The “Revelation” part:
I’m working on a vegetable growing primer to post this week. Also, you’ll have a chance to win an autographed copy of The Holiness of God by R.C. Sproul as well as a hardcover copy of The Reformation Study Bible (ESV). Lots of good food-for-thought to be dished up this week. Tune in!

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The Reward:
A special award goes to Eryn B. for being the very first real-live “friends and family” to leave a comment on my site. Now, I don’t discount the verbal feedback I receive in the real world, but I’m inclined to think that you’d be more gracious and less sarcastic if you typed your message instead. There is still time for second and third place positions.

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The Request for Prayer:
Finally, on a serious note, I want to share two current items with you so that you can petition God on behalf of a few of the “least of these.” Matthew 18:10 reads, See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.

The first link is a story about a “homeschooling” couple in FL who tortured and starved their foster children. (I can’t wait to see how that gets spun; if there were only more homeschool legislation in place we could’ve prevented evil monsters from being evil…) From the article:

…they are accused of using a cattle prod or some sort of stun gun to shock the children, securing them to spots in the house with chains, striking their feet with hammers and pulling out the children’s toenails with pliers.

The second link is also an item regarding a foster child (but with a much different set of parents). Jimmy was born blind and deaf. A couple, who believes what God says about children is true, adopted this precious lamb, knowing his time on loan is short. Jimmy, at the tender age of two and a half, is in process of going Home to the Father, where there will be no more pain, no more darkness and silence. Though he now receives soothing from an earthly mother, there in heaven he will enjoy ultimate comforting from the God of All Comfort. Yes, Jimmy, those who know you will weep because they miss you so, but not because there is no hope. Press on, little one, and may He send you a foretaste of Heaven even now.

There used to be the Jews and the Gentiles. Then, there were the Aryans and the non-Aryans. Not too long ago, it was a black and white thing. Nowadays, there are two groups of humans: the wanted and the unwanted. In case you’ve missed the groundbreaking story, a judge declared that a couple has the right to file a wrongful death suit against a fertility clinic for throwing their embryo in the garbage by mistake.

Cook County Judge Jeffrey Lawrence said “a pre-embryo is a ‘human being’ … whether or not it is implanted in its mother’s womb.” But we already knew that. Some Pro-Death people even concede that point.

But now that you murder this “blob of cells” that I want, get out of the way… Let’s get this straight: if I want the embryo, it’s now a baby, and I can sue for pretty much anything on her behalf. However, if I don’t want the baby, I can murder her and just get on with my life.

Doesn’t anyone see where this is going?

This means that the argument has crossed over gestational lines because it is no longer about viability but completely about sheer want. If I want you, dear six-year-old son, then you are safe. If I am having a bad day and decide I don’t want you and you are inconvenient and you are getting on my nerves, then I have the right to get rid of you. Wanted. Unwanted. Might makes right, and the defenseless are left without a defender.

May God have mercy on us all.

An unwanted boy was aborted three times and lived. He’s two years old now, and I’m scanning headlines to see when his mother will file the lawsuit against him for infringing on her rights. Perhaps she’ll wait a few years until he has a good job before she files? Here’s the best part:

Dr Paul Clarke, one of the report’s authors and the baby’s doctor at Hope hospital in Salford, Greater Manchester, said: “This mother went through extreme hardship waiting to see if her baby was going to make it. She was told to expect him to die so many times. I am full of admiration for her.”

Next thing you know, she’ll be on Oprah receiving the Mother of the Year award. May God have mercy on us for calling evil things “good” while we carry on doing what is right in our own eyes.

As I sat down to write this post, I watched this video and this video of Terri Schiavo with my six-year-old standing over my shoulder. Not wanting to influence his reaction, I gave him a factual run-down on the case. Just the facts. When he became visibly upset, I asked him about his tears. He replied that he was afraid of what would happen if “they” decided we should stop feeding our eight-month-old Baby Cakes since she can’t feed herself (except in the recent case of her swallowing a Lego), and he doesn’t want our Rebekah to die. As a side note he also asked, “Well, why did her husband marry her [if he doesn’t want to take care of her]?”

What astounds me is that this matter debated among us “intelligent” adults is plain and clear to a six-year-old: Might makes right, and the defenseless are left without a defender.

Just this week, my husband informed me that his company isn’t finished with their project, which will result in him staying in California with no end date in sight. The giant company told us that we’d be in California for six months, and now that date has come and gone. I proceded to grumble about the situation, and he said that it wouldn’t go through the summer. So, I yelled (yes, literally, it wasn’t one of my better moments), “Where’s the line? WHERE’S THE LINE?!” If they can just get us to stay one more month, then at the end of that month, it will be just one more month.

And so it goes.

We’ve already determined via Roe v. Wade that life is not precious. Only certain life that meets certain criteria is precious. Once we moved “the line” away from where The Line Maker created that line, it will always be “just one more month.” (Incidentally, my husband is drawing a line in the sand regarding the project.) I was about to point out that we are on a fast-track to Nazi Germany, but we’ve already superceded Hitler’s death camps with our corner-mart abortion mills. We drew a line in the womb, and now it bleeds out to precious ones who aren’t very good with a spoon. Phil Steiger writes, A culture which refuses to acknowledge the inherent value of life at all of its stages, especially at the margins, will become a culture in which the margins will take over.

Though we earnestly pray that the courts will grant Terri the right to eat, it is probable that they won’t. After all, they starved her for six days last year. If the courts decide to strip God of His right alone to determine when life begins and ends, I hope they are at least merciful and grant her family the option to choose lethal injection or the electric chair.

In the meantime, we will teach our Rebekah to get a better handle on her little plastic spoon.

When I wrote yesterday’s post, I knew I’d be accused of being “too heavenly minded and no earthly good.” Yep, I saw it a’ comin’. And I’m sympathetic; truly, I am. I’m a practical kind of gal. To prove my empathy, I offer a little background on yesterday’s post.

My husband recently returned from a two-week business trip and offered to take the children to see snow so that (1) I could have a day of rest and (2) because this will be the last chance for the kids to see snow until who-knows-when. Now, being a nursing mother, I offered to keep eight-month-old Baby Cakes so that the snow adventure could go a little smoother, and plus, having Happy Cakes around is no problem-o. So, like my email friend who began last post, I was a mother of one for the weekend.

I do not know what got into my baby. Happy Cakes must have had too much chocolate in her cake and washed it down with a few gallons of Mountain Dew. She woke up at her regular time of 6 a.m. So far, so good. But things took a turn for the worse when she refused her morning nap. Then, she refused any nap all day long. It was a looooooooooong day. I tried everything and just had to conclude that my 25-pound Butterball was just too afraid that she’d miss a meal if she fell asleep. Whatever the case, it wasn’t pretty.

I prayed in desperation that the day would just end. I was so over it, and so was she. The day ended all right, right on schedule at 12:00 a.m., but Energizer Baby was still up. Maybe I should be more specific in my prayers.

She finally collapsed at 1:05 a.m., but woke up at 6 a.m. to do it all over again. She wasn’t sleeping for almost five hours; she was recharging.

So much for the break.

Now, I know my kids aren’t normal, but in this one aspect, I’d like them to join the throng–sleep. I hear other parents say, ‘Yeah, we’re keeping our kids up late so that they’ll sleep in tomorrow.” Ha. If you put any one of our kids down at a late hour, drug them with sleeping pills, rig up room darkening apparatus, and bribe them to sleep in, they will still get up at dawn. Always. They have an internal jolt that is rigged to twilight. I know this because we try these methods (all except one anyway…) regularly to see if any of our kids have decided to ease up on their aging mother who is having a birthday next week.

Now, I wrote yesterday’s post (about believing what God says about mothering) at midnight after the above adventure with a very unhappy Happy Cakes. Perhaps I left out the how-to’s because I felt ill equipped to offer any insight at that moment. However, even in my delirium, I don’t think that’s why I did it.

I can specifically point to a time where I quit dreaming of life after “this”, and instead, began embracing my calling from God. It did not happen when I read the latest parenting book or someone pulled me aside and told me THE SECRET. No, freedom mothering began when my starving soul quit feasting on the garbage fed to me by well-intentioned, but well-in-error advice givers: fellow mothers caught in Mommy Madness, society-at-large, Oprah, and in some cases, the church. Courage to face the task at hand and embrace the call to motherhood begins with humbly telling the Lord, “You are right. Your Word is true.” It is singing with the Psalmist, “Oh how I love Thy law…” As we discussed yesterday, God declares children to be a blessing and a great reward. The sooner we embrace this truth, the sooner we can deal with the nitty-gritty.

It isn’t wise to get the cart before the horse. We will talk (later this week and next–I have some fun things planned) about how to manage our homes well, but if we believe that God’s blessing on our families are well-disguised burdens, then no amount of practical help will be of value. And I ain’t got time to be spinnin’ my wheels. I have some sleep to catch up on.

I’m sure you’ve noticed my lack of posting about Terri Schiavo. It’s not that we don’t talk, pray, and ponder the matter in our house, but there are two reasons why I haven’t posted on the matter this week:

1. I already spoke my mind when I advocated the electric chair or lethal injection as the way to murder her (tongue-in-cheek, of course).

2. What can I possibly add that hasn’t been said already?

But, I’m lying here on the couch, sick with a terrible virus: useless to all, in need of some artificial mechanism juice to help me breathe (unlike some other people with the initials, TS), and arguably a little brain damaged. What? But there’s hope for me? Not without a little Excedrin therapy and some vitamin C tabs, I assure you. Luckily for me, my rehabilitation can be purchased for about $12.99. Whew. I’m glad my husband isn’t a cheapskate.

Nobody is self-sufficient.

We all depend on someone. The poor and weak in our society are often referred to as dependent: pre-born babies, the handicapped, and the elderly. But lying on the couch, sick, I realize that we are all dependent.

I am dependent on my 6-year-old to bring me tissues, read to the girls, and fetch my water. Heh, I’m glad that I get water. Furthermore, I’m dependent on the oil company that makes the gas in the car that I’ll drive to purchase the antibiotic from the doctor who was trained by the university that was built by burly construction guys who made it to work because of the 12-steps of AA which is staffed by volunteers who got out of bed because life was deemed a gift.

Then the LORD said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the LORD? (Exodus 4:11)

Yes, I’m dependent on a 6-year-old boy today, but we are all ultimately dependent on a long-suffering– and at least lately for our good– slow-to-wrath Creator. You don’t take a breath that He doesn’t allow and enable you.

We can argue Terri’s viability, and I thank those who are dedicating themselves to that work. But what does it matter? A nine-month old “fetus” can be killed, even though she’s viable, due to a “mother’s” inconvenience. The pro-death camp long ago conceded that our right-to-life isn’t a viability issue, but a (my) “rights” issue. And we all know, might makes right.

Let’s call a spade a spade.

And so “Can the pot say of the potter, ‘He knows nothing?’” (Isaiah 29:16) What we are facing is the age-old sin of making gods in our own image. No, we don’t admire the golden calves of our forefathers. Instead we declare ourselves to be judge and arbitrator, set ourselves in the place of God, and save everyone the hassle and spare change of casting golden statues. We put the gold in our pockets instead, wise economists that we are.

So while millions of babies continue to die a slow and agonizing death sustained by burns from a saline solution, and while we continue on injecting the inconvenient feeble with a needle that crushes their skulls—we now throw high our arms in agony that they’ve come for a dispensable “wench” outside of the womb?

The throne has been created for our humanist god, while those who bow to the king’s fat belly are blissfully unaware that they are his next meal.

The only thing I don’t get is why there are those who are still “confused.” But, that’s right, I’m not thinking straight today.

I took the liberty to rewrite the standard wedding vows.

Yesterday’s Marriage Vows:
Do you promise to love and cherish her, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, for so long as you both shall live?

Today’s Marriage Vows:
Do you promise to use and enjoy her, in youth and vitality, for gain and for prosperity, for better for purse, and forsaking her druthers, keep your wealth only to transfer, your lust so now she can’t live?

We do.

Ann Coulter is on target in her March 16 commentary: “How many people have to die before the country stops humoring feminists? Last week, a defendant in a rape case, Brian Nichols, wrested a gun from a female deputy in an Atlanta courthouse and went on a murderous rampage. Liberals have proffered every possible explanation for this breakdown in security except the giant elephant in the room – who undoubtedly has an eating disorder and would appreciate a little support vis-� -vis her negative body image.

“The New York Times said the problem was not enough government spending on courthouse security (‘Budgets Can Affect Safety Inside Many Courthouses’). Yes, it was tax-cuts-for-the-rich that somehow enabled a 200-pound former linebacker to take a gun from a 5-foot-tall grandmother. …

“I think I have an idea that would save money and lives: Have large men escort violent criminals. Admittedly, this approach would risk another wave of nausea and vomiting by female professors at Harvard. But there are also advantages to not pretending women are as strong as men, such as fewer dead people. Even a female math professor at Harvard should be able to run the numbers on this one.” (Hattip: Howard Phillips via Carmon)

Feminists like to think they’ve liberated us, but they’ve really only enslaved us to a bunch of post-modern hoopla. If a criminal were breaking into your home, would you want the 5-foot-tall female officer to be the first on the scene? I say, give me a linebacker any day.

If you’re a single woman reading this, take my word for it: men like their women to be woman. They don’t prefer them silly, uneducated, and wimpy; they like them the way God made ‘em: woman. And that means… physically weaker.

Men like to be needed: they like to rev their drills, they enjoy opening the pickle jar (and then they like to squeeze your arm and make a joke), and they like to work up a sweat on moving day. They don’t mind getting things off the top shelf for us petite women. They enjoy our adoration, and they like to show off their muscles.

And, if we were honest, we’d admit that we don’t mind it one little bit. ;)

When my children were smaller, it was my habit to turn on the radio and flip through FM stations looking for a good tune. When my son mimicked, “Who-let-the-dogs-out?” at the ripe age of three, I knew it was time to rid my life of the vestiges of pop culture that I clinged to. I had sponges strapped into carseats behind me.

In my defense, I want to say that I never purposely listened to the above mentioned song.

I was reminded of this because of a phone call I received yesterday from a market research company. In the past I have participated in various focus groups because I like to make a quick buck make sure that my trading is profitable. So the company called again, wanting people “in the younger age group” to participate in a study on local radio stations. She asked what stations I listened to. I replied, “540 and 1350,” to which she answered, “Those aren’t radio stations.” Then I said, “They would be on the AM frequency.”

Right. I know. Talk radio is for the old folks.

Now, don’t think the hypocrisy is beyond me, as I realize that Rush Limbaugh can be worse than letting some dogs out. But that’s why I ditched Dr. Laura and I only listen to Rush when he’s not cussing.

Today, as I was listening to the indictment against “Scooter” Libby, I reflected on the fact that this information was not going to help me this week or next year. There are some things worth paying attention to, but this is not one of them. I was filling my mind with idle chatter, wasting an opportunity to fill it with better things. I plan to make better choices tomorrow.

Let me explain another way. When the uproar in the Christian community transpired regarding the release of the latest Harry Potter book, my husband remarked, “It’s a fad and that’s a good enough reason to reject it.” If the Harry Potter books are truly “great works of fiction,” then they will stand the test of time and still be great in, say, twenty years. So then, I can buy it in paperback and save a few bucks. In the meantime, I have yet to scratch the surface of truly outstanding literature, and so, it makes better sense to fill my time reading that which is proven to be worthwhile.

Truly, if the public deems something worthy, that is reason enough to give it a triple-take. I’ve yet to witness when the mass public has been right when calling a thing “good.”

I want my kids to know that when they look back on their childhoods and wonder why there were no pictures of them wearing oversized glasses and a wizard hat, that there was a deliberate reason behind it. I trust they’ll thank me.

If it turns out that I’m wrong, I’ll give them the twenty dollars for a wizard hat to soothe the scars.

Don’t forget to “fall back” tonight. Ever since I became a mother, I no longer look forward to the time change. It takes time to adjust to a new schedule. Additionally, while everyone is busy getting their extra hour of sleep, it just means for me that I have to get up at 6:00 a.m. now instead of 7:00 a.m. Babies don’t know about these things…

Have a blessed Lord’s Day.

I loathe Christmas music, and I’m the church pianist. I know that sounds like a problem and it is. While Advent begins this Sunday—other than little holiday jingles you’ve had to endure in department stores—you’ve been basically Christmas music free for almost a year now.

Not me. I’ve been working on Away In a Manger since August. What people don’t realize is that the Christmas-playing church pianist is like the CPA during tax season. It’s grueling. All the blood, sweat, and tears (mostly tears) is for one Christmas play so parents can smile with delight as they record Little Junior playing Wiseman #3, who incidentally forgets his lines. (That’s why he’s Wiseman #3; Wiseman #3 is supposed to forget his lines.) Hours of labor mastering 24 pages of quintuplet notes in rapid succession for the adult choir will equal a head nod from Aunt Gertrude, who will muse, “Wasn’t that nice.” While everyone worships and adores our Coming King in song, the church pianist is thinking, Oh great…only three more pages until we get to the rough spot. Please, Lord…

Then they’ll pick different music next year (same songs, of course, but different hexzuplet notes), so the church pianist can’t get too comfy.

It’s hard work, I tell you. One year, someone recognized this and offered to bake my Christmas cookies for the ornament exchange. I still keep her on my Christmas card list. While it was a nice gesture, I have a feeling the ladies only conspired to get me there so I could serve as the entertainment factor. I can be a little bloodthirsty sometimes. For what it’s worth, I did come home with the top coveted ornament that year. It was a goofy snowman that I didn’t even want, but everyone else wanted it–so…. It feels good not to be the pastor’s wife anymore.

As you enjoy your Thanksgiving turkey tomorrow, some of you might pull out your Burl Ives, put up your tree, and count your many blessings. Just make sure you number your church pianist among them.

Update: Launch scrubbed due to the wind.

First-time visitors to this site often use the Contact Form to ask me two things. The first is, Can you add me to your link list? (The answer is usually affirmative.) The second question is even more profound, Is your husband really a rocket scientist or is that just a joke?

Well, yes and no. He is a “rocket scientist,” but it is a tongue-in-cheek joke. Greg works on the Atlas V program, designing and programming the buttons that launch the vehicle. (Actually, I think it’s all software; hardware, gadgets, and blinking buttons are just in the movies.) While most of us think rocket scientists are white-coated guys with thick glasses who mix potions all day in a lab, my husband doesn’t wear a white coat, and he had Lasik surgery a couple years ago.

He also thinks that processing returns at Wal-Mart SuperCenter the day after Christmas might be a somewhat more challenging feat. Rocket science is not always, well… rocket science.

Those of us rusty on our calculus might tend to disagree. However, when I told my husband that I was teaching our son about Fact Families last week in math, he replied with puzzlement. It’s all in what you’re used to.

Today the Atlas V vehicle will launch the New Horizon’s spacecraft on a nine-year mission to Pluto. The launch window opens at 1:24 p.m. At the time of this writing (10:35 a.m.), all is on schedule. It will take the spacecraft nine years to reach Pluto. So, when you hear a passing news brief about the fly-by in 2015, remember the rocket scientist who helped get it there, and then, be extra nice to lady at Wal-Mart customer service. It matters.

Guess I know what the husband and kids will be doing later tonight while I’m at choir practice: watching recaps.

If you were in an American church yesterday, there was probably reference to Sanctity of Life Sunday, a day set aside to remember that God is the giver and taker of life. This fact, of course, was spit upon with the Roe v. Wade decision 33 years ago and in countless back alley abortions before then. Since that January 22, 1973 decision, an estimated 44 million abortions have taken place.

Government approval of abortion should give us reason to pause for reflection. The most obvious reason, of course, is that the legality of something doesn’t make a “something” right. It is legal for me to murder my almost-born baby, but it is wrong. It is legal for me to hate my brother, but it is wrong. It is legal to park my kids in front of MTV for all their waking hours, but it is wrong. Christians are governed by a different standard– the Word of God– not the legal whims of whatever nation they happen to live in. The reason for this is because the Word of God is infallible and the men who govern us are not.

When we say that the Scriptures are the only infallible rule for our faith and practice (II Peter 1:20, 21; John 5:39), it follows then that our practice—that is, the way we live our lives—can be sufficiently ordered by Scripture. In other words, I do not have to panic about the matter of my children watching MTV, because Scripture has already ordered my conduct on the subject. It is true that MTV is missing from Bible concordances, but wisdom is not absent.

I will not set before my eyes
anything that is worthless.
I hate the work of those who fall away;
it shall not cling to me.
A perverse heart shall be far from me;
I will know nothing of evil.
Psalm 101:2-4

Woe to those who call evil good
and good evil,
who put darkness for light
and light for darkness,
who put bitter for sweet
and sweet for bitter.
Isaiah 5:20

But you know that I’m not writing about MTV, Sponge Bob, and iPods. Our culture is something we must reckon with, but it is impossible to influence a culture when Christians are being swept along with it. New methods, pop psychology, and gimmicks will not ultimately reach our culture for Christ. Radical Christians who embrace the doctrine of the sufficiency of Scripture (whether or not they know this intellectually) and live as such is a much more powerful tool than a free DVD giveaway at the local mega-church.

As I await the arrival (in much discomfort) of our fifth child next month, God’s Word is my consolation. Margaret Sanger says, “The most merciful thing a large family can do to one of its infant members is to kill it.” In contrast, God’s Word says in Psalm 127:4-5, “Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them!”

My culture tells me to limit producing children in favor of a lifestyle of personal peace and affluence. Sleeping in on Saturday mornings is more desirable than pouring Cheerios. Let’s not mince words: children are work. However, the Bible would tell us that children are a heritage, a reward (Psalm 127). This is what the Lord’s blessing looks like:

Blessed are all who fear the LORD,
who walk in his ways.
You will eat the fruit of your labor;
blessings and prosperity will be yours.
Your wife will be like a fruitful vine
within your house;
your sons will be like olive shoots around your table.
Thus is the man blessed who fears the LORD.
Psalm 128:1-4

Upon the remembrance of Roe v. Wade, let us not only pray for our nation and its repentance, let us not only remember the atrocity that occurs daily, let us not only mourn our losses–but may we also live in such a way that we embrace God’s Word as sufficient. If we agree that abortion is murder, is the only way stand against such a thing, ourselves, to merely not murder?

Lord, help us to love the things you love, and despise the things you hate.

When a person can barely walk, has to be manually rolled over, moans all day, attends weekly doctor visits, and can’t think straight, the usual protocol is to call a family meeting and arrange for home-health care, convalescent care, or some other form of involvement. It’s just the right thing to do.

But when these are just pregnancy symptoms, somehow standard protocol is overlooked. Ignored. In fact, not only is nobody rubbing my swollen ankles and feeding me mushy food, but they’re hounding my phone at the same rate as telemarketers.

Me: Hello?

Other Person: You haven’t had that baby yet?!

Me: Who is this again?

I feel like a watched circus animal who is unable to perform her tricks. I must need more treats. We all know that a watched pot doesn’t boil. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the original due date has come and gone, my husband’s mid-February prediction passed, and the adjusted due date occurs this week. I’ve never gone past my due date, but apparently, this baby didn’t get the memo.

Everything has a time. Ecclesiastes 8:6 says, “For there is a proper time and procedure for every matter, though a man’s misery weighs heavily upon him.” He orders all things perfectly. Even the delivery of baby memos.