she's got that pregnancy pallor

Almost a year ago a plastic stick told me I was pregnant. Excitement! Disbelief! Gladness! Thankfulness!

Reality set in -- I had avoided going anywhere near the American Medical System during our time in Michigan and being pregnant would most likely make continued avoidance a bad idea. I had to find a doctor after deciding what kind of doctor I wanted (OBGYN? GP? Thank you, Google, for telling me the difference), then had to prep myself mentally and emotionally before diving into the labyrinth that is the world of American Health Insurance -- and yes, it really is as complicated and frustrating and rage-inducing and expensive as everyone says it is.

Copays and coinsurance and deductibles and whether my doc was in or out-of-network -- these were my worries. The actual physical being pregnant part? It'd be a breeze. Maybe uncomfortable, eventually. But good pregnancies are genetic. My mom had six great pregnancies. My sisters seemed to survive theirs with minimal discomfort. I stepped up to the pregnancy plate, confident that my sturdy Dutch pregnancy genes would serve me well over the next nine months.

The queasiness started in week 7. I popped back handfuls of pretzels while telling myself that a little bit of first trimester nausea never hurt anyone. Week 8 marked the addition of extreme fatigue. I would have to nap after taking a shower due to the massive amount of physical effort required to stand up while taking said shower. I admitted to myself that this might be more difficult than originally anticipated.

The first time I threw up (week 9) I was actually taken aback. Things were not supposed to get quite so out-of-hand. But it's going to be fine, I thought while sitting on my bathroom floor. Three more weeks to go, then shezam -- first trimester over! Goodbye, stale pretzels! Goodbye, constant nausea and fatigue! Hello, pregnancy glow!

Twas not to be. Weeks 10 through 12 can best be described as a dark vortex spiralling into horrible anguish. Everything just got worse. I was miserable and throwing up everywhere, all the time. I couldn't eat food. I couldn't smell food. Wayne would make himself coffee and I'd go hide myself away in a place far from the kitchen -- it smelled like dying cats. Everything smelled like something dying. I threw up in garbage cans, in the car, on the side of the road, on the front lawn. I threw up when there was nothing left inside me other than flesh and bones -- and even then, it felt like my stomach was trying to get rid of that.

On one dark December morning after a particularly bad three days of inability to keep even water down, Wayne said, Suzanne, maybe you should call your doctor.

The doctor? Why? Isn't this just part of pregnancy? True, my sturdy Dutch pregnancy genes had betrayed me (or were just a myth of my own creation), but this was the first trimester. Apparently it's supposed to be miserable -- that's what the internet says, anyway. I apologetically explained my situation over the phone to the nurse, weakly laughing over the fact that I was probably overreacting (while feeling slightly faint).

"Oh, no dear," said the nurse. "That's not normal. You need to get yourself to the ER."

An hour later I was hooked up to IVs and getting pumped full of anti-nausea meds to calm my stomach and fluids to prevent further dehydration. We didn't have a bathroom scale at home so I had no way of knowing that I had lost 20 pounds in one month. Diagnosis: Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Basically, extreme morning sickness.

Having since done a lot more research on the topic, I know from reading blog posts and online articles that on the scale of HG, my case was fairly mild. There are women who spend nine months literally camped out beside the toilet, pillow and sleeping bag included. Women who have ports and PICC lines put into their arms because they regularly have to be pumped with IVs to keep from getting dehydrated. So generally speaking, things weren't really all that bad. The baby was healthy, I was given information (and meds!) to help conquer the nausea, and the freedom and sunshine and happiness of trimester two was on the horizon.

Spoiler alert: the freedom never came. I probably read every single article on the internet about how long pregnancy nausea and HG can last. Unfortunately there is no definite answer, because everyone is different. What I really wanted to do was google "How long will Suzanne's nausea last?" but Google is not quite that smart. I lived in constant anticipation of the next possibility of wellness -- maybe week 16. Maybe week 20. Maybe third trimester?

The meds certainly helped get things under control. The following months weren't nearly as awful as those dreary days of November and December, but the HG remained. Nausea and puking were my constant companions -- imagine feeling perpetually carsick -- and you will just about understand how my winter and spring went. All of my coat pockets and purses and cubbies in our car were stuffed with bags. I didn't cook dinner for months. I took naps at my desk on lunch break after throwing up in the grody office bathroom. I looked forward to bedtime all day -- sleep was my only blissful escape.

I think it was March when I finally accepted the fact that feeling better was only going to happen once the baby was born. June had never looked so far away. People tried to be encouraging and helpful -- have you tried saltines, etcetera? (Saltines? Saltines! Of course! I'm downing anti-nausea meds, but you're telling me that saltines are the answer?! Eureka!) Other kindly people said, "It's awful now -- but once you're holding that baby, it'll all be worth it."

Straight up honesty: While laying face-down on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, messy with tears and vomit, I remember thinking, "How can anything be worth this?"

It is with much joy and thankfulness that I can now say yes, all of it was worth it. Our baby girl entered the world on a sunny afternoon in June without much fanfare (birth story = went into labour, got magical epidural, birthed baby), and she is a pure delight. I felt better almost instantly. Wayne ordered me a giant roast beef sandwich from Jimmy Johns and I ate it with gusto while a new baby slept on me -- roast beef and newborns -- pure bliss! I remember getting home from the hospital and eating old jello found in the back of the fridge, thinking only of how amazing it tasted and how wonderful it felt to have food hit my stomach, knowing that it would finally stay put!

So now what? you ask. What's the moral of this lengthy post that is really just a whole bunch of whining masquerading as prose? Frankly -- not sure there is a moral. I wish I was able to tie this up neatly with a little lesson I learned, perhaps a quippy truism, then throw a bow on it and call it a day. But looking back, all I can really say is that I didn't do pregnancy gracefully. Yes, I threw up for months on end and felt awful and it was lousy, and that is not exactly a recipe for success. But I cried on floors a lot and felt sorry for myself even more, and honestly I was probably more sick of myself than the people around me.

I had no epiphany or spiritual revelation. I didn't have the energy to read my Bible so Wayne would read it to me, and I'd fall asleep two minutes in. I was weak for nine months straight -- physically and spiritually. If I was reminded of anything during pregnancy, it was that I am frail, messy, human, weak, broken. I'm utterly dependent on the physical and spiritual sustenance that God provides in His mercy, and without that -- I don't even want to imagine!

Fortunately, I don't have to. God is the Giver of all good gifts (Matthew 7:11), including sweet baby toes!

{Photo Courtesy of Katie @ Studio Phrene}

five.

Several days ago I found myself in the middle of a cemetery, weeping. I was still getting over a cold so there was snot everywhere and salty mascara stains were smeared across my cheeks. Wayne was patting my arm, his face contorted with concern.

I was not weeping amongst the headstones for why you might think. I was sitting in the driver's seat of our new car, and despite it being my fourth lesson, I could not get it into first gear without stalling. I was crying because I was failing. I was panicking, really. All I could see before me were years and years of Wayne having to shuttle me around, because I wasn't able to figure out how to get our manual car into gear in the middle of an empty cemetery, never mind the middle of rush hour traffic on the Beltline.

"I just want to skip this part," I warble like a pathetic six-year-old. "I just want to know how to do it right and not have to keep on doing it wrong, over and over again. It's too hard."

Wayne nods in careful understanding, a wry smile creeping onto his face. We all know he's going to use that quote in a sermon somewhere down the line.

I knew I was being utterly ridiculous. Spilled milk, and all that. If someone needs to be told to bite the bullet and get on with it, I'll be the first in line to volunteer for the job. I'm self-aware enough to know that I'm not nearly as compassionate as I ought to be. I like to think about and talk about the importance of the difficult challenges we face in our lives and how formative they are to the shaping of our characters. And yet -- I find myself singing the same refrain whenever something hard comes along. Exactly five years ago today I was standing in a frosty cemetery that shimmered with the reds and golds of autumn, my father at my feet, wishing I could jump ahead and skip life's messy parts and get back to that bit where things are a little more balanced, less challenging, where the hard work is done.

As an aside -- is it crass to compare one's grief over her father's death to learning to drive stick? I'd like to think he'd be honoured -- or at least get a bit of a chuckle out of it. Dig up a terrible pun, or something. "Letting up on the clutch too early was a grave mistake!!" etc. 

We didn't get to skip over the last five years. We didn't get to skip the early days that were thick with such deep sorrow that it was hard to catch a breath. We didn't get to skip those days where the scent of the cold fall air broke our hearts because that was exactly how his goodnight hugs smelled in November. We didn't get to skip the days where we thought we had things under control because it had been a couple years but then you walk into a Home Hardware and the sweetish smell of new tire rubber and earthy fertilizer and shining waxed floors will slap you in the face and it will take all you've got to make sure you don't collapse into a sea of tears between the rows of glistening screws because there is so much here that is Dad and he might be around the corner in the next aisle hunched over looking at drill bits except that you know he is not.

Life doesn't let you skip those parts. 

We have been shaped and burned and dulled and pinched and stretched by the reality of mortality, and I am without doubt that last five years have changed us. They have certainly been formative to our characters -- though we're still trying to figure out what that exactly means. I have not particularly liked the hard parts, but I am aware that they were necessary for getting us to where we are now -- a couple steps further forward, dwelling a little deeper in the peace of Christ.  

Because here is the thing -- there is no other real option but onward. And you fight through those hated hard parts and come out on the other side, often feeling better than you did before, and yes, it was painful, but oh! look at what He has done for us!

Around Thanksgiving of last year I happened to be alone at my childhood home, sitting at the kitchen table and morbidly coming to the realization that the weather and the tilt of the sun was identical to the moment that we received that phone call -- and then I nearly fell out of my seat when the phone actually rang. It was my sister, and there was a new baby boy. I was reminded then and still today that the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning (Lam. 3:22-23).

So yes, there are hard bits. There are parts I would rather have skipped. But there is His faithfulness as well, and it is truly great!

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nomads.

Sometime last week while driving home from somewhere, I turned to Wayne and said, "Wayne, I am homesick, and I don't even know where I am homesick for."

"Tell me about it," he said. "Today I told someone that I was looking forward to being home... wherever that is."

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In the last three years we have lived in three different countries on two separate continents. We have occupied three different residences. We have been part of four different church congregations. I have worked three different jobs. We have undergone at least six different physical location or community-based transition times thanks to internships and study opportunities, and will have to get through at least two more of those transitions in the next ten months.

It has been exciting, certainly -- a whirlwind of exploration and new experiences. Our web of contacts and friends is vast and reaches further than we though possible when we left the rooted foundations of our childhood homes. But it is a very horizontal web, and not particularly vertical. We meet, we relate, we say goodbye and we'll stay in touch. It is like being terribly thirsty and wanting nothing more than to drink a whole glass of water -- but only being able to take a tiny sip before moving on and getting going elsewhere.

Yes, we are in some places and communities for longer stretches than others, but even then, there are reminders written in red pen scrawled across dates on calendars and in agendas, warning us of impending expiration dates for visas and work authorizations. There is always paperwork, and you are guaranteed a sufficiently peevish questioning period when trying to get through a border crossing, trying to get through your front door, closer to that place that you think is probably, for now, home.

We are constantly faced with reminders that we do not belong here -- wherever here is at the time. We have pulled anchor and locked up our house so many times that even in our own country it is easy to forget that our birth certificates declare us to be proper and legal citizens.

To put it plainly, we are not quite sure where we belong.

Lord willing, within the next year we'll hopefully find a place to set our feet for at least a little longer than a ten month period of time. For now, though, we live a nomadic life. When I am curled up on a couch and tired with making new friends, or when I wake up in the morning and am groggily unsure of where I am, I am reminded of the fact that I am a wanderer. And yet, as I look back over the last three years, I am okay with this, because I think it is maybe a little bit good to feel displaced.

Part of me welcomes that deep longing for home -- and not just a home I can decorate for Christmas or dig up a garden around -- but a home that is not of this age. It helps me understand what Peter meant when he addresses his letters to the pilgrims, sojourners, strangers and aliens of the world -- the saints, the followers of Christ, who understand that their real citizenship is in heaven. It is good to recognize that I do not permanently belong here, or anywhere on earth, because this is not the last stop. It is good to enjoy the blessings of homes and families and communities, but it is important to realize that the misleading permanency of a job and a mortgage and a nice garden is not the end of the line. It is important to realize that none of this is here for good; that clinging too tightly to earthly things will result in a dependency that will only disappoint and crush. The fear of and aversion to change will stunt our growth, keeping our focus on the here and now; keeping us from stretching and maturing into more faithful followers of Christ.

Wayne and I can say with great certainty that we do not know what the future holds. It is more than possible that we will settle down and grow some roots, but it could be that we will always be nomads -- and that is hard, but that is also okay, because why should we expect any different? The world is a shifting, changing place -- and only "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." So I will seek a permanence in heaven and dig some roots into the very solid, never changing ground of the King of all kings, and grow where I'm planted, wherever that may be. 

reshaped for royalty.

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When God wants to drill a man

And thrill a man

And skill a man

When God wants to mold a man

To play the noblest part

When He yearns with all His heart

To create so great and bold a man

That all the world shall be amazed

Watch His methods, watch His ways!

How He ruthlessly perfects

Whom He royally elects!

How He hammers him and hurts him

And with mighty blows converts him

Into shapes and forms of clay

Which only God can understand;

While his tortured heart is crying

And he lifts beseeching hands!

How He bends but never breaks

When his good He undertakes

How He uses whom He chooses

And with mighty power infuses him

With every act induces him

To try His splendor out -- 

God knows what He's about.

- Anonymous

lifestyle evangelism.

I want evangelism to be a lot easier. I want to go all "preach the gospel and when necessary use words" style and forget about bringing Jesus into the conversation and just hope that Jesus-love will emanate from my face when I'm helping out at a soup kitchen. I think probably many Christians want that. Lauren Winner does. She writes,

"I take comfort in the church's current affection for what is politely called 'lifestyle evangelism'. Being a lifestyle evangelist doesn't require handing out tracts; it just requires living a good, God-fearing, Gospel-exuding life. I like to assume that most people know I am a Christian and when they see that I am sometimes joyful and sometimes peaceful when they are not, they will want to know my secret."

            - Girl Meets God, Pg. 120

But then what? What if on a rare occasion someone does notice your joy and peace and says, "Hey, why are you so happy all the time? Can you fill me in on your secret?" Then what do you say?

Well, in my case, you give an awkward mysterious smile and shrug and then kick yourself for years afterward because you had this perfect, gleaming pearl of opportunity in your hands and then you dropped it and sadly watched it roll away and didn't even try to chase it down.

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Therein lies the issue with "lifestyle evangelism". Let us be perfectly honest and admit that people aren't going to ask why us Christians are so happy all the time. First of all, it's a weird question to ask. Second, we're not happy all the time. Christians are sinners and we still have some really bad days where people will be thinking, I wonder why she's so miserable all the time, what a Debbie Downer.

And then, that one time where someone catches you on a good day and asks what your secret is -- well -- it's your shining moment. And guess what? You have absolutely no idea what to say. Why would you? You haven't had any practice with this evangelism thing. All you know how to do is collect canned goods and volunteer with troubled youth and the Holy Spirit was going to do the rest, right?

Well -- technically -- yes. The Holy Spirit is the only One who's going to be doing any converting around here. As Christians, our job is to offer ourselves as tools that can be used to spread the Gospel. We move the Gospel. The Spirit moves hearts. But where does that leave us? Do we just assume that we can parade around with Luke 12:12 slung over our shoulder, trusting that we'll be given the words to say when the time comes?

I guess you could. And I don't doubt that the Holy Spirit could do marvellous things in any situation. But I would also say that it's important to remember that Jesus spent much of his ministry teaching and training his disciples to prepare them for their work after his departure; that in Acts Paul is described several times as spending time in the synagogue, reasoning and persuading his listeners about the Kingdom of God (e.g. Acts 28:23). The importance of being able to talk about what you believe in is further stressed in 1 Peter 3:15 --

"Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have."

...And in Colossians 4:5-6 --

"Walk in wisdom toward outsiders, making the best use of the time. Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person."

Yes, we must trust that the Spirit will give us words of wisdom when required. Yes, God is ultimately in control of every outcome of every conversation. Yes, our attempts at spreading the Gospel are futile aside from the life-changing power of God. These facts, however, do not negate the call of the Great Commission. These facts do not allow us to clutch desperately onto the excuse that is always (but wrongly) attributed to St. Francis of Assisi -- to only use words when necessary, thus saving ourselves from the humiliation of possible rejection. We must use words, otherwise,

"How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching?" (Romans 10:14)

This is really hard. I don't like doing things that make me uncomfortable. I don't like doing things that I don't feel very good at. I don't like doing things that make me feel stupid and chip away at my pride. It's much easier to hand out sandwiches to the homeless than confront someone with their sin and show them the way to salvation.

But sandwiches, pleasant smiles and volunteer hours won't count for anything after someone's heart stops beating. Together we must encourage and help each other in evangelism, celebrate victories and milestones through the goodness of Christ, pray through our defeats, and trust that God will be glorified despite our weaknesses!

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{This entry is a continuation of thought stemming from this earlier post.}

kid lit and dads who listen.

"She... thought of how when her sister had played her flute, whatever her father was doing, however busy he was, he would listen, gently opening all the doors between the place where he was working, and wherever Clem was practising."

          - Binny for Short by Hilary McKay, pg. 14

I'm a part of that strange family of people that prefers children's literature over adult literature. It's not that I don't like solid adult fiction or a good biography -- it's just that I find the humour and kindness and gentleness and unique perspective of children's literature to often be more enjoyable than the sometimes exhaustive emotional roller coaster plots of adult fiction. Whether this is an indicator of my maturity level... well, we won't go there today.

Anyway, I've been busy reading some kid lit over the last week and the quote up at the top is from a book I just finished. The 12-year-old protagonist is calling to mind memories of her father who died a few years before -- and when I read this my breath caught in my throat a little bit because I had this moment where a fictional phrase is so real and mirrors a past moment so acutely that you have to read it again just to make sure you're not imagining things.

It's just a sentence, just a subtle phrase that most readers skim over to get to the next paragraph. But in my own life, for my family -- this exact thing happened countless times. One of us would close the doors to the living room after pulling a violin out of its case or snapping the piano light on, not wanting to disturb the peace of the rest of the house with messy scales and unsuccessful attempts at sight-reading. And sure enough, a few minutes later, one door would swing open, then another, and sometimes he would come through one of them and stand with his ear to the music and his hand on the bannister and just look out the window, and other times there would be nobody there, just silently opened doors and a dad sitting back down at the kitchen table, preferring the full-volume effect of jolty quasi-musical phrases and cries of artistic frustration to accompany his paperwork.

For a little while after he was gone, playing music felt lonely. The doors remained shut. I'd look up, half-expecting to see him standing at the bannister, even though I knew he wouldn't be there. And then I'd feel a little bit annoyed, because he should be there and it's weird that he's not because he was just there, just a few weeks ago, and he was just laughing, and he was just eating dinner across the table from me and it seemed so terribly stupid that someone who was so completely alive is -- just -- not.

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I came across 1 Corinthians 15:21 last week. It read, "For as by man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive."

Some people find the resurrection of the dead simply unbelievable, too far-fetched, too sci-fi. For me, the reality of the resurrection is inescapable. Experiencing the death of a loved one is strange and bizarre. But I can recall looking at the shell lying in the casket and thinking that there was something missing, something so glaringly huge. And I thought, his soul is not here. If someone who was so alive, so full of laughter, just recently mashing up shepherd's pie on his dinner plate could be so quickly lying here in this shiny casket, how swiftly can his soul be filled with life, real eternal life.

I am not an exegetical genius, but I do know that we are quick to think that by man came death, evil, sin; I know that we are quick to limit the power of the Almighty God and think that that is the end. But that is not the end. That is never the end. In Christ shall all be made alive, and no, not in these lousy bodies that get the flu and get sunburned and get choked up with cancer and darkness. Our souls, our new bodies, these will be made alive in Christ. We were created in His image, and as Christ lives and will live and reign eternally, as co-heirs and sons and daughters of the Lord, so shall we.

 Thank God for fathers, here and already there.

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evangelism is hard.

The title of this post about sums it up, boys and girls. But you didn't need me to tell you that. Anyone who grew up in a reformed protestant church setting surrounded by wind-weatherd Dutch farmers who lived out their faith through hard work and fierce family devotion as opposed to pentecostal hand-raising and soap-box preaching would know that the phrase sharing the Gospel causes some severe heart palpatations. To a lot of us, the concept is so foreign and scary that we pretty well write it off as someone else's job. Someone who has that spiritual gift. Because I certainly don't.

I don't have the spiritual gift of evangelism. I really don't. I'm not articulate and this is mostly because I can never remember how to verbally string together nouns and verbs in proper sentence formation (and this causes problems in more than just the theatre of evangelism). However Jesus didn't say to go therefore, articulate and conversationally gifted Christians, and make disciples of all nations, He just told all of us to go and be empowered by the Holy Spirit and roll with it. Well, not in those words. Jesus articulated it better than I just did. See Matthew 28:18-20.

Evangelism is hard because it puts you way out there. It makes you desperately vulnerable. It's like that guy who spent his whole senior year of high school smiling at that pretty brunette in the hallway when they passed between third and fourth period, and he finally gets up the nerve to ask her to prom, and he does it, he stammers out the question, and he feels like his clothes have all been turned inside-out and she's looking at him and realizes she's caught a glimpse of what's actually going on inside his soul, it's spread all over his inside-out shirt, and the next move is hers. And she can say whatever she wants, think whatever she wants, because he just handed her a chunk of his vulnerable soul and told her to do whatever she wanted with it.

That's why evangelism is hard. Except when evangelizing, you're not just asking someone to prom. You're working your way towards asking them to give up their whole way of life, their whole worldview, their ideals, their philosophy on ethics and morals -- and trade them in for something that on the outset seems completely off the rails and terribly offensive. 

Then they look at you and realize that you yourself have given up all of those things for this Jesus guy and realize that you just handed them a chunk of your vulnerable soul and are letting them do whatever they want to do with it. And then they might think you're crazy. They might even call you that, too. 

And even if you get past that first hurdle and they want to hear more about why you believe what you believe, there are endless ways in which you can screw things up. You can say the wrong thing, use too much Christian lingo, make the Gospel too simple and soft and suddenly they're believing some Christian-lite version of the faith and you've really set them down the wrong road and something deep down inside you says, "Great job, you're such a valuable asset to Kingdom Work, you should probably just stick to singing in the church choir so that you don't mess anyone else up."

A few weeks ago I made a weak and bumbling attempt at explaining my faith to a friend. I was pretty sure I had botched the job completely and confused the poor girl to pieces and lamented this to Wayne and he said, "Suzanne, you've got to be a little bit more of a Calvinist."

All snide "you know you're a seminary couple when..." comments aside, Wayne was right. I was putting far too much weight on the effect that my words and abilities were having and forgetting that the real life-flipping heart-changing work is done by the Holy Spirit, and as evangelists we are merely tools to be used by Him. It's a humbling thing... especially when you are not very articulate. 

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Evangelism is hard. It's not something that I'm very good at. It's not something I'm comfortable with. I would much rather talk about the weather or my latest project or the impending royal birth over in jolly old England. And I guess I could just not bring up the Gospel at all. I could avoid it very easily -- I'm well-practiced at that. But over the years I've found that when opportunities present themselves -- and when I shut my eyes to those opportunities -- the sticky film of Something That Has Been Lost clings to me for hours, days, years. And then I think of Jeremiah, and of his determination to never ever speak God's name again, to never prophecy, to pin his tongue in place and cease the preaching of his message for good because it costs too much and no one's listening anyway. But there's that fire in his bones, and he tries to shut it in but he can't because keeping it in makes him weary.

I'm not sure that I have fire in my bones, but when I'm presented with a Gospel opportunity there's definitely a spark that flits through my ribcage, a Holy Wave of You Know What Comes Next that crests and breaks over my heart and soul and stomach, yes, stomach too. And I don't know if I want to say anything because if I say something I'm handing someone a chunk of my vulnerable soul and that exhausts me, but if I always stay silent I'll grow weary with the struggle of keeping the Gospel to myself. So I open my mouth and I might not screw up but I probably will and that's okay because God's in charge of this, not me. 

But more on that later. 

be discerning.

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Blogs are strange things. Throughout my year in blogdom I've been amazed at the vast variety of different blogs out there, ranging in categories from lifestyle to photography to fiercely depressing poetry. I tend to read blogs that lean more towards the faith and Christian life categories (although I do occasionally look at some craft blogs, but promptly get tired and feel sucky at crafts and go back to apologetics). I've found some very interesting and inspiring writers out in my internet travels... and also some pretty bad eggs.

Here's the thing about blogging -- just like facebook, twitter, and any other type of social media outlet, it's possible to make yourself appear exactly like you want to appear, and the majority of the time, your readers will believe exactly what you tell and show them.

As such, writers hold a very weighty amount of power in their keyboard-tapping fingers. Not only can they easily convince readers that their lives are exactly as they appear in the about me section, but their chosen post topics and opinions have a far-reaching influence over every person who comes across their site.

This isn't such a big deal when it comes to photography blogs. You took a great picture, please share it! Your life probably isn't as great as that macro photo of a Starbucks latte makes it seem, but this won't really change how I think about life or how this plays into my walk with Jesus.

It's a different story when it comes to blogs that focus on Christianity. It's easy to draw followers when you've got a slammin' blog template and some CSS savvy. You might even be really good at writing! But what drives me crazy -- and I mean drives me crazy -- is when you take your opinions and your fallacious hermeneutical arguments and you prooftext the God of justice right out of the Bible. I'm aware that I don't have theological training, but I can still tell that something has gone wrong when you turn the mighty and majestic God of the universe into a total sap who sings you Taylor Swift love songs while ignoring your blatant rejection of His Word. And there are hundreds of girls in the most influential stages of their Christian walk reading your blog and drinking all this in and just loving it.

The Bible makes very clear that one of the marks of a fruit-bearing Christian is discernment (see pretty much all of Proverbs). This characteristic is even more important and necessary in a world where opinions and information are available instantly. There have always been people manufacturing their own interpretations of scripture and God and the resurrection and who Jesus is -- the only difference is that the Sadducees didn't have access to Blogger. Twisted truths aren't anything new, so this post isn't directed at bloggers who are rightly exercising their freedom of speech (although I would recommend reading your Bible and getting some facts straight before posting -- don't be an accidental heretic!), but more towards their readers. 

When you read something that doesn't quite sit right with you, try and figure out why. Read your Bible. See what other people are saying on the subject. Don't allow your critical eye to be won over by moody alliteration and pretty photos and social fads. Be discerning.

"Do not let wisdom and understanding out of your sight, preserve sound judgement and discretion" (Proverbs 3:21).

where have all the men gone?

My husband and I really like our church here in Michigan. Excellent worship, community, preaching... and a nice breakfast for college kids every Sunday morning before the service. I'm not a college student, but I still manage to sneak in for a meal. If we keep up with the latest slang people don't notice that we're actually five years older than everyone else at the table.

Our city is packed with universities and colleges -- particularly Christian ones. There are thousands of young Christian students in this city from across the country with dozens of church options to choose from. Our church really likes students, and they try and make it easier to come by providing transportation from a nearby college campus, offering free meals and rides back home, etc. Basically, all you have to do is get up in the morning and someone will make sure you get to church and get fed -- spiritually and otherwise. Every Sunday there are several rows filled with college students who really change the dynamic of our church community -- we think it's pretty cool.

But here's the strange thing -- about 80% of those college kids are female.

We haven't done any in-depth research or asked around if this is a trend in all the churches in the area, so it could be that there's a church a few blocks away that's packed with a bunch of college guys, but for some reason we find that highly unlikely. So -- where have all the men gone?

It's a challenge for Wayne and I not to be hard on the nameless guys who don't show up. Our church makes it painfully easy to come to church. You don't even have to walk anywhere or figure out a bus schedule. There's free cinnamon rolls!!! Honestly. Not to mention the fact that there's dozens of beautiful Christian college girls sitting around the table. Buddy, you'd have zero competition.

Okay, okay, I get it, the point of going to church is not to find a spouse. But let's be honest, that's definitely one of the perks of getting involved in a fantastic Christian community if getting married is on your bucket list.

I don't really know where I'm going with this post, other than that I'm confused by the lack of young men at church when I know that the nearby college campus is almost a 50/50 split of guys and girls. Basically: College guys, quit playing video games at a decent hour so that you can get up on time and get yourself to church. Man up a little.

That's all.

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epiphaneia.

The title of this particular post is Greek. I know this because my husband studies Greek... but mostly because I looked it up on Wikipedia. It means Epiphany!

January the sixth (twelve days after Christmas) is traditionally the day that Christians celebrate the feast day of Epiphany... except that we don't actually really celebrate it all that much. In fact, it didn't even come up in church this morning (although this may be because it's more of a tradition within the Anglican and Greek Orthodox churches). From what I've seen and read, there's a variety of practices and traditions done today (e.g. half-dressed men jumping into cold lakes), depending on the denomination, but in general, today's feast celebrates the manifestation of God through human flesh in His Son, Jesus Christ. That's feast-worthy, in my opinion.

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"No priest, no theologian stood at the cradle in Bethlehem. And yet, all Christian theology has its origin in the wonder of all wonders that God became a man. Alongside the brilliance of holy night there burns the fire of the unfathomable mystery of Christian theology."
                                - Dietrich Bonhoeffer, quoted in Eric Metaxas' Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy (pg 472)

 That's a good word for it -- unfathomable. That God would become a man and humble Himself to cover our sin and shame when we don't deserve it at all -- unfathomable.

We're going to celebrate our freedom in Christ today by eating pizza and Sabbathing. Yay!

a merry little christmas.

We've been in Ontario for the last several days. Tomorrow we'll be making the trek back to the G-Raps in order to get into our 2013 groove. Crazy how time flies! 

In the ten days we've been back with family our hands have been filled with chocolate, cups of coffee, many good gifts and adorable babies. Such blessings! The best blessing of all? Jesus, the Light. 

Have a beautiful New Year!

the danger of tmi.

For those of you who aren't up to date with the slang, "tmi" (short for too much information) is a phrase used when a person is describing a certain situation or thing in overly articulate and graphic detail. For example, when your friend decides to fill you in on the intricacies of her cat's digestion issues, you could appropriately interrupt her with an urgent "TMI! Please stop talking, oh please stop."

Anyway. I'm not here to talk about the weird habits of felines, but on the far more important issues of scientific advancement, baby genomes, and Down Syndrome... and how having too much information forecasts dangerous change in our culture's moral and ethical standards.

As a prelude: Wayne and I like having little tea/coffee breaks on weekend afternoons or weeknight evenings after work and school is done for the day, and we'll often listen to the charming strains of Al Mohler's voice over the internet waves as we sit and sip. Albert Mohler serves as the president of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville and produces a five minute podcast called The Briefing which provides "a daily analysis of news and events from a Christian worldview" (We highly recommend having a listen!).

On a recent podcast Al talked about baby genomes -- more specifically the considerable headway that genome researchers have made over the last few years. For those that don't know, a genome is the complete set of genetic material of an organism and contains all the biological information within DNA needed for that particular organism to live and develop and grow (that's my non-scientific definition so it's probably not exact... sorry guys). Knowing the contents of a baby's genome can tell us all kinds of things, from the baby's gender to different health issues. Ultrasounds and blood tests offer a great deal of information and these tests are often used to screen in utero babies for things like heart problems and Trisomy 21 (a.k.a. Down Syndrome).

In tests where results return as positive for something like Down Syndrome, parents have the option of continuing with more invasive testing and can proceed to amniocentesis, a test in which amniotic fluid is withdrawn from the uterus in order to examine the baby's chromosomes. Studies show us that only 2-3% of women proceed past the initial basic screening test, and out of those women, 70ish% of them choose to terminate their pregnancies after receiving a definitively positive diagnosis for Down Syndrome (got my info here). Yes, I know. Stats are stats, stats can be misleading, and stats don't always show what's really going on... but I think we can safely say that there are indeed a great deal of babies being aborted based on the results of diagnostic testing.

Now imagine if you could know everything about that wee little baby safe in the womb -- everything from future hair and eye colour, disease and cancer development, athletic and intelligence aptitude -- everything. An article in MIT's Technology Review tells us that this is very much a possibility in the very near future. New studies show that simple blood tests can be used to completely decode a baby's entire genetic makeup. Though there are obviously good and positive and wonderful ways to use this information (like identifying and treating diseases before they can progress), the weight of power we could wield is almost unimaginable. Our culture's moral and ethical responsibilities would be put to a serious test. In this world's eyes, having a baby with Down Syndrome is not ideal -- so given the exact genetic information, what would stop parents from trying to engineer their ideals in even finer detail? "Hey Bobby, yeah, you had three older siblings, but we terminated the pregnancies because the oldest had Down Syndrome, the second was predicted to be diagnosed with leukemia by the age of 16, and the third was just... well, let's just say he was going to be two bricks short of a load. Then you came! Genetic perfection. But, no pressure bud."

Yes, I know, that's a tad overdramatic. But let's be real here -- when this diagnostic testing comes into play, what is there in place to stop parents from aborting their genetically imperfect babies?

Absolutely nothing.

"Come on Suzanne," you say. "No one would abort their baby based on potential academic performance." My response? I seriously hope not. But I would also say that women have aborted their babies for far lesser reasons than that. It's a woman's right to choose, correct? And having a kid who couldn't figure out their multiplication table would just be so inconvenient, but more importantly, too hard on the poor kid. The loving mother is just saving him from academic humiliation, that's all. We wouldn't want to have our kids develop character through hardship or anything like that. That would be silly.

In a time where "being yourself" is so embraced, where diversity is worshipped like a god, where individuality is shoved down our throats, where the word "tolerance" is shot around like a paintball -- the irony of this situation makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. You can't have it both ways, world. You just can't.

The thought of what we could lose (and already have lost) is horrifying. I realize I'm projecting a state of mind onto our culture that hasn't yet come to fully exist, but I'm just going by what I've seen, and to me, it's just the natural unfolding of moral and ethical deterioration.

If we lived in a time and culture where imperfection wasn't so taboo and where convenience didn't outweigh the life of a child, I would be completely overjoyed by the furthering of MIT's research. Yes, I'm extremely glad for the lives it will save and the people it will help, but the potential for much worse is there too. I suppose the danger isn't really in having too much information -- but more so what we do with it.

And what would our Uncle Bill say about all this?

"I was born that way." 

And we wouldn't change him for anything in the world. 

what not to say when someone dies.

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It's been three years today since my Dad died. Ugh, that still sounds so terribly blunt. To be perfectly honest, I have a hard time believing that three years have already passed by. I can go right back to that moment in my basement the morning after we learned of his death, sitting beside my now-husband saying "I don't think I can do this -- I could barely get through last night. How am I supposed to get through the next week -- the next year -- the rest of my life -- with him just gone?"

This thought was running through all of our heads -- just this unbearable weight of grief that we didn't know what to do with or how to hold properly. And yet, three years have gone by and somehow we're all still here. Changed, yes, but here.

Through my experience with grief and death and funerals and freezers full of strange lasagna, I've learned a couple of things. Not many things -- but at least three things, which I'll share today. So, without further ado -- what not to say when someone dies and you're standing in line at the wake waiting to talk to the family and thinking about how terribly sad and awkward this is.

1) "Your life will be so different now."

I'll just say this right away -- it's going to take a great deal of self-discipline to not be sarcastic in this post. But come on. Do you really think I haven't realized that my life has been utterly and completely changed with the loss of one of the most important men in my life? I'm perfectly aware that this death has thrown my life onto a totally different track than the one I had anticipated for myself, but thanks for the clarification.

(Sorry. Couldn't quite avoid the sarcasm.)

2) "You're going to have a completely different group of friends now." 

Definitely something my mother did not need to hear while standing beside my dad's casket. Not only had she just lost her spouse, but someone felt it necessary to inform her that all her friendships with other couples would fall apart and her only option would be to hang out with other widows.

For the record, this hasn't happened.

3) "Oh, this is just so sad. But I know this couple who lost all four of their parents, one of their siblings, and their infant twins all within 2 months... and now they both have cancer."

No one actually said this exact thing to us, but you get my point. I know that there are people with worse stories than mine. I'm quite aware that my situation is like a Florida vacation compared to what others are struggling through. I'm genuinely sorry for those people, and hope dearly that they'll be able to get through their own dark valleys. But right now, at this moment, I'm standing across from my dad's lifeless body and being indirectly told to "suck it up" is not what I need to hear. Is this selfish? I'm not sure. But it's how I felt, and how I'm sure most people would feel were they in the same situation.

"Okay Suzanne," you're saying. "You've sassed us long enough. You must think you're pretty funeral-savvy. What are we supposed to say in the awkward sad lineup at the wake?"

Two words:

I'm sorry. 

That's it. That's all you need to say. It's that simple. Sure, there are other appropriate things to say and do (like give a bear hug! Mmm), but this is the easiest, most basic approach. There's a long line behind you. The family is exhausted emotionally and physically. A long conversation or an offer to help with something is best saved for another time and place. Going to the visitation is a quiet, simple way to show the grieving family that you love them and are hurting for them and want to support them. And that's it.

I'll be honest, though -- despite my funeral expertise, I still dread going to wakes and funerals because here's the thing -- I still sometimes can't think of what to say. This is why I can't hold bitterness in my heart towards the people who spoke thoughtlessly. It doesn't matter what you've been through, death is still hard, and it's still a challenge to know what to say and how to act. It's hard to know how to deal with it. It's hard to know how to get down to the level of grief that someone else is experiencing and find the right level of compassion and sympathy, even if you're someone who has been in that same place.

With this in mind, I swept the thoughtless comments aside and just kept the wisdom gained through those experiences for use when necessary. In short -- we're humans and we're terrible at loving each other well. Fortunately God sent Someone who could completely identify with our sorrow and grief and pain... because without Jesus I may have had a little less patience in that lineup. Thanks be to God for another year of His love, provision, and grace.

hard things.

I'm not sure if the world is experiencing more pain in general as time goes by, or if it's simply because I'm growing older and knowing more people and therefore hearing about and feeling and experiencing a greater deal of hurt and hardships -- most likely the latter. It's a part of being a future pastor's wife I hadn't really considered. We're getting to know a fair amount of people in many different communities, and Wayne has only been in seminary for one year -- I can't imagine how many people we'll know after 20-30-40 years in the business. Accompanied with knowing a greater number of people is the fact that we'll be sharing a greater amount of grief and suffering with those people.

We got our first taste of tragedy within our new communities this past summer. Our next door neighbours lost their baby girl at 38 weeks -- a seemingly healthy baby girl with a strong heartbeat who just faded away for no apparent reason.

We grieved and prayed with Charity's parents and struggled to understand the reason for such a short life when everything seemed so promising.

We have no answers for why these things happen, and probably won't for a very long time. Through the grief and pain that I've experienced I've learned that there aren't answers, only time to heal, rest in Jesus, and look to the day when the Lamb who is seated on the throne will come and make all things new (Rev. 21:5).

bonhoeffer. so intense.

Oh my! It's Dietrich Bonhoeffer! In my basement!

No it's not. Don't be silly.

I'm nearly done reading this book. It's a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and biographies are the best types of books, because they're real life and everything in them actually happened. Thrills, man. Thrills.

Now if you're reading a biography that happens to be terribly boring, I'm very sorry. Biographies should not be boring. Give it up and go read this one instead.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a pastor in Germany during World War II. He was determined to preach the gospel despite the dangers and threats posed by the Third Reich during Hitler's maniacal reign. This book, skillfully woven together by the brilliant Eric Metaxas, follows Bonhoeffer as he figures out his role in the awful war that ravaged not only Dietrich's beloved home country of Germany, but the entire world.

This guy becomes a spy. When one becomes a spy, generally no one save certain VIPs are aware that said person is a spy. When Bonhoeffer got his spy on in order to help further the plots to assassinate Hitler, he gave up his reputation, certain relationships, and safety.

You're needing inspiration? Read this. It's like getting a karate chop to your soul.

Weird analogy. Apologies. Now I'm going to go make a cake.

I AM your Father.

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Father's Day is coming up. For many it's a day of celebration and outdoor barbecues; a day of beer on the back deck while flipping burgers on the grill and enjoying a good chat with dad. For perhaps just as many, though, it's a day that highlights the pain and regret of broken relationships with fathers who have failed to meet expectations or just haven't been there (see above -- Darth Vader for a dad? That'd be tough). I'm somewhere in the middle -- Father's Day brings bittersweet thoughts of what was and what could have been had my dad been diagnosed properly almost three years ago. But I'm also incredibly thankful that I have a dad worth celebrating -- a father who was a father, if that makes any sense. He had good relationships with all six of his children and their significant others. He worked hard and made incredible sacrifices for all of us. He knew how to love us well.

And now he celebrates Father's Day with his Father -- the ultimate Father -- the I AM. And that's why Father's Day should be a glorious day of celebrating, no matter where your earthly father is at -- because our Almighty God and Father is always at our side. Amen and Amen!

fight the Lord's battles.

Wayne and I are at a beautiful place in our lives. We're almost six years into our relationship, and we've been married for nine months out of the total 72. We've settled into our wee little home well and spend our Sunday afternoons playing catch, our Saturday mornings eating pancakes, and our Friday nights watching British period drama. During the week I go to work so that we can keep buying groceries and filling up the gas tank, and Wayne goes to seminary so that he can keep learning about missional ministry and ancient Hebrew.

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It's a comfortable little world. Sure, Wayne's homework gets to be overwhelming at some points, and like any other seminary couple in the world, we'd feel better if our bank account was a little more full than it currently is, and obviously we miss being close to our families, but all things considered, we're in a really lovely place. But, like Proverbs says, there's a time for everything, and I'm pretty sure that it won't always be this way.

Our future lies in The Ministry. When I think of life in The Ministry, my mind cycles through a variety of scenarios. Sometimes I see us in a church in Manitoba standing beside a bunch of weathered old farmers singing Charles Wesley hymns in a clapboard sanctuary. Sometimes I see us in in a Toledo suburb making flowers out of coffee filters with a bunch of 6-year-olds in a red brick church, circa 1965. Or we could end up in some ghetto of Atlanta, getting our southern accents on and working with hardcore gangsters. Or we could even end up in Toronto, wading through the seas of atheism and relativism and pluralism and apathy... so many possible roads to take.

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But sometimes I see something completely different: Wayne and I, hand in hand, standing on the edge of a cliff, white-knuckled and wide-eyed, looking out into an enormous valley in which a fierce and bloody battle rages. There are moments when I feel a little thrill to think of jumping into the mess of this world, but a whole lot of the time I feel... how shall we say... a leeeeeetle freaked out.

Charles Spurgeon always makes me feel better. He writes,

"We may feel in these days that we are losing the battle and unless the Lord Jesus shall lift His sword we do not know what may become of the church of God in our time; but let us be courageous and bold.  Seldom  has there been a time like this as biblical Christianity trembles on the brink of capitulation to pluralism and empty religious routine... The Savior is, by His Spirit, still on earth; let this encourage us. He is always ever in the middle of the fight, and therefore the outcome of the battle is not in doubt... Turn your anxious gaze from the battle below, where, enshrouded in smoke, the faithful fight in garments rolled in blood... The battle is not yours but God's."

I am not a brave warrior. The girl who shudders at the sight of a spider is not a warrior. But thank the Almighty that Jesus is... and that's what will give us the courage to jump off our cliff of seminary life comfort and into the chaos below. 

on being a PW.

We've been going to our church here in Michigan for about 7 months, but we're still running into people in the congregation whom we have not yet formally met. This past Sunday I was able to meet a few new people, and one older gent I was talking to was delighted to learn that my husband was in seminary on the journey to become a pastor. "That's wonderful!" he said. "You're going to make a lovely pastor's wife, I can already tell."

The only way that this man could have been able to tell this was if he had been blessed with the gift of prophecy. I mean, we only talked for 3 minutes. How can you gauge a woman's level of Pastor's Wife Prowess by only talking with her for 3 minutes?

I have no idea what kind of a pastor's wife I'm going to be. I'm perfectly aware of the stereotypical PW who plays piano and runs the kid's programs and runs the youth programs and runs the <enter whatever term you want here> programs, who wears matching pantsuits with matching cardigans and drinks tomato juice and has naturally well-coiffed hair and home schools all the children with patience and kindness (truthfully, I don't think she actually exists). There's also the other end of the spectrum -- the rebel group of PWs who have absolutely nothing to do with their husband's calling whatsoever and tell their friends that he's a motivational speaker on weekends.

I don't like tomato juice. I can play Fur Elise on the piano really well -- but that's it. That's the only song I've learned. I'm a lousy teacher -- like, really lousy -- sorry, children's ministry. Sarcasm is my main teaching method... keep me away from the 5-year-olds. But I'm also not shying away from the fact that Wayne's going to be a pastor. I think it's a beautiful and rare honour to be called to ministry -- a challenging call, yes, but an amazing one. I'm going to try to embrace it, and grow in it, and gather all the wisdom and advice that I can... when I'm not feeling lazy, that is. Sigh.

There's more reasons why I'm not going to be the best pastor's wife in the world. Endless reasons. Just the fact that I come from the line of Adam means that I'm going to be a terrible pastor's wife. It's that annoying sin thing.

I recently received an email from the landlord who rented out her basement to me during my college days, and who also happens to be a pastor's wife. She was inquiring as to how we were doing, and wrote, "the wonderful thing about you being finished with school is that you can pray for [Wayne] more consistently and with lots of knowledge for his needs as he studies."

I think this is probably exactly what the best kind of PW is. I heard somewhere that a pastor's wife is the closest thing that a pastor will ever have to a pastor, if that makes sense. If I'm praying for him and his work constantly, keeping him accountable, asking him hard questions, and knowing that God is at work through me to benefit him, it won't matter if I can't put together the Christmas Pageant or accidentally tell a 4-year-old that her Sunday School craft is kickass. A pastor's wife is just that -- a wife. And by the grace of God, I pray that I'll remember that throughout our ministry together.

seminary dudes

This weekend we had a bunch of Wayne's classmates over for dinner on Saturday night. As you can probably imagine, having a bunch of seminary dudes hanging out in your living room for a couple hours leads to a fairly interesting evening.

The night began on a violent note when Wayne, seeing that a particular classmate of his was at the door, raced out of the back of the house and shanked* said classmate from behind. Without a knife, obviously. The evening progressed with less violence as the night wore on; conversation sprinkled with reformed theology, how sore they all were from playing seminary soccer, Karl Barth, and a couple good renditions of seminary professor impersonations. A sampling of some random quotes throughout the night:

"Jurgen Moltmann? Are you kidding? I wrote an amazing paper on Jurgen Moltmann."

"I am going to slap you."

"Come down to my library and I will convert you to John Stott."

"You commentary hoarder!"

"Dude. Awesome God story."

"Are you mocking me?"

"I can't wait til you're a pastor. I'm gonna come to your church and liturgically dance all the way down the centre aisle."

I'm very certain that none of the guys present will change up their pastoral calling for liturgical dance lessons, and I'm glad of that. It's a big comfort to know that there are young men around who are passionate about the gospel and are preparing to leap into that scary land of ministry, ready to lead the next generation in celebrating our salvation... while shanking each other from behind.

*shanked: Prison slang for getting stabbed with a homemade knife. In the young seminary man's case, it is perhaps more suitably described as sneaking up behind the victim and pretending to stab said victim. A great deal of manly yelling and shouting is required.

easter, a goddess, paganism, and Jesus. yay!

I recently found out that the term "Easter" has nothing to do with Jesus. Its roots are in Anglo-Saxon paganism and was originally the name of a goddess of the dawn who was celebrated during the month of April. The goddess faded in popularity over time, but the name stuck. We celebrate the fact that Jesus died and rose to buy us back from sin and death, then give the celebration a name that blatantly illustrates the history of our idolatry, rebellion, and sin. Seems like an odd pairing.

It's certainly thought-provoking, though, and an excellent reminder about who we are and where we're coming from. We're humans who look to anything but heaven for answers to our questions and help for our problems. We're well-practiced at worshipping ourselves, our successes, our possessions. We push Jesus out of the way until He's convenient. He knows all this. He knew all this 2,000 years ago, but He still went through the pain, torture, rejection and humiliation of that crucifixion. Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Have a blessed Resurrection Sunday, all.