Looking Back

One year ago today, I shut myself into our SUV and sobbed as we drove away from the dearest faces on earth. I followed the square yellow truck northwards, through sleepy Southern towns and flooding Georgia cities, through awe-inspiring mountain passes and quiet peaceful forests. And finally, Maryland. 

A year later, I'm back, and I'm so much richer than I was but one year ago. I've gained more dear, darling faces that I weep to leave. I've gained another home in the beautiful hills of Maryland. I've gained stories of my King's faithfulness and love in times of deepest struggle. I'm back, and I'm blessed. 

One song rings through my mind as I look back on the eighteenth year of my life, the hardest, most painful and the best, most beautiful year of my life. One song in particular that looks backward and marries the tears and the pain with the joy and the hope found only in God.

I never have and never will walk alone.

Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we’ve come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Carried by Your constant grace

Held within Your perfect peace

Never once, no, we never walk alone

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Every step we are breathing in Your grace

Evermore we’ll be breathing out Your praise

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

(Never Once, Matt Redmon)

Everyday News

::    Here's a bit I just rediscovered . . . I'm not at all unorganized, *ahem*.     ::

There's nothing like that gloriously sweet, wafting scent of freshly cut grass. Sometimes I think cows are blessed little creatures to be able to eat something as sweetly, deliciously smelling as grass. . . .

How's that for a conversation starter? ;-)

This morning God woke me up again to His gloriously beautiful world as I drove along and good-morning-to-this-fair-assembly-ed my way along sweet country roads brimming over with freshly flowering tulips and cherry blossoms. I'm not a city girl. If I didn't know that before, seven months in a crowded D.C. suburb has convinced me of it. Small southern towns, or maybe even Yankee country ones, are much more my cuppa. As one of my favorite bloggers once expressed, without the greenspace, quiet, and yes, even the Southern humidity, I lose something very much a part of myself, and yet I always find another bit of Jane Ellen -- or is it another Jane Ellen entirely? -- whilst in the city.

All these little thoughts strolled their ways across my mind this morning as I drove home -- on a "completely intentional, I-totally-know-where-this-road-goes, senic route" -- after posting a package, and it occured to me that I have done a poor job at keeping you posted on my adventures during this odd year. I'm not very good at simple updates, for there is something of the actress in me always preferring a good soul out-pouring to a holiday snapshot rambling. But one day I'll wish I had documented daily life during P.C. And so here I am.

For those of you unaware, "P.C." stands for Pastor's College, the whole reason for my living in Maryland. My dear father has been diligently slaving away at his books for the past seven months; we've dubbed him "the hermit" here because of his habit of sitting in one corner of his bedroom, back to the world, whole body hunched forward in a book or fingers tap-tapping away at a laptop. But unlike seminary or even university, Pastor's College is about more than theology and doctrine, more than professors and students, more than graduation and ordination. It truly is a whole family, whole life ordeal. Thrust into a circle of people all from different backgrounds but in similar situations, it's a time when God takes up his knitting needles and starts knit-purling heart strings together. (I pray none of you are offended by that metaphor -- what would Rachel Lynde say?)

There are twenty three family units here, twenty two dear, wonderful, friends-forever families and one unattached young man. I am the oldest P.C.K. -- Pastor's College kid, as we're referred to by . . . non-P.C.K.s . . . what is this fascination with abbreviations? -- living here with my family and one of the few above the age of ten. That makes for plenty of babysitting opportunities, let me tell you. But I couldn't be happier, really. Many of my mornings are spent encouraging young girls in their musical and scholarly pursuits; many of my evenings are whiled away playing house, acting charades, doling out stories, and holding sleepy babies. Actually, truth be told, the average age of my closest circle of friends in the P.C. is around four. (And, no, I'm not concerned about that.) :)

Other than playing with children, my time is happily passed with a high dose of simplicity. My senior year of high school is probably my easiest one since toddlerhood, and consequently I'm far more behind than I've ever been since, well,  probably toddlerhood. But spring fever's pumping through my veins this Holy Week and with it diligence. Hopefully I'll prove a trendsetter for myself. Next year looms ahead of me like Everest in my simple path, but even Everest in all its towering glory stirs up the dust of an adventurous soul.

::    Afterthought: I'm sure I had ample more details that I intended to share before this little post slipped through the cyber-cracks, but I've long since forgotten what they were. So now you can just jump to the conclusion, which I had already written, and you can get a picture of just how not-intuitively I dream up blog posts. Actually I think I had mentally composed the beginning and the end of this post and attempted to write something to glue the two together. Fail.    ::

I was driving north out of the bustle of the city to guard some sweet children in their slumber this evening. (That's my epic way of saying "babysitting," because doesn't that term just bother you, too? I mean think about it . . . ) And the setting sun was casting such warm golden light onto the maples, red with blooms, and her sister trees dripping with infantile leaflets. All around me was naught but warmth and fairy dust. But as I rounded the bend in the road, sleepy Apollo pierced down the roadway in all his last minute mustering. Indescribably golden, like the purest honey and the softest butter, that sunset demanded such reverence and awe yet incited impish desires. All I wanted to do was drive straight for that sun, into the sunset, and bask in all that amber goodness.

No, life in Maryland is far from bad.

*sigh*

Home

From my Journal
23 March 2012
1:22 am

I am constantly thinking to myself how much I want to go home. Nearly every other journal entry begins or ends with that confession. But the more I consider, the more I recognize that home is not there anymore. This home that I long for is a childhood memory with all the rosy hues of its kind. It's a place and a time forever enshrined in memory when hardship was a foreigner and tragedy restricted to the theater. My eyes and ears were young and innocent, unpolluted by cynicism, callousness, and pain.

Once a soul lives long enough he or she finds that a true home cannot exist on this earth, in this world -- not that I have resigned myself to some kind of chaotic, depressive world. No. This earth is still green, there is still beauty in the broken, and the Lamb is still on the throne, worthy of glory and honor and adoration and praise.

There is so much goodness in this land, and yet there is not enough to truly tie me to it, for I have tasted -- only just tasted -- true, unspoilt, desperately deep love. I tasted it at the cross and daily my mouth waters for more. It is only natural that I feel not at home here. I am evermore a foreigner in a strange place, a sojourner in a broken land. I'm an ambassador from a world I've never been to, but a city I'm a citizen of,  a home I will always be homesick for.

Take Them Captive

Bam!

A sudden pain bolted its way through my head, burning and searing whatever's in there as it went. Pained and angered and exhausted all at the same time, I threw down the vacuum handle and rushed out of the room, glaring icily at the assailant, a sharp shelf's corner. Holding my head in my hand, I dove into the coolness of my pillows and heaved a huge sigh. Then, down flooded the tears.

But it wasn't just the pain of a bruised brow that let loose the floodgates. As quickly as I ran retreated across the hallway to my bedroom, my mind ran over all the grievances it could possibly find, not just reaching back through the past day or week, but months and even years. No small injustice, no minor sorrow stayed behind from the conference called inside. They all flocked to the forefront of my mind, each shouting its pitiful sob story.

As the clamorous rampage in my mind continued, my weeping's volume increased. Soon, I was loudly sobbing and nearly convulsing from the anger and resentment, from the grief and the heartache, from the sharp and shooting pain.

From the other room, the vacuum cleaner and my little cleaning companion, Emmy Xiang, sat deserted. I heard her call, confused, to me, "Uh, did someone die in your game, or something?" Even one so enthralled in a pity party could smile at that, but I said nothing. Knowing that someone was listening, I only let loose greater sobs, holding nothing back as is my normal practice.

Finally I heard the pad-pad-pad of her feet coming toward me. She leaned against the bed, not sure whether touching me would invite an embrace or a shove. Finally, I rolled over to her, and she looked at me quizzically. We remained thus for a while, I piteously allowing tears to roll down my cheeks and she wondering what had caused and how to fix the mourning. At last she spoke:

"Why did you put them in there?"

"Um, what," was my confused reply?

"The sad thoughts -- why did you put them in your mind?"

I stared. She stared.

"Oh."

She was right. A simple clumsy knock on the head and I lay prostrate upon my bed weeping as if I had "married an unloveable man," as Emmy Xiang described me. That seven year old saw right into the depths of my heart. You look ridiculous. You hit your head on the shelf, and now you are replaying every sad or angering episode you've experienced in the past year. What is your problem?

"Finally, brothers and sisters,

whatever is true,

whatever is noble,

whatever is right,

whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely,

whatever is admirable,

if anything is excellent

or praiseworthy,

think about such things."

Philippians 4:8

Memory and Time

Memories we share together, moments no one else can know.

I will keep them close to me, never let them go.

Ten years have passed since my arrival in this wonderful place I call home. In those ten years I have gained such invaluable friendships, treasured such beautiful moments, and fallen in such deep love. For some, ten years is but another decade in this inevitable cycle we call life, but these ten years have been crucial, are irreplaceable, and will never be forgotten. 

Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.

Good-bye is so hard -- but I'm not saying, "Good-bye." I'm saying, "See you later!"

It's just ten months... Then, I'll be home.

Home.

No place like it.

Friendship

"A blessed thing it is for any man or woman to have a friend; on human soul whom we can trust utterly; who knows the best and the worst of us, and who loves us in spite of all our faults; who will speak the honest truth to us, while the world flatters us to our face, and laughs at us behind our back; who will give us counsel and reproof in the day of prosperity and self-conceit; but who, again, will comfort and encourage us in the day of difficulty and sorrow, when the world leaves us alone to fight our own battle as we can." - Kingsley

Many Partings

Isn't it amazing how changing a medium can coax thoughts into logical sentences. I spent long minutes sitting with this blank "compose" box glaring back at me. All I needed was a late night, a blank journal, and a new ink pen to pin my thoughts down. Finally, I sigh with relief, and copy the entry onto this blog.

I will never cease to understand the constant nudge I feel to publicly post on this very public blog my personal struggles and feelings. Perhaps it is rooted in a desire to help others. No, I'm far too sinful for so pure a desire. It probably has more to do with a strange sort of self-righteousness and false humility. Whatever the case, I post this journal excerpt here, mildly altered to avoid exposing identities and excruciating grammar errors.

6/13/11

I have never been a good journaler, and I don't expect that will change now. However, sometimes I need a thought dump, so I begin a new memoir. Here goes.

The past five weeks or so have been titled by myself, "Many Partings." Actually, the allusion to Tolkien will probably be extended to the whole summer. Why? Well, the obvious (and obscure all at the same time) answer is this: I am moving from my beloved home for 10 months to a new state, where I will live in a big city, attend a large church, and meet numerous people. For an introverted homebody, this is quite a traumatic prospect. Nonetheless, this is not my only reason.

This weekend I have been filled with a melancholy, half-mournful mood, and I think all these "many partings" are the source of my feelings. First, we have numerous literal partings: leaving my family for a trip abroad, "farewelling" new friends and places in Europe, ending relationships from ensembles after a year of hard work, sending off a happy bride and groom, enduring the annual goodbyes with old friends who visit yearly, etc. These experiences crammed into so short a period without having a good, therapeutic cry would be reason enough for a girl to be overwhelmed after a while. Yet, there is more.

I often feel that I am a 60 year old woman trapped in a 16 year old's body. Well, if that has been the case in the past, then my 90th birthday came and went this month. I feel so much more grown up, if that is possible, for not all of my goodbyes have been so straightforward. Some are more allegorical, philosophical, and symbolic, yet no less painful.

I've said goodbye to a beloved friend, who will never be the same after being touched by cancer. Yes, she is still her faith-driven, cheerful, gorgeous self, yet neither her life nor mine will ever be the same again. I've watched and witnessed the first of my childhood chums pledge her troth to her new husband. And even before Hannah walked up the aisle, radiant and glowing with excitement, I shed tears as my dearest friends -- no, my darling sisters -- Ruthie and Elizabee moved toward the alter as bridesmaids. In that split second, I realized how quickly time passes. As a wise woman I know has said many times recently, "In the next ten years, our lives will be filled with the weddings of you children." Life is happening.

And then I confess another parting -- the parting with a dream. My habits of pinning fictitious vignettes and Byronic scenes onto every person I meet is such a painful one. * (See my Dreamer post.) * Even though I know that God has not planned it, I watched a match disintegrate into the mist. Oh! the complications of silly crushes. I am ashamed to admit it, to even use such an inane word, yet I write it down, if for no other reason than my own humbling and the benefit of my own dear daughters one day.

Then I am reminded yet again of how little time I have left in this dear home of mine, and I fall into this horrid sadness. Lord, get me out!

I feel like time is like sand, constantly slipping through my fingers as a friend expressed through an email yesterday. I feel like Frodo, naked and groping in the dark, searching for protection, for something to cling to. All of my relationships, dreams, and normalcy has been kicked from under my feet. I feel like a man being hung at the gallows -- the prop has been moved; now I suffocate.

Look at this. Even as I write the words, I wonder how a girl can claim Christ as Redeemer and Friend and yet write such shallow words. I feel this, and I search for that. Who cares how I feel, and why do I search? There is truth that transcends each circumstance and emotion; there is hope which I have already received. I know that I know that I know. Then why is it so difficult? Why do I not understand His will, much less my own thoughts?

{Being a hormonal girl can be ever so frustrating.}

God, you are my Fast Anchor amidst the swelling seas of uncertainty, confusion, and downright misery. You are my Loving Father who smothers me with constant gifts to grow and mature me. You are the Beloved Bridegroom, enough to satisfy every thirst for intimacy, protection, and love. Grow me into a grateful girl -- not merely content, "gutting out" the godly response -- but wholly and completely dripping with thanksgiving for every painful circumstance and confusing situation.

* Note: I am not suicidal nor in the depths of despair right now. I share the thoughts that came to mind as ink flowed onto paper, and I tend to exaggerate in my constant journey to heights of literary genius. I'm fine, and God is faithful! (But isn't that so sad? My mind is so bothersome. I can't vent my own thoughts without the authoress inside watching for parallelism and pointing out potential phrases just begging for alliteration. Argh. It's kind of like when I cry. The actress inside yanks me over to a mirror, so that I can see what a sorrowful girl ought to look like. I hate feeling so base, fake, and shallow.) Anyways... I forgot what I was saying. ;-) *

A Jane Poem

Because every girl gets a little thrill when she sees her name. ;-)

Besides, I love this poem. (And the indentation is incorrect because blogger is not cooperating.)

To Jane: The Keen Stars Were Twinkling

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane!

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendour

O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,

Tonight;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

For those of you waiting for an update on MJ, surgery, though long, went remarkably well. Furthermore, recovery was swift and smooth -- she was out of the hospital only four days after surgery. The doctors confirmed that her tumor was cancerous, but not highly aggressive nor out of control. Though her body is healing swiftly, MJ and her family still struggle with the frustrations of temporary, unfamiliar handicaps and the long-term repercussions of cancer. Continue to keep MJ, her family, and all of us who know her in your prayers. God is good and so, so sovereign.

The Eowyn Challenge

No... Not the challenge to exercise through Middle Earth, not the challenge to bribe Tolkienites into healthy lifestyles. Though I have indulged in that Eowyn Challenge, today mine is different. Do you remember this dialogue from the film?

Aragorn! I'm to be sent with the women into the caves.

That is an honorable charge.

To mind the children, to find food and bedding when the men return. What renown is there in that?

My lady, the time may come for valor without renown. Who then will your people look to in the last defenses?

Since my introduction to Lord of the Rings, I have always felt a keen empathy with Eowyn. As the years pass, I discover more and more similarities between the two of us that bind my heart closer to hers. We both love our families, we both block people out, we both dream of noble deeds, we both have gorgeous hair (in my dreams, at least), etc. Today, a new one has surfaced.

We both struggle with behind the scenes servanthood. Most people assume that this struggle comes from a desire to be celebrated and praised. This is definitely a factor; however, I know for myself, and I believe for Eowyn too, that this is not the whole of the picture.

As I've already mentioned here today, one of my closest friends is undergoing serious surgery in a city an hour's drive away. This girl is so loved and cherished, many have flocked to the hospital, all the while knowing that we will know nothing for a while. They just want to be there to support the family, to support one another, to be right there in the thick of it. But, I cannot be there. There are tasks at home that must be accomplished, and I have been left responsible for them.

As I go about the mundane chores, I think of how much greater and nobler sitting nervously at the hospital would be. I consider the anxious thrill I could experience there as I try to keep my cool and comfort others. I wish I could be there to hear the news immediately, to be there in the midst of the storm, rather than learning secondhand, sitting on the edge.

I think this is Eowyn's struggle as well. Sit in the caves, not knowing what fate befalls us? No! We'd rather be standing on the battlements, as the mud forms from the rain and the sweat and the blood. We'd rather be fighting with all our might, even if it means exhaustion, confusion, and death. We'd rather join hands with our comrades and brave the gruesome sights, sounds, and smells of battle. Anything but being forced to sit in the caves, alone, waiting to learn what everyone else already knows.

In my sinfulness, I could curl up on the couch and mourn over the cruelness of my lot, to be left at home, yet again, to clean and cook and wash and wait. But, by God's grace, I turn down the seductive invitation to a pity-party. Instead I will, like Eowyn, bind up my hair and fold up my sleeves. I will set to work and complete each task, however small and mundane with excellence and precision.

I know that I am called to each task for a purpose. As Aragorn reminds Eowyn, working on the home-front is no less honorable than charging on the battlefield. After all, the most terrifying and ferocious battle is being fought here where the greatest enemy challenges me, in the very depths of my soul.

MJ

MJ, second from the right, with the inseparable six

A dear friend of mind, MJ online, is in need of prayer. She is undergoing sudden surgery this morning to remove a possibly cancerous tumor from her brain. Praise God, though, she is of the elect and rests completely in His sovereign care and faithfulness. He is good, storm and sunshine.

Home

Isn't it wonderful? Katie and Chloe designed it for me, with a little help from Mr. Ossian Popham.

And chalkboard paint on our dresser was the best decision we ever made. ;-)

Absent Daughter

It's Mother's Day.

Typically at this time every year, I am with my father and sisters finishing off the "secret" breakfast that we'll soon serve to Mama on a tray with her cards and flowers. This year, I am an ocean away, on another continent probably eating lunch on a bus driving me to Ille-de-Noirmoutier, France.

I miss you, Mama, even now as I sit at the computer desk here tucked away in the nursery. Actually, I miss you all.

I'll be home soon, with stories and pictures. (But no wedding ring... Sorry, Cecelia!)

I love you.

The Tree That Never Flowered

Once upon a time, just outside a sweet, little village, there lived a simple family with four daughters. In front of their little cottage stood many an old tree. One of them was a Dogwood.

However, this tree was not merely a tree. Oh, no. It was a doorway to cozy cottages, hidden chambers, bustling hospitals, and enchanting worlds. It was an ivory perch for exuberant birds, frisky squirrels, and giggling children. It was a tree of many trades.

For nine years, it watched the girls and all their companions grow in wisdom and stature but never too old for imagination. It served all its purposes well, except for one -- the Dogwood never flowered.

Every year all the other trees in the village burst forth in their seasonal radiance. Crepe Myrtle, Bradford Pear, Japanese Magnolia, and Dogwood, all flowered except for the girls' Dogwood.

Perhaps all it threw all its energy into accommodating the playmates; perhaps it was just old and weary. Whatever the case, spring always came and went, with narry a flower on the Dogwood.

One of the four girls, the oldest girl, always considered how melancholy the tree must have been, being a flowering tree that never flowered. "What a perfect poem that would be," she'd romantically think to herself, and in her artistic endeavors, she's shut herself up awaiting the nymph called Inspiration. But, no words she penned did proper justice to the dear, old tree.

Eight years passed, and the girls and the tree grew older together. The girls grew busy, and their playful jaunts beneath the Dogwood became shorter and sparser.

One spring day, after a long morning of studies, the oldest girl arrived at her dear, little home. She climbed out of her modest wagon and gathered her books. Weary in spirit, she looked about herself upon the familiar sight. But she stopped short.

What did she see perched delicately on the Dogwood? If her eyes did not betray her, there were pink flowers on the Dogwood!

But perhaps the sun was toying the the leaves. She dropped her things and rushed over to see the Dogwood clearer, but the sun wasn't plotting tricks. There were, indeed, frail and dainty, but indisputable blushing blooms adorning the sweet tree.

Of course, much rejoicing quickly filled the cottage of the little women to overflowing. Never was a simple work of nature more pleasing in a human's sight. If possible, the tree became even more esteemed in the girls' hearts. It was the pride and joy of their spring.

And, guess what. The next year, that dear, old Dogwood bloomed again.

Maybe it just needed eight years of tender love from four motherly figures. Maybe it was just saving a pleasant delight for a weary soul. Maybe...

But whatever the reasons, that dear, old tree will always be watered with love.

An Untitled Poem

Sterile:

Nothing but sterling bars

and pearly tile

gleaming in stringent light.

Looking down,

my eyes stare back at me.

Clear:

No more cigarette smoke

or dusty air

choking my lungs and

dirtying my

face. No cloud of smog.

Silent:

No moan for help,

plea for food,

giggle for joy,

just dozens of Chinese baby eyes

stare back at me.

Orphan:

Nothing, no one to love,

but busy nannies

and the hope for American

mommies.

So their eyes stare over

the ocean at us.

Minnie the Moocher

My family has lately settled down in the evenings to enjoy the wit and charm of A&E's adaptation of Jeeves and Wooster, stories created by P.G. Wodehouse. How I have lived thus far without Wooster's frivolous friends (bearing nick-names like Gussie Fink-Nottle and Barmy Fungy-Phipps) or Jeeves' dry, "feudal spirit" and abhorrence of trendy fashion, I will never understand.

Below is one of my (many) favorite clips from the series. Though difficult to see in this YouTube version, Jeeves' persistence with the respectful title, "sir," forces a laugh out of me every time.

Minnie the Moocher as sung by Bertie Wooster

May this cheery song brighten your Monday!

About two years ago I confessed my habit of analyzing my consistent, vivid dreams. Yesterday morning, my eyes abruptly darted open after a particularly painful one. No evil men seeking my life, no failed pregnancy, just shame. I proved inept and so suffered ridicule, not from strangers, but from my family. This dream will never become reality -- inept though I am, my family will never spurn me because of it. Nonetheless, this troubling dream unsettled me. I started to consider my ways. Do I practice enough? Am I making a fool of myself? Should I give up and start something else? What if my dream put into words all the things my family is thinking?

My soul was completely disquieted, so I turned to the Word, the Bread of Life, my sole Comforter.

Psalm 147:10-11

His delight is not in the strength of the horse,

nor His pleasure in the legs of a man,

but the LORD takes pleasure in those who fear Him,

in those who hope in His steadfast love.

The passage doesn't say that the Lord savors good musicians, or strong bodies, or stifled emotions, or even obedient children (not to say that He doesn't take pleasure in those people).

No, the passage says, "those who fear Him, in those who hope in His steadfast love."

Can we ask for any better? What a glorious God we serve!

Lest We Forget

We may look on in awe at the beauty and serenity of North Florida,

but did they as the boom of cannon and stench of smoke invaded its tranquility?

We may halt and smile for spectators' cameras,

but how could he smile when every moment might be his last?

She may lark about and climb oaks to her heart's content,

but would she feel so young bearing burdens no child should bear?

This is why we don the blue and the grey. This is why we reenact -- "Lest We Forget."

Different Times, Different Struggles

(The Clothes-Line, Helen Allingham)

For a girl who is guilty of romanticizing the past and envying its citizens, this article proved interesting and insightful. Comical, too, for my attempts to imagine my American foremothers in modern supermarkets was amusing!

"We have read them all, the organic, no colarisation, 'hemp-your-own-dress' websites that leave us in awe. And then we realize that people used to do this as a matter of fact. People ate what they grew and raised. We sometimes seem to have trouble getting a wholesome dinner on the table every evening, and our gardening attempts ... well, let's just say that some people are more successful than others. . . .

"Put your pioneer woman in our modern supermarket again and try to tell her that we can't just buy anything named "bread," but that we need to read the labels to know what is actually in it. Or that "whole wheat" doesn't really mean whole wheat, and that those green beans are so sodium covered that it's almost not worth it. Then there is the organic, which really just means that it was grown the way she would have grown it, but is so expensive that you can only afford certain items and then you should prioritize ... never mind. She would star at you as if you com from another planet and wonder how you remember it all. But we do. Or we try. As they tried. . . .

"Let us enjoy the stories of our pioneer mothers. Let us admire what they have done for us. Let us learn form the wise among them, as there are wise women called forth to teach the young in any generation. And the let's put our shoulders under our own workload without comparing it to another's. . . . And next time we hear that sly voice whispering inside us, 'You will never live up to what they did,' let us joyfully answer, 'No pioneer woman ever stepped on a Lego' and go back to our work."

'Tis true, I know, but why do their tasks seem so much more bearable? The grass is always greener, isn't it? ;-)

Happy and Contented

(Ernest Walbourn, Feeding the Doves)

" 'I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, -- marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, - and, when well used, a noble thing, -- but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.'

" 'Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,' sighed Meg.

" 'Then we'll be old maids,' said Jo stoutly.

" 'Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,' said Mrs. March decidedly. 'Don't be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls: mother is always ready to be your confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us trust and hope that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.' "

- Lousia May Alcott's Little Women

The Fight

Warning: this post has to do with politics, a subject which I readily admit I am far from informed upon, so I'm in way over my head. I welcome random thoughts and diverse opinions, but be forewarned that spiteful and slanderous comments don't get you very far up on my cool-people list (not that my list matters in the grand scheme of things).

Currently, I am enrolled in an online American Government course for college credit. Thus far, I have thoroughly enjoyed myself as I see both historical and practical significance in the subject material. Granted, I have been pleasantly surprised by the fairly unbiased opinion offered by the book; indeed, when I do sense partiality, the authors seem to take a more conservative stance than I anticipated. Nonetheless, portions of the text trouble me, especially when means and ends don't line up.

In a chapter discussing civil liberties ("freedoms protected by constitutional provisions, laws, and practices from certain types of government interference"), the authors narrowed their discussion on religious freedom to religion within public schools. As an example of a commonly debated area, the authors shared that many "committed believers" have made attempts to either "exclude Darwinian evolutionary biology from the school curriculum or to balance it with alternative interpretations such as 'creationism' . . . or 'intelligent design'".

Before I continue, I ask you, gentle reader, to answer this question: what is the point of science? Why do people devote their lives to this discipline? Why is science a strict component of both fundamental and further educations? As I understand it, science has been studied throughout the centuries in an effort to explain the world we live in, to further humans' understanding of themselves and their habitat, to answer the ever-looming questions: where did this come from, how does it work, and why does it exist?

Now that we have that point settled, I'll continue.

After listing various experiments with the proposals of Christian circles, the authors shared the Supreme Court's conclusion that including intelligent design as an alternative to Darwinian evolution was found too religious: "'. . . we conclude that the religious nature of ID [intelligent design] would be readily apparent to an objective observer, adult, or child. . . . The overwhelming evidence at trial established that ID is a religious view, a mere relabeling of creationism, and not a scientific theory.'"

My point of dissension lies in the underlying assumption of the Supreme Court. Obviously, they are concerned with the law of the land and not directly with education. Nonetheless, I sense a shortsightedness in their statement: because intelligent design could be perceived as a religious theory, it is for the birds. Whether you, reader, are a believer or not, this does not make logical sense. If, as I said before, science's purpose is to find the truth about our world, then we cannot discount hypotheses and theories merely on the grounds that they include God. Many issues result from this thinking, issues that I could expound upon, but one specifically burdens my heart.

In the past, I have often wondered why people are so offended by God being included in the science classroom, but now I think I understand. If we concede that God created the earth, then humans have purpose and responsibility. It means that we cannot rightly do whatever we wish -- One exists who will require an account of every minute used or not, a fact that makes even the most righteous man shudder. Teachers and students alike take offense at this, so they shut up and shut out any person or assembly that suggest its possibility -- no -- its probability.

This is the true debate. It sinks far deeper than religious freedoms or impartial curriculum. No, the debate is but a minute piece of an immense puzzle, a mere battle in a monumental war.

It is the fight for a literate, intelligent generation.

It is the fight for Christianity.

There may be more rants regarding my textbook in the future. I don't really care whether anyone reads this or not. I needed a place to vent, and this seemed a perfect outlet. Thanks for being my sounding board. ~JE