While I Was Sleeping...

While I was sleeping off the meds from my big tumble this week, Zondervan launched the Spanish version of our book The Infertility Companion (published in partnership with the Christian Medical Association). The Spanish title is Sosten en Nuestra Infertilidad.

This gives us the opportunity to reach a much wider audience, as more and more Spanish-speaking couples are pursuing medical treatment for infertility.

If you want, you can read a Christian Book Reviews write-up (English) about the book.

Also, Wal-Mart announced this week that they plan to carry both The Infertility Companion and our other recent release, The Contraception Guidebook, along with two other titles from Zondervan/CMA in a four-book floor display beginning in January. This is great news--which is the subdued, cool, professional way of saying, "Yipee!"

The Contraception Guidebook: Options, Risks, and Answers for Christian Couples is not just for couples trying to decide how many kids to have. It's for anyone who considers the human embryo to have the full rights of personhood from the one-cell stage, as some methods of contraception put the embryo at risk. That means couples, counselors, pastors, parents of engaged couples, voters.

Here are links to a couple of reviews of the contraception book, in case you're interested:

CBN review

Dallas Morning News review (scroll to last review on page)

So, let me get this straight. I rest, God works.

Right?

Not a bad system!

What the Surgeon Said

We met with the surgeon this morning, and here's what he told us:

1) It’s a nasty break. The two ends of the broken (severed) bone are more than 2 cm apart.

2) If he operates, it means putting in a rod/plate to connect it all up. If he does that, we risk cutting off the blood supply and muscle to the bone. It also means a much longer recovery. And it means all the risks that go with incisions and anesthesia. Not to mention scarring.

3) If he doesn’t operate, I will have a bump where that bone sticks out. But my body will probably eventually create its own personalized funky z-shaped piece of bone to connect up the two pieces. (The human body is a marvel, is it not?)

(Considering that, as one of my coworkers said, “The spaghetti-strap look has never been big on our campus,” I can live with a bump.)

4) Sometimes these injuries fail to heal as they should. Another x-ray in about three weeks should tell us how it’s doing. If badly, we can relook at operating.

So we opted to wait and see. And we pray for my body to heal itself.

In the meantime I’ll lay off the driving for at least another week. And I have more soreness today, so I’m popping more meds to stay comfy.

My hubby is off work to hang with me for another day. (Actually, he’s in the garage refinishing an antique. He left me with a walkie-talkie to use if I need him.) I’ll have to work out transportation so I can teach next week, but one day at a time….

I am totally content with taking a period of enforced rest. I have more books than I could possibly read as well as Netflix movies to entertain me. Today the mail brought the new documentary “Beyond the Gates of Splendor.”

I told my assistant editor I might also study some Greek. In response she introduced me to “Lucky” magazine, which I suspect was her tactful way of saying, “Get a life.”

My friends do a good job of helping me stay sane. Or perhaps I should say “steering me toward sanity”?

Falling into the Arms of Love

It happened in an instant, yet it took a long time as instants go. I felt it all in slow motion. One moment I stood in heels at the top of the steps; the next, I tumbled down headfirst.

To keep from slamming my noggin into the wall at the end of the landing, I ducked.

And I broke my collar bone. Banged up my shoulder. Maybe fractured a couple of ribs, too, though they couldn’t tell for sure.

It’s not that I failed to hold on. I had my hand on the rail. But my heel caught in the carpet, and my computer bag, slung over my left shoulder, lunged forward when I tripped. I might have recovered my balance had it not been for that heavy load swinging, cooperating with gravity to pull me forward and slam me down.

Our daughter, Alexandra, was playing in the back yard. Usually at 5:10 p.m., the time it happened, she and I have the place to ourselves. Any other day I would have been inside alone, but my mother-in-law, who had come to help with homework, was sitting at the kitchen table reading when she heard a scream and ran to my rescue.

I couldn’t get up on my own.

My husband usually arrives home around six, but he had left the office a little early to get here in time to cover childcare so I could drive into Dallas and deliver a 90-minute lecture on bioethics.

You can bet that didn’t happen.

When I called him, he estimated his time of arrival at about ten minutes.

While I writhed and waited for him, I scrambled to contact the prof whose class I was supposed to teach. When I dialed the school’s main number, I got a recording. Another number I tried brought that squalling signal you get from a fax machine ready to receive. Finally I reached him.

When Gary arrived home, I took one look at his face and fell in love all over again.

“Where do you want me to take you?” he asked, as if plotting a dinner date.

“Baylor. Downtown.”

“It takes longer to get there. Why not Mesquite Memorial?”

The place that misdiagnosed our daughter’s broken elbow? No way.

He drove me to the Baylor ER while Grammy cared for Alexandra.

I could feel the break; my bone sticking up gave us a pretty good indication that I had more than a sprain. But what evoked my real fear was the pain when I exhaled. It hurt to breathe out. I hoped I didn’t have a rib poking into my lung.

The thirty-minute drive, filled with tears, moans on every exhale, and pleadings for Jesus to “have mercy on me,” felt like it took a month. Then we walked into the ER and found a crowd of about thirty people ahead of us. Desperation set in. I imagined myself sitting there for three hours.

Please, no!

The triage nurse asked what happened.

I told her I’d fallen down the steps.

To my amazement she looked me in the eye and said, “I’m so sorry” before going on to ask my name and insurance coverage. I was a person, not a case, not a shoulder injury, not a potential punctured lung.

Nothing makes me want to bawl like a little empathy.

Keep it together, Keep it together. I mentally repeated Eddie Murphy’s lines from Bowfinger.

The nurses took one look at me all wabbly, breathing fast, moaning, with a right shoulder a full inch higher than my left (they even said so aloud!), and they ushered me right into a room. Then I didn’t know if I should rejoice that I got to the head of the line or despair that whatever was wrong looked serious.

But I needn’t have confused getting a room with getting attention. Silly me. Still, it beat waiting out in the lobby.

Over the course of the next six hours they shot mobile x-rays of my collar bone. Broken. Royally.

Then they took x-rays of my chest and drew blood for some tests to make sure I was up for a CT scan. I was.

I drank the syrupy grape-flavored metal stuff designed to light up my innards for the machine. Gag me with a pitchfork.

The nurse led me in for the scan. The tech shot some pictures, then put iodine in my IV. It felt like a hot flash. No, I’m not old enough to know what that feels like. But I’ve been on enough fertility drugs to have experience with them anyway.

Once the medical team gave me the all-clear in the absence of internal bleeding, they pumped me full of painkillers (finally!) and gave me something to make me loopy. (As if I needed help.) Trust me, it worked.

They saw no cracked ribs, though they said I might still have a few. They recommended rest. Lots of rest and meds for the pain.

I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the orthopedic surgeon. I have no idea what the days ahead will look like. I can feel the bone sticking up, so I predict anesthesia in my future.

But amazingly I rested well in the night and have had manageable pain today, thanks to the marvels of modern pharmacology.

That’s the medical side.

It gets better.

The men’s Bible study, meeting at the church when my husband called from the ER to tell somebody, headed on down to hang out with us.

The prayer chain sent out email messages. People really prayed.

When we called home from the ER at 9 last night to say we’d be a while, Grammy said, “Alexandra is in bed already, and I’m lying next to her on her floor.” I didn’t have time to stop and ponder such grandparently love because she added. “She says to tell Mommy she loves her and that the kitties send their love, too.”

Wow, the cats love me. Who knew?

Today my sis called to say I could match the purple girl on Willy Wonka. (She always provides the warped sort of comfort that would leave other people aghast, but which I am twisted enough to appreciate.)

By 2 PM a meal arrived—apparently the first of a bunch that will arrive through Sunday.

People sent emails. Some added silly photo attachments to cheer me. Others phoned. My niece baked me a cake.

The seminary chaplain called and his prayer made me laugh and cry…laugh because he prayed that such things are supposed to happen only to old women; cry because through his words I felt the presence and tender love of Jesus.

The church is His body—His arms hugging and feeding and loving. Our brothers and sisters in Christ have loved us well, showing up as “Jesus with skin on.” We are not alone.

Yes, I have taken a nasty fall...right into the arms of love.

The Orchard of Women: An Allegory

This month's Celebration of new Christian fiction called for a fiction excerpt or short story. So I posted a story I wrote after taking a class in "Women of the Renaissance." That semester I discovered Christine de Pizan, whose father served in the French king's court and who sneaked her a classical education. Christine went on to write a defense of women, City of Ladies, writing in the tradition of Augustine's City of God and drawing on stories from history, mythology, and the Bible. Below is the allegory I patterned after her work.

I jolted upright, my heart pounding.

Only a nightmare....

I fell back into my goose-down pillow and exhaled. Wiping my brow with the back of my hand, I focused aching eyes on the ornate panels in the wall above my bedchamber.

There they were again. Those stories--the ones in the paintings. They troubled me even more than my dream.

When I pulled myself upright again, my eyes fell on my marriage chests nearby. I sighed. There was no getting away from the many scenes, all bearing the same message.

The artwork above and about depicted the rape of the Sabine women and the story of Nastagio degli Onesti. They were supposed to remind me, and every good wife for that matter, that a woman exists for her husband.

Since the day of my remarriage following five years of widowhood in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred seventy-eight, I had determined to make these scenes the objects of my daily inspiration and meditation. Having become accustomed to certain freedoms as a widow, I had been struggling to adjust to being a wife again in these three months since the marriage procession.

I had fallen asleep pondering the scenes. Initially I fancied myself bringing peace between two groups, as the Sabine women had done. Yet suddenly I had been torn from the safety of my parents’ care and dragged to a new world, taken prisoner. Before I awoke, I had realized that, as with the Sabine women, my prison was the home of a new husband.

Now I looked upon the paintings with new questions. I had sometimes dared to allow myself these thoughts, but I usually suppressed them. Yet I couldn't douse the inner fire they had lit. I had no energy with which to fight, and my mind yielded to doubt: I had to know why so many godly men had spoken so frequently and falsely against women.

Why are the women of Tuscany disallowed from owning our own property? I wondered.

I also wanted to know why a man could strike his wife with a pole until she bled as long as what he had in his hand was smaller than the width of his thumb. And why did the laws bar women from bearing witness in court? And why weren't women allowed to be educated?

I considered that perhaps it was too dangerous. (They say we are more fickle and faithless than men.) Yet my dream raised the questions again: Is violence before and within marriage acceptable, so long as it leads to a desired outcome? I knew the admonition of St. Paul that we are to overcome evil with good. Yet it seemed to me that this was calling evil good.

Once I allowed myself to ask a few, hundreds of questions followed. When I considered what I knew of women and what men believed about us, I found the two irreconcilable. "Perhaps I perceive the world wrongly," I thought, having been taught since childhood that females are by nature more susceptible to deception than men. Like a fish unable to feel his own wetness, perhaps I too was deceived, unable to see clearly because of my womanhood.

Yet this thought brought no satisfactory solution, for just as I began to wonder if I were deluding myself, numerous circumstances came to mind in which women’s perceptions had been equal to or superior to men’s. Had not Mary of Bethany anointed our Lord’s feet for burial when His disciples had failed to comprehend that He had chosen to die?

My heart picked up its pace again. I pressed my palms against my temples, wishing to cease all thinking. Yet I couldn’t stop. If God, in infinite wisdom, made woman in His image and declared creation “very good” after she arrived, how could woman have innate flaws, as we had been told?

I was conscious that the Almighty knew my every thought, and fear led me to pray.

“Oh, God, I am a woman of little faith who often doubts what I’m told. Even if all my senses contradict your word, I ask for the grace to believe You. Help me to be like the Virgin who, upon hearing she would conceive by the Holy Spirit, accepted Your will joyfully—unlike Zechariah, her cousin’s husband, who disbelieved upon hearing…”

I swallowed hard. My own prayer had added to my unbelief. Did not the Mother of our Lord have more faith than Zechariah when faced with a miracle conception?

I threw my quilt over my head and wiped a tear that had rolled onto my jaw.

“Have mercy!” I begged.

I do not know how long I lay in that state. But after a time, suddenly I felt in my body that I was healed of my infirmity. Sensing the approach of another, I opened my eyes and beheld a woman standing before me. Robed in angelic garb, she stood before me surrounded by light, and she held in her hand an apple sapling. I trembled and hid my face at the sight of her.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ve come to help you build an orchard. My name is Botania.”

An orchard? I pulled back the covers and looked at her.

She set her tree next to my bed, took my hand, and helped me sit. “We'll pattern our Orchard of Ladies after the Orchard of Eden.”

“The Garden…?”

She shook her head, but her eyes shone. “Before it was a garden, it was an orchard: ‘Out of the ground Yahweh Elohim made every tree grow' … 'The tree of life was also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil….’ ”

I thought of that last tree and groaned. “I know. You’re here to remind me of Eve’s sin so I will know better than to question— ”

Botania held up her palm. “In that orchard, ‘The Lord made the man from dust,' but the woman was made from human flesh—made in God’s image. And 'God brought the woman to the man' and together declared them ‘very good.’ The man’s name was associated with earth, but the woman’s name was life itself. She was the crown of creation.”

“But she was inferior …”

“Indeed, she was not!" Botania's eyes flashed fury. "She was the man’s equal in every way, made to complement him.”

“Then why is she called his helper?”

“Did you not pray asking God to help you?”

She had a point. I nodded.

“Does that make the Almighty your inferior?”

I wanted to say that was not what I was implying, but she continued.

“Job was called a helper of the helpless. Was he less powerful or able than those he wished to aid? What the man lacked, the woman supplied. She was his indispensable companion.”

I didn’t hear much of what she said after “Job,” remembering that Job’s wife had cursed God while her husband held fast. Yet the story about Mary of Bethany still haunted me.

Botania motioned for me to put on my garments. Then she picked up her apple sapling.

Eyeing the tree she bore and reminded of the woman's problem with the fruit, I couldn’t suppress my wonderment. “How was the woman in the garden—er, the orchard—deceived, if not due to an inferior nature?”

“There was nothing inferior in her nature. Both the man and the woman chose to sin, and both suffered consequences from their actions. She had a free will, just as the man did.”

I had never heard of such a thing!

“If the woman was and is truly responsible for the entire fall,” she went on, “why did the apostle write that ‘In Adam all sin’? And how was the race redeemed but through the Last Man—the Seed of a woman?”

I couldn't answer.

Seeing me speechless, she suggested we get to work.

I walked over to my cassone and removed my garments. Yet I halted when the nude on the inside cover panel caught my eye. “But didn’t Eve tempt Adam to sexual sin?”

Botania shook her head. “It had nothing to do with that.” She looked at the ground, seemingly remembering the event. Then she lifted her eyes to meet mine. “The woman had a distorted view of God. She discounted the privileges Yahweh had given, for one thing. The Lord had said, ‘You may freely eat of every tree.’ Yet the woman’s words to the serpent removed the generosity. She said they could eat, but that the very touching of it would be lethal. She also minimized the penalty. The Almighty said, 'You will surely die,' but she said merely, 'We will die.' Her mistrust of the Holy One—not her sexuality nor any innate weakness—led to her shame. Remember, before their sin, the man and woman were naked and unashamed.”

“Why then was the woman cursed with a voracious sexual desire, if not as punishment for sexual seduction?”

I thought I heard her chuckle, but I couldn't be sure. She was behind me, lacing the back of my dress.

“First of all, she was not cursed. God cursed the ground when the man and woman sinned; Cain was the first cursed human.”

A mere technicality. “Her consequences then…”

“...had nothing to do with sexual desire. The man and woman were both to rule the earth and fill it. Their penalties related to their joint tasks. The woman’s desire was in wanting to dominate the man. And ever since that day he has ruled her. Once sin entered their relationship, the terrible power struggle began.”

“And it is God’s will that the man win….”

“Indeed, no!” She spun me around by the shoulders so I faced her.

"No?" I asked, stunned at the force of such boldness, especially in a woman. Especially in a holy woman.

She seemed perplexed by my reasoning. “Yahweh described what sin would do to their relationship. But don't mistake his description for an ideal. Didn't you take medicine this morning to treat your illness?"

I nodded. The concoction had tasted like sewage, and left an even worse aftertaste.

"Do your gardeners pull weeds or accept them as God’s will?"

I saw her point. Just because something was a part of the curse didn't mean we had to embrace it.

"God created men and women as equals in His image to rule the earth side-by-side. The domination of one over the other is sin. He predicted it, but it's still wrong.”

Everything in me longed to believe her words, yet it felt rebellious to do so. I pressed fingers against my palm to be sure I was truly awake. I wondered if my illness had left me delirious.

“If the man is supposed to rule the woman, as you suppose,” she continued, “how is it that in the most intimate part of their lives—the one-flesh relationship—the apostle Paul commands them both to yield to the other's authority?”

I had by now finished dressing and moved to the basin to wash my face.

Botania, her posture as straight as a statue, stood with a towel in her hand, ready to assist me.

I agreed that it was an odd hierarchy that gave husbands and wives authority over each other’s bodies. Her words made sense, but each explanation only raised more questions.

“Perhaps that is the one exception,” I said, “seeing that their purpose in marriage is to fill the earth.”

Botania looked at me with patient eyes, but she spoke with a firmness. “The duty the apostle describes relates to ongoing needs, not to filling the earth.”

I gasped. “Meeting needs?”

“Consider Song of Solomon—that lovely anthology of love poems—”

“His great allegory?” I interrupted.

She considered my words for a moment and shook her head. “Even if his Canticles were an allegory, what meaning has allegory if it has no truth on a literal level? It is the very foundation of that truth that allows recognition of an allegory’s meaning.”

Again, she had a point. My experience told me men had great needs, though I had been told that since Eve’s tragedy, women had been given the more voracious sexual desire.

“In God’s holy book we find an exhortation to physical intimacy apart from procreation. And in Solomon's collection, the bride is as assertive as her husband.”

I know my eyes must have widened. “Surely you can’t mean what I think you’re implying….”

She nodded.

I felt a smile cross my face.

Botania glanced down at the sapling she held, and I followed her eyes. “In Solomon’s love poetry," she said, "the beloved tells her lover, ‘Under the apple tree I awakened love.’ She meant sexual love when she spoke those words. And awakening physical love in the right context is a good and holy thing.”

Seeing me again at a loss for words, Botania motioned toward the garden entrance. “Let’s go plant this.”

I led the way to the outer door . Yet when I opened it, a new world greeted me. Where my terrace had once been, two women had planted rows of trees. And some tress had already grown to adulthood.

Botania took me to meet one of the women. She was bent down planting palms.

As we approached, the woman stood. “My name is Subpoena,” she said, with a slight bow. Then her eyes met mine. “I’ve come to help you plant the orchard and to answer your questions—the ones about women owning property and serving as witnesses.”

I cast my eyes to the ground, ashamed that I had been so bold as to question.

But Subpoena lifted my chin with her index finger.“Your observations were just,” she said. “Consider that women were the primary witnesses of Our Lord’s birth, death, burial and resurrection. And what about the Samaritan woman?”

“The immoral one…”

“Indeed she was not!”

I stepped back.

“Not until the end,” Subpoena said. “You know a woman cannot divorce her husband, nor would she think of doing so, unless she wants to starve. The woman of Samaria had faced desertion five times, and the man providing for her at the time she met our Lord had refused to marry her. So who was more immoral—that one woman or the six men who failed to show her loyal love?” She looked at me with piercing eyes.

I nodded timidly. “I see.”

Subpoena got back down on her knees and resumed her work, speaking as she went. “The Samaritan is the only woman to whom Our Lord and Savior ever stated directly that He was the Messiah. And consider what a witness she was! She ran and told an entire village of men that the Anointed One had come—though sadly everyone later made it a point to say ‘We don’t believe on account of you; we have seen for ourselves.’ ”

Subpoena handed me a garden tool. Side by side we worked as she continued.

“Was not Junia among the apostles? What a witness she must have been! And what about the Queen of the south, of whom our Lord spoke? He said she would rise up in the future and condemn His generation for failing to see that one greater than Solomon had come. Can you imagine? A woman will rise up and testify against an entire generation!”

We continued on in silence as I pondered these words. When we had planted the last sapling, Subpoena got up, brushed herself off, and motioned for me to follow.

I went with her through the grove until we came to a clearing. There I could see that her palm trees lined the orchard’s perimeter.

“Deborah, the prophetess and judge, used to sit under a palm tree so all Israel could come to her for judicial decisions.”

“How wonderful to be the exception God uses when a good man can’t be found,” I said wistfully.

Apparently this was not the right thing to say.

Subpoena's eyes looked at me from beneath furrowed brows. “If that’s what you think, you must not know about Hulduh.”

I'm certain my eyes gave away my ignorance.

“Hulduh was another prophetess—and a married one, lest you think Yahweh spoke only to and through virgins. Hulduh was keeper of the wardrobe in the days of King Josiah. At that time a scribe found a copy of God’s Law that had long been hidden. After reading it, Josiah commanded his priest, scribe, and servant to go inquire of the Lord. During that time Jeremiah the prophet lived near Jerusalem, as did Zephaniah, but the king’s men sought out Hulduh for God’s answer. In fact one of the men in that delegation was Jeremiah’s own father! So you see, God uses women even when good men are available.”

“Never was a woman more gladly corrected!” I exclaimed.

“Canon law has been hard on women,” Subpoena acknowledged. “But if canon law has been hard, civil law has been even more hostile. Zelophehad’s five daughters wondered that same thing you did about women owning property.”

“Zelophehad’s…what?”

“Zelophehad’s daughters lived during the time of Moses. Their father died leaving behind five females and no male heir. So Zelophehad’s daughters demanded that Moses give them a possession. And when Moses brought their case to the Lord, do you know what the Almighty said? He said ‘They are right!’”

I stood with my mouth agape. “I...I confess … I have never heard of these women.”

“And how could you unless you were allowed to learn God's law?"

“But a woman’s place—”

Subpoena shook her head. “Where is a woman's place? Indeed! Where was Mary of Bethany when her sister, Martha, was preparing a meal? Mary sat at the feet of the Rabbi obtaining an education. And which one of the two women did our Lord say had chosen the better part?”

“Mary. The who had once been immoral…”

Subpoena folded her arms across her chest and exhaled deeply. “What makes you say that?”

“...from whom seven demons had been cast out.”

Subpoena thought long and hard. “First of all, demon-possession is never said to be associated with immorality. But the Mary of whom you speak—Mary Magdelene—was from Magdela. Mary of Bethany was from Bethany, as were her siblings, Martha and Lazarus. Mary of Bethany was not the one from whom seven demons were cast out, nor do we have any reason to believe she was immoral. Yet that is secondary to my point. The Lord defended the woman who learned God's law over the one who cooked and served. If a woman’s job is to cook and clean and a man’s job is to learn, how is it that the Lord Himself insisted otherwise? And what a pupil Mary was! She showed insight superior to that of the twelve disciples. Remember what a sharp rebuke Saint Peter received for telling Jesus to avoid Jerusalem?”

I nodded.

“The Lord said to him, “Get behind me, Satan!” Yet Mary of Bethany anointed Jesus’ feet for burial while He still lived. Mary understood Jesus was going to die and be raised. And The Lord predicted that wherever the good news would be preached, what Mary did would be told. Later, at the tomb, the angel told the women, “He is not here—He is risen—just as He said.”

I could not help but stare as I pondered these things. Eventually Subpoena left me standing there looking up at the palm trees.

Before long I heard footsteps. I turned to see who was approaching and saw a third woman. She bore in her arms a balsam sapling.

“I’m Fidelity,” she said pleasantly. “Please join me.”

I walked with her until we entered a round clearing in the center of the orchard. There she knelt and planted her tree. When she had finished, she stood and brushed dirt off of her garments.

“Now, about that other question you had…”

“I have so many!”

“The one about women being fickle and faithless.”

“Ah …” Had it been a question? It was more my own observation, or at least what I had been told.

She motioned for me to follow, and we proceeded until we found a group of balsam trees ready for planting. She handed me one of her tools and we proceeded.

“Think about the great lengths to which Tamar went to carry on the name of her dead husband—who was, by the Almighty’s own assessment, an evil man,” Fidelity said. “First Tamar became the wife of her brother-in-law, Onan. But Onan was a disloyal brother, showing his disregard for the deceased by spilling his seed on the ground. That cruel act brought God’s judgment. Later Tamar dressed as a harlot to seduce her father-in-law, Judah, in a final attempt to carry on her husband’s name. And do you remember what Judah said of her when her deed was discovered?"

“She is more righteous than I.”

“Correct! And what of Rahab? The harlot kept her word to Israel’s spies, and in doing so saved all her family members. And then there’s Bathsheba. What was she doing when the king spotted her?”

“Taking a bath.”

“And not just any bath! She was obeying God’s law by ceremonially cleansing herself after menstruation. When the prophet Nathan brought the rebuke for adultery, he did not go to Bathsheba—he went to David, who committed adultery and then murdered to cover his own sin."

I wanted to ask a question about women and menstruation, but she continued before I had a chance.

“And Bathsheba’s daughter-in-law, Ruth—did she not marry a man much older than herself to show loyal love to her deceased husband, thereby guaranteeing provision for her bitter mother-in-law? What great loyalty she showed him, even after his death!”

“Yes.” I had marveled about that myself.

“All these women—along with the Holy Virgin—are in the genealogy of our Lord.”

Choosing my words carefully, I said, “Of course all of what you say is true. But if Bathsheba bathed because menstruation made her unclean, doesn’t that indicate her inferiority? Why are we not allowed in the church when we are menstruating if not because our womanhood offends God?”

Fidelity shook her head. “Remember the woman with a twelve-year menstrual flow who received the highest commendation from our Lord?”

“Yes,” I said, recalling she was the only woman our Lord ever called “daughter.” “She was healed from the uncleanness associated with her punishment for being a woman...”

“You must not confuse ritual uncleanness with sinfulness. This is a grave error,” Fidelity insisted.

My furrowed brow must have told her I was confused again.

“In the days of Moses the nations around God’s people used bodily fluids in their worship—semen, blood. But the people of God were to be different: ‘Be holy as I am holy,’ they were told. To be holy meant they were to be set apart, unlike those around them. Those who bled as well as those who had recently had relations were considered unclean for a time, but that did not mean they were sinful. It meant they were ritually impure. Foods and fungi also fell into the categories of clean and unclean.”

“But what about a woman who delivered a baby girl? She was unclean for twice as long as one who gave birth to a boy.” I was fairly sure I had her there. Surely the double penalty proved girls’ inferiority. “Our fathers and mothers rejoice when a son is born, but not when they have a daughter. The Scriptures themselves teach us males are better in the sight of God.”

There was a firmness in Fidelity’s voice. “Often in the first few weeks after birth when a mother nurses, her body passes to her baby girl a substance that makes the child have a discharge. Bodily fluids baby boys would never have. The law relates to ritual purity, not relative worth!”

“I see.” I thought for a moment. “But isn’t a physically weaker body inferior to a stronger one?”

“Allow me to answer your question with a question,” Fidelity said. “Did not Saint Paul ask three times to be delivered from a physical infirmity only to be told that God’s power was perfected in weakness?”

I nodded.

“And while Saint Peter does say that women are weaker, his phrase ‘weaker vessel’ has the idea of being less empowered, more vulnerable physically. Thus Saint Peter admonishes husbands in their new-found faith to treat their wives with consideration.”

“To have pity on them…”

Fidelity smiled and sighed. “No. Wives are fellow heirs, and thus to be treated with honor.”

“If women are such fellow heirs and indispensable partners, why are men considered “madmen if they think true prudence or good counsel lies in the female brain”?

“Why indeed? Did not the Almighty try to warn Pontius Pilate against crucifying our Lord through the wisdom of his wife? Pilate himself should teach all husbands that a man who refuses to listen to his wife’s good counsel is an utter fool. Pilate seemed to think he could ignore his wife’s wisdom and wash his hands of all responsibility, but he was mistaken. And clearly the good counsel of women extends beyond their management of the home. Think of Deborah, who told Barak that if she went with him in battle, a woman would get the honor. What great humility made her think of his honor! And indeed, her words showed her to be a prophet, for a woman did receive the honor. Jael drove a tent peg through the brains of Sisera as he slept in her tent. So Deborah and Jael showed the bravery in their nature. It takes more valor for a woman than for a man to enter battle, for if men capture a woman…”

I thought of my cassoni with the Rape of the Sabines that had been my meditation in recent days. “But both men and women are vulnerable to rape…”

“Certainly,” she agreed. “But not by a woman."

I fell silent.

“And what of Esther—who used the myrrh of the balsam tree to prepare herself for a pagan king? Having won the favor of Ahasuerus, she risked her life to save her people. And what’s warfare if not risking all for a higher good? When Saint Paul urged Christians to put on the full armor of God and stand for battle, did he address his words only to men? So you see, women are called daily to enter the greatest battle of all—the battle of good against evil.”

Fidelity, seemingly satisfied with both her work and her arguments, stood and brushed the dirt off her garments.

I did the same and glanced up to see Subpoena and Botania approaching.

Botania made a wide, sweeping motion with her arm. "Is it not altogether lovely?"

I followed her gaze and gasped as I drank in the sight of perfectly symmetrical lines of trees. The scent of apple, palm, and balsam wafted through the air.

“Most honored ladies,” Fidelity said, “may God be praised, for our Orchard of Ladies is complete. And may all women who love justice, honor, and valor find refuge in this place. It is only a temporary orchard of refuge until that day when all wrongs are made right. Our first parents were not cast out forever, but in mercy were sent from the orchard before they ate from the tree of life, lest they be confirmed forever in their sinful states.”

Subpoena added, “A woman was present at the first tree—in Eden. And women were present at the Second Tree—on which the Root of Jesse was nailed for our transgressions.”

Hearing this we grew silent out of our great reverence.

Then Botania gazed out on the newly planted orchard with a faraway look in her eye. “This is just a resting place until that Final Orchard shall appear—about which it is said, ‘Blessed are those who wash their robes that they may have the right to the tree of life.’"

Then in unison, with joy lifting our voices we proclaimed together, "Peace to all who enter here!”

A Few Thoughts on Writing

On the Value of Fiction
After reading our book, False Positive, a woman who directed a university healthcare program said she did something she thought she’d never do—she changed her mind about abortion.

She had known many facts about abortion, yet it took empathizing with a character for her to really listen to what she had always considered “the other side.”

Non-fiction explores what is true; fiction explores truth. The length of a novel allows a writer to break out of the sound-bite approach to complex issues and show the various shades of gray. If she does it skillfully, the reader even loses himself in the process of being edu-tained.

I find it ironic that many of the same people who argue that fiction is frivolous teach their children Aesop’s Fables (“Don’t cry wolf!”) and retell with affection the plot of “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

On How Movies Have Influenced My Writing
Movies have influenced my writing by teaching me some principles of storytelling:

Babette’s Feast: A lovable character can hold interest every bit as well as fast-moving action.

Star Wars: When determining when a story is set, the writer isn’t limited only to past, present, and future. A futuristic story can happen long ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Jane Austen films: The message (women should be able to inherit, own land, marry whom they please) should submit to the story, not vice versa.

A Beautiful Mind; Sixth Sense: The reader respects the storyteller who crafts a big-surprise ending (especially if said reader realizes he or she should have seen it coming).

Titanic: When people already know how the story turns out (the ship sinks), an intriguing subplot (where’s the necklace?) can keep the pages turning.

On What Editors Have Taught Me
... to highlight “am,” “are,” “is,” “was,” “were,” and “being,” and to replace these with stronger verbs. One editor allowed zero forms of “be” verbs. (How to say Darth Vader = Luke’s dad still has me stumped.)

...to nix “with” phrases. (“She looked at him with a smile” becomes “She smiled at him” or even, when possible, “She smiled.”)

...to cross out “I remember” and dive right into the memory unless I want a level of distance between the reader and my story. So, for example, “I remember my dad taking me to Central Park when I was six” becomes “When I was six, my dad took me to Central Park.”

...to verify that every “this” has a clear antecedent. Then to verify again.

....to limit the use of couplets (guide and protect; simple and clean; joy and peace) to two per day.

....to use odd rather than even numbers of phrases in a series (“I came, I saw, I conquered” [3] works better than “I came, I saw, I wanted, I conquered” [4]).

One editor also taught me that I can’t have a character saying “She kicked my butt at handball” in a CBA novel. Good thing she told me....

On Self-publishing
In my case, despite having authored a stack of traditional books, I have twice engaged in self-publishing.

When might self-publishing work better than a traditional publisher?

. When the product you want to get out there is for a niche market.
. When you need to get product out there more quickly than the typical book production cycle would allow.

A writer got booked to be on a panel for a national Christian radio show with about two months’ notice. For the point of view he was taking there were no books on the market that reflected the latest research. So we drafted one, sent it to a copy editor, wrote back cover copy, had a graphic designer do covers, applied for an ISBN number, priced printing options, and had it printed. We did every step ourselves. Niche market; fast turnaround, great marketing opportunity. We cut a deal with the radio producer so the show would sell our product and mention its availability on the air. We have recouped our costs and then some. A year later, we took the idea to a traditional house, and they bought it.

What are the pros and cons?

CONS:

Copy editing, book cover design, layout, ISBN number, ISBN bar code production—all the things the publisher would do for you, you must eitherdo for yourself or hire someone else to do.

You must do 100% of your own marketing.

Instead of receiving an advance, you fork over cash.

You have to find a place to store your extras unless you do a print-on-demand piece. Garages = humidity = curled pages. So the storage space needs to be inside.

PROS:

You have more control over every detail of the final product.

You have a product that probably would not otherwise exist that meets a specific need/demand.

If the product sells, you “cry all the way to the bank.”

Your book never has to go out of print.

Is there prejudice against those who self-publish? How can that be overcome?

Absolutely. But an excellent product that sells is all the vindication necessary. I like to think of “indy” book publishing as being a little like indy movie producing. People didn’t turn up their noses when Independent Artists released “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” They didn’t care who made it because it was so good.

What are the best method/companies/marketing tips/sales outlets?

www.lulu.com has excellent tutorials online so you can understand the process, even if you don’t publish with them.

I paid a lot to have ISBN labels made the first time around. The second time I found a place online where I could make my own for free, once I had the number: http://www.barcodesinc.com/generator/index.php. We incorporated the bar code into the back cover design rather than adding stickers to each copy of the book.

One more thing: Even the best writer/editor/copy editor needs an editor. Do not skimp on this step.

On Common Mistakes Beginning Writers Make

Grammar:
Failure of agreement in number
(My daughter’s teacher wrote this in the newsletter sent to parents today: “Please go over simple multiplication facts with your student. It is imperative they know their facts.”)

Punctuation:
Improper semi-colon use
Geographical confusion (commas and periods outside the closing quotation mark—in America, bad)

In both cases, writers need to learn their grammar and punctuation. Yet sometimes writers, especially beginners, feel unnecessarily bound to obey every last precept their English teachers taught them. William F. Buckley, in his book The Right Word, talks about a reader who wrote with a complaint:

Dear Mr. Buckley, Don’t start a sentence with “and.” In the last paragraph of your column I see this, and apparently the Star-Ledger proofreader did not. (She sleeps a lot.) I am beginning to wonder just how good (or bad) your high school was, and how good (or bad) a student you were. Very truly yours, David Dearborn

Mr. Buckley replied:

Dear Mr. Dearborn: Verses 2–26 and 28–31, Chapter I, Genesis, all begin with “And.” The King James scholars went to pretty good high schools. Cordially, WFB

Up Close and Personal

In the past year I have had a front-row seat to watch several amazing events or hear astounding stories, some tragic, many lovely, through the words of friends via email. Some who never publish write amazing stuff. Below you will find a sampling.

From a former infertility buddy writing from Thailand (with "before" and "after" photos)
Subject: We are safe
Date: December 28, 2004

Thank you so much for your concern for us. We just got home from Phuket, and are thankful to be alive. It is by the grace of God that we were not sitting on the beach when the tidal wave came in. When I think of what could have happened, I just about burst into tears.

We were staying in a high-rise hotel about 400 yards from the water. We were assembling our things to go on a day-long boat trip to Phi Phi Island. I happened to be looking out our balcony (on the eighth floor) when I saw a huge wave come up to the beach. I yelled, “James, oh my goodness, look at that! It’s coming up over the road! It’s coming up the drive to our hotel!” People were running away from it and it stopped just at the edge of our hotel pool.

God was so gracious to us. It is humbling to realize we were spared when thousands of others were not.

One week later:

I wanted to share what was read on Saturday at the memorial service (Christ Church, Bangkok) for the victims of the tsunami. This could have been written yesterday.

Psalm 46
God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the
mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall; he lifts his voice, the earth melts.
The LORD Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come and see the works of the LORD, the desolations he has brought on the earth.
He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shields with fire.
“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”
The LORD Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

From one of our former translators in Ukraine
Date: November 23, 2004

Thank you for thinking of us at this turbulent time.

We are in fact being in the period of revolution, though many public people elude this term giving preference to “a radical change,” “a turning point,”or at least “a velvet revolution.”

In our common midst we call it an “orange revolution.” Whatever term you apply to this epoch-making process, it’s nothing but a tremendously important test for us as a nation. Just a couple of months ago the idea of belonging to a united nation made most of us grin skeptically. For the last thirteen years of our post-Soviet independence we got used to regarding ourselves as a population of a certain territory swaying between its gravitation either to the East (Russia) or West (Europe and USA). The years of impoverishment and constant political overturns made each Ukrainian rely on him(her)self, care about his(her) own survival and treat any political groupings as another mafia clan.

Close to 2004 our totally corrupt government made its best [effort] to persuade the Ukrainians that we are split into two or even more camps along language and religion lines.

The change happened literally overnight. On the morning of Nov. 22 this country witnessed our unbelievable, unprecedented unity—the unity of a monolith deserving no other name but a nation. That is the way the Ukrainians of all age and social groups reacted to the total falsification of the 2004 presidential elections.

Beginning in the central square of Kyiv [or Kiev], the demonstration of protest leapt over to most cities, towns and villages. Defying the suddenly early frost with slush and strong wind, the people are keeping vigil day and night to support the oppositional leadership.

The color of today’s non-conformism is orange. It’s the emblem of the oppositional movement headed by Yuschchenko, the “People’s President,” as he is referred to by the overwhelming majority. Yuschchenko’s victory in the elections arouses no doubts on the part of unprejudiced internal and foreign observers, uncorrupt sociologists and independent media. Several anonymous exit polls proved the oppositional Yuschchenko to outrun his pro-governmental opponent and incumbent PM Yanukovich by around 11 percent. However, the Central Election Commission, an official authorities’ puppet, announced Yanukovich the winner.

The falsified tally only raised Yanukovich’s unpopularity and with it a long-growing social discontent with the authorities that turned Ukraine into a country where the constitutional rights are brutally violated. The people who seemed to have completely despaired of influencing their political order regained their citizens’ self-esteem.

Our nation has been on a general strike the last two days. The heart of the campaign is Kyiv’s Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square), where stream my compatriots from the whole country. Kyiv’s downtown, including the street where we live, has been crowded by columns of demonstrators today.

Words fail to express this feeling of unity I experienced today walking out with my baby. Along the street there moved a wave of orange flags, ribbons, hats, scarves and flowers. The faces were filled with determination to establish the order of justice. The roads were filled with cars, modest and posh ones, decorated with the orange symbols, signaling supportively to the pedestrians. Judging by their accents and transparencies, the demonstrators were from all over the country. What really impressed was their diverse age—from children to seniors.

As an outcome of this frosty day, which is far from being ended (it’s 22:44 by my watch), the Opposition forced the Parliament [to] call an urgent session and acknowledge Yuschchenko the legitimate president of Ukraine. He took an oath on the Bible in front of the one-third of the deputies. The Speaker called the act illegitimate. At this moment dozens of thousands of the people are standing in front of the President’s Administration with an intention to let Yuschchenko occupy the building.

We are and will be watching our only oppositional TV channel this whole night. Nobody’s sure how the events are going to develop. Some prophesy the Georgian “velvet revolution” scenario. Allegedly, the Russian President has already dispatched some military units to support Yanukovich. The only hope is now pinned on prudence and honesty of our own militia and army. They report[that a] number of top milita officials have called for supporting the Opposition. A number of state officials, including governors and mayors, Kyiv’s mayor included, turned also to the people’s side.

My mother-in-law, who was at the demonstration, told me of flags from different countries that were waving in the square today. The international boost is a big comfort for us. I am watching TV and praying for no bloodshed to happen.

From a Dallas Seminary graduate in Sri Lanka
Date: February 7, 2005

Yes, I’m ok. I live in the middle part of Sri Lanka and was not affected by the tsunami. But I lost students and friends. I’m a woman faculty member at the Theological College of Sri Lanka. We have relocated our seminary in a tsunami-affected area for a couple of months. My colleagues are fanatical about “contextualized theology.”

(You can read more on the tsunami relief work of Theological College of Sri Lanka by going to www.tclsl.org . To view pictures go to www.tclsl.org/tcl3.html .)

From a mom in Texas
Date: March 9, 2005

While reading about Samson this morning I was reminded of a fun story from our son, Jarrod’s, “early years.” We were on a family vacation traveling by car, I can’t remember where we were going but far enough from home that it was unfamiliar land to the kids, and Jarrod was listening and re-listening to a favorite taped recording via headphones in the backseat. Out of nowhere it seemed (because the rest of us couldn’t hear the recording), Jarrod shouted with great confidence, “LET ME DIE WITH THE PHILISTINES!”

Then suddenly, as soon as the words had left his mouth, he ripped off the headphones and with colorless cheeks and eyes widened he said, “Mom, there aren’t any Philistines around here, are there?!”

From a pastor in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico
Date: March 10, 2005

Many people have been kidnapped during the last 12 months and more were killed, women, girls, men and boys (Mexicans and Americans), but 90 percent of them have been involved in drug traffic. Now, there is a war among three bi-i-i-i-i-i-g international gangs. They are fighting to have the control of the border between Mexico and U.S. … What we are doing as sons of God is to pray and preach gospel as much we can. The rest is on God’s hands. So please tell to our sister church we need you all to pray for God can give us more from His Holy Spirit so we can be more and more effective in His labor.

From a prof at Dallas Seminary about one of our students

He was a pastor in Rwanda, was out of the country during the genocide, went through refugee camps for days looking into the faces of the dead for his parents, found members of his church in one camp, preached a Sunday sermon to them, while preaching saw his mother walking through the crowd, wept at mass graves, made repeated trips back to preach reconciliation, was on hit lists from both sides, was arrested and beaten, later invited back by the government, started a ministry with staff in at least half a dozen countries, hired a guy whose brothers helped murder [this student’s] father and brother, finishing a PhD dissertation on forgiveness . . . Oh my. He is one of the heroes. And I’m supposed to be teaching him?

Extended Interview with Eugene Peterson

Several months ago I ran a series of articles based on an interview with one of my favorite authors, Eugene Peterson. Most know him by his work on The Message, but my favorite of Peterson’s works is Under the Unpredictable Plant. Now he has a new one out, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places.

The title is borrowed from words by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

As Kingfishers Catch Fire
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is — Christ.
For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Recently I received a message from Dr. Reg Grant, my friend and mentor at Dallas Theological Seminary who’s on sabbatical over in Asia. Reg forwarded a link to a rich, more-than-an-hour-long Mars Hill interview with Eugene Peterson in which Dr. Peterson discusses some of the topics addressed in this new release.

In his interview with Ken Myers, Dr. Peterson discusses fiction, community, history, narrative, the way we view people, the dance of the Trinity, poetry—all sorts of fabulous stuff.

Mars Hill had the good sense to run it online, so you can listen to it, too, for free. Enjoy!

http://www.marshillaudio.org/resources/mp3/PetersonUncut.mp3

Links to my Peterson series, in case you missed it:

Eugene Peterson: On Men and Women
Eugene Peterson: On Story
Eugene Peterson: That "Good-for-Nothing" Sabbath

Singing the Midlist Blues

A midlist author is one whose books are well received but have failed to make a commercial breakthrough, whose work sells solidly but unspectacularly, who's well known within the writing community but the majority of book buyers have never heard his name. --David Armstrong, How Not to Write a Novel: Confessions of a Midlist Author
It’s the label no author wants: midlister.

The word is sometimes spoken with disdain: “Ugh, that is so midlist,” or “She’d better stick with one publisher or she might just end up as a midlister.”

Oh no! Anything but that! The midlist author never finds his or her name at or near the top of anyone’s best-seller list—perhaps even when that list is divided into highly specific sub-categories such as “Protestant fiction chick-lit.” No, even then, the author can’t seem to break into the top ten, or even the top twenty. But she still writes a terrific little piece of chick-lit, and she has some faithful readers.

Never mind that thousands have found her works life-changing—the healthcare professional rethinking abortion; the family member reconsidering her decision to walk away from Christianity; the neighbor who is seriously considering the claims of Christ for the first time.

The midlister finds little comfort in such information, because what matters is the bottom line. Money and sales.

Yes, to be a midlister is often to provide one’s publishing house with its bread and butter. But it’s also often to “get no respect.”

I’m not saying this because I’ve never made anybody’s best-seller list. I actually do know what that feels like, nanosecond-like as it was. And I know the thrill of having long lines waiting to get signed copies of my book at CBA. (Okay, so it was about sex and it was free, but still….)

I am saying this because of my concern about the celebrity-driven mentality I see in Western Christendom. Ironically, a lot of these celebrities’ books are written by ghostwriters who are, you guessed it, midlist authors. That’s the only way such celebrities can keep cranking out four or five books per year while also speaking three out of four weekends every month. They have to have help from non-celebrity types who are willing to get no credit. And the low-profile authors allow themselves to be part of such arrangements because of the potential for ministry, even if nobody knows who they are.
If you are a big-sales author using ghostwriters, take a risk. Step out on the faith you claim to own. Rather than preaching about community, show your commitment to it by insisting on two or three names on the cover instead of yours alone. Is it truly honest to do it any other way?If you're an author, work hard to perfect your craft and sell your books. But try never to lose sight of this truth: The goal is His renown, not ours. And never judge other authors by their sales. We all know some scary people with great sales and some fabulous people with lousy sales. As with anything else, man looks at the outward; God looks at the heart. The best book I’ve ever read on ministry made no one’s list. And the pastor with probably the greatest readership in the world is shepherding a church of about 400. Yet by posting free sermon transcripts online at a site that gets four million hits per year, he’s making a huge impact discipling the nations.

But you’ve probably never heard of him. I hear the only name he likes to drop is the name of Jesus.

Weathering the Storm

Meet our friends, Karen and Barney Giesen. They live in Houston.

When we heard Rita was winding up to demolish Galveston and then smack into Houston, naturally we were concerned. One of our favorite ways to spend a weekend is to make the four-hour drive to the Giesens' place. There we enjoy sweet fellowship as we create enormous ice cream sundaes, make up our own torpedo-in-the-pool games, and hear about the latest books their neighborhood club is discussing.

The first time we visited the Giesens, Alexandra, our ten-year-old, announced that she wanted to go by “Alexandra Victoria.” As if one four-syllable name weren’t enough, she wanted to expand it to eight? Like any sensible mother, I said, “no.”

The Giesens asked, “Why not?”

They had a point. Indeed, why not?

And so it was. At their church, our daughter is known to those she has met as “Alexandra Victoria.” She generally shows up there with blue-sparkle nails that Karen has freshly painted as they've sat together poolside.

Karen and Barney have a little cottage adjacent to their house, which they have named The Eclectic Reindeer. Many Dallas Seminary professors who fly down to teach at the school’s Houston extension are well acquainted with the Giesens’ hospitality, which often includes free lodging.

On our last trip to see them, we took a picnic lunch to Galveston island. We flew kites, dug our toes in the sand, and threw bread in the air to feed diving sea gulls.

On many levels, we love these people. We all love these people. You know how sometimes you meet a couple and you might really like a wife, but her husband is a bit dull? Or you might totally enjoy the husband, but his wife is too uptight? Or as a couple you might like them, but they don't care for kids? The Giesens are one of those couples where every member of our family loves and feels loved by both.

So we offered the Giesens our hide-a-bed while they waited out the storm. The thought of them staying put scared us a bit. But stay they did.

A few days passed, and Rita rolled closer. Then yesterday morning, as Rita churned within 100 miles of Houston, we received a message from Karen and Barney saying they had prepared themselves to ride out the storm in Houston. Karen provided the details:

“We have battened down a jillion loose potential missiles (wall clock, wind chimes, bird feeders and baths, flower pots, lights, and such from our back yard). Barney took several loads of stuff—signs, trash cans, plants, BBQ grills—to the garage of a vacant house we own a few blocks from here. Our patio furniture is all now intentionally at the bottom of our pool.”

I had to think about that one for a bit. I guess it is better if one’s patio furniture doesn’t come sailing through the glass, eh?

She went on: “We have boarded windows and doors as much as we had material for. Outside, the biggest challenge was six potted ten-foot trees we recently bought for 70 percent off from Houston Garden Center, planning to plant them when it gets cooler. They are now lying flat on the side of the house. Barney will lower the pool water level as recommended.

“Inside the house, we have moved things away from windows and taken the fragile things off the walls. The biggest project inside was taking three large glass cases (each 16 x 14 x 4 feet) full of breakables out of the kitchen window.

“We are very tired (especially Barney who has worked much harder than I) and braced to be hot if we lose power and A/C.

“But even though we are on Houston’s southeast side and much closer to the Gulf than many, we are not in any projected storm surge or flood plane. We are near Braes Bayou but on a hill. Our house did not flood in Allison four years ago, though about a dozen in the neighborhood did. But every storm is different.

“We plan to sleep tonight on the ground floor of our garage apartment, The Eclectic Reindeer. That room has no windows, and we have boarded up the two glass front doors. We have plenty of food and water and cards to play Canasta.

“The wind is picking up now, so we are about to disconnect communications and settle into the little house. We’ll answer the phones as long as they work.”

At that I e-mailed and thanked them for the update. When we saw it was taking people four hours to travel one mile on the road from Houston to Dallas (you could walk faster than that!), we were glad the Giesens had chosen to stay where they were.

Karen quickly replied. “In some haste I left out the brighter side," she said. "With Barney there is always a bright side.

“Last night, Thursday, after it was too dark to work anymore, we got into our bathing suits and sat in our lawn chairs in our swimming pool and giggled about how much fun it is to ‘grow old together.’ Then, since we had nothing sweet in the house and the stores are all closed, I baked cookies for Barney. More giggles.

"I think some studies of closeness in families who camp together concluded that it was the tough crazy events that happen during camping that precipitate the lasting bond. That may be what’s happening here.

"So I want you to know it is fun to weather a storm together. We have Cokes and limes."

Do we have the coolest friends, or what?

First thing this morning, I had an email from them saying they were fine.

And us? Friends the world over have written to ask how we are and to assure us of their prayers. So allow me to give you a slice of our lives today. As I write this, the first drops of rain have begun to fall. The bushes closest to the house scatch hard against the windows, and the walls are creaking a bit. But we expect the winds to stay below forty miles per hour. The greatest suffering we have endured is hay fever.

Earlier tonight our little family--Gary, me, and, yes, Alexandra Victoria, rode home from celebrating Gary’s mom's 75th birthday. We couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the sky. To the east, where greater trouble lies, the sky was a deep blue gray. But to the west, the gilded clouds against a blue backdrop looked like quick strokes from an artist's brush.

Thanks to those who have asked and prayed. We are mindful of these words from Psalm 107:

He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.
They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven.
Let them give thanks to the LORD
for his unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men.

All is well. And we've been reminded of wisdom from our friends: Difficulty can strengthen bonds; it can be fun to weather a storm; how good it is to "grow old" together.

P.S. When Barney emailed the attached picture, he noted, "The anaconda in the pool with us is just about to get us from behind."

What the Bible Teaches Me about Fiction: II

If you want to your characters to be compelling, give the “good guys” some weaknesses. Nobody’s perfect, so use “imperfection” to make characters believable and endearing. Consider Hebrews 11, often called “The Faith Chapter.” It lists the heroes of the faith. Yet with the exception of a few, we could just as easily title it “The Foul-Up Chapter.” We find murderers, adulterers, hookers. Despite their flaws, however, they have one thing in common: faith. Moses is humble, but he has an anger management problem. Peter is spirited but impulsive—just ask Malchus.

Even Jesus, though he has no flaws, is still different from what many of us expect of a perfect person. He’s unpredictable, saying stuff like, “On the outside you look good, but inside you stink like a coffin” or “You bunch of snakes.” Not exactly “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

Hesitate to name minor characters. The reader can hold only so many details in the memory. If we read about Kim and Judy having lunch together and the author tells us their waitress is Maria, we make a mental note: “I need to remember Kim, Judy, and Maria.” If Maria is unimportant to the plot, the author should leave her name out—unless she’s part of a red herring. Calling her a waitress allows her to fulfill her function in the scene and allows the reader to forget her. Generally in a narrative when an author names somebody, the reader thinks “I need to remember this.”

In the Book of Ruth we find name after name. The story emphasizes the mentality that one’s good name is a significant part of leaving a legacy. It even ends with a genealogy—not normally included in the "Top 10 Ways to Land." Nevertheless, it works in Ruth. And in the midst of a book filled with names, one person stands out as remaining nameless. It’s the guy who refuses to be Ruth’s “kinsman-redeemer” because he worries too much about giving his own kids plenty of land. Boaz, who seeks him out, says, “Turn aside here ploni amoni,” which is a little Hebrew rhyme that means “Mr. So-and-so.” The fact that Ploni-Almoni is the one nameless character in the entire book tells us to forget him. Not worth remembering!

Use figures of speech. Ortega y Gassett said, “The metaphor is probably the most fertile power possessed by man.” Consider the numerous metaphors for God. A rock. The Good Shepherd. A strong tower. Our Father. The Door. The Bread of Life. The Alpha and the Omega. Provider. Healer. We find several hundred names for God alone, each of which communicates something different about Him.

We find negative metaphors in the Bible, too. Jude 1:1–12 includes a string of them: “These men are those who are hidden reefs in your love feasts … clouds without water, carried along by winds; autumn trees without fruit, doubly dead, uprooted; wild waves of the sea, casting up their own shame like foam; wandering stars, for whom the black darkness has been reserved forever.”

And what about hyperbole? “If your tongue sins, cut it off.”

Figures of speech allow the reader to envision a concrete image, even when we’re communicating an abstract concept. “My mind wandered like a tourist with a Eurail pass.”

Kenneth S. Latourette, in History of Christianity, writes, “Jesus had the soul of a poet. While few of his recorded sayings are in poetic form, again and again his words breathe the spirit of poetry. His mind thought in terms of pictures and concrete scenes, not in abstract phrases.”

And as you know, there's a specific name for Him that emphasizes this very ability as the Master Communicator: The Word.

What the Bible Teaches Me about Fiction: I

Most of what I’ve learned about fiction I’ve learned from the Bible.

That’s not to say I think the story about a big fish swallowing Jonah is a myth. If a resurrection is possible, what’s so tough about sustaining a guy in a fish’s belly for a couple of days?

What I’m saying is this: Moses, Luke, whoever wrote Ruth—these are the best storytellers in the world. The way they craft their narratives has taught me most of what I know about fiction. Consider some examples.

Use point-of-view to heighten tension. The Book of Ruth demonstrates what happens when a writer uses point-of-view to heighten tension. Remember the part in Ruth’s story when she goes down to the threshing floor to propose to Boaz? The author, under inspiration of the Spirit, writes, “[Boaz] awoke and behold! A woman was lying at his feet!” The reader already knows the woman is Ruth. Yet it’s so much better to say “a woman” than “Ruth,” because it helps readers see events from Boaz’s point of view. We can feel with him the surprise.

The same is true of Jacob’s wrestling match. We know his opponent is the Lord, but Jacob doesn’t. And the text describes events from Jacob’s point of view: “Then Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak” (Gen 32:24). Only later does our man Jake realize he’s gotten down and dirty with the Lord Himself and somehow prevailed.

Use limited point-of-view to capitalize on reader identification. As you’ve read the story of David and Bathsheba, have you ever wondered if she seduced him? Did she flirt? Bat her eyelashes? I suspect there’s a reason the author leaves us wondering. We’re supposed to see the story completely from David’s point of view. And David is 100 percent responsible for his choices, no matter what she is doing. (That means this: so are we.)

From the storyteller’s perspective, it doesn’t matter whether Bathsheba is a righteous woman taking a ritual bath or a little seductress flaunting her assets. Regardless of her actions, the king could and should have done better.

Use setting to communicate something greater than the place itself. Choose a setting that communicates something important. I’m not saying a writer should make the setting exotic, though that’s sometimes a good idea. I mean use the setting to make a statement.

Where is Jezebel when she kills the owner of the vineyard she covets? In Jezreel. Where is Jezebel years later when dogs snarf her up? In Jezreel. More than a decade later, we come back to the place where she committed her grandest injustice to watch her get what’s coming to her. And the fact that events end up where they do says something about God’s ultimate sovereignty, about His ability in the end to make all things right.

Where is Peter when he denies the Lord three times? By a fire. Where is Peter when Jesus gives him three chances to declare his love? Right—by a fire.

Where is Elisha when he raises the Shunnemite woman’s only son? At Shunem. Where is Jesus when he raises the widow of Nain’s only son? At Nain—right around the mountain from Shunem. The similarities in the miracles and locations are not lost on those present. The place shows them that a prophet better than Elisha has come.

Love without Borders

I was talking with one of my sisters on the phone a couple of days ago, and she noted that while the U.S. government is quick to provide aid to other nations, she had heard nothing about any other countries offering to help the U.S. in our time of need.

Because I'd just received an email message from a friend in Minsk, I was happy to report some encouraging news that suggested otherwise. Alla had mentioned what to her seemed ironic--that small Belarus had offered aid to big America. Alla also offered words of condolence: "Every day I follow the news on the situation in New Orleans. It is unbelievable to see and to hear what is happening there. I really feel sorry for the people who faced this disaster... I have read today that Texas helps a lot since it is the next state...My problems seem to be so small when I hear the news like this." After I told my sis what little I knew, I set out to find out just who had offered aid. What I found brought tears.

One hundred fifteen countries and 112 international organizations have rushed to provide assistance. In fact to date about $460 million in cash has been received, including a $25,000 donation to the American Red Cross from the nation of--gulp--Sri Lanka.

And these governments have given more than cash. They've pledged stuff like fuel, technical expertise, and equipment. The Republic of Korea has sent two tons of disposable diapers. Tunisia has sent twenty tons of relief supplies. Cuba offered 1,586 doctors and 34 tons of medicine. Canada and Mexico have also been extremely generous. I won't list the other one hundred ten nations and their contributions. You get the idea.

Add to that the individuals--like the ninety-nine members of a team from Germany and Luxembourg, experts on flooding, who have arrived in New Orleans and are setting up shop in the northeast section of town. A woman in Lithuania who, remembering American aid provided in her time of need, sent her life savings of one thousand euros to assist hurricane victims.

Most significantly, people around the world have prayed for us.

Two nights ago I watched a one-hour biography of Osama bin Laden. I know that the United States and all we stand for are hated by millions worldwide. Our hubris has not helped us. And we've been plagued by more self-interest in many of our policies than we'd like to admit. Nevertheless, much of the hatred comes as a direct result of the very things that make Lady Liberty hold her lamp high--that the tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free can find refuge here.

Four years ago today near New York Harbor where she stands, America was brought to her knees by the destruction of two symbols of our financial might. A young husband and father said the Lord's Prayer followed by "Let's roll!" and helped reroute a flight intended for the U.S. Capitol to a Pennsylvania field. And flames engulfed the Pentagon.

Now we are again brought low.

In the same way that no man can be an island, neither can any nation. To the one hundred fifteen countries and countless individuals around the world who have shown that love has no borders, thank you. We have been reminded in the past two weeks that even a great government is not enough. We need each other and we need the Lord. We can't make it on our own.

Given in His Name

About a six-hour drive southeast of here lies what is now the most populous city in Louisiana--Baton Rouge. My friend, Kelley, is from there, and a church in her town approached her to ask if our church (and any others we can get to help) would partner with them to care for more than seven hundred evacuees. They were looking for sister churches to send basic supplies, so Kelley forwarded their request to our congregation's email list.

Two of our members walked the 'hood surrounding our church, inviting each family to give a few items for the relief effort. They collected five garbage bags full of toilet paper, shampoo, and clothing thanks to the generosity of our neighbors.

Below is a list of items requested:

· MOST NEEDED: Similac Advanced ready-to-use single-serving liquid formula
· New underwear, bras, panties for all sizes and ages
· New socks

The Baton Rouge group specifically asked for new, unopened undergarments. "People can change their clothes," they said, but who can blame them for wanting unused undergarments? The group asked us to sort all clothing donations into three categories: Men’s clothing, Women's clothing, and Baby/Children’s clothing, then place them in bags or boxes, and label them as such.

. When it came to toiletries, items especially needed included toothpaste, toothbrushes, powder, deodorant, antibacterial hand cleaner, feminine products, small packs of Kleenex, and other trial- size necessities.

. Needed baby items included diapers, wipes, baby powder, and diaper rash ointment. They also asked for bedding in any size and cots. They said they were also constructing showers for the evacueees, and asked for shampoo, soap, towels, and washcloths--items the Red Cross does not provide.

I forwarded this list to my brother-in-law, Bob, a missions pastor outside of Washington, D.C. His church immediately started collecting the items on that list and are sending them down today.

Bob called yesterday from Baton Rouge, where he had just arrived with a sleeping bag to handle the advance work before the team arrives. (He said the place looked like a war zone, with Red Cross helicopters perched all over the tarmac.) Each team member is taking one suitcase with personal items, and an additional suitcase of the underwear, formula, and toiletries that my sister-in-law's Bible study group packed last night. The team has to handle their own transportation and meals, so they are flying to a nearby city, renting a van, and driving into Baton Rouge. They plan to sleep on the floor of a church there. I have no idea how they'll feed themselves, but I suspect they won't go hungry.

I wonder how many people will get the formula or antibacterial handcleaner or garments they need thanks to Kelley's taking the time to email a list of specific needs. Jesus spoke of giving a cup of water in His name, and I suspect underwear counts, too.

I spoke recently with a medical doctor who is a top military advisor to the U.S. government on bioterrorism. It is his firm conviction that in the event of a national emergency, it will fall to churches to meet individual needs. He feels we should prepare now. Clearly we must not put all of our eggs in the FEMA and Homeland Security baskets. Does your family and/or church have an emergency response plan? Here's a place to start.

Irony

Today seemed rather ironic.

Infertility. On the one hand, I did a 25-minute live radio show this morning with WWJC in Deluth, during which I talked about The Infertility Companion. (If you want to listen, go to today's date and pick up the radio show about twenty minutes in.) I discussed how infertility can be a marital, spiritual, emotional, ethical, medical crisis. And I talked about how "relax" is the r-word to infertile couples. (Never, ever, ever, ever say "just relax" to a couple going to infertility. It sounds too much like "This is your fault.")

Pregnancy. Then this evening, with the help of an artist friend, my business, Aspire Productions, launched a new book. It's about pregnancy and it's called Choices: A Pregnancy Guide.

Infertility is the opposite of pregnancy, isn't it? Ironic, right?

Well, sort of. But not really. A key element links them--a passion for the sanctity of human life.

My desire in talking with infertility patients is to help couples navigate the moral maze of high-tech treatment. The pregnancy book, authored by William Cutrer, M.D. (cover design by Rhonda Oglesby, the artist friend I mentioned), was to minister to a niche market. It's written to the abortion-minded woman who walks into a pregnancy resource center and leaves considering all of her options. Most guides to pregnancy written by Christians don't address stuff like how to break it to your parents and "What if I drink?" This one does.

Choices is available in more than book form. It's also available by download for less than two bucks. That means a woman facing a pregnancy crisis never has to walk into a Christian bookstore and ask for a book on the subject. Right there in the privacy of her own home (or maybe a friend's room) she can view sono pictures of in utero babies in various stages of development. She can learn what to expect. She can read that God cares for her and the child He is weaving in her womb. Pastors and counselors can download the book, too.

Dr. Cutrer collected lots of stories from women eager to share what they'd been through--women who had faced the same situation and chose to give life a chance. Women who allowed God to make beauty from ashes.

All proceeds from Choices will go to buy additional copies of the book so we can give them away.

If you had asked me ten years ago if I would ever touch a pregnancy book, I would have said "Not even with one of those long poles people use to clean swimming pools." I would not have believed I'd read one, let alone publish one. But there's something else you should know. I got to draft the section in the book that talks about adoption. Drawing on our own situation, I was able to talk about the love of a woman who cared enough about her blue-eyed baby girl with long eyelashes to make a plan for her that included a daddy and a mommy who would love her as their own. That woman's name was Jessica, and she made me a mommy.

Perhaps irony is not the right word to describe today, after all. It's more like beauty. Once again God has made beauty from ashes--this time with me. And I pray that all the Jessicas out there who read this book will allow Him to do the same.

Why, God?

A substitute at my niece's school had the gall to pronounce that Katrina was God's judgment on New Orleans, which naturally raised a lot of questions for her. I wish she could have heard Lance Ward's message on Sunday: What Would Jesus Say to Katrina? When Jesus walked on this earth, He actually discussed a parallel situation. Apparently a tower had fallen and killed eighteen people, and the people wondered if those who died were unrighteous. Not the case, Jesus said.

Lance noted that, among other things, when God is doing judgment, nobody survives (think Sodom and Noah's flood). If you have about five minutes (DSL) to upload the message, Katrina response, it answers those who think like that substitute teacher.

I heard on the news yesterday that some within radical Islam (not most Muslims, just an extreme wing) are also saying Katrina happened because of God's judgment. So my question for them is this: If we are to see a hurricane/levee break in New Orleans as God's judgment on America, how are we to interpet the tsunami of the century that originated near "the gateway to Mecca"?

A Good Problem

As I wrote earlier, yesterday my family and I were supposed to go to one of the camps our church is working with to help the newly homeless. But for the past two days volunteer groups have been told to stay home! The reason? Well, read what the camp director wrote today:

We are still being inundated with calls from people needing housing. "I have a family of 20 living in a hotel - they're in five rooms now. They are out of money, but we've paid for them to stay one more day."

When we get to the hotel, the family is desperate. They know they are going to have to leave. But for another night, they have been provided food and a place to stay.
Five rooms x $50 for a month = $7,500. $7,500 for one month's rent! Plus food. Maybe a gift card to local restaurants.

Well-meaning people are doing their best to help for one more day. They are compassionate and doing whatever they can to actually make a difference. They are tired of waiting; they want to do something!

In the meantime, we know those needing assistance will be heading to Sabine Creek. We have doctors on standby, schools ready to receive kids, volunteers to assist, job placement offers...and no takers. Yet.

Local hotels aren't complaining, nor should they be. Their staff members have been very generous, and now they have generous people helping them in return.

One hotel called tonight. I thought it was a concerned manager trying to find help for a displaced family. Instead, he explained that churches had provided so much food, clothing and other items, that he was wondering if he could send some of it to us. They have also provided the funds for people to remain for a short time longer.

There is no fault in any of this. Generous, concerned individuals have provided the necessary quick fix during this "triage" stage. Families in hotels really are a day away from total homelessness, and have no idea what tomorrow holds for them. But it is time to move beyond crisis and toward recovery wherever it is possible.

This Labor Day weekend, people are off work, they are concerned, they are volunteering, they are giving. Evacuated families will cling to hope in a generously provided $7,500 per month hotel, and when they finally have no other resource, they will come here during this week as many of our volunteers are required to return to work.

At Sabine Creek, we could take those same resources and care for dozens of people in a nice location with a place for their children to actually play and go to school.
And so we tell them that we're here when they need us. And they most definitely will.
I've gotta run. We just got a call that 4 large families in a hotel are at the end of their rope with no place to go. We'll see....

As problems go, how do we rank the fact that too many people have been generous to the point that evacuees have generously been provided with housing and food? That churches have brought too much?

Then there was the little team that took clothing to our friend, Teresa's, sister's family. Teresa just returned a few hours ago, and things are looking up there for her sister's relatives. Teresa said, "They where allowed back in to their neighborhood today to retrieve anything they might need. The two houses seem to be in very good condition. Just a little damage that can be repaired when they are allowed back in for good. The clothing that was supplied was of the quality that anyone would be proud to own. The young son-in-law's job has relocated to Baton Rouge for the time being so he will start working either tomorrow or Wed. The brother-in-law may get paid just because he is a goverment employee for the New Orleans Parish. The only one who doesn't have a job is the sister-in-law. She will be volunteering to help distribute clothing to other needy people." So she was in very good spirits.

Thanks for the prayers, folks. It's only the beginning, but it's nice to have a glimmer of hope (and to have at least one conversation during which no one cast blame on anyone else!).

Within a day's drive of Katrina

In the New York Times this morning I read that those closer to the disaster are going to have to be the ones to describe it. We're not even close--we're an eight-hour drive from New Orleans. Yet evacuees are pouring into our town seeking refuge. We will do our best to provide it for them. To give you a taste of the Ripple Effect from the hurricane/flood, here's a letter I sent to my family on the West Coast last night:

Loved ones,

It has been quite a week, hasn't it?

Our friend Jeni, whose mom and step-dad live on the coast of Alabama, rejoiced on Wednesday to finally have word that they were safe. They lost the house and the second car, but they were alive. They are now camping on the ground that used to be their lawn, trying to make sure looters don't take the few valuables left that were stored high enough to escape the water.

Laura, my teaching assistant for a writing class I teach at DTS, waited and waited for word on her grandma. Thursday afternoon she vomited after class from the stress. Finally on Friday afternoon she learned that her grama had, indeed, not made it. That was all she knew when she had the class papers sent by courier to me and took off to meet her parents in Beaumont, where they had taken refuge. Her parents lost everything.

Our friend Teresa collected clothes up at our church tonight for her sister, who is housing ten family members in Baton Rouge. As the post office is closed until Tuesday, one of the men said he'd drive them down in his pick-up. So we're sending them in the morning with clothes, and especially underwear and toiletries. Oh, and diapers.

Sis Mary has been told that her 4th grade class, already pretty full, will probably expand again come Tuesday, as Texas schools have agreed to immediately absorb the stranded kids. Our daughter, too, has been told she will have new classmates. She was asked to bring cans of spaghetti sauce and juice. As of yesterday, Mesquite had absorbed about 1,000 [the figure is now at 2,500] people, with more heading our way. The clerk at Wal-Mart tonight told us that they had sold a lot of bedding and food today.

Those of us on the seminary faculty were told Friday that our administration has agreed to take students from the two seminaries in New Orleans and give them free tuition. Of course these students will need housing, as well. (I'll be coordinating that with our church; three families tonight told me they'll open their homes.)

We had a meeting at church tonight to try to coordinate our efforts. The city government had called and asked if they could send people to our food pantry. One family they mentioned is housing 19 relatives indefinitely.

The plan we're working out at this point is for the Christian camps in the area to open. (They need 400 sets of sheets or sleeping bags and pillows!) Because we're already back in school, the camps are empty, so it's the easiest way to make sure everybody gets beds and meals and bearable temps. After that we focus on jobs. A virtually empty mall within fifteen minutes from here is housing a lot of people, too. Tomorrow we plan to go with a team to the first of two camps our church has "adopted." Click here: Sabine Creek Ranch and Click here: Camp El Har Home Page

Lots of people need your continued prayers...including us as we seek to do the very small part we can.

Videos on writing

Occiasionally I quit ranting about social issues for long enough to talk about writing. If you would like to watch two of my writing lectures given at Dallas Theological Seminary, follow the links below. I hope you will find something here that helps you craft better prose.

Writing for the Christian Periodicals Market, part 1
Writing for the Christian Periodicals Market, part 2

True Beauty Is in the Eyelid of the Beholder

Right there on the AOL news this morning was a headline flashing for all to see: “How did Jessica, Denise and Others Get So Slim and Fit? See Their Secrets.”

Yeah, that story ranked right up there with “Katrina Leaves Dozens Dead.”

Ya think?

Was it just me or have you also noticed that just maybe we have our priorities screwed up?

Want more evidence? Americans spend more than $8 billion annually on cosmetic surgery. But it’s not just this side of the Atlantic where we're forking over cash. The Scotsman reports that four in ten teenage girls in the UK consider plastic surgery.

And how about this? His-and-hers and mother-daughter treatments are the latest plastic-surgery trends. And people are giving such “treatments” as gifts. (What do you write on the card? “You have too many wrinkles, so here’s help!”?) The average cost of a nose job is about $4,000; the average cost of “fixing” the upper and lower eyelids is also about $4,000. Hmm, let’s see—support a pastor in the developing world for three years or lose the crow’s feet. That is such a tough moral choice….

Recently I was talking with Dr. Dorian Coover-Cox, who teaches Hebrew at Dallas Seminary and who in the past also taught Koine Greek. Dorian had spoken with a friend who told her how women who live in a certain Dallas zip code (Big D’s equivalent to 90210) simply cannot live there without having face lifts. It’s considered downright shameful in the Neighborhood of the Beautiful to have bodily “imperfections,” and money is no object when it comes to fixing up one’s externals. Dorian pondered aloud whether the makeover-fever mentality was the sort of thinking the apostle Peter had in mind when he wrote this:

Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight (1 Peter 3:3-4).

Peter told women within their own cultural construct that, although tempted to tuck and preen, a Christ-follower must embody (literally) a different standard.

Could it be that the presence of crow's feet indicates maturity on more than one level?

Dogs, Jonah, and Mosul

Tonight I listened to some horrific tales coming out of New Orleans in the aftermath of Katrina. One particularly sad story was about a live dog wrapped in an electric cord in a tree, enduring electrocution. A cameraman watched helplessly, unable to get to the dog or safely attempt a rescue.

If the loss of an animal can be this heart wrenching, how much moreso is the loss of human life.

Such a perspective on the value of human life was exactly what God was getting at with Jonah when He questioned the runaway prophet about his whining. Remember the story? After Jonah preached his unenthusiastic “Get right or get left” message to his Iraqi (near modern-day Mosul) enemies, he parked on a hillside under some shade to watch and wait for God to wage some destruction. But the people repented, so the Lord showed mercy. And Jonah hopped and danced over the biggest single revival in history, right?

Uh, no. He got torked! He was irate that God had spared his enemies.

Not only did Jonah discount the value of human life. He prized something far less important—the gourd that had shielded him from the sun. That gourd withered thanks to a worm. And there sat Jonah crying about his own sunburn, angry that God hadn't fried the hated Iraqis. So God asked Jonah a question:

"You have been concerned about this vine, though you did not tend it or make it grow. It sprang up overnight and died overnight. But Nineveh has more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left, and many cattle as well. Should I not be concerned about that great city?" (4:10).

If you’re not going to care for the grownups, Jonah, (God tells him) at least have compassion on the children…and the animals.

May God have mercy in New Orleans on animals and people. And may He have the same mercy on Mosul...not just on our own troops stationed there, but also on the Ninevites whom God has tended and grown, people made in His own image.