Evolution?

According to the theory of evolution plants, animals and humans adapt to their surroundings and change their physical characteristics in order to more efficiently thrive. For example, evolution suggests that the giraffe developed its long neck so that it could reach the food supply found in the trees. It also suggests that humans lost their monkey tails because we no longer needed them. If I were a believer in evolution these two examples would cause me to backslide and leave my evolutionary faith. For the simple reason that I could desperately USE both the ability to grow new body parts AND I could really use a monkey tail.

As a mother of 4 it would be realllllly handy to have that monkey tail to open cabinet doors while I balance a baby on my hip and stir up our dinner while eyeballing the 12 year olds vocabulary sheet. In indeed evolution were a fact instead of a theory, I am thoroughly convinced that mothers would have followed the supposed evolutionary tract of the octopus and have 8 arms. Goodness knows we could sure put them to good use.

But the fact of the matter is this, we do not evolve. We were created. Our creator designed us perfectly. Sure, we could have been designed to nurse our babies out of the end of our index finger, and how convenient that would have been! But we weren’t. Creator God made is so that we have skin to skin contact, baby smells, hears and feels mother while his belly is filled. In so doing, he begins the lifelong bonding with this important person in his life. The person that is going to tell him ‘No’, the person who is going to discipline, reprove and guide him through some rough times later on. But before she has to take on the role of rule maker\teacher and they have conflict, he learns to love and trust her and associate her with good things. In those hours spent skin to skin, baby and mother knit stitches into the rope that ties them together for a lifetime. As God intended, as God designed.

So it is in the life of a Christian. First we come to know God as our savior, protector, giver of good things. But as we grow, we hear him say ‘No’ to the sinful desires of our hearts. We are corrected when we disobey. And because of our knowledge of his unfailing desire for our BEST we know that times of discipline are for our good.

So when I am chafing under the ‘NO’, or struggling with His plan me, I realize I need go back to his arms. Like a wee baby who is held close and loved, fed and comforted in the arms of its mother, I go back in prayer and in scripture study to be reassured that my life is NOT merely evolving. It is designed. And it is designed perfectly.

My are ordered by God when I am living a righteous (doing what is right) life. (Psalms 37:23 the RCV – Rachel Coltharp Version)

Still In Training

You get a lot of training in a wide variety of areas by being a mother. In my 12+ years of training I have completed the following:

* MOH -Midnight Obstacle Hurtle. This involves running through the dark, leaping over toys, steaming humidifiers, full diaper pails and furniture to get to a “I’m fixen to throw up” screaming child.

* PHMDR - Poison\Hazardous Material Detection & Removal. Poking my fingers into gnashing gums and teeth, at great peril of having them bitten right off, to remove unidentified objects from a toddler mouth.

* TCR - Toxic Chemical Removal. The cleaning of various bodily fluids that ooze, drip, squirt and explode out of any and all little people orifices.

* CST - Coercion & Submission Techniques. Convincing a child to take medicine, vitamins and eat broccoli, wear a coat and memorize spelling words.

* IE -Information Extraction. The fine art of getting a three year old to admit where they hid your purse, your keys or their brothers favorite toy.

I have even tried my hand at torture. Small dirty children, a washcloth and shampoo. Imagine said dirty children afraid of getting soap in their eyes after Dad last gave them their bath. Now imagine washing their hair.

As you can see, I am practically a Navy Seal. While as fun and enjoyable as all of these educational opportunities have been, today I encountered a new one. It is a mixture of torture instrument use, mental endurance and physical prowess. I had S.N.O.T. class. Syringe Nasal Offensive Training. The removal of mucus by use of a bulb syringe.

In anatomy they told us that the sinus cavity is contained in pockets behind the nose, over the eyes and under the cheekbones. They were wrong. I am confident, judging from the volume of substances removed this morning, that in some people they go all the way down to the toenails. In fact, an x-ray of Baby G might show that the only two things he has inside are sinus cavities and lungs. From the noises he was making I am quite sure his lungs take up all of the body cavity space he has available. It was a sound like a heard of mad elephants, at an all night dance, on crack, with microphones.

You would think that a 7 month old, 20 lb baby would not present much of a challenge to a grown adult. You would think wrong. Between the flailing arms and legs and whipping head, getting the pointy part into a nostril and removing the offending mucus was about as easy as putting 4 pair of pantyhose on a furious octopus. And wee baby nostrils do not make for large targets either.

Suffice to say when I was done we were both exhausted. I was mad, he was mad. He was mad because the person who should have been protecting him not only LET this terrible experience happen, but was the one who perpetrated it. I was mad because he did not trust me enough to be still so I could HELP him.

And so, once again, I see the parallel with my children, and my Heavenly Father. How many times have I whipped myself into a frenzy over the circumstances in my life, frantic to escape them instead of quieting myself, trusting my Father and yielding to His work in my life? There are things in me that MUST come out. And the only way to get them out is the painful work of having them extracted. Sometimes through difficulty, sometimes through pain, sometimes through trouble. Always through trial. It comes down to two things, trusting Him to do what is best for me, and submitting to the process. So I am trying to put into practice Psalms 131:2, and quieting and stilling myself while I am in the training process. As the old child’s song says, He’s still working on me.

Psalms 131:2 Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, my soul will behave like a child who is weaned from its mother. I will not throw fits and tantrums. (Taken from the RCV. The Rachel Coltharp Version)

Boundaries

It was inevitable, no matter how hard I tried to ignore the warning signs, I knew this day was coming. With every growth spurt and every new learned movement, Baby Grant and I have crept toward THE END. The end of his freedom. And mine.

For the last 7 months, 17 if you count gestation, he has stayed where I put him. In a seat, on a quilt, in a chair. That has all changed as of last week. At long last he figured out the hand and knee rhythm and off he took. One moment a wee one batting at the floor, the next a blur of motion. I have tried my best to keep him in a safe zone, placing a quilt on the floor and surrounding him with interesting toys, but he will have none of it. Oh no, HE prefers more exciting things like lamp cords and stairs. After snatching a handful of plant, dirt and all, and sticking it in his mouth I had enough. So out from the recesses of the dark dungeon of the garage storage space it came. The baby cage. Or as I like to call it ….The Play Prison.

I have done all I can do to make it a pleasant place. He has his blanket, a variety of soft, visually stimulating SAFE toys… but no…. they do not keep his interest. He peers through the web of the 5 ft enclosure at the really fun things just outside. Like my drapes, the piano legs and my plants.

In his heart of hearts he longs for these beautiful and irresistible toys. If only his mean ol mother would not deprive of him by putting up this ridicules boundary. And so he weeps, he wails he, bangs his baby head against the sides. Let me tell you, there is no fury like infant fury. And with it comes a profusion of bodily fluids out of both ends. It gets ugly, and it gets ugly fast.

It makes me wonder how many times my loving Heavenly Father has placed boundaries in my life, boundaries I have not appreciated. Boundaries of budget, income, opportunities, talent. How much time have I wasted, gazing longingly at what was just outside my boundary? How many times have I overlook and underappreciated the blessings he had hand picked for me? Ouch. Forgive me Father.

I’m taking some time to thank God today for the boundaries that keep me from temptation. Like NOT responding to an old flames FB request, NOT picking up kitchen-do-over magazines that tempt me to covet, setting an alarm to remind me of my prayer hour. Little things maybe. But boundaries non the less. It would be foolish of me to protect my baby and not myself. We live… we learn.

In A Perfect World

I find it is often a struggle to live a life of authenticity. In the virtual world of Facebook and blogging there is the temptation to Photoshop my life into perfection. To erase the lines around my eyes, thin my silhouette, polish my demeanor and perfect my image. I can post only the best photos of my children, where they are clean, happy and at peace, reading their Bibles. I can show my house, spit shined and my garden weeded. These snapshots are not the actual reality of how we REALLY live most of the time. Sure they are a reality. A brief nano second of reality.

A better picture to capture the spirit of our home would be of two big kids with noses stuck in a Calvin & Hobbes book, carefully positioned BEHIND their schoolwork, the kindergartner surreptitiously sneaking pieces into new positions on the chess board, the baby’s face looking like a glazed doughnut.

In the perfect photo the kitchen is spotless except for a bowl of fresh fruit and flowers. In the actual one the drying rack is covered in cloth diapers, the juicer is dripping and the sprouts need rinsing. Not exactly what I want to post on Facebook…for what would folks think of me then?

I realized the pressure I feel just this past week while attending a meeting out of state. It was a HUGE group of people who are, more or less, like me on many levels. It has always been my husbands’ world, while I stayed home the past 7 years to care for our precious treasures, the kiddos. And while I felt a part of it, I also felt out of place. Not because of anything anyone did or said, but because of my own feelings of inferiority. Honey pie, courageous scholar, gorgeous gentleman, statesman and genius that he is melds seamlessly into the ranks, I snuffle along like Mrs. Potato Head at the Barbie Prom.

I sat at a table on Friday morning with some of the most beautiful, educated, ‘connected’ and talented women on the planet. Surrounded by genuinely loving and welcoming people I still heard the nasty nagging ‘not perfect’ icky song. You know the one that says “Look how pretty, smart, talented, poised THEY are… girl you just DON’T fit in”. That is the song I heard being played in my mind, but that is not the song THEY were singing. Oh no, they sang something entirely different! They sang ‘We are family!’

Those talented, beautiful, smart women showed love to me. For me. And that only happens in the perfect world of perfect love. Perfect love casts out fear. That’s what they showed, and that’s what I got. Not because I projected back their perfection, but because they accepted me in my reality. They welcomed me, they called me sister. Part of the family. I guess that is about as perfect as it gets.

The Art In My Heart

The human mind has the amazing ability to capture a slice of our experience and flash paint it onto a canvas of memory. We hang these slices of memory in the art gallery of our heart. There they hang, the good the bad and the ugly.

I realize that none of the renderings in my gallery are actual, factual, images of reality. They reflect my perception of the events and actions. But they are mine, hung on the wall of my heart. Some happily displayed, lighted and prominent. Others shrouded with drop cloths, rarely peeked at. A few are turned to face the wall. Some bring a smile to my face, others a pang of regret, sadness, even anger. For many years I have kept certain ones at arms length, too busy to ‘deal’ with them. But for a while now I have been taking a walk through the gallery, looking and reevaluating their place in my heart.

Some I am keeping, brushing off, appreciating in a new way. Others I find much changed since I put them there long ago. Amazingly, the twin artists, Time and Truth, have been at work restoring some of the ugliest ones!

I painted, as a teenager, a grand masterpiece love story. But it has, by Time and Truth, been reveled as merely a childish cartoon.

The dramatic, bold lines of a college age trust betrayed, once seen by me in the harshest of lights, under the twin brushstrokes of Time and Truth prove to be mere pencil drawings. Those faint lines are almost invisible under the oils of faithful adult friendships.

Time and Truth have taken brush in hand and softened the harsh edges of once painful memories. With the passing of years they have brightened a dull photo, captured by the shutter of a fleeting impression.

Time and Truth have taken the fuzzy run-together watercolor images, painted with my tears, and have sharpened them so that I, finally, see clearly what was actually there. The scene where I stand alone, longing to be loved, once entitled Rejected & Lonely, now I see the Hand of God between me and the more intense heartache the broken relationship would have brought… had it continued. Now I see its real name, Protection.

I know that the future will cast a different light on today’s paintings. My current life will be viewed and analyzed by my then older, wiser eyes. I hope that the choices I make today, the painting I am creating now, will be one that brings a smile to my face. Time and Truth will tell.

Because They Are No More

I read a horror story today. Of a bloodbath so vile and macabre it will rob me of peaceful sleep tonight I am sure. The words themselves were neither sensationalist nor explicit. No, they were surprisingly sparse and few. But my heart fills in the blanks between the words. My mind quickly summons the sounds of anguish, pain and tortured cries that surely accompanied it. My mothers heart shudders and I actually feel a pain in my chest as I read it.

Here it is. Matthew 2:16-18 When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi. Then what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled: "A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more."

How horrifying it is to us to understand the slaughter of these wee ones, some newborn, still fresh and wrinkled with fuzzy wisps of hair, others toddling about holding to mothers hands, was instigated because of one mans desire for power. King Herod, desperate to retain his comfortable status, determined to preserve his luxuries, ordered the murder of these children. He slaughtered them on the alter of his ego.

This abominable act horrifies and disgusts us. Our blood runs cold at the thought of soldiers knocking down doors, ripping babies from the safety of their mothers arms, brutally slaughtering them to satisfy the lustful greed of King Herod. We rage at the thought of the sword piercing the abdomen of the baby, the image of the bloody corpses left in the mothers hands.

Why then, are we not equally horrified at the knife that pierces the womb of todays infants? Where are the tears of anguish over the callous hearts of todays kings, and queens, who view these wee ones as obstacles standing in the way of their comfort, power, position or success? Who weeps for them? Why do our hearts not quake inside of us at the knowledge that every day wee ones are dismembered while resting in the safety of their mothers bodies and sacrificed on the alter of convenience?

Oh God stir my heart to more than emotion. Stir my soul to prayer. Summon a holy fire of indignation within me to take up spiritual arms against the spirit of Herod in my generation. Let me be the voice of Rachel of old, refusing comforts of prosperity and ease. Let me mourn the ones that are no more.

Talking the talk but barely limping the walk.

Being Christlike is easier said than done.

My brain is filled with memorized scripture. I have worked at it from my earliest days of Sunday School, when reciting the memory verse meant a bright shiny gold star on my chart, to school where the chapters memorized meant earning extra privileges, to participating in Bible Quizz Tournaments. And the learning of each verse and chapter and once even an entire book, was done because I had a carrot dangled in front of me. There was a PRIZE to be had if I put to memory the words from the page. So I did. And they are with me still. Hundreds of verses over the years. Most times when a familiar passage is being read I know it by heart. So I can talk the talk with the best of them. Walking the walk is another thing entirely.

When people ask me if I am a Christian I cannot answer, “Yes” in complete honesty. For to be a Christian is not something you can say about yourself. Others can… but can ANY of us say “ I am like Christ”… some days yes… other days, to my shame… no. So I say instead that I am a follower of Christ. I am a disciple of His. I am living my life in a conscious effort to be, as His followers called themselves, a person of The Way. He is that Way.

I revel in His love for me, so deep, so amazing. That He, who knows me best, loves me most. That boggles my puny mind. Humbles my heart. Breaks my will. And makes me want to love Him. But how? He said “If you love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15) so I’m loving him the way HE wants to be loved. The words I choose, the clothes I choose, the way I spend my money, time and talents, these all I choose to do in the WAY his word directs me to. But unlike His love for me, unfailing, mine wavers sometimes. As evidenced by my choices. My pride gets in the way, the ME monster arises and snarls and snaps at others, I let hormones, situations, fears and petty personal preferences sit on the throne of my heart. Oh but then… the WORD comes, out of the recesses of my brain where it was stored and it speaks to my erring heart. Bringing the light of TRUTH into the dark corridors of my life. And there I repent, talking the talk… and straighten up the limping walk. My stride becomes stronger with each adjusted step. As I align my walk with His gait the rhythm smoothes out and once again, hand in hand we walk. Talking the talk, walking the walk.