The Good Portion

What can I say? I've been set free. It's as simple as that. It's been a long time coming, but the simplest of truths has finally filled my thick skull with peace. For nearly as long as I've been a Christian I've grappled with the subject of legalism and the Old Covenant Law. I've read so much and heard so many sermons on the subject and all the while the waters have only grown murkier and my confusion greater. I've heard there are those who disregard the Old Testament entirely, seeing it as useless, something we ought not even bother ourselves with. But, to be honest, in all my years in various church settings (from Pentecostal to Reformed Baptist) I've never, ever met anyone who believes that way. No, what I've encountered are a variety of Christians from a variety of traditions all claiming to be "Bible-believing" struggling, generally with all sincerity, to figure out what to do with the Old Testament in light of t

I've just this evening finished reading Sir Thomas Browne 's Religio Medici . You're safe to assume I'll have more to say about that great work here sometime soon. But, as prayer, of late, has become the unplanned focus here (and in my life) I thought I'd share what Browne refers to as "the Dormative I take to bedward; I need no other Laudanum than this to make me sleep; after which I close mine eyes in security, content to take my leave of the Sun, and sleep unto the Resurrection." image via Wikipedia The night is come, like to the day, Depart not Thou, great God, away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of Thy light: Keep still in my Horizon; for to me The Sun makes not the day, but Thee. Thou, Whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples Centry keep; Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest, But such as Jacob's temples blest. While I do rest, my Sou

Image via Wikipedia Prayer For a New Mother by Dorothy Parker The things she knew, let her forget again- The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold, The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold. Let her have laughter with her little one; Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing, Grant her her right to whisper to her son The foolish names one dare not call a king. Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd, The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red, The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud That wraps the strange new body of the dead. Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan The proud and happy years that they shall know Together, when her son is grown a man.

These days I've been almost too busy to think, let alone write. But, since it's what I do for a living, I do find time to clean. Plenty of time. Because I'm not made of money I don't test drive a whole lot of products. I really hate buying things and finding out I've just wasted my hard earned money on junk. But, every so often the planets line up in just such a way that I end up trying something new. Over the last year I've come across a handful of new products I can add to my list of Things I Hope I Won't Ever Have to Do Without. And, to make up for the recent shortage of soul fodder here, I'll dish up my latest recommendations free of charge.* First off, Orange Pledge . In my last list of products recommendations I featured Endust. I will not take back what I said. It is a great product. But Orange Pledge has taken its place in my heart. Anyone who's ever asked knows that I can't stand Lemon Pledge. It's waxy and leaves a build-up.

As I continue sifting, combing, and nit-picking away at several partially written blog entries which I can't seem either to untangle, de-bug, or find the loose ends which need tying up, I thought I'd leave you with some words of hope and comfort, from a book sent to me recently from half a continent away by a dear Christian brother. "Prayer mirrors the gospel. In the gospel, the Father takes us as we are because of Jesus and gives us his gift of salvation. In prayer, the Father receives us as we are because of Jesus and gives us his gift of help. We look at the inadequacy of our praying and give up, thinking something is wrong with us. God looks at the adequacy of his Son and delights in our sloppy, meandering prayers..... "We tell ourselves, 'Strong Christians pray a lot. If I were a strong Christian, I'd pray more.' Strong Christians do pray more, but they pray more because they realize how weak they are. They don't try to hide it from themse

He brought me here to make very sure I would never take it lightly again that I would feel it deep in my soul that pat answers will never do. He's stripped them all away. I can't hide behind them any more and I stand here naked in my mind the world's evil gazing upon me. Helpless I begin to see it for what it really is. It is evil. My heart for once perceives the terror of its malice. And here, exposed, I know it, that speechlessness without which I am unfit to speak to the subject of evil in this world.

For years I seldom read poetry unless it was required it of me. But e. e. cummings was different. I was introduced to one of his poems in high school and raced home to devour the rest of the collection. I no longer have the book and had all but forgotten it until recently, when a friend posted a reading of this poem - the very one that got me to buy the first book of poetry I ever owned: i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) i fear no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) a

Bullying is as old as humanity, or nearly so. That ancient book of Genesis tells us the first recorded human ever born bullied and murdered the second recorded human ever born. I came along many millenia later and was bullied for much of my childhood and teen years, and for a very brief time (my mind travels back to eighth grade,when I had my one shot at popularity and became a monster) I played the bully myself. Back then adults, like Charlie Brown's teachers, were muffled voices, and, outside of the classroom, wholly uninvolved in the politics of the playground. We kids were on our own - at least that was my experience. I never told a soul or complained to anyone. There was a code, only spoken when broken. I don't know who invented it, or in what century, but to tattle was a worse crime than bullying itself , removing whatever respect might have remained. I challenged a girl to a fight once. It was to take place after school. I'd been picked on one too many times. Bu

Tango One heart yearns, tired tentatively stepping building, growing, keening, wailing grieving, hoping again to love. It rises up, old brokenhearted to dance circling, soaring aching, climbing, mounting stairs, again, to heaven.

After weeks upon weeks of consideration I've decided that it is time for me to set this blog aside. I cannot say for how long. It may be forever, or it may be for a few weeks. I'll leave it here, a record of my thoughts these last couple of years (the ones I dared air publicly that is), a reminder of this stretch of my sojourn. I began my writing a much different person than I am today. I resist the urge to be embarrassed by my earlier views and attitudes. I was not perfected then, nor am I now. But I pray I never go backward. I want to step forward, arms flung wide open, into the fullness of the freedom that is in Christ, ready to embrace fellow believers of every variety and move forward with them reveling in and proclaiming the Good News of Jesus Christ to a hopeless and hurting world. So, what's next? I can't say really, except that I plan to take my life and my writing in a different direction. That direction might just become clearer if I do it away from the c

"Suggestion for persons entering heaven: Leave your dog outside. Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and the dog would go in." ~ Mark Twain Meet Schubert. He's pretty cute, in a gremlinish way. Now I know that "dog" is the mirror image of "god", but Schubert is nobody's co-pilot and we can all raise our voices in thanksgiving that he is not created in the image of God. I shudder to think of a world created and ruled by the likes of him! Schub is the brunt of a lot of jokes around here. We can get away with that because the only English words he understands besides his name are "Do you need to go potty?" "Sit," "Down", and I think he understands "No!" though he doesn't always obey that one. He also rolls on his back with a big smile and his tongue lolling out if you point your fingers like a gun and pretend to shoot him. He agrees to do this because it always ends in hi

How do I keep on when my good works aren't good enough when my spirituality isn't spiritual enough when my heart is breaking and everyone's a critic?

I've got nothing of import to share these days so I thought an update and dose of mundane stuff might be fun. First, my kids have convinced me there's nothing really all that wrong with my forehead and that I shouldn't wear bangs or a hat every waking moment of my life. Besides that, I've determined to own my wrinkles. I've earned them after all, and wouldn't trade the wisdom that's come with them for the world. So, I'm letting my forehead out of the closet. And here's a picture. Oh yeah. I wear glasses too, except on Sundays and when I want to look pretty. I don't think I've mentioned it here but since it's public knowledge (in the most legal sense of the word, and the most literal - it's been published in the local paper) I can state here that I'm serving on my county's Grand Jury this year. It is taking up a lot of my time, and, with my cleaning business flourishing as it is, I'm left with precious little time for t

In the first place, I wish I could take credit for coming to that critical question on my own, but really it was a slow train coming, and on the caboose was a friend who during her own womanly journey snagged this obscure little bit of Scripture: "If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home." (1 Cor. 14: 35) I admittedly have no intention of diving into the minefield of context on this one. I've honestly seldom been able to notice these words through the din of those that surround it, but my friend drew them out for me and gave me a timeless, culture-spanning use for them. "I think one of the reasons...to learn from our own husbands at home (in a good marriage) is because that's the one person who loves us most and is most willing to protect us." On came the lights. "Wives, submit to your own husbands , as to the Lord." (Eph. 5:22, all emphasis mine.) Now, let me put on the brakes for a moment, for the

Who is he? This one I speak to upon waking each morning, full of fear.... This one I've never laid eyes on, yet trust with my dread and my life? Who are you, Jesus? Why do I trust you? Why do I wish it was me, washing your feet with my tears Touching your skin fear of your disciples, their taunts washed away by hope of your acceptance? How do I know you will not agree with them and turn me away? I don't. I never have. And yet I come, day after day hearing the whispers. The way I approach is all wrong, offerings foolish and wasteful. A woman, I belong in the kitchen, quietly working, useful. But I need you. Oh, how I wish I could touch you, hear your voice drowning out the voice of your men.  Then I would ask you Who are you? Why do I trust you?

Like every self-respecting girl of my generation, and probably every other kind of girl too, I loved the Brady Bunch. Every Friday evening for five years (decades in little-girl-time) centered around it. Like every other little girl I knew, I wanted to be Marsha, the oh-so-cool and beautiful older sister, or at the very least to be as cute as little Cindy, who everyone adored. Even to be Jan, the relatively plain middle daughter, would be better than the knobby-jointed, crooked-haired, four-eyed, bad-toothed, unpopular child I saw looking back at me from every mirror. Raised an only child (my siblings having grown up and moved away before my earliest memories), I envied those sibling relationships. I wanted cute brothers to fight with but who would secretly really love me, and would defend me when kids picked on me at school. I wanted a family name that would escort me immediately into the attention of every teacher and student who heard it. And, of course, I wished for such parents:

So, yesterday's post brings us up to about February of this year, three years after the house went into escrow. One thing I alluded to, but did not state outright, was that during this past Christmas season my mom passed away. Things are a bit of a blur surrounding that time and the four or five months that followed, but having a temperament that requires me to be busy when grieving, a lot got done around here in spite of it all. Some of it also came from a different kind of necessity. Mom passed exactly one week before Christmas, and two weeks before the first of the month when her apartment would have to be vacated. We siblings and our grown kids sorted through her belongings - laughing, crying, remembering - then divided them up and carted them off to our various dwellings. This led to a flurry of rearranging to make room for our keepsakes and added further impetus to our plans to "finish" the house. It was a bittersweet time, finding new homes for Mom's treasures,

Well, this Wednesday marks the third anniversary of my marriage to Paul. When he proposed to me, he promised me, unbidden, three things: that he would provide for me, that he would pursue me, and that I could do whatever I wanted with the house. He's been true to his word on every count. It's been a rich three years. Two months before the wedding, we purchased our home and I moved in with Gina and Tony.  After the honeymoon, Paul moved into the house, and Gina traded him for his primo condo, close to campus. In that condo were about 8000 books. We had no place for them really, since our garage had a dirt floor, so we moved them all into our tiny less than 1100 sq. ft. house. What didn't fit in Gina's former room (with the exception of the kitchen, all our rooms qualify as tiny) was stacked waist high in the front room. Because we run a used-book business we had to have access to them, which meant we literally climbed in, over and around them for over six months - the am