to God.

Do you see why that haunts me?  I was like Lot back in college and Lindsay was Abraham.  I had been baptized.  I attended church as a child.  I knew God.  He gave me Lindsay to show me and teach me but I was not interested in that.  I wanted Sodom.  That was a time in my life when I was useless to God. 

But it wasn't wasted either.  The story ends well.  I followed that worthless boyfriend around, working where he worked over the summer.  After he dumped me and fell off the face of the earth, I continued working at the same place.  Three years later, near the end of my junior year of college, I was walking back from my lunch break and crossed paths with a handsome security guard with a dark crew cut and light blue eyes.  A year later we were saying, "I do."  Eleven years and three kids later, we are still going strong.

Lot's story ends well too, eventually.  One of his surviving daughters gave birth to Moab, whose family later became the Moabites.  Though they fought with and tormented Abraham's descendants, the Hebrews, all was not lost.  Ruth, grandmother of David, ancestor of Jesus Christ, was a Moabitess.



Friends, how would the people who know you best react if you told them about God?  Would they think you were joking?  Would they laugh in your face?  If so, then something needs to change.  We don't have the same sense of urgency as Lot.  Our world isn't going to end by dawn tomorrow.  But it will end some day.  And what we do with our time here--it matters.  The people we influence for good matters.  Lindsay's influence, though it was not felt at the time, it mattered.  Don't let your witness be wasted and drag your feet when the time comes to follow God out of this world like Lot did.  Who would have followed me if God had spoken to me at that time in my life and told me to warn everyone?  We get to read his story today to learn how to leave behind a better legacy than he did.  Take advantage of it.  You never know how your life will make an impact.

Ready? 1...2...3...Cannonbaaaalllll!

So, it's been four months since I've written.  Anything.  That creative and thoughtful part of my brain totally shut down when we invited all sorts of crazy into our lives with Army enlistment.  We have sold the house we lived in for 8 years (which is its own crazy story), moved in with in-laws, left a wonderful school district, submitted a resignation from a job I have loved, and the hardest thing of all: preparing to say good-bye to the church that has loved us, sustained us, and changed us.  All this while doing my best to figure out what to do with my present while all my ideas about what our future would have held unraveled and then knit itself together in a radically different pattern. 

The new pattern has lots of camo in it.

And combat boots.  And automatic weapons.  And acronyms.  And long lonely nights while my soldier is away doing what needs to be done.


But this new future is lovely in its own way.  It will involve lots of change.  But change is the essence of an adventurous life.  There will even be pain.  But pain is the key to growth and, to borrow a phrase I learned recently, all growth is spiritual growth. 

Some people, upon hearing this truth and desiring spiritual growth for themselves, creep along the edge of change and dip their toes in, gradually warming up to it.  Not us.  We grasped each other's hands, took a flying leap, and plunged in cannonball-style.  Not because we are more brave or adventurous than the next family.  But because the pain of staying the same was worse than the pain of change.  Sometimes, that's what it takes to get a person to move.

I could be the type who holds a grudge against God for allowing calamity to reign down on our lives with the first devastating job loss that got this ball rolling.  At the time it seemed like the end of everything good in our lives.  Now I realize that it was only a stumble.  We got kicked in the shins  and limped along for the next few years, rebuilding, surviving, looking for silver linings, thinking the worst was over.  There were uniforms hanging in the house again.  The smell of leather and gun cleaner was like perfume to me.

But it was not to last.  The next time we got punched squarely in the gut.  While we were writhing around on the floor, trying to suck a life-giving breath into our lungs, God was quietly bringing together a plan that would set us on our current course.  But before we could take the first step, we had to be looking up at it from where we lay.  Only then would we see it clearly, accept it, have joy in it, and do the cannonball into it.

Only now I believe that its not only each other's hands we are holding.  According to Psalm 37, "The Lord directs the steps of the godly.  He delights in every detail of their lives.  Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand."

I'm not quite ready to look back on our lives and delight in all the details, but God, who sees the beginning, the present, and the future, does.  And as I look as far as my limited imagination can see into the new future that has been knitted together, before I take a step, I will reach my hand up and hold on tight as He takes me on the ride of my life.