Since it’s been a few days since the recent time change, it’s a good time to commiserate about it. Whoever invented Daylight Saving Time did not have a baby in the house. If they did, they would’ve split the difference with a half hour and been done with it. Since I’ve had a baby around for the past eight years, I know all about “Fall Back” and “Spring Forward.” Messing with a well-oiled machine is risky business. That’s why I despise the clock changing.

Everyone (without a baby, that is) likes the “Fall Back” part. This is when ordinary folks get an extra hour of sleep. Or else, they show up to an empty church parking lot and pause for a few seconds until it hits them. When you have a baby with an internal clock that rises with the sun, however, the only thing you get with “Fall Back” is the privilege of getting up an hour earlier everyday. The house now awakes at 6 a.m. instead of 7 a.m. Or lucky me, this morning the baby was ready for the approaching sun at 5:20 a.m.

Now, my husband leaves for work when it is dark outside. (Remember, he is working two jobs until the end of the year.) This morning, he left at 4:15 a.m. So this time change doesn’t affect him, unless you count a cranky wife as “affecting.” I’m ready for lunch, the baby needs a nap, and alas, it’s only 8:30 a.m. This makes for a very long day.

Here’s the thing. Nobody ever goes to sleep an hour earlier to compensate for the early rising. Maybe this is why the holiday season is so stressful? It comes right after the “Fall Back” time change. Going to bed earlier is difficult. We rise earlier, and consequently, have more waking hours to our day. Are we doing more and more with less and less sleep?

I need lots of sleep. Through trial and error, I have discovered that nine hours is optimum sleep for me. This is difficult with the lifestyle I’ve chosen. I rarely get nine hours. I am busy. I work hard and sleep light.

Even though I’m tired, sometimes I lie awake at night. Amy Carmichael said that the wee hours are “when all life’s molehills become mountains.” I make lists, sort mental clutter, and think about tomorrow’s agenda. I try not to worry. Worrying is sin. The good news is that exhaustion usually overtakes me before I can fall too headlong into this sin.

My older three children participated in a race last week. It was a quarter mile. My oldest son is a natural athlete and was older than most of the racers. And so, he broke away from the pack immediately, finished, and then went on for another lap. My husband and I fight over whose genes he has. In all my spare time, I work on getting over my disappointment that he hates the piano.

My oldest daughter is not an athlete, but if you remember, she is just like her mother. So she rose to the top of the heat by sheer determination and not of any athletic ability. She pushed through her tired, heavy legs. However, with only a couple of yards to the finish line, she heard crying and turned around to look.

It was my third child—a lamb, a doe, a gentle dove—far behind all the other children. (That’s code for “last.”) She is not athletic. She does not like races. She once paid a girl named Emma to be her best friend. This race was too long for her, and so she cried as she ran. I felt bad for her, but I watched and said nothing. On the forehead I kissed my baby, who was in my arms, and wondered why people want to push their babies out of the nest so early into the arms of the Nanny State.

My oldest daughter–poised to finish well—turned from the finish line and ran back to her sister. She grabbed her by the arm, told her that she could do it, and then proceeded to drag her across the finish line.

They finished last.

One benefit my larger-than-average family possesses is the comradery and genuine love they have for one another. Where are examples of Christ’s body, the Church, here on earth? Here amid the deep laundry and bothersome colds that make their rounds, there is blessing. We are called to bear one another’s burdens at personal expense to ourselves. David declares in II Samuel 24 that he will not offer the Lord sacrifices which cost him nothing. What is a sacrifice that it doesn’t cost us? What is love if it seeks its own?

My oldest daughter and I have the same temperament. Where my older daughter and I differ is that I would’ve finished the race and then turned around to help. But I can admit this and repent. There is hope for my daughter, alas.

Bad drivers and a funeral

There was a parking problem when I was a student at UCF. For about sixty bucks, you could buy a parking sticker that enabled you to park on campus. The only problem was that there were probably about three cars for every one space. To solve the hassle of fighting for a space, I’d schedule my arrival at ten minutes before the hour when classes broke, and I’d stake out students leaving their classes. Once I found someone who didn’t look like a murderer, I’d pull up alongside of them and offer them a ride to their parked car. My young and reckless self would get a space and they didn’t have to walk, so it was a good deal for us both.

I’d forgotten how much I detest traffic and congestion until I returned Friday morning to Orlando for a funeral. It was downtown, and though I owned a house on the outskirts only six years ago, bad drivers still leave me with a headache. (One example, I avoided a head-on collision with a woman driving the wrong way on 417 talking on her cell phone. When she realized she was driving the wrong way, she pulled to the median, but continued her call like nothing happened and like sitting in the middle of the median going the wrong was is a perfectly natural thing to do.) I was plenty early for the funeral, but walked in late due to rusty parking space finding skills. I thought about my old UCF trick, but decided against it since I am a wife and mother now. People need me. Besides, now that I have children I think everyone could be a murderer, especially those who drive utility vans.

The funeral was for my cousin, unknown very well to me as our family’s long string of divorces keeps things complicated. He died from a head injury from a motorcycle accident. He popped a wheelie without a helmet on. He was 38.

The smell of hard liquor assaulted my nose as I filed into my seat. People had already begun their mourning early this morning. Being a lightweight, I held my breath since I still had to drive. Our commission from a mainline mega-church pastor was not to “repent and believe.” Instead, we were given an easy gospel (which is really no gospel at all): “Go and live an unselfish life, serve others” so you too can have the promise of heaven.

On a whim after the funeral, I tracked down the phone number of a woman who comments here as “Jo in Orlando.” Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves at a chain restaurant in the concrete jungle rhapsodizing about our agrarian dreams. I didn’t miss the irony of the fact that I was chewing cheap cheeseburger the whole time.

On my way out of town, I passed by UCF and didn’t even give it a glance. I figured I’d best just keep my eyes on the road.

Good baseball

We had a great game on Saturday morning. My son plays third base and shortstop, and the Scotts fill up the bleachers for every game.

So, we move into the last inning, trailing by four runs. We score two runs on a few nice hits and a couple of walks but we chalk up two outs in the process. So it’s two outs, with runners on first and third, still down by one run. The third base runner steals home while the pitcher is walking back to the mound. The other team protests wildly, but the ump knows the rules. So we’re tied with the winning run on second base. The batter, 0 for 2 on the day, steps up to the plate. Ball one low and away. Strike one on a swing and a miss right down the middle. Ball two comes on a bouncer in the dirt with a nice stop by the catcher to prevent the runner from advancing. Ball three is high. Strike two comes with another swing and a big miss on a nice pitch to the outside corner. Here’s the situation: 3 balls, 2 strikes, 2 outs in the bottom of the last inning. On the final pitch of the game, the batter sends a nice line drive between first and second base with just enough on it to bring in the runner from second base. We win by one run.

And that’s the way you play the game.

A good Lord’s Day

My husband rarely turns down an opportunity to preach, and so, we found ourselves at a little Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church yesterday about 60 miles away. Our home church pastor joked that we skipped this past Sunday because I needed to get out and hear a decent sermon. We enjoyed our time yesterday, and yet, it’s always good to be home too.

Monday

And to end my longest post ever, I want to leave you with my son’s Pathway Reader selection for today. The two sisters in the story are complaining about their work and so they begin dreaming of greener pastures. Their family raises layers (chickens for eggs), and their cousins raise brooders (chickens for meat). Each family decides the other one has the easier job. In the end, they learn that each task has its own trials and that looking over the fence just distracts you from the work that God has called you to do.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” said Dad. “They are just like the rest of us. They think other people’s work looks easier than their own. Ada and Elam have to learn just what our girls have to learn, too – that work is work, no matter what it happens to be. The best thing to do is tackle our work with a will, do it well, and do it without complaining. When we learn to do that, any job will be only half as hard.”

A very appropriate thought for a Monday, I’d say.

When I told the story of my daughter waiting for her sister in the race, I wrote the following comment afterward:

Just as an addendum to this post, I wanted to say something about my rhapsodizing. I have a great family, a fabulous life. Perhaps you wonder why I don’t mention episodes of weakness. I do not mention the shortcomings of others (save my own) because I agree with the Bible: Love covers a wrong. Because I want others to overlook my many faults, in public I endeavor to do the same as I wish others would do for me. We sin; we are not perfect. But I still have a great life.

Naturally, this isn’t a free pass to live as one ought as everyone overlooks your sin. Shall we sin so that grace can abound? By no means! (See Romans 6.) The balancing of grace and truth, done perfectly by our Heavenly Father, is a challenge for us mortals in a fallen world. The God of the Old Testament and the God of the New Testament are one. Reject the idea behind Process Theology and live your life embracing a God who is both loving and just.

So it turns out that my allergy test produced a single result– a “very high” reaction to dust mites. Dust mites thrive in warm, humid conditions which is probably why I felt great during our seven months in California, but have felt miserable my entire life in Florida.

Freezing conditions kill dust mites. And now, I feel bad for snubbing all my northern friends trying to persuade us to move up there. It’s a tough call. Be miserable with daily sneezing fits, a runny nose, and itchy eyes.

Or freeze to death.

Sometimes while my husband and I are planning, we will exhaust the possible scenarios ad nauseam. These talks last several hours. My husband will end the rabbit trail with, “And what if a meteor falls on our house?” The point being, you can plan wisely, but in the end, you need a smiling Providence.

I noticed an interesting pattern in a book I’m reading, Our Homestead Story. In the self-published book, the author recounts his comical journey toward a more agrarian or self-sufficient lifestyle, and just like my own life, things never go like they’re supposed to.

On the author’s farm, the cows won’t budge, the chickens die mysteriously, the orchard doesn’t produce, and the raccoons are merciless. I began to wonder last night if we both experience fiascos for the same reason (lack of good planning) or if we both just personify that cartoon guy with the black cloud and dust ball over his head.

A quick Google search revealed that the author (with eight children now, half of them grown) is still working at it though, which makes me think that the book’s playful tone is due more to a merry heart rather than flippant morbid resignation. In the book, the author stresses the importance of asking help from folks “in the know” instead of going hog-wild down a new path alone. This is good advice.

Last year, we purchased a few modest rental units. (I’m stressing the term, “modest.”) This move wasn’t so that we could make more money and thus buy more toys, but so that we could one day be financially independent, free from the corporate rat race. Greg doesn’t want to work until he’s 90, at least not at a regular job. All the gurus say that rental properties are the perfect passive income situation, which should make you wonder why all the gurus are cashing in on book royalties to tell you this if rentals are so lucrative. This is Clue #1.

In real life, all the people we talked with about rentals said, “They’re a headache.” Within the first month of our landlord tenure, we got to see what they were talking about. There were two death threats, an eviction, numerous repairs, our rent money stolen, and if that wasn’t enough—we received a letter from the city threatening to condemn the place in 30 days. (There’s more, but I don’t want to turn this into a book.) I figured, though, we were just getting all the bad stuff out of the way the first month so that we could get on with making a small return for our labor. In fact, it all seems pretty easy in comparison to that first month.

We have a contract to sell all of them now. We’ll have to fund our looming arthritis prescriptions another way. However, our education on the subject wasn’t for nothing. Why not use what we’ve learned? Like the author in Our Homestead Story, I’d like to dust myself off and keep going. After all, knowing what not to do is part of knowing what to do.

[Greg, dear. Honey. Don’t have a heart attack. My next idea will be great. Trust me.]

Avoiding fiascos involves a whole lot of planning for possible outcomes. Accept the fact that there will always be stray meteors. As far as the little black cloud, though, all I can suggest is an umbrella and a merry heart.

The house is quiet, and the only noises are the chirp of crickets outside and my husband’s low reading voice. He is reading a novel on the English civil war to my oldest son while I type. It is late, and my oldest hangs haphazardly on a chair. His eyes are heavy, but he is still obviously deep in thought. The younger children finished a large bowl of cherries on the counter before bed, and they are now soundly sleeping. Life is good.

Everyone fills their lives. The question is, what will we fill it with? When most people consider simplifying their lives for the better, the first thing they restrict are the children. Children make noise, cost money, and wake in the middle of the night. They are hard work if you are going to raise them right. Yet I can think of no sweeter means to enjoy the simple, good things in life than alongside God’s gift of children.

Children are not obstacles to living a good life. Living a simple life with a full household, however, requires deliberate thinking. Forethought and asking questions (as well as answering them) are necessary for avoiding the pitfalls of a modern culture. To be simple anymore requires conscious choices. It doesn’t just happen.

The existing culture creates in us a thirst. In effort to satisfy this thirst—to find happiness, enjoy a little affluence, and maybe even “make a difference” somewhere with a tax deductible donation—we mortgage the very things that we say matter to us most: namely, our families and more time with them. While children are conceivably hindrances to the typical prevailing goal of acquiring stuff and more stuff, they are enormous wealth in God’s economy. Isn’t this the economy that matters? As another benefit, they are also usually a primary means that God works His character in a mother’s life.

Filling our lives with good things doesn’t happen on its own. If you allow it, the culture will pressure you into a lifestyle you didn’t intend to sign up for. Every older mother I know reminds me that they are “gone before you know it.” And you don’t want to look back on the good ol’ days through a rearview mirror chomping a steady diet of French fries.

Children are not the obstacles that keep us from enjoying the good life, so long as your definition of good things is not material. It takes careful thought to live simply, to nurture good character that will stand against a consumer-driven culture. I want our children to look back on their childhoods and remember family reading times that lasted too late and bowls of cherries that sat on the kitchen countertop. As I think through the things that fill our lives, I aim to purge the clutter and embrace the things that matter, especially the eternal souls in my care.

If there ever was a soft spot in my heart for a certain kind of person, it is the postpartum woman. She’s glowing, she’s thrilled, she’s wrapped in newborn bliss. She can also turn a pan upside your head for the slightest remark, too. Like the postpartum woman, I struggle with two sides of me too.

There is part of me that says, Obedience is always worth the cost! When Jesus tells us to “consider the cost,” it is not because we will surprisingly find that the sacrifices will be minor. Nothing worthwhile is easy. Chin up. Besides, it’s not like we live in a persecuted country.

The other part of me is self-absorbed, feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I am tired. Matt Chandler writes about Christ who was tired and still was our perfect example:

“The story in John 4 about the Samaritan woman always stirs my soul. The piece that always shocked me was Jesus’ confession to his disciples that he was tired. I never think of Christ in these terms. The scriptures say he was tired, so he sat down and told the disciples to go on into town and get lunch. I try to imagine their conversation as they walked on into town ‘This guy can calm the seas and feed five thousand people, but he needs us to go get him a … sandwich?’ It seems like the only alpha male I’ve ever read about that doesn’t have a messiah complex is the actual Messiah. I think about how often we get tired but pretend like we’re not, pushing on through like we’re some kind of superman, cape waving in the wind, feeling no pain or fatigue. Not Jesus. When he hits the wall he confesses it to his crew and sits down for a bit.”

There is a time to work and a time to rest. After good hard work, a little rest can help you see the will of God better. He requires something of us, and it is easier to understand it when we are still.

T’was the week before Thanksgiving and time to talk about how much we all lovvvve that cranberry sauce. After all the fuss ya’ll made last year, I went ahead and served it. It’s not like me to let my convictions crack under pressure, but I do a lot of things in the spirit of hospitality. (Like refrain from licking the spoon when I cook.) It seems a certain generation still has an affinity for cranberry sauce with the lines from the can still on it. Do me a favor, eh? If you’re going to serve the canned cranberry, at least mush it up in a nice little glass bowl or something?

Every year we always have to recount the time that my grandmother sat down, took a bite, and declared to God and the nations, “This is the worst dressing I ever put in my mouth.” The year was 1986. I could’ve said “the worst cranberry sauce” to make it fit with my post better, but that’s not the way the story goes.

Moving on. A busy mom of five little ones sent me this recipe for The Official Amy’s Humble Musings Annual Cranberry Post, 2006 edition. It looks promising, but you’d better get started now. It looks like it’ll take you a week to make it.

But before we get to our cranberry recipe, first a little joke. It goes like this: A turkey farmer was always experimenting with his breeding practices in order to produce a better turkey. His family was fond of the leg portion for dinner and there were never enough legs for everyone. After many frustrating attempts, the farmer was relating the results of his efforts to his friends at the general store get together. “Well I finally did it! I bred a turkey that has 6 legs!” They all asked the farmer how it tasted. “I don’t know,” said the farmer, “I never could catch the blasted thing!”

I’m glad my day job has no end.

Cranberry Sherbet from Marcia Adams’ Cooking from Quilt Country–an excellent and beautiful Amish cookbook.

1 pound cranberries (4 cups)
1/2 cup orange juice
2 quarts plus 1 cup water
2 tsp. unflavored gelatin (I use one box orange flavored Jello)
6 cups sugar (I use 5 cups)
2 tbs. cold water
1/2 cup lemon juice
4 egg whites

In a large saucepan, combine the cranberries, 1 cup of the water, and 2 cups of the sugar. Bring to a boil and cook just until the sugar is
dissolved and the berries pop open. You can help them along by mashing them a bit with a spoon as they cook. Cool slightly, then puree in a food processor or force through a sieve. Add the orange and lemon juices to the puree.

Meanwhile, boil the remaining 2 quarts of water and the remaining 4 cups of sugar for 20 minutes in a large, deep saucepan over medium heat. Dissolve the gelatin in the cold water, mixing well with a fork, Add a little of the hot sugar syrup to the gelatin mixture, then stir back into the remaining hot syrup. Add the cranberry mixture and blend. Pour into refrigerator tray or two 13×8 inch flat pans and freeze until mushy, about 30 minutes.

Pour into a large bowl, breaking the mixture up slightly. In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff. Fold about 4 cups of the cranberry slush into the whites until combined. Then add this to the remaining cranberry slush. Pour back into pans and freeze about 30 minutes longer, until the mixture is frozen about 1 inch in from the edges of the tray. Stir the sherbet again, then freeze until firm.
When completely frozen, soften slightly, pack in plastic containers, and store in the freezer until serving.

I just dump the orange Jello into the syrup and mix it. I use two large (9×13 size) Rubbermaid Take-Along disposable containers to freeze the mixture in and then combine it down to one to store the sherbet in when it’s finished. As I remember it takes much longer to freeze than Ms. Adams says; it’s a lot like making bread–not very hard but it takes a lot of time. Also, as Natalie Dupree says: “This makes a gracious plenty.” Our family of seven can eat for a couple of weeks on this till we are sick to death of it. It is very sweet and a little goes a long way, but it sure tastes great with the pumpkin pie!!

After 4th of July, I think I like Thanksgiving the next best. How about you?

Greg and I met while he was in seminary back in 1995, so it seemed natural that he’d be interested in a woman who played the piano. Playing the piano is one of the unspoken requirements of a pastor’s wife. (Greg was a pastor when we married.) Sometimes I sing in the choir, but I never teach Bible studies. What’s more, I’m too direct to be sweet, too good humored to be well-tempered. So if we’re keeping track here, that leaves me 2-3. I can make a good casserole, but that won’t even the score since we’re not Baptists.

Over the years, I’ve been the regular pianist wherever we were members, and at our present church, I stepped down when I delivered our fifth baby earlier this year. The good thing about playing the piano is that I enjoy it. The two bad parts are difficult choir pieces sporting five-finger quintuplets in the key of B (which is the very worst key to play in, next to E) and the overload at Christmas time. But ‘tis the season.

Whenever I get the chance to play, though, I take it. This past weekend I got to fill in for our annual Thanksgiving dinner program on Saturday and then for Sunday services. Since Greg was in Alaska on business for the previous 7 days, this made rehearsal time more challenging. As an aside, while in Alaska, Greg dropped in for dinner with longtime blogosphere friend Molly and her husband Jeff. You would most likely recognize Molly as the founder of Choosing Home. Meeting all kinds of new friends and some kindred spirits has been the greatest perk of maintaining a little corner online. Every state we’ve passed through, we’ve connected (or tried to) with someone online.

To get back on topic, once you reach a certain proficiency at a particular genre, like hymns, it is easy to slip into what I refer to as “The Zone.” The easiest way to explain it is that it’s like driving a stick. Once you learn to do it, it’s automatic (except I’m still talking about a stick, not an automatic). Playing hymns is like driving a stick. I have to tell myself not to go into The Zone because then I lose count of what verse we’re on or sometimes a tricky little chord progression will sneak up. To go back to the driving analogy, this would be like a beady-eyed watermelon-eating raccoon running out in front of your car. You have to be alert so that you can slow down (or speed up, depending on how you feel about coons).

To guard against The Zone, sometimes I’ll try something interesting like modulating to another key. You shouldn’t do this when other instruments are playing with you or they will not like you. I’m sure about this. There are other little things that you can do to avoid The Zone: playing an octave higher, putting the melody in your left hand, making substitutions like major and minor 7’s and 9’s… or just watching the conductor/leader.

Sometimes I live my life in The Zone, cruising along and not paying much attention. Life is too short not to live fully every day. There are a few things that help me stay focused—God’s Word, being quiet, and remembering that we are not promised tomorrow. I suppose there will always be the proverbial stray raccoon, but if everyone would just speed up, maybe there’d be fewer of them. I feel very certain that all good pastor’s wives would slow down, though.

My husband, Greg, put up some Thanksgiving pictures over on his weblog. Didn’t know he had one? Maybe he’ll start posting more than once every year-and-a-half. We’ll see.

We had the kids purge some of their things this weekend. “Oh, it’s my FAVORITE thingamabob!” Of course, they didn’t know the junk had been missing it until they found it. And then the nostalgia starts, “We can’t throw away my favorite dog-chewed purple plastic toy spoon…” I’m ruthless when it comes to purging, and I’m paired up with a family of sentimentalists.

Part of living a simple life is that we endeavor to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary can speak. This means that we focus our energy on people and not things. Part of managing to do that better is by ordering our lives so that inconsequential things don’t preside over the things that matter: God, relationships, and more time with them both. Consider simplifying your life by asking these questions posed by mother of soon-to-be five, Michelle Call:

Get rid of unnecessary things and tasks. Do you change your sheets too often? Do you wash clothes after each wearing? Do you and your children have so many clothes that you can wash less often, but end up with too much work…I think it’s easier to own less clothes and wash them more, because the laundry never gets out of control. How about toys…what if you attempted to get rid of half of the toys in the house?

While everyone was racking up the credit cards on Black Friday, we were hauling stuff out. Boy, that felt good.

One of the things in life I savor is a well-written sentence. I’ve copied a few for you to enjoy below. It’s by Mel from a post titled, This is your life.

While I don’t share her disappointment, I do share Mel’s sentiment that things aren’t how I’d thought they’d be. For instance, when I was sixteen and dreaming of girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, I never imagined that getting them all dressed and out the door with the appropriate number of sippy cups, special blankies, and diaper bags would be an exercise in logistics and strategic planning. I thought we’d just, you know…. leave. Now that I’m a real mother (as opposed to the one in my dreams), my girls’ dresses are wash-and-wear and have colorful patterns to hide stains.

I remember winking at the thought of babies waking in the middle of the night. I remember feeling sure that my child would never do that. And I remember thinking that I’d always be me, which of course, I am and am not.

I’m not the mother I expected to be. That mother was perky and cute and patient under all circumstances. That mother had children who listened quietly and obeyed promptly. That mother taught her children to play the piano and read long stories before bed to children who smelled of Ivory soap and homemade sugar cookies. That mother had a circle of friends who stopped by with fragrant pumpkin bread and telephoned for no reason at all and got together to make crafts and drink coffee. That mother drank coffee.

I don’t even drink coffee. I’m nothing that I thought I would be.

Which is disappointing in so many ways. I thought my life would be like a poem, words sewed together with precision and care. Instead, it’s like a Scrabble board, words awkwardly shoved together just because I found a “U” to go with the “Q.” And I have too many vowels and no “R” and my next move depends on the other player.

We found our mailbox banged up and lying on the ground this morning. It’s possible that a car swiped it (and kept going without leaving a note or twenty bucks), and then there’s the possibility that teenagers with a baseball bat and too much free time targeted us. I explained to my quizzical eight-year-old son that sometimes teenagers drive around in the middle of the night and smash property that doesn’t belong to them. Mailboxes are easy targets since they don’t have to bother getting out of the car. One of the earmarks of this generation is that they don’t like to extend themselves—which is understandable since the adults in their lives do not require them to. “They do this for fun?!” he asked, “Well, why don’t they just join a baseball team?”

“Because then they’d have to play by the rules,” I said.

We elect and support leaders who do not play by rules. Many of our political and ecclesiastical leaders are grown adults who are no better than little girls who change the rules in the middle of a game so that it suits them.

One of the advantages to having three little girls in a row in our home is that this kind of dishonesty and nonsense is snuffed out immediately. If you are not fair, you will be found out and chased off. Nobody will listen to you. Nobody will play with you. Nobody will like you. If you want to play or perform, it will be to an audience of one.

People who don’t play by rules deserve a schoolyard shunning. Likewise, good old-fashioned repentance deserves a wholehearted welcome back into the fold, too. When our young people drive around with baseball bats and restitution-less consequences, we shouldn’t be surprised that they grow up into adults unfit for an elementary playground.

Abortion rights are a ridiculously easy target to illustrate the principle. The same needle that corrects a heart defect, resulting in life, pierces the heart of another child, resulting in death. The only difference is the whim of the mother, whose right to murder trumps the rights of the weaker brethren. On the postmodern playground, though, we congratulate her for “making the right choice” instead of ostracizing her for the bully that she is. “No truth,” wrote Hannah Arendt, “that crosses someone’s profit, ambition, or lust, is permissible. Unwelcome facts possess an infuriating stubbornness that nothing can move except plain lies.”

Mamas, do you want to raise Godly leaders for the next generation? Teach them the Golden Rule and to love and fear God. Victory is sweet when you play by the rules.

But be very careful to keep the commandment and the law that Moses the servant of the LORD gave you: to love the LORD your God, to walk in all his ways, to obey his commands, to hold fast to him and to serve him with all your heart and all your soul.
~Joshua 22:5

For those of you up to speed on these things and have the latest version of IE as your browser, I didn’t redo my web page. I’m sorry that the site doesn’t load correctly for you, but it’s one of those things that is on the back-burner for now.