We need another name. The Boxer is on his way after he weans. While I don’t expect this post to elicit the type of response my last naming criteria post did, nevertheless, I will use one of your suggestions this time.

I felt real bad going off and naming our son “Charles” after his grandfather since I was given 1,000 other half-decent suggestions. I promise it had nothing to do with my father-in-law rewriting his will.

In humble tradition, I offer another naming criteria list. It goes like this:

1. We will not call our guard dog any poodle-type names: Fluffy, Muffin, Biffy, or Fifi. “Sick ‘em, Fifi!” just doesn’t work.

2. Special preference given to dead theologians: Van Til and Knox are high on the list. I wish I had the nerve to name my sons something cool like this. (Conversely, Arminius, Pelagius, and Servetus would be very low on the list.)

3. Everyday we hear, “Poncho! I’m getting the broom!” from our aged neighbor’s yard. So we can’t name him “Poncho” or “Broom.”

4. My husband has to like it. (Again.)

Other than that, our standards are pretty loose.

Morning Work
My neighbor laughed at my miniature orchard and wished me well yesterday. Perhaps he wasn’t humored so much by the trees but of my coddling them. You can’t just stick them in the ground and walk away. You have to pour money, I mean, special soil into them and give them lots of attention, especially in the beginning.

These trees need lots of water and tender, loving care. I still wonder how a puppy fits into the whole picture. Will I have time to stroke trees and a puppy? Remember, folks, you heard it here first: this is my husband’s dog. [Don’t fill the com-box with advice; my marriage issues are private, I tell you!] I can see it already, and I’m not even a fortuneteller. (They are bad and unbiblical.)

I decided that early morning is the best time to coddle my landscape. The sun is still bearable, the mosquitoes aren’t out, and the damp ground makes weeding easier. I noticed I was unusually hungry this morning. It seems early morning chores are good for the metabolism! (This, of course, applies to everyone except the recently pregnant woman, who always has those last few unmoving pounds. Nothing will help her except the flu.)

Housekeeping
A few posts back, some of you wondered aloud how to keep a house well when it is full of little ones. There are many methods and FlyLady tricks floating around the internet (none absolving you of plain hard work though), so I will just mention the one thing that keeps us together here at the Scott house.

Do not allow the children to go onto another room or activity without cleaning up the current one. (I hope the dog learns this rule quickly.) This means, at any given time during the day, you have only one room that is a federal disaster area. I could elaborate, but all the male readers (except Tim) would click on out of here. Just try it, and see if that doesn’t change your whole house.

[Okay. Well. Just one more little thing. Get rid of clutter! But you already knew that.]

Pollution
An often-quoted Bible verse (besides the regularly misinterpreted “Judge not” one) is James 1:27: Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress… However, there is actually more to the verse. I just noticed the end of the verse yesterday: and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

Real Reformed folks embrace the whole counsel of God, not just the grace verses. And so, I try to make an honest daily habit of examining my allegiance to Christ. Do I love him wholly? What “of the world” do I allow in my life? Can a person serve two masters? We know it is impossible.

The follow-up question here is: Can a dumb dog serve two masters? Because we all know that he’ll have two of them, not one.

Knox. (After John Knox, of course.)

Thanks for playing along. Even though it came from the original idea list, I think it counts as using one of your ideas. (Thanks to Jeana for being the first to suggest the nickname, Knoxer the Boxer.) Now, there are only three more weeks for me to change my husband’s mind until we go to pick him up.

Several years ago, we had this neighbor. I don’t remember anything about him—not even his name—only that he had the two biggest dogs on the planet. He was fixing up his house to sell, and so he spent a lot of time on the front yard landscaping.

These two dogs went everywhere with my neighbor. When he jumped into his pickup, they followed. When he took out the trash, those dogs followed. When he worked in his yard, they sat guard on the lawn—without a leash.

At the time, I had a newborn and a toddler, and I’d wave politely from a distance. Usually I’m friendlier than that, but I didn’t want to take any chances. These dogs were big—about the size of horses, those big Amish work horses. These dogs were vicious, too. I didn’t have proof of this; I just knew because of the size of their fangs. What if I got too close with my babies and one of them sneezed? We’d get blown across the street (and you didn’t want to go in those people’s yard; trust me).

One day I needed to talk about a matter with my neighbor. I called to him. He waved and told me to come on over. I waved back and casually invited him over to my turf. However, he won because he was up on a ladder. (I took a mental note to buy a ladder.)

As usual, those two big dogs were parked on the lawn. They stared me down. I scooped up my babies, balancing one on each hip—which incidentally was the perfect height for them to bend down and take a bite. I tiptoed. I held my breath. I smiled to cover up the fact that I was about to have a nervous breakdown.

“Oh, they won’t bother you,” my neighbor reassured me. I wanted to scream, What?! Well, then why HAVE them?! Why not get a few pink flamingos for the lawn or something?! Instead, I just discussed whatever it is I was there for and tried to control the shaking in my voice.

How did this guy ever have any friends?

I was thinking about my neighbor and his breathing, trotting security system as I read a dog-training manual this weekend. Most of you know my reluctance about getting a dog, er, my husband’s dog. But it’s time to make lemonade, folks. Did you know you could train a dog to pick up toys? Did you know you could train a dog to open doors, turn off lights, and get the mail? While I’m at it, I plan to train him how to get a job, too. Right after I teach him to show his fangs to the neighbors.

After all the anticipation and waiting, we brought Knox home last Friday. Our eight-year-old declared, “This is the best day of my life.”

The very first trick the dog performed was to run into the sliding glass door several times. The mistress of the house cannot be found for comment.

If you’ve never seen a 30-year-old almost have a heart attack, then you weren’t there this morning when that dog ran through my vegetable garden. He squashed my squash. Good thing for me, as it happened; I had an appointment this morning with a general practitioner to be checked out. I figured now that I’m three-oh, I should be looking for things like – I don’t know—whatever diseases older people get.

I need some other blood work than just the usual obstetric panel. Which, if you’re keeping count, I’ve had drawn seven times in the past nine years.

Around these parts, a five-kid family is huge. So, as it goes, the topic for my first visit with the general doc is my fertility. I rather enjoy the discussion usually. Really, most people are just curious about how much food costs and what our shoe closet must look like. For the record, he’s a very nice doc, even if he is a little too close to my own age.

Any psychiatric disorders? [snicker, snicker]

Do you drink? [snicker, snicker]

Are you under stress? [laugh, howl]

This was just the nurse who did the prescreening. When the doctor came in, he mentioned, “You don’t see such LARRRRGE families anymore.” Ha, ha, I thought, You should meet the wackos who read my blog. Five is nothing. But instead I just said, “And yes, I’ve seen that family on TV….”

“You know, the only people that have tons of children anymore are…” He paused as he searched for the right words for “right wing Christian fundamentalists,” or maybe it was “Muslim terrorists” but I wasn’t quite sure. He trailed off, and I let him off the hook by changing the subject to my great blood pressure stats. It’s always 110/70. I’m in great shape. This is good, because I need all my oomph to keep that dog out of my garden.

When Greg got a contract in California in 2004, the kids and I moved out there with him for seven months. We rented a two bedroom apartment so that our family could be together. (Yes, we were reallllly together.) There were only six of us back then.

One day I heard a knock on the door. This was unusual because the FedEx guy had already been by earlier, and we didn’t know anyone out there yet. I peered out the peephole but couldn’t make out the person. Not that I’d know who he was anyway.

When I opened the door, he thrust out his hand to greet me with a little too much enthusiasm. He was so close—about two inches from the door jam. His arm was in already. I slammed the door on his limb, dead bolted it, grabbed the phone (which still had a dial tone), and sunk to the floor.

Now, he could’ve just been a dad whose kids wanted to meet mine. He could’ve been telling me that the exercise room was open. He could’ve been returning my stolen socks from the laundry room. But since I’m an amiable pessimist, I chose to believe that he just wanted to murder me and my children. He probably drove a white cargo van.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because it happened again yesterday. Someone rang our doorbell. I checked through the door glass and didn’t recognize the woman. Our vicious guard dog, Knoxer the Boxer, growled and tried to pounce. My heart skipped a beat. She stood very, very close to the door. I sized her up, figured I could take her, and opened the door anyway.

She handed me two dozen roses.

But still. If you knock on someone’s door, take a few steps back. You might save yourself a limb or two. If you drive a suspicious vehicle, I’d suggest backing up a couple feet.

Knoxer the Boxer. That’s what we named our dog. He’s five-months-old now and coming along. He doesn’t mess in the house anymore. He can sit, lay down, shake hands, go to his crate, and come on command. He’s protective of the baby and walks well on a leash. He snores at your feet by the fire.

But as soon as the front door inches open… he chucks his brains and tears off. Cue the Chariots of Fire music. In William Wallace-like fashion, he gallops the countryside. FREEDOM! He’s off. He’s fast.

Now, we’ve tried to stop this habit. To do this, a dog trainer suggested that we not feed him at mealtimes. Instead, he instructed, carry around a bag of food in a pouch. During the day, call him. When he comes, feed him out of your hand. Repeat this all day long. He will be hungry and come. By the end of the week, Knox was coming on command alright….so long as he wasn’t outside.

Since the dog cherishes his freedom over enticing doggy treats, my oldest son devised a great trick during one particular desperate moment. As the garbage trucks approached, my son laid down on the ground and started fake crying. The dog came over to investigate. Then my son nabbed him. Score one for the boy, eh?

People console me about this “dog bolting” habit by reminding me that he is just a baby. Babies do not have the maturity to consider others’ needs above their own. Babies do not prize loyalty, honor, and obedience above self-gratification, self-esteem, and self-indulgence. They seek pleasure that is immediate, not holding out for a pleasure that is future. They do not deny themselves.

While we seek a faith that is simple and child-like, our aim is to be mature, complete, not lacking anything. We seek wisdom by fearing God and asking Him for more wisdom. The Bible tells us over and over: get wisdom, love God, and (by golly) obey Him! The Christian life is not one of rights but of responsibilities. Our maturity is a reflection of God’s glory (“so that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven” Matthew 5:16).

One day Knoxer the Boxer will be a loyal, mature pooch. He will come in when he’s called. He’ll obey my commands when he doesn’t feel like it. He will love me more than he loves to run wild. But for now? He’s still just a big baby.

Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. ~James 1:4-5

Little ones and the Bible
Many years back, Greg taught a class on the Westminster Catechism. There was a pre-test during the first class. One of the questions asked, “What is sin?” The test was fill-in-the-blank, essay style and made for some interesting answers. One answer to the sin question we’ll never forget was, “What Satan made up.”

Which reminds me of another story back when my oldest was just three-years-old. We have fire ant piles here in Florida. The burning consequence for stepping in one of these is swift and painful. After one distressing episode, my son asked, “If God is good, then why did He make fire ants?” The problem of evil concerns us whether we’re young or old.

Catechisms don’t make the answers any easier or more palatable to difficult questions, but insofar as they are faithful to Scripture, we can learn proper doctrine and correct thinking on sticky matters.

The children’s catechism version that we use answers the matter of sin like this:

Q. 28. What is Sin?
A. Sin is any want of conformity unto, or transgression of the law of God.

Q. 29. What is meant by want of conformity?
A. Not being or doing what God requires.

Q. 30. What is meant by transgression?
A. Doing what God forbids.

I won’t make the case for catechism memorization, because I think that daily, faithful reading of the Scriptures to young children is more important. But if they’re begging for more, why not add catechism discussion and memorization to your family time? If nothing else, I can answer the children with more than, “I don’t know. Go ask your dad!”

Sometimes.

A reminder to live well, finish well…

The fretting friction of our daily life
Heart-weariness with loving patience borne
The meek endurance of the inward strife
The painful crown of thorn
Prepare the heart for God’s own dwelling place
Adorn with sacred loveliness His shrine
And brighten every inconspicuous grace
For God alone to shine.
Mary E. Atkinson

This diner’s open

Knox doesn’t know where his dog food is, but he can read?

…you ever hear an electronic beeping sound in the middle of the night, be sure to check underneath all the kids’ refrigerator finger paintings to see if it is the automatic reminder for your dog’s heartworm pill. This tidbit just might save you a half hour of your life.