Brinded Glory

One of my favorite verses

I was pleasantly surprised by Wonder Woman. I was expecting more of a heroine like Natasha/Black Widow, the Red Witch (or whomever Elizabeth Olson plays), or Catwoman. Instead Diana Prince was a heroine like one of my favorite of all heroines, Sophie Hatter of Howl's Moving Castle. Diana was gentle, principled, courageous, and kind. She is obviously beautiful and has no trouble with dealing out death, but neither her beauty nor the violence was sexualized. (You know how some movies portray death by a beautiful woman as a sort of wet dream?) Rabbit trail: Darling magazine had a little article about the writer's catharsis at finally getting "her" female superhero -- as if somehow she'd been waiting to be rescued all this time. As I read it, I thought of all the women I had read about and admired: Laura Ingalls Wilder, Caddie Woodlawn (based on Carol Ryrie Brink's grandmother), Anne Shirley Blythe, Rilla Blythe, Jill Pole, Anne Elliot, Jane Studdock, Orual, Gretel Brinker, Jael, and Deborah. (What did that author read growing up?) Then, more recently, the women I'd admired in film: especially Sophie Hatter (really, any Miyazaki woman), Laura Roslin in Battlestar Galactica, Mulan. Super powers and villains do not a hero(ine) make. And why limit yourself to only female heroes for role models? George MacDonald's Curdie (I liked Irene and the Grandmother too), or Peter Pevensie (I always got on with him better than with Lucy), Hans Brinker, Ernest of "The Great Stone Face," Ransom of the Space Trilogy, Alyosha Karamazov, or Gimli. Though I have to admit: once I met Sophie Hatter, I knew what kind of woman I wanted to be. Then there's the matter of Wonder Woman's original generation from the polyamorous paramour of Margaret Sanger's niece. We read The Pivot of Civilization in college -- Sanger's manifesto for ethnic cleansing and eugenics. I wouldn't count that as a heritage to be proud of. Diana Prince is nothing like Sanger's other spiritual daughter, Shulamith Firestone. Diana looks more like the "feminist" heroine espoused over at Feminist Fiction (SUCH a great blog) and by my friend Elizabeth than Beyoncé or Hillary Clinton. The latter are about asserting and flaunting power where Diana was compelled by love. Compared to Beyoncé or HRC, Diana is a real person. (HRC and Queen Bey look like cardboard cutouts to me.)

Adults should be seen and not heard, especially adults who are also parents. Children on the other hand, should be seen and heard. When you hear a child's voice above the hubbub, remember that he only recently learned to control his bladder. You, however, do know how to control your bladder and so greater self control is expected of you. I strongly dislike hearing a parent more whiny and snappish than the young one they are chastising. It's all wrong.

I also enjoyed Lionel Shriver’s essay (linked in the above). How can I overcome this odious “white privilege” if I’m restricted from identifying with *any* experience outside of “white” and “privileged”? The Gospel is for all peoples, tongues, tribes, and nations. It wasn’t invented by white males. It came to us as the Incarnation of the God Who made all peoples. Before Him, I have no privileges, only neediness.

It's 3:35 am, but I was suddenly able to put in words why the word, "activist," bothers me so. An activist seems to be a professional nag; someone who goes about espousing action rather than doing it. If they were actually doing something else, they would have that as their title or job description. My mother is a teacher, not an education activist. You could say that she was a cleanliness activist: she went about reminding us to pick up our rooms and complete our chores. She did her own housework; that's what made her a domestic goddess. But she did not do our chores for us, although she told us how they ought to be done. Maybe I don't understand the role of an activist, but it seems that your everyday activist is usually busy making signs and marching and wearing T-shirts and chanting slogans and shouting through bullhorns. All of which is great theater, but whom does it reach? What's the difference between an activist and a lobbyist? Is it who you talk to and how much money and influence there is between the two of you? Is an activist a secular martyr? My unease with activism is similar to my unease with martyrs who witness to anything but Christ. Unless you testify to Jesus, what else is it but theatrics? Especially when you *seek* it? The Christian martyrs did not seek death but they did rejoice when they had opportunity to testify to the worth of Christ. Nothing in this world could hold them. They did not picket or carry signs. The name of Jesus was emblazoned on their hearts and lips. It was all the sign they needed.

In "Destructive Generation", by Peter Collier and David Horowitz, an interesting figure pops up. It's Christopher Hitchens, trying to shoulder his way into the foreground. Once upon a time, before he became the firebrand of the anti-theist movement, he was like Mark Studdock in That Hideous Strength, struggling to get an in with "the progressive element." You almost pity him as his would-be friends patronize and tolerate him. At the time of the book's writing, I don't think Hitchens had yet become the formidable mouthpiece of the "new atheists."

Pardon me if I'm repeating myself. I have an awkward relationship with blogging. (Apparently, most people do: https://www.challies.com/articles/nobody-respects-a-blogger) Tumblr is my third blog so far. My first was a Xanga in high school. I had a Blogger in college. And now Tumblr in adulthood. I continually wonder if I have something constructive to add. I've wondered if this is the right venue. The world is so full of words and noise, especially the World Wide Web world. But I also feel like I *must* write. For the most part I've focused my writing in journaling. Hopefully my journals will benefit my children, if only if they help remind me what it is like to be young and uncertain. But I also have thoughts on things where the privacy of a journal feels limiting or things that are current but hopefully will be irrelevant in 10 years. I enjoy the cultural conversation and I want to be part of it. I picked up blogging again just recently because I realized that I've become a consumer and not contributor. I scroll through Facebook giving feedback but not much else. I go to social media to get good vibes from pictures of my friend's kids or pets, sometimes to check up on our extended family. It's not really a good forum for conversation, generally. I found myself going to Facebook every time I nursed my son and became embarrassed to find that I had gotten to the point where I had already seen everything posted that day. Also *cough* the people I respect most and want to hear from don't post very often. I don't tend to respect the people who post five+ times a day. It was decided: I would write and blog until my writing became worthwhile and I would stop reading stupid political commentary and MLM testimonials. I've been supplementing my reading with The Gospel Coalition, Desiring God, and Anne Kennedy at Preventing Grace.

Ultimately Feminism is attractive because it tells us what it means to be a woman and tells us how a woman should act. (”Biblical Patriarchy” was attractive to parts of the Church for the same reason.) The Bible tells us very little about what it means to be a woman. We have a few direct commands, a few sketches, and then silence. We’re left to figure out the rest for ourselves. . . . (If only there was just a little bit more direction!) And that’s because (now I’m about to be brilliant -- ta-da!) the Bible isn’t about us. Soooo disappointing! It’s about Jesus the Christ. We’re supposed to imitate Jesus. He’s the pattern for male and female. That’s all we need to know about being women. He gives us plenty of freedom, if you think about it. 

Really, why is Pandora still around?

Facebook informs me that it’s my 10 year anniversary with Facebook. This is embarrassing. I haven’t even had a driver’s license for 10 years. The only other thing in my life at all comparable is a cell phone. I’ve had a cell phone a little longer than I’ve had a Facebook account. I got into Facebook as a college freshman when it had just opened for general use. Back then, I saved Facebook as a weekend indulgence and I could read everything my friends had posted during the week in just an afternoon. Now I can’t keep up with everything some people post in a single day. I’ve gone back to treating Facebook as a weekend thing but it’s not a treat anymore, just a black hole. My 16 year old sister-in-law has declared the Facebooks uncool and prefers Instagram. But bwahahahaha! Facebook owns Instagram, so Facebook doesn’t care.

I did not think there could exist a Racket to surpass the Wedding Industry, but there is. If ever there was a conspiracy to make us all fools and easily parted money, it is the Purveyors of All Things Baby. Do this, buy that -- Immediately! -- last your child die, contractor deadly illness, stunt his growth, intelligence, or personality. Run! Don't walk! You deserve all the plastic junk. It's for the children! I bought nearly all of R.'s most important apparatuses second-hand (excepting the car seat), his possessions are largely hand-me-downs but for the adoring largess of the grandparents, and the rest were baby shower gifts. The funny thing, as I scoured the internets deciding what I would do with the spare room, is that any commentary on second hand cribs automatically assumed that they were toxic death traps from, I don't know, the dark days of the 60's and 70's, rather than what we got: a very modern and lovely thing (almost mobile home sized) from Gracco (or some reputable place like that). The Little Man is currently madly enamored with a hand-me-down jumparoo. I love hearing the busy noises as he handles all of the various bells and whistles (batteries removed) and sometimes even talks to himself. Considering his tender age of 5 months, it entertains him for a remarkably long time. His bouncing up and down as he goes nearly cross-eyed with excitement is certainly endearing. Maybe the Baby Industry is partially a plot by the makers of batteries. I have been insistent that an infant does Not Need Batteries. When he gets into trucks and cars, maybe -- like those battery powered cars for kids to ride. Those are the Coolest. Little Man is fussing for a change in scenery.

A year ago today we went to church in London. We flew out the 29th of April, arrived the morning of the 30th, and went looking for church on Sunday, May 1st. Wifi was not as easy to find as we had been told it was and traveling without cellular service was more difficult still. We wanted to go to church, not as a tourist activity, but to be at Church. Westminster Abbey was more touristy than a place for worshipping. We had starry-eyed recommendations for Metropolitan Tabernacle--"Spurgeon's church!"--in Elephant and Castle and the website made it look like a place where worship was happening. (Rather than a historic reenactment of worship.) So we figured it out and we went. We arrived a little late--that matter of being new and figuring out the bus system. It was one of the best decisions of our trip. It was not a shrine to Spurgeon as I had feared. It was truly a living church worshipping Yahweh and Jesus Christ. We dined on Wesley, Watts, and Newton; drank in the joy of a diverse gathering of tongues, tribes, and nations untied together by the Spirit; and heard from Dr. Masters a sermon on Acts where he spoke as the ambassador of Christ and not Spurgeon. We had had such trouble trying to find dinner the night before--so tired, no GPS, no cell service, limited WiFi--and felt so lost and foreign amongst our cousins across the Pond. And here we felt at home and refreshed amongst our eternal family. We didn't feel lost for the rest of the trip.

"Children are a blessing." Growing up it was verse, chorus, refrain, and echo. It didn't occur to me to ask "Why?" and "What does that mean?" until about this time last year. Last year we discovered that we had less than a year until a tiny human would make his entrance. I knew the answers from the community where I grew up. The answer to "Why?" was "because the Bible says so." The answer to "What does that mean?" was to have all the children, as many children as you could squeeze between marriage and menopause. I now realize why I sometimes felt a little creeped out watching smug Dad usher his 6 or 8 kids into church: it was a hoarding instinct. He who has the most kids wins. Those answers didn't satisfy as I watched those families grow up and walk through the heartache of wayward and apathetic children. As a pastor once put it, "if Samuel had more sons like Hophni and Phineas it would not have been a blessing to him." And no matter what curriculum or catechism you use, there are no guarantees for a happy outcome with child rearing. Looking at Nadab and Abihu, Hophni and Phineas, and Absalom, I wondered again, "Why does God say that children are a blessing?" It can't be that they're cute, because that doesn't last. I asked my husband. "I think it has something to do with it's better to give than to receive." I asked at life group. "Children are made in the image of God," said one of the moms. I liked those answers, but I was still afraid. What if we embittered this little one against his Maker and he spent his life wallowing in hubris and self pity? What if we are conceiving heartbreak for ourselves and a vessel for wrath? Now I've holding our little son for over four months and rejoicing in his smiles and here's what I've come up with so far: I understand better what the Bible means when it tells us to be like children. "As infants earnestly desire the pure spiritual milk of the Word." I better understand what it means to be dependent. Also, babies can't see very well for their first few months of life. My son could hardly see our faces when he was born, but he knew and trusted our voices. I understand Jesus' humility in becoming a human. He is a high priest who can sympathize with all of our weaknesses. All of them! Even with the cries of my tiny son; he would cry when he pooped and cry when he was gassy, cry when he was hungry and cry when he needed to burp, cry when his diaper was wet and then cry when he was changed. The world was so big and new and strange and what's this phenomenon of gravity? Jesus endured all of it -- the hunger, the blindness, the cold, the clumsiness, the discomfort and frustration of living in a human body. That's love! When that little boy finally got his thumb in his mouth, it seemed a superhuman feat of coordination. He's learned to make eye contact. He can finally eat without spitting up most of it. He's just rolled over and just started sticking his tongue out. His tiny skeleton in his 20 week ultrasound was the most exquisite piece of sculpture I've ever seen. I sing the body electric and hope I never take my digestive system or neuromuscular system for granted. A child is a blessing because God has allowed us to participate in making a human soul. We co-create the image of God. He's given us responsibility for an eternal being. That's why children are precious. Our work as parents has eternal consequences. That's an awful and joyful thing to consider. And yes, he's cute. He's already manifested a sweet temper and happy heart, curiosity, and social charm. (All like his daddy.) We're excited to grow and learn with him and from him.

Addendum: of course, not everyone has the opportunity to choose between being with someone you love or doing something you love. But if you do, and you pick the latter, what then? I did hesitate for a moment between a definite job offer that would have required relocating and a man who was going to propose (but I wasn't going to take that as definite yet). I decided that I could always find another job but that a man like my husband was a rarer find.

"Why Couldn't the People of Israel be Obedient Like Me?" I recently discovered Anne Kennedy's sharp-witted blog. You'll laugh and cry. http://www.patheos.com/blogs/preventingrace/2017/02/12/couldnt-people-israel-obedient-like/