The Unlikely Calvinist

Books, books, and more books

2011-06-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

My name is Caroline Weerstra, and I am a book addict. Yes, I admit it. I love books. It scarcely even matters which kind. I love fat ones and thin ones, old ones and new ones. I love fairy tales and horror novels. I love science tomes and historical records. My dream is to turn an entire wing of my house into a gigantic library. In reality, of course, my house is not large enough to have wings. Nor am I entirely certain what a house wing is. It is the sort of thing you read about in books. Especially old Victorian novels about creepy old mansions where inexplicable wails ring though corridors in the dead of night. There are always hidden wings to the house, with entrances concealed cleverly behind a bookshelf.

There would be nothing cleverly disguised by my bookshelf except more bookshelves. I am not interesting enough to have big adventures, nor cunning enough to keep such secrets. I would be demonstrating my Secret Corridor to all my friends within hours of its completion. "Look!" I would say. "Here is where I keep all my theology books. I sorted them by level of heresy!" One must have a system. (It is a side effect of having changed religious beliefs that one ends up with a lot of heretical books from the early years. I am never certain what to do with them.)

My daughter Kaylee is now reaching the age at which I can introduce her to my favorite books. It is like bringing her to meet dear friends. "My dear daughter, meet Elwin Ransom, who was kidnapped and taken to Mars by crazed scientists. This is Jim Hawkins, who fought pirates on Treasure Island. And I would like you to get to know Hamlet. He is a little crazy, but well worth knowing ..."

There is a wealth in literature, a feast of language and story and knowledge. It is one of God's greatest gifts. I honestly believe it literacy as necessary as food and shelter. Without books, the mind starves, just as the body starves without food.

So let's share ... Are you a book addict? What are YOUR favorite books?

No Tomorrow

2011-05-24T15:08:00.000-07:00

On April 27, 2011, David Wilkerson died. The car he was driving inexplicably wandered into the path of an oncoming truck. Wilkerson died at the scene of the crash.

I wonder how to react to such news. I must admit that when I heard it, I drew a deep breath. It felt as if a heavy weight sitting on my chest had lifted. "He is dead, and I am alive," I mumbled. "How ironic is that?"

An picture of my former home in Montana rose before my eyes, clearer than the dining room in front of me. I seemed to see the whole sweeping vista of grassland, horse pastures, distant mountains, and a beautiful home surrounded by lilac bushes and petunia beds. It all started here, here where my mother read David Wilkerson's book Set the Trumpet to Thy Mouth and became obsessed with apocalyptic visions.

Thinking of Montana always makes me a little sad, because it reminds me of all that we lost, or rather all that we gave away. This picturesque landscape could have been the making of a very happy childhood with many long-term friendships. But we were only children, and we quickly became infected with my mother's particular brand of insanity. Soon, we were convinced that the United States was about to be destroyed by fire from heaven, and that our only path of escape lay in selling our home and venturing overseas to the 'mission field.' And so we left, even cheering our good fortune at finding someone to buy the house.

As I see it in my mind now--the beautiful old home, the rolling fields, the river--I always wonder why we did not see what we were giving up. The 'mission work' never really worked out the way my mother thought it would. No mass conversions took place, no great healing ministry, no glorious rapture or even martyrdom. After five years wandering around South Korea, we returned to the United States with little to show for our experience. I left home, my parents went back overseas, and after that, I rarely saw my family again.

Apocalyptic predictions (such as the one given by Harold Camping) are tremendously damaging. People who think that there is no future do strange things. And our family certainly became very strange. I remember lying on the turquoise living room carpet in that house in Montana and crying silently as I listened to my mother read David Wilkerson's book aloud to us and told us that the end was near. I thought of everything I wanted to do with my life--how I wanted to grow up and go to college and get married and have children ... and now it was all disappearing. There was no tomorrow. We had to act before it was too late. We had to sell the house and move to the mission field.

Except that there was a tomorrow. And here it is now. But what a lot of needless pain and anguish went into the discovery that, like every false prophet, David Wilkerson was wrong. I wonder whether he ever knew how many people suffered because of him, or whether he surrounded himself only with people who told him what a great man of God he was. I wonder whether he believed his own predictions or he was only attention-seeking. I wonder whether he went to heaven or to hell.

I cannot know his mind. All that I know is that one morning when he got into his car for a drive, there was no tomorrow for him. I will leave the rest to God.

Post Presbytery Analysis: Grace and Jellybeans

2011-04-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

On my way to Presbytery this year, my husband had asked me why I enjoy attending these events so much. I am ex-UPCI, and that designation generally comes with a large dose of distrust toward all manner of clergy.

"You are scared of pastors and elders," he said. "Why do you like meetings that are so packed with them?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Pastors are like tarantulas," I finally offered. "Really fascinating to watch in their natural habitat, but absolutely terrifying if they show up in the pew next to you and want to shake hands."

"Except our pastor?" he laughed.

I shrugged. "I've had that tarantula around long enough to be pretty sure that it doesn't bite."

There is more to my interest in Presbytery, however, than the sort of interest one might have in wildlife. Presbytery is medicine for an ex-cultist. There is a striking blend of annoying humanity and profound faith that weaves itself through the entire event. My notes collect little absurdities and deep reflections like a child collects pebbles on a beach:

(1) "The singing is incredible!" It was. When I described it later to my husband, I said, "They sing like they believe it!" Every time a hymn was sung, the voices rose in a chorus loud and strong, with no hesitation or whispering. With no worship leader or choir or band, they sang with fervency and conviction, as though they knew that God Himself was right there among us.

(2) "The toilet seat was up AGAIN!" Apparently, even Presbyterian ministers become markedly less civilized when their spouses are absent. The main restroom at the church in Upton was a small, one-person bathroom, and the sign on the door indicated that was available for the use of both men and women. Three times I visited the restroom during Presbytery, and all three times, the toilet seat was up. My husband points out that he was been to many, many men's restrooms in his life, and he has seen far worse violations of common decency. "Maybe they didn't put the seat back down again before they left the bathroom," he said, "But, on the bright side, at least they put the seat up."

(3) "They don't argue when they are out-voted." This has always been a shocking feature of Presbytery for me. As an ex-UPCI woman, I tend to expect pastors to behave like spoiled children, throwing fits and threatening people with hell if ever they do not get their way. When the vote is taken and one pastor dissents from the common opinion, I suck in my breath and wait for the explosion. But it never comes.

"The 'ayes' have it," the moderator proclaims, and then adds dryly, "Unless we need to see a show of hands. We do need a two-thirds majority on that one."

Laughter briefly ripples around the sanctuary, and then the meeting moves to the next item on the agenda.

It is amazing.

(4) "Missionary work is very practical." The discussion of missions work revolved around common sense concerns. A seminary in Uganda needed more staff. One missionary suffered severe back pain and needed to serve in a field where the roads were less rough. Another missionary was facing frustrations with visas for his wife and children.

There is nothing super-human about Presbytery, and for ex-Pentecostals, that is like finding water in the desert. At Presbytery, no one gets up in front of the crowd to shout that he has healed 400 people and traveled in a chariot of fire. Such extravagant claims of supernatural power are commonplace in the UPCI, and they might seem exciting to someone who has never lived day in and day out with those expectations upon them. In reality, no one can live up to Pentecostal expectations. We are humans. We cannot call angels to carry us when we are tired. We have back pain and frustration with government bureaucracy. We cannot heal those struck down by cancer or other diseases. Eventually, we die.

The drama of Pentecostalism becomes emptier and emptier the further one digs into it. Healings are claimed but then fail to materialize. People are told they do not have enough faith to receive God's help. They try harder. They pray harder. They fast more. They work and work and work and work, and in the end, they have nothing to show for it.

The emptiest souls of all are the pastors, who have learned to cover all their failures with layers of showmanship and lies. Their role is to spur exhausted people on to do more and more in the hope that it will all pay off one day. Someday, the sky will open and the miracles that everyone was waiting for will finally arrive -- if we only do a little bit more. People die waiting, disappointed and wondering whether God will even open the door of heaven to them, or whether it will turn out that they did not have enough faith even for that.

There is, truly, a lesson on grace in the mysterious jellybean dispenser in the basement. One could not get the candy out by shaking it or twisting knobs. There were no magic words or rituals of fasting and 'claiming the promises' that would make any difference. Just hold your hand out, and suddenly, there it is.

We often forget amid the emphasis on Jesus' divinity that He was also a man. He ate and slept, worked and rested. He knows what it is like to be tired. He tells the weary that if they will come to Him, He will give them rest. He does not hide His blessings in some unnavigable maze where people run themselves to death searching for salvation.

Presbytery is far from perfect. Some of the presbyters talk too much. Some of them show up unprepared for their presentations. Some no doubt have had their quarrels with one another. Some leave the toilet seat up.

But it is a beautiful imperfection because it is real. It is a church on a rock and in no danger of being swallowed up by shifting sands. We can never achieve anything by running around trying to prop up a house with a bad foundation. But here on the rock, there is a sort of deep quiet even amid life's uncertainties.

Here, you only have to hold your hand out.

Presbytery - Part 3: A Very Brief Meeting

2011-04-26T20:15:00.001-07:00

So what was Presbytery like this spring?

Spring 2011 Presbytery was held in a small church in Upton, Massachusetts. By the standards of Orthodox Presbyterian churches, the building was quite modern, having been constructed in the 1970's (according to a sign engraved on the outside of the building). The church had two floors. The main floor housed the sanctuary and a handicapped bathroom, while the basement .... well, I actually have no idea what was in the basement. Due to my own handicap issues, I never ventured down the stairs. However, I imagine it must have been lovely, because the representatives were constantly wandering down the stairs and coming back up in a jovial mood with handfuls of jellybeans which were apparently available via a motion-sensitive jellybean dispenser (no, I'm not kidding).

"I would like to point out," said the hosting pastor, "that you merely have to hold your hand under the dispenser to receive jellybeans. Some of you have been completely befuddled in your efforts to get the jellybeans out other ways."

"There is a lesson on grace in there somewhere," commented an astute pastor in the audience.

I counted forty-eight people present, only three of whom were women. Possibly there were more women in the basement hovering over the jellybean dispenser, but if so, they never emerged to the main floor.

For the first time, I was able to attend the entire Presbytery meeting. I was there at the opening on Monday at 4pm, and I was there when the last prayer was prayed and the doxology sung on Tuesday around 2:45pm. In the eyes of our Presbytery, that constituted a Very Brief Meeting.

The breathtaking pace of the meeting obviously caught some of the presbyters by surprised. Several committees, when called upon, demurred in mild embarrassment, asking that their reports be postponed until they were better prepared. "I normally do not speak until this time tomorrow," said the chair of the Foreign Missions Committee. "You know, when the presbyters eyes are glazed over and they don't even know who is talking anymore."

By the next morning, the confusion had evidently been resolved, and the committees took to the pulpit with new energy and purpose. (See graph below for breakdown of Tuesday discussion).
The morning began with a sermon by a man who was seeking licensure as a minister in the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. The same man was later examined by the Presbytery on his theological views.

However, the main focus of the meeting seemed to be on missions. The Home Missions committee reported on various church-planting efforts with encouraging reports and discussion of difficulties and challenges at each location. The Foreign Missions committee discussed relief efforts in Japan and several locations in Africa, and the need for another missionary family to join the one already serving in Haiti. An OPC chaplain recently returned from working with soldiers headed to and from Afghanistan spoke of the terrible heartache, sleep deprivation, and exhileration of working with soldiers who were in such desperate need for spiritual guidance.

The other key feature of this Presbytery meeting seemed to be prayer. The representatives prayed over everything--for each mission work, for the chaplains, for the committees, for the food being prepared downstairs, for the guy who left early because his wife called him to say that the baby was sick... I wondered whether they prayed more than usual this time, but I suspect that it was only the faster pace of the meeting that made such prayers more frequent and thus more obvious.

As I watched them stand every few moments to earnestly entreat God on some matter, I was struck by an impulse to add my own prayer request. I wanted to tentatively raise my hand. "Excuse me? Yeah, I know I'm not really supposed to have the floor, but I'm just wondering ... My husband's father died last night, and he is really sad about it. And he has to go out of town for the funeral, and I have a really difficult time when he is gone because I'm ill ... will you pray for both of us?"

I never did work up the nerve for that, and so I will always wonder whether they would have prayed for us if I had asked.

(Coming soon: Post-Presbytery Analysis).

Presbytery - Part 2: Death at Presbytery

2011-04-26T15:35:00.000-07:00

I wrote in my last blog that I was prepared for all surprises at Presbytery. I packed up my medicine, brought lunch and coffee, remembered my jacket ... but I sit now on the bed at home as my husband scours the Internet for the best deals on plane tickets. He is going to his father's funeral. One cannot protect oneself against all surprises.

Deaths are always a shock, even when they are 'expected.' We knew this day was coming -- knew it better than some who were more affected by it. My father-in-law himself refused to acknowledge that he was dying until the last few days of his life. In the early months of his diagnosis, those around him were praying for healing and 'standing with him in faith.' I looked on it all with stoicism born of having lived with chronic disease for much of my life. "I pray that God will sustain him," I said, because I could not say that I believed he would live.

Perhaps my tone sounded cruel, but if so, it was only reality that bruised and cut. The fantasy in which people recover from terminal cancer and live forever is a lie, and, like all lies, it bursts like a delicate soap bubble against even a tiny blade of grass in the real world.

By the time that my husband and I were leaving for Presbytery, the bubble of illusion that surrounded his father had already been vaporized by the steady march of cancer. My father-in-law was weak and his breathing irregular. We had been told three weeks earlier to expect his passing any time. What do you do when you are waiting for the news that you do not want to hear but know could come at any time? Oddly enough, you go on as if nothing were happening at all. You get up in the morning, eat breakfast, get the kids started on their schoolwork. You practice for the annual talent show and plant sunflowers in the yard. You pack for Presbytery. You do all those things because another unpleasant truth in the real world is that life goes on even when someone is dying. You cannot sit in your house and wait, because life does not wait for such things. And finally, when the end comes, it warrants a couple of days in which people gather to say their goodbyes, and then everyone scatters to pick back up where they left off with living.

All of us are at the same time completely irreplaceable and completely irrelevant. The march of history thunders on with us or without us, and yet each person occupies a unique time and place. Each life is like the sun--so crucial, so bright and blazing up close, but lost amid billions of other stars if we could step back a few thousand light years to view the whole Milky Way.

As for myself, at the moment that one little star blinked out forever, I was at Presbytery. My phone emitted a tiny cheep, and a text popped up to the screen. "Dad is in a coma." A few hours later in our hotel room, my husband received the shock that we had expected ever since the cancer diagnosis more than a year before: his father had died.

We looked at each other across the hotel room as the kids dashed about in their swimsuits, excited about the promised swim in the indoor pool. We had barely arrived, but we thought about packing up and heading home ... to do what? The funeral would not be held for at least three days.

There was no family to see back in Schenectady, and our pastor was here in Massachusetts, presumably at a hotel somewhere down the street.

And so my husband took the children swimming. We ate dinner. We snuggled on the oversized blue chair in our hotel room and talked in low voices about our thoughts on death and dying, while the children watched a movie in the next room.

We stayed at Presbytery.

To be continued.

Presbytery, Spring 2011

2011-04-20T12:26:00.000-07:00

It is nearly Presbytery time again, and I am packing like a squirrel storing up for winter. During each of the two previous Presbytery meetings that I attended, I found myself woefully ill-prepared in some measure or other. The first one saw the Great Crash Off My Meds that left me weak and wobbly, struggling helplessly in the kitchen to get the lid off my medication. The second Presbytery caught me without a lunch.

But THIS time ... ah, this time, I am planning like it is a trip across the Sahara. Nothing will catch me off-guard this time. I will have food. I will have medicine. I will have water to take the medicine. I will bring an extra jacket in case it is cold. I will bring a clipboard and pen. I will have my cellphone ... My husband, glancing over my shoulder at the ever-expanding list, informs me that I will also need a camel to carry it all. I write it down on the list: CAMEL. You never know.

My pastor tells me that there may be no need for much packing. "There's not a lot on the agenda," he says. "We may be out early." He says it in a hopeful tone, the same tone that all New Yorkers use to say every autumn that it will doubtless be a mild winter.

"I could file a complaint against you," I suggest helpfully. "That would give Presbytery something to do."

"What complaint?"

"Oh, I don't know, but I'm sure I can think of something fun. Is there anything in your wardrobe that is woven out of two kinds of material? Because, you know, Leviticus 19:19 CLEARLY says ...."

I expect that it would STILL be a short Presbytery, although also a highly amusing one in which every pastor and elder present would be able to go home and say to his respective spouse, "You won't BELIEVE what we had to discuss at Presbytery."

But, alas, we shall have to be content with the current agenda.

Stay tuned. There will be reports, pie charts, pictures ... possibly even a poem. After all, what is Presbytery without The Presbytery Reports?

Kaylee on Calvinism, Part 2

2011-04-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

The free will of man means that God lets people decide. In I Kings 18:20, Elijah says, “How long will you go limping between two different opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal, then follow him.” So that is a decision for man. Sometimes people wait for God to determine the outcome, but God tells us to repent. In Acts 2:38, Peter said, “Repent and be baptized every one of you.” So we have to make a choice, and everyone has to decide to turn their hearts to God.

Sovereignty of God or free will of man? Which goes first? Does God choose you first or do you choose God first? The answer is it’s both. But where I go to church, we emphasize that God chose you first, because God chose people even before the world was made. Now it’s time to answer the question, remember the bullies beating up Miley Cyrus? Why God let that happen? Did the bullies decide to beat up Miley, or is God in charge? What about if it happens to me or to you? The answer is, well, actually, we don’t know why these things happen. God is wiser than us, but sometimes, we think that he did it to change people’s hearts or some reason like that. But we still don’t know why he let bad things happen. We have to trust God.

Kaylee on Calvinism

2011-02-18T13:00:00.000-08:00

(Post by Kaylee)

In her book Miles to Go, Miley Cyrus tells a story of something when she was eleven years old. She used to have friends until, after a while, her "friends" became enemies. They bullied her like lock her in the bathroom, say mean things, and beat her up. Here is the thing: why does God not stop them if he is all powerful? If he did not stop the bullies from hurting Miley, then is he not all powerful? So that is why I am writing this. This is a true story, and I hope you understand. That means you, Mom!

First, let's talk about the sovereignty of God. Sovereignty means that God can do anything because he is the king of everything. In the Bible, Acts 2:22-23, it says: "Men of Israel, hear these words: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with mighty works and wonders and signs that God did through him in your midst, as you yourselves know-- this Jesus, delivered up according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of lawless men." Now God chose people even before the world was made. God also planned Jesus' death on the cross. People said, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" and thought they made the decision. But really, God made that decision.

To be continued...

A Vacation from Caroline

2011-02-15T20:25:00.000-08:00

Are you sick of hearing Caroline ramble on? Well, if so, then you are in luck, my friends. My daughter Kaylee has volunteered to stand in for me for a post or two. She currently has an assignment in homeschooling to produce a paper on the sovereignty of God, and she would like to post it for others to read and comment. The sovereignty of God and the free will of man are topics that have baffled theologians and divided churches for centuries, and so I am sure we are all very pleased to hear that my 11-year-old child will settle all disputes on the matter.

Okay, perhaps that is too ambitious. However, it does seem to be a rite of passage in Reformed churches to post about Calvinism on the internet, and so we shall all be very proud of her efforts, I am sure, as she proves herself a true Presbyterian at heart.

So, drumroll, please ... Introducing Kaylee in her first internet appearance, writing on Calvinism ....

*applause* ....

Modern Nomads

2011-02-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a restless family. We relocated so many times that I lost count. My earliest memories are of Florida, and then there was Alabama, Mississippi, New Mexico, Montana, South Korea ...

I do not want to be simplistic about the problems generated by frequent relocation. Perhaps there are people who truly enjoy a nomadic lifestyle. My own heart always clung to places and people left behind. I always dreamed of moving back and settling down. I saw this as a weakness in myself, and I was ashamed of thinking this way. Only in recent years have I begun to realize that this is not a flaw of the soul, but rather, it is a natural aspect of humanity. It is not embarrassing to need friends. That is simply human.

A sermon that I heard a year or so ago mentioned that a culture of independence is a relatively new phenomenon. Throughout most of human history, people were born, lived, and died in the same town in which their ancestors had been born, lived, and died. Families farmed the same plot of land for generations. Communities were generally small, and people knew each other well. Even nomadic tribes often traveled the same general area for their whole lives and relocated in community groups rather than individually. Survival depended upon their ability to band together to help one another through harsh winters and drought. Only in modern society has wealth and technology inspired such individual flitting about from place to place. We no longer need a community in order to survive, and increasingly, people withdraw into their own homes. Friendships are viewed as recreational and temporary.

I wonder about the negative impact this has on society as a whole. Our culture admires personal independence, but such independence relies heavily upon youth and health. Sick and elderly people cannot be self-sufficient. Those who need caretakers are increasingly shuffled off to nursing homes so that they do not interfere with the lifestyles of others. This is not to say that nursing homes are always a bad option or that caring for someone in a home is always possible. However, such out-of-home care is now so common that it is generally presumed to be the final destination of all elderly and disabled people from the moment at which they can no longer fully care for themselves.

Loneliness is a plague of modern society. People often commute long distances to work, and then return home to watch a few hours of television before falling asleep on the couch. Friendships are seen as something that you have 'for fun', and many people do not find time for them. Relationships are repeatedly forged and broken. No one has to work out their differences because they can always move or just ignore those around them. When you need no one, there is little motivation to work things out.

Cults feed on the desperation of people who feel alienated from society. Abusive leaders find that their followers will put up with a surprising level of mistreatment in exchange for having a community in which they can feel a sense of belonging.

Considering all of these things, I am increasingly troubled by the cultural attitude of 'easy come, easy go.' As I grow older, I see more and more people who are terribly lonely, even though they live in heavily populated areas. An independent lifestyle and frequent relocation might have seemed fun when they were in their twenties, but that was then. Now in their late forties or fifties, they are desperately searching for connection and realizing that they have to begin from the very beginning to find it--they have not even one strong friendship. When they were younger, it may have seemed like it was too troublesome to bother working out differences with others and putting in the time and effort to maintain long-term friendships. Or they may have moved from place to place seeking excitement or pursing career opportunities that seemed so important at the time. But when you are losing your home or going through a divorce or facing serious health problems, it is much harder to turn up your nose and proclaim that you do not need anyone. And suddenly you discover the cost of all those decisions.

Can we not admit that we need others? And ideally, let us acknowledge this before time runs out on our personal health and youth and money. It is hard to begin a search for meaningful relationships when one is too ill and elderly to leave home. In the end, it will most likely be the people that we spend time on in our better years that will remember us when we face hardship. Let us forgive friends that are not perfect instead of simply dropping them. Let us take the time to invite people over and talk to them. Let us think a little harder before cutting loose from long-term community in pursuit of a fun new place or even another job opportunity. Certainly, relocation is sometimes unavoidable and not all relationships can be maintained. Still, the loss of friendships should never be taken lightly. Careers are temporary. Personal independence is temporary. Friendship can last forever.

February in June - Part 3

2011-02-04T09:24:00.000-08:00

Continued ...

I am finding it very difficult to draw this story to a close. Partly, this is because it is a difficult and somewhat embarrassing story, but mostly because it is simply too big. If I were to tell the whole thing, then I must mention that, at the time that we left Calvary OPC, I was nearing the end of a high-risk and difficult pregnancy and also that, within weeks of leaving, my husband fell off a ladder and broke his leg. The eight-months-pregnant lady who could barely walk was pushing her husband in a wheelchair. That is a story in itself. Suffice it to say that if the people at Calvary OPC had wanted to laugh at us, they certainly had ample opportunity.

Perhaps they snickered a bit to themselves, but toward us, there was only kindness. The first time that we contacted our pastor again, we were bracing ourselves for the worst. We found a pretext on which to tentatively test the water, and we sent a business-like email. We wondered whether we were about to be chastised for leaving or whether our recent misfortunes might be thrown in our faces. Or perhaps there would be no answer at all.

The next morning, a reply popped back to my inbox. I hovered my cursor over the 'delete' button, wondering whether even opening it might be a mistake. But at last, curiosity got the better of me. I clicked to open it. "It is funny that you should email," said the note. "My wife and I were just talking about you. We don't want you to feel as though we can't be friends, even if you do not go to our church. We miss you."

I stared at the message until my eyes got so blurry with tears that I couldn't see it anymore.

I would like to wrap up this story neatly by saying that we came back to the church and were thereafter always a joy to everyone around us, but that would not be true. We came back slowly and defensively, picking and arguing our way. We had other fits and threatened to leave again, but we did not carry through on them. Gradually, we settled in again.

It was June when I finally brought up the subject of church membership again to our pastor. "I'm really sorry that we left," I said. "But I don't suppose there's any good asking about membership anymore? Can we still join?"

"Of course you may." He smiled a little nervously. "I'll get you the tapes of the new member classes that you missed."

And so it was that my husband and I sat outside on a warm June afternoon with an old cassette player between us. I held our new baby on my lap, and Rick had his crutches next to his chair. I pressed 'play' on the cassette player, and we heard the opening words of the class that we were supposed to attend four months before: "It's freezing this morning. Well, I guess it is February ..."

* * * * * * * *

Ministry is a terribly complex thing. Five years ago, I never would have foreseen that today I would still be a member of Calvary OPC. I wouldn't have guessed that I would have so many good friends at church or that I would feel so at home there. I wouldn't have imagined it possible to be so comfortably nestled in a community of faith and so trusting of those around me.

Likewise, I am sure that they wouldn't have imagined that the defensive, angry, and insecure woman who constantly threatened to leave would someday be co-directing the VBS program and teaching Sunday School classes for the children. And yet, here we are. But nothing about it was sudden. It was day by day, and week by week. It required steadfast teeth-gritting persistence. There were ups and downs for years. Sometimes I would be set off over some trivial matter and rage against the church, and then I would panic and say, "I'm so sorry. Please don't throw me out." It seemed impossible that we would ever settle down.

In the end, their ministry to our family did actually succeed. But there is no way they could have known that it would, and I know now that they did not even expect it to end well. There had been ministry failures that involved people who arrived with far fewer problems than we had. There really is no way to know which will succeed and which will simply go down in flames no matter what you do.

While there is no formula that ensures success, I do know that it was their kindness made it possible for us to join Calvary OPC. I love Reformed theology, and yet I must echo the apostle Paul in saying that without love, all knowledge is just so much noise. (I Cor. 13) My husband and I have learned much from the preaching of the Word over the past few years, but we were only able to do so because the message was wrapped in gentleness and patience. It is not always persuasion that turns the heart and opens the eyes, but more often, it is mercy.

* * * * * * *

Quote from Confessions of St. Augustine about his own conversion:

"To Milan I came, to Ambrose the Bishop ....To him I was unknowingly led by Thee, that by him I might knowingly be led to Thee. That man of God received me like a father and looked with a benevolent and episcopal kindness on my change of abode. And I began to love him, not at first, indeed, as a teacher of the truth--which I entirely despaired of in Thy church--but as a man friendly to myself. And I studiously harkened to him preaching to the people, not with the motive that I should, but, as it were, trying to discover whether his eloquence came up to the fame thereof ... Salvation is far from the wicked, such as I then stood before him, and yet I was drawing nearer gradually and unconsciously."

February in June: Part 2

2011-02-03T14:00:00.000-08:00

Continued ....

Whenever anyone inquires why my husband and I left our church in January of 2006, I cannot give any good reason. Several small problems converged at once, but none of them was the fault of anyone at the church. Ultimately, it was fear--a feeling that we were being drawn too far into something. But more than that, I was discovering that I had begun to care about the people around me. I started learning their names and forging friendships. And that, as I had learned from bitter experience, could turn out to be a mistake. When you have friends, you have something to lose. When you care about people, they can break your heart. I began to feel the internal pressure to leave before it was 'too late.'

It never occurred to me that my absence would be in any way missed. The nagging fear of rejection prevented me from seriously considering whether anyone might want me to stay.

I told myself that the separation would be easy. I had left dozens of churches over the years. How difficult could it be to have one more change? Transition had been the story of my life ever since I could remember. Nothing ever lasted.

During our first few weeks away from Calvary OPC, my husband and I just stayed home. We told ourselves (and each other) that we needed a break from church. We dodged calls and ignored email. We were supposed to feel relieved and happy about our decision and eager to move on with our lives, but we were depressed. Even crushed.

"I don't even know where to go after this," I whispered to my husband Rick late one night as we both lay awake unable to sleep. "We had the best shot we could ever have. The preaching was good. Those people were really nice to us. I think the pastor really cared about us. If we still couldn't make it work out, what chance do we have anywhere?"

The next Sunday, we sat in another church trying to convince ourselves we hadn't made a huge mistake and that we were ready to move on and out of Reformed churches. But the sermon barely got underway when Rick mumbled, "I miss Pastor Tom." We got up and left.

It is an astonishing fact of ministry that sometimes people simply self-destruct and cut off supportive friends and good fellowship for no good reason. Sometimes their reactions strike out at someone who isn't even there anymore--someone who hurt them a long time ago. And then, having bit the hand that fed them, they don't know what to do with themselves afterward. It seems impossible to set things right again, and so they drift further away out of a sense of despair. It occurred to me for the first time that the pastor had invested dozens of hours of preparation and teaching into our membership, answering our questions in class and on email ... only to have us bail out without much explanation two weeks before the completion of the class. What do you say to recover from that? "Oops"?

As it turns out, "oops" is pretty much what you say.

Tomorrow ... the conclusion of this story. :)

February in June: Part 1

2011-02-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

"It's freezing this morning. Well, I guess it is February."

I thought those words this morning, as I gazed out the window at the blanket of new snow. And then a wry smile sprang to my lips as I remembered where I had heard that seemingly trivial comment. It was several years ago, and it was not February at all. I had heard it while sitting outside in June sunshine. But that had been my own fault, as you will hear.

I promised some weeks ago to tell a few of the stories of my own adjustment to my church. Although this is not an entirely comfortable subject for me, I think it is important to tell these stories. People are too often under the mistaken impression that conversions and transformations always take place in the manner of Saul on the road to Damascus--a brilliant light, an overwhelming realization, and then a totally changed life. However, most people never have such an abrupt life-altering experience. For most of us, changes occur gradually over time. Fears beset us. Doubt creeps up on us. Progress can be agonizingly slow. Sometimes we take one step back for every two steps forward. This is ministry and life in the real world where even the best intentions are poisoned by our fallen natures.

This story begins with a bunch of unbaptized children--mine. During my twenties, as I stumbled randomly from church to church, I did not worry much about my children. I told myself that as soon as I found the right place, I would see them baptized. However, as years passed, and I did not spend more than a few sporadic months at any church, it began to worry me more.

Finally, when we began attending Calvary OPC, I knew that we had found the church where we should stay.

"I want my children baptized," I anxiously informed the pastor almost immediately.

"Sure!" he said. "But you need to become members first. That's typically the process."

Oh no. No, no, no! I wasn't going to become a member anywhere. It was a trap. I was somehow very sure of that. No one was going to get me that easily again. I wasn't sure exactly what kind of trap or why anyone would have it in for me here, but I figured you can't be too careful about these things. No way.

"Okay, then, take your time considering it. There's no hurry. We love you anyway," the pastor said. He was nice about it, but he didn't budge. No membership, no baptism.

Over the next few weeks, my rebellion went through several phases:

(1) "I don't really care anyway." As much as I tried to tell myself that, I did care. Deeply. And so I quickly transitioned to the next phase ...

(2) "I'll find someone else to baptize my kids." I knew several local pastors from various denominations who did not hold the same scruples as my own pastor. I knew that all I really had to do was call one of them. It all seemed to make sense. I could have my kids baptized, and I could still go to Calvary OPC. I was not a member, so they could not kick me out over this or anything else. It seemed obvious that this idea would pleasantly put the matter to rest. My husband, weary of the whole business, offered to baptize the kids himself if that didn't work out with any of those pastors. And yet something held me back from making that call. I had seen much of Pentecostal silliness surrounding baptism--baptisms performed by children or carried out in bathtubs or other such nonsense--and I wanted none of it. "I want to do it right," I finally confessed to my husband. "Not this way. I want them to be baptized in their own church by their own pastor. This is a sacrament, after all. I just can't go through with it this way."

(3) "Okay, fine then." I finally gave in. My heart was not remotely in it, and I made no secret of that. "Whatever!" I snapped ungraciously. "What do we have to do?"

Our long-suffering pastor (God bless him) gave the best smile he could manage under the circumstances. "Excellent! We're so glad that you want to join us. We will start new members classes in a few weeks."

And so it happened that my husband and I, the two most annoyed and sulky people who have ever tried to join the Orthodox Presbyterian denomination, showed up for the beginning of what turned out to be a 22-week course. I still am very unclear on whether it was planned from the beginning to take that long, or whether it only lingered on for 22 weeks because we were so bitter and argumentative about everything. I suspect it was the latter. As I recall, our pastor rarely got more than a few words out before we pelted him with questions, hypothetical scenarios, and even unfounded accusations. As the weeks passed, we found ourselves enjoying the discussions more and taking a positive attitude. We could also see that our pastor was relaxing and perhaps beginning to trust that we wouldn't burn the church down before the end of the class.

And so it must have been shock for the pastor and elders when we suddenly left. We didn't even really explain. "Thanks for everything, but we won't be returning to your church," read my parting email. Now I know that must have felt to them like a kick to the stomach, but at the time, I had no concept of that at all.

To be continued ...

A Series of Fortunate EventsPart VIII: The Great Potter

2010-11-23T12:50:00.000-08:00

I read over the 'My Story' section of this blog a few days ago with some thought of continuing it. I know, of course, why I stopped writing about my transition to the Reformed faith at that particular point. To continue this story would demand that I tell things that I wish that I could forget about myself. And yet I do not wish to gloss over such details as if they never occurred.

Life and ministry are a messy business, and never more than when dealing with old hurts and deeply entrenched habits. Christian nonfiction books are filled with saccharin tales of remarkable conversions and triumphant victories, but I am convinced that the full stories are rarely told. The full stories would have to include wrenching testimonies of long and painful struggles with many relapses.

God is the Great Potter, and we are the clay upon His wheel. Sometimes His hand upon us feels as though it will crush us. We cry out in pain and anger to feel His fingers break down our carefully crafted defenses and self-righteous arrogance. Only in hindsight can we see that those hideous walls had to be brought down so that the new could take shape.

When I first began attending Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church, I would never have said that I was a cruel person. I did not think it was within my heart to be so. I would have said that I was wise and cautious and that I did not let myself be deceived. I would have said that I stood up for myself and didn't let anyone push me around anymore. I could not see that I had covered myself with a layer of paranoia that kept everyone around me at a distance. I expected everyone to judge me, and so I judged them first.

How does one break such old habits? How does someone so distrusting learn to be part of a church again?

In the next several blog posts, I will tell some of these stories. I am afraid that they are not 'pretty' stories, but they are real stories. My hope is that others who read them will be encouraged to persevere in their own sanctification and in ministry to others who are 'difficult.' For, as I often tell my fellow ex-Pentecostals now, if God can change me, surely He can change anyone.

The Mom Doppelganger Contest

2010-11-16T09:35:00.001-08:00

My kids held a Mom Doppelganger Contest this morning, even amid the chaos of boxes in our house. They dragged out my clothes, borrowed my wig, and in the end, even convinced me to give up my glasses for a few minutes to the cause. I was recruited to photograph the event. And I was hastily supplied with a hat for the outdoor photo-shoot so that the neighbors would not see me without my 'hair'.

The results are below:

(1) Kevin as 'Mom at night taking her medicine and reading the Silver Chair to the kids':

(2) Kaylee as 'Mom drinking Lemon Seltzer and typing on her computer':

(3) Sydney as 'Mom driving the car'. Kaylee notes that this one even captures the squinty-eyed look that I get when I am driving:

Anyone have a favorite? Vote now!

Life in Boxes

2010-11-12T21:34:00.000-08:00

We are moving. We are not moving far (our new home is only about fifteen minutes drive from the old one), but, as many times as I have moved, I have never been able to take much comfort in proximity. Even if we were moving only next door, we would still have to load up absolutely everything that we own and haul it over to the new place and set it down. And if there is more than a block involved, we must bring in a truck to haul everything. There is simply no way around that.

Over the years, I have discovered that there are basically three phases to moving:

(1) "This won't be so bad." No matter how many times I move, I manage to utter these ridiculously optimistic words. It is so easy to say them as I look vaguely around my home while everything remains neatly in its place. "We don't even have that much stuff," I say. "A couch, some bookshelves, a few beds - how hard could it be really?"

Which brings me to the next phase...

(2) "This is a lot more work than I thought it would be." Inevitably, these words are spoken on Day #2 of moving, when I begin to box up my books. The five cute little boxes that I had optimistically assembled clear only the first three shelves. And that's when I remember that the larger furniture items (the couch, bookshelves, and beds) form only a tiny fraction of the actual moving experience. I look around now and see an overwhelming array of smaller things - dishes, lamps, curtains, toys ... each of which must be packed, moved, and unpacked. My back hurts just thinking about it. My shoulder is already pulling out of joint. My head swims with the very thought of doing all this work, and so ....

(3) "Let's just burn the house down."

As much as my husband understands the sentiment, he dreads this phase, because it means that his wife is on the verge of Packing-Induced Hysterics. "We can't burn the house down," he patiently explains. "It would make an eyesore in the neighborhood, and people might resent it."

"Well, then, let's just park a dumpster outside and throw all of this away." This is my second and only slightly less alarming suggestion. "Who wants this couch anyway? It was second-hand when we got it and now it's all shabby."

"Yes, it is," my husband gently acknowledges, "but the real question is whether you would prefer the shabby couch rather than sitting on the floor. We have to pay a lot of deposits to get our utilities set up in the new place. We can't buy a houseful of new furniture. Perhaps you should go take a nap."

A nap usually proves to be the best treatment, and sometimes it is so effective that it resets us back to Phase #1.

Or so it has been in the past. This is my first time trying to move while being so ill, however, so naps aren't proving as effective as usual. With only half my bookshelf cleared, I find myself already on Phase #3. What are we to do?

Perhaps it is time to see how many of our friends will work for pizza ...

The Rise and Fall of the Motion to Move Presbytery to Saturday

2010-10-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

A tragic poem by Caroline Weerstra.

*ahem*

“The time has come,” the Moderator said,
“To talk of many things—
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,
Of cabbages and kings,
And why the sea is boiling hot
And whether pigs have wings.”

But one stood up among the crowd.
“Fathers and brothers,” he began.
“Yes, shoes and ships are weighty matters
And we must hear the cabbage plan ...

“The report on sealing wax we shall discuss—
It's on my handout as Item 3,
And a representative must be sent abroad
To test the temperature of the sea.

“If time permits, we should take on
Troubling questions of pig flight …
But, my brothers, amid all these concerns,
Let us not forget the elders' plight!

“The ruling elder works fifty weeks per year
Earning scarcely two weeks for vacation,
And now he must take two days off work
To go to a Presbytery location.

“So hear me now, my fellow presbyters,
And give heed to what I say,
'Tis only fit and right that our meetings
Should be moved to Saturday!”

Great confusion fell upon the crowd,
For their hearts were stirred with pity,
But the hour of lunch was upon them now ...
Cried they all: “Let's send it to committee!”

The days that the special committee labored
Numbered one hundred seventy-eight,
By the light of the moon and a small oil lamp
(We admit that the budget wasn't great).

The day of Fall Presbytery 2010
Was a Tuesday bright and fair,
The Moderator called for the presentation
By the special committee chair.

Our brave hero rose and took the pulpit
And spoke forth without fear:
“Saturdays are good, but still not enough—
We should also meet three times a year!

“I have statistics, and I have charts,
I called each and every Presbytery,
Sadly, my questionnaires all came back marked,
'Okay, dude, this is kinda scary' ...

“But I persevered on my great quest!
And I trust it was not in vain.
My recommendations stand now firm,
And my handout makes them very plain.”

A murmur went through the Presbytery pews,
For the debate had now commenced.
One stood up in the back row: “This motion,
Mr. Moderator, I must speak against!”

“For ruling elders I have much sympathy—
It is not that I don't care—
But you must consider all the pastors too;
We have sermons to prepare!”

Another called out, “So it is for me as well,
And I spend Saturdays with my daughter!”
A third spoke up, “Another meeting every year?
C'mon … you guys are nice, but my wife is hotter.

“Think of travel, expenses, our families...
This elder crisis is overblown.
A Tuesday schedule works well for most of us,
Let's leave well enough alone.”

“Amend! Amend!” the presbyters cried.
“We can reach a middle ground!”
Twice and thrice and still more times
The words were changed around..

But alas, in the end, 'twas all for naught
For, with the final vote unveiled,
The numbers stood fast at eleven to twenty-four—
The motion at last had failed.

Our hero stood pale in his defeat.
“Mr. Moderator, the matter is resolved,
I have run my course, but my work is done—
Let the committee be dissolved.”

The Presbytery sent him away in honor
To his home congregation
With thanks for all his time and work
And fifty dollars compensation.

In New England, flowers still will blossom
When springtime comes anew,
The squirrels will still scamper playfully
Upon grass that is wet with dew.

Butterflies will flit gently upon the wind,
And birds will still take flight,
Yet remember the Spring 2011 Presbytery
And say a prayer for the elders' plight.

Amen.

Presbytery 2010 - Post-Presbytery Analysis

2010-10-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

What can I say about Presbytery this year? That question has been much on my mind the past few days. For some reason, I find myself at a loss for words, and that is not a common affliction for me.

I think the challenge lies in the fact that everything I can think of to say has another side to it. Yes, I could say that Presbytery was a phenomenal timewaster, intent upon scrupulously analyzing every detail of everything. And yet I did not feel that I wasted my time by going. I could say that I was particularly struck by the intelligence and education of the representatives, and yet I was also struck by the number of 'ums', 'uhs', and 'I don't knows'. I enjoyed the hearty chorus of men's voices singing, and I giggled to hear them break into the not-particularly-confidence-inspiring hymn 'I Am Not Skilled To Understand'. It was a circus of contradictions at every turn.

Was there anything consistant about it? When I consider that question, I must say yes, but it was something more subtle than measures and debates. When I entered the church, I was warmly greeted by people who must have known that I had no particular business there, and yet they cheerfully offered me a seat to watch and listen. When I asked for the handouts that the representatives brought in with them, someone found me a copy. At lunchtime, one of the ministers brought me a plate of food ... and returned to take the empty plate back to the kitchen, so that I wouldn't have to make the walk to the dining room. And finally, when my husband and I were slipping out early, another minister followed us out to the car to say goodbye. He even brought out apples for the children to eat on the long drive home.

The most remarkable feature of this Presbytery meeting was not the policies and decisions, but rather the kindness demonstrated in a dozen small but thoughtful ways.

I am an ex-Pentecostal, and the world of Presbyterians is still sometimes a strange and alien and even frightening world for me. As a Pentecostal, I saw churches brought down--not by falling numbers or a struggling budget, but by their own leaders. Power-hunger and greed too often corrupt systems in which a single person may hold sway over thousands. When one voice may silence all others, decisions can be made very quickly. But then, decisions are often stirred more by pride and passion than rationality.

When I first began attending Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church, I was on the alert for signs that it might be an abusive organization. I had seen too much of leaders using the name of God to defraud and manipulate others, and I was determined not to be taken in again. "How do I know?" I would ask my new pastor. "Tell me how I know that you wouldn't be that way."

"I wouldn't do those things," he said. "Never."

"They all say that!" I snapped. "But how do I know?"

Over years, I have realized that he was telling the truth. But it occured to me on Tuesday that my pastor might have saved much time and many insults against his character by simply bringing me to Presbytery. As I watched the proceedings, I realized that a truly impatient and haughty person could never survive here. A man who couldn't stand to listen to any voice other than his own would simply never last in a days-long meeting in which dozens of voices drone on incessantly. Someone who could not bear to be questioned or have his will crossed would not be able to deal with committees, votes, and delays.

The system is long, arduous, and infuriating. And so it culls out anyone who cannot put up with difficult situations and frustrating people without losing his temper.

Yet the system is also elegant, exacting, and empowering. Any church member can command the attention of the entire region of pastors and elders by simply filing a grievance. Every voice is given an opportunity to be heard. Every measure is a careful product of the collective thought and judgment of several dozen people who are all agreed to be governed by the rule of the Bible, the Confession, and the Book of Church Order, and also to be governed by one another.

And so, as imperfect as it is, as time-consuming, bizarre, and even silly as it can be ... Presbytery is glorious.

Presbytery 2010 - Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

2010-10-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

Of cabbages—and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings."

(Lewis Carroll)

Fall Presbytery 2010 was held in Barre, Vermont, a little town that a website referred to as 'picturesque.' My husband insists that is a euphemism for 'backwoods one-horse town.' He is not a small-town kind of guy. But there is no denying that the church looked like something in a calendar--a pretty, whiteframe building among rolling hills at the peak of a Vermont autumn. The church had a sort of country air about it both inside and out. Instead of painful wooden pews, there were rows of comfortable padded chairs. In place of a pipe organ, there was a piano.

Remembering my previous experience with Presbyterian punctuality, I arrived early and dressed in my Sunday best. But, as it turned out, I needn't have worried. The relaxed country atmosphere had clearly mellowed out the Presbytery. I had been told that we were starting at 8:30 am. At 9:15 am, the first hymn finally got underway. Only about half the representatives were wearing ties. One brave soul was clad in jeans and sneakers.

Since Presbytery had begun already the day before, the business of the meeting was already well in progress and simply picked up where it had obviously left off the day before with reports from home and foreign missions. But as I looked around the small sanctuary, I was surprised at the low attendence. I counted only thirty-five people in the sanctuary, including myself. Where was everybody?

That puzzle continued for the first hour or so, in which several reports had to be postponed altogether because representatives were not present to give them. "Anyone here from the Overtures and Papers committee? Anyone at all? Okay, well, then let's move to the next item. Anyone here from ..." etc.

At last, they happened upon a committee that was actually present--a special committee set up for a special and very important purpose. I picked up my pen to take notes as the chairman of the special committee took the pulpit and adjusted his microphone. "Fathers and Brothers," he began earnestly, "As many of you remember, I was given the authority by the Presbytery at the last meeting to address a measure brought before us to examine the advantages and disadvantages of moving the Presbytery meeting from our usual Monday/Tuesday schedule to a Friday/Saturday schedule."

I put my pencil down. Clearly, I thought, this Presbytery is going to close early.

Ah, but I had failed to properly account for the sincere interest that the Presbytery takes in a Monday/Tuesday vs Friday/Saturday schedule. Once the special committee began to explain their investigation, it was almost alarming. There were questionnaires. And calls to all other Presbyteries. And statistics. And charts. And that was only within the initial presentation. Fierce debate followed in which some representatives proclaimed that a Friday/Saturday schedule would make it easier for elders with regular jobs to attend, while others protested the unfairness of being expected to preach on Sunday after being at Presbytery all day Saturday and traveling back home late at night.

Just then, the clock struck eleven, and it suddenly became abundantly clear where so many of the representatives had been. A door opened in the back of the church, and all the missing representatives solemnly entered the sanctuary, apparently from a separate meeting.

The agonizing debate over scheduling was put on hold for the moment, and a new speaker took the floor. There had been a complaint against a Session, he explained. It was a serious complaint. Very serious. Work had been going on even until this very moment, and now Presbytery would hear the complaint and rule on the matter.

The air prickled with tension. My mind spun, trying to imagine what such a serious complaint could involve. Abuse of power? Stealing from the offering? Adultery?

The speaker cleared his throat and read the complaint. A church member had lodged a complaint against the Session of his church for ..... wait for it ..... serving communion to someone who was not a church member. If you can imagine.

The alleged crime had occurred during one particular incident the previous year. There is, of course, no rule preventing visitors who hold membership in other churches and denominations from taking communion at an Orthodox Presbyterian church, but in this case, the visitor had stated that he had no church affiliation at all (although he was a baptized Christian). And yet the church had still served him communion.

As it turns out, the guidelines on serving the Lord's Supper (which every representative seemed to have on hand for quick study) did not technically say whether someone had to be a church member, and that unfortunate fact presented an interesting dilemma to the Presbytery. They all agreed that it was their normal procedure that people should be members of a church before they took communion, that it should be encouraged, that it was overall a good policy ... but was it really required? Furthermore, several representatives pointed out that, once the communion platter starts down the aisle, really does it matter what your policy is? People will reach for the bread, and what can you do? Jump over the pews and fight them for it? Of course not.

In the end, in a dramatic but divided victory, the accused church was cleared of wrongdoing, and the Presbytery returned to the other pressing issue--the debate over meeting on Tuesdays vs Saturdays.

At that moment, however, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to the see haggard face of my husband. He had been unable to find even one park or movie theater in this dismal wilderness, and had come back to see whether I might be willing to go home now. And so I left Presbytery a little early, and we began the drive home.

* * * * *

When I read over my summary, it seemed almost as if I was impatient with the events at Presbytery ... the long hours of debate over a scheduling question, the supposed seriousness of a minor technicality ... but I was not at all disappointed. There was something sweet, if a little amusing, about such agonizing over trivialities. There's a sort of innocence about it, like a child worrying over the possibility of accidentally crushing a bug.

It is late now as I type this, and I am not at all certain that I can put such a notion into words tonight. And so I shall save the further explanation for my Analysis of Presbytery ... coming soon!

Again with the Presbytery Reports

2010-10-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

So I went to Presbytery again.

It was a last-minute decision, prompted mostly by my own whining. My husband had recently taken a trip to Texas to see his father, after having taken a trip to California to see his mother earlier in the year. "I never get to go anywhere," I sniffled. "You have taken two trips out of town now, and I never get to go ANYWHERE." It was an exaggeration, but I was in the mood for self-pity.

My husband Rick, a man of tender heart, could not bear to see his wife suffer such an injustice in fate and fortune. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Presbytery," I said. "It is starting in Vermont tomorrow."

"You are nuts," he replied tenderly.

Early in our marriage, my husband was of the conviction that I must not really know what I wanted to do on my vacations, because the things that I wanted to do seemed so bizarrely un-fun. Surely, he reasoned, once he had taken me to Disneyland, I would stop complaining about not having yet seen the Egypt display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But in sixteen years of marriage, one learns a few things about one's spouse. And so now, he realized that his darling would indeed prefer watching debates on theology and church practice far more than she would enjoy a day at the spa or a visit to the State Fair.

"Alright, Presbytery it is," he said. "Let's go to Vermont."

Presbytery is a two-day event, beginning at 4:00 PM on Monday, and then running all day on Tuesday. We knew that we would miss the portion on Monday, but it could not be helped, since my husband could only take one day off work. "You could go ahead and go to sleep," I said in the tone of a martyr. "We can get up in the morning early and maybe I'll only miss Monday afternoon and a few things on Tuesday morning ..."

"No way," Rick replied. "Drive up tomorrow morning listening to you wail all the way about how much of Presbytery you are missing? The thought gives me the chills. Let's pack it up."

And so we set out late Monday night for Barre, Vermont. I was practically bouncing up and down in my seat with excitement. Rick's face was set grimly as he mentally calculated how long one could keep three active children entertained in a small town like Barre, Vermont. "I hope at least they have a McDonalds," he murmured.

The children in the backseat of the van looked a little dazed. "We were planning a trip?"

"Your mother wants to go to Presbytery."

And so that is how I came to have a new set of Presbytery Reports. Stay tuned!

A Homeschooling Dilemma

2010-08-19T07:41:00.000-07:00

I have begun the homeschooling process again this week, and so I have been contemplating the mysteries of intelligence. My daughter Kaylee was diagnosed with learning disabilities in her previous school, and her IQ tested at 88--below average, but not quite low enough to classify her among the mentally retarded. She was obviously disorganized. Homework and notes from her teacher were routinely left at school. Completed homework was left at home. She would go hungry at school, forgetting that she was carrying lunch money in the pocket of her jeans. She could not learn addition and subtraction. Her vocabulary was abysmal, and she stuttered when she talked.

When I pulled her out of school to homeschool her, the teachers demanded to know how I planned to address these problems. Would I get her the speech therapy that she needed?

I shrugged. "She has been in speech therapy here at the school for years now," I pointed out. "It isn't working. I make my decisions based on outcomes. I'm not going to continue her in a treatment that isn't working. I'm going to try having her memorize poems and sections of books and the Westminster Shorter Catechism."

The speech therapist groaned. "Mrs. Weerstra, you are talking about a child with an IQ of 88. She can't even remember how to add and subtract. This is a completely unrealistic plan."

I didn't respond. I merely collected my daughter's belongings and walked away. I knew something that they didn't know. I cannot add or subtract. I go hungry sometimes because I do not remember the lunch money that I tucked into my pocket earlier in the day. I get lost sometimes on my way home and have to call my husband for directions. I am an older version of Kaylee.

At home I tossed her vocabulary lists into the trash, and I blew the dust off some books that had lain untouched on the shelf for years: Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Pilgrim's Progress ...

"We're going to read, Kid," I told my daughter.

She gasped. "Those are big books."

"They are great books," I corrected her. "No more of this 'See Spot Run' nonsense for you. You need something that will hold your attention."

And so we began.

Seven months later, I watched my daughter recite the Shorter Catechism to the elders of our church in preparation for her profession of faith. "Man's chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever," she proclaimed without the trace of a stammer. In Sunday School, her hand shot up to make a comment on the discussion. "I think that what Pastor Tom is saying about how some people just trust their feelings instead of the Bible is very much like the part in Pilgrim's Progress where Christian is talking to Ignorance. Ignorance keeps saying that his heart tells him that he does not need his certificate, and Christian says ..."

At home, she looked over her new 7th grade math curriculum and sniffed disdainfully. "I already know all of this stuff, Mom. If I finish it before September, can you order the algebra books?"

And yet, through all of it, my daughter cannot add or subtract. Her allowance money sits forgotten in her pocket when she is at the store. She still stutters often when she talks.

There are different kinds of intelligence. I am certain of that. It is a certainty I arrived at after, having nearly failed math in 10th grade and having no math degree, I taught calculus in colleges and universities. But I always kept a large-screen calculator near my hand behind the podium so that I could discretely type in 12 + 5. It was less embarrassing than counting it out on my fingers, and I lived in fear of my secret being discovered by my fellow faculty members.

So what does one do with such a child as Kaylee? Part of me wants to drill her on addition and subtraction, as I remember the terror in my heart every time someone cheerfully said, "Let's have Caroline run these numbers in her head. She teaches math." And part of me wants to bow to the inevitable and simply slip a calculator into her hand and order the algebra books.

At least I do not wonder what to do about her reading. She sits next to me today, her eyes scanning over the words of The Great Divorce. I start to close the book for lunch hour. "No, no, Mom!" she exclaims. "Just one more chapter! It will give me things to think about for the whole rest of the day!"

Yes, in so many ways, the child is very like her mother.

The Random Garden

2010-07-26T09:46:00.000-07:00

Plants are puzzling things. One would think that, with my background in biology and biochemistry, I would be more adept at caring for them. Or at least identifying them. But such has never been my talent.

As a child, I dreamed of someday sitting in an elaborate garden like the one described in The Secret Garden (one of my favorite books at the time). I imagined that my garden would be filled with irises and daffodils and snowdrops. And I would totally know what those were. I would plant and tend, and soon reap the fruit of my labor amid afternoons of reading on a comfortable bench surrounded by beautiful blossoms and tasteful statuary, with the gentle wind blowing sweet flower fragrance around me.

However, I have since come to terms with the fact that if I ever sit in such a garden, I will run the very real risk of being prosecuted for trespassing. My own gardens have never approached such immortal stature. I still do not know what daffodils and snowdrops are. The concept of fertilizing and watering is lost on me. When bugs attack, they always win, for I am at a loss about how to stop them.

Still, I do try.

"Come, children," I say to my offspring every year. "We are going to plant our garden. We need seeds and fertilizer and those little shovel things ...."

We pile eagerly into our van and drive to the store. There, we stand in awe amid a myriad of garden-related items, most of which we cannot identify. Vague chemical smells waft across the aisle. Tools that look like medieval torture implements peek out ominously from the shelves. A trapped bird in the rafters, doubtless lured by the same seeds that we are seeking, wheels around anxiously and beats it wings against a window.

"Come, children," I say. "Let's get out of here."

On our way out, we grab random handfuls of seed packets from a display. Back home, we realize that we have eggplant, jalapeno, tomato, and marigold seeds.

"What are marigolds?" the children ask breathlessly.

"I have no idea," I reply.

"Do they taste good?"

I shrug. "We'll google it later. Let's have our garden right here."

It doesn't really matter where 'here' is. I have no reason for choosing one spot over another. We pull the grass up with our hands and dig around a little and dump the seeds into the ground.

The remarkable thing is that something always grows. Not everything, for sure. The eggplants never so much as peeked out above the earth, but none of us like eggplant anyway, so we were all a little relieved. But the tomato plants are tall and graceful and covered with bunches of healthy green fruit. The jalapenos are lovely as well and beginning to blossom (unless they are really weeds, and we aren't totally sure about that. We will be watching the fruit with some suspicion). The marigolds (whatever they are) are doing well, although they are sticking out at odd angles that suggest that they may have been overwatered by Sydney and her enthusiastic watering hose at some point.

The children are immensely pleased and already talking about next year. Next year, of course, we will have a huge garden, with all kinds of roses and violets and daffodils and snowdrops...

The Story of Salem

2010-07-21T07:11:00.000-07:00

There is a tiny courtyard in the heart of Salem - a small stretch of grass, bordered by a low stone wall and ancient trees. The courtyard is surrounded on all sides by museums and shops dedicated to Salem's main attraction: witchcraft. A few yards away, you can have your picture taken in full witch costume with the flames of hell rising beneath you. In a nearby shop, incense and crystal balls line a window that advertises psychic readings in the back of the store. T-shirts blare 'SALEM' next to a Halloween caricature of a witch on a broom.

It is July, the height of tourist season, and the sidewalks are trampled under the feet of throngs of pedestrians. But as I step into the courtyard, everything is silent and empty. My husband, my children, and I are the only people here. Stone benches built into the wall appear empty, until I approach one to sit down. And then I see the writing carved into the bench.

Rebecca Nurse
Hanged
July 19, 1692

I move to another bench.

Mary Eastey
Hanged
September 22, 1692

Upon each of the benches sits a ghost, a memory of someone who died a violent death amid the hysteria of the Salem witchcraft trials.

In the era in which the trials took place, witchcraft executions were far from unusual. The vast majority of these occurred not here in Salem, but in Europe, where as many as 100,000 supposed witches were condemned to be hanged, burned at the stake, or subjected to some more creative and torturous death. The Salem witchcraft trials are notable in part because of their oddity. Puritans were not normally in the habit of rounding up witches to burn. Some scattered witch executions occurred in various settlements in America prior to the Salem trials, and none at all after. Twenty lives lost in Salem pales in comparison to the thousands in Europe.

And yet Salem is remarkable. Those who founded it sought to honor God. In this small settlement cut into a vast wilderness, people knew each other well. Those hanged included not only the 'usual suspects' that fed the flames of the witch-burnings in Europe (old women with bad tempers or questionable morals), but even upstanding church members who had lived their whole lives in piety and prayer. Salem executed its own sisters and brothers, those who had sat next to them in the pews since childhood. Salem set out to rid itself of subtle evil, and it became a monster, consuming the lives of elderly saints and young mothers and loyal husbands.

The human mind is a flimsy and sin-addled thing. How easily it is deceived! How easily hearts grow cold! Fear strikes, and suddenly the cry goes up for the blood of our neighbors. Many intellectual reasons have been given for the hysteria and paranoia that struck Salem and the surrounding villages in 1692, and most of these reasons seem to me to be too premeditated. Land grabs and power struggles may fuel the conflict, but I cannot believe that anyone awoke one morning to say, "Let's rid ourselves of old Rebecca so that we may take her house and land." Those who lead such witchhunts usually do believe themselves to be acting on behalf of the common good and for the cause of God. They congratulate themselves on having discovered and rooted out the evil among them. The aspect of the human spirit that rallies to unite itself to a great cause can be too easily twisted and misled. I believe that those who executed Rebecca Nurse, Mary Eastey, John Proctor, and others, sincerely believed themselves to be ridding the land of Satan's work and upholding the name of Christ. And yet Salem is now a joke in popular culture and a stain upon Christian history. The town that boasted their faithfulness to God and eagerness to rid themselves of witchcraft is now the site of largest tribute to witchcraft in the United States.

The true story of Salem is not in the museum honoring the history of witchcraft. It is not in the shops full of black cats and incense or in the gaudy t-shirts hanging in tourists shops. The story is not about witches at all, because those accused were not witches. They were Christians. Many of them stood against the execution of other innocents and so found themselves ensnared. Those who expressed doubt about the guilt of the condemned were soon on trial for witchcraft also. Some falsely confessed and were released after they named 'co-conspirators' for the eager town to capture. Others held fast to their innocence to their dying breath. And their names surround me now on twenty stone benches.

At the entrance to the small memorial courtyard, a simple patch of concrete carries the words of the accused. The words are nearly covered in dust and gravel kicked up by the feet of those passing by. I brush some of it away with my hands so that we can read the words.

"I am wholly innocent of such wickedness."

"Oh, Lord, help me!"

"If I confess I should save my life."

"I do plead not guilty."

"I can deny it to my dying day."

"God knows I am innocent."

I sit down on one of the stone benches next to the ghost of George Burroughs, the Salem minister who famously recited the Lord's prayer as he stood at the gallows awaiting his execution. I gather my children around me and point at the name carved next to me and then at each of the benches around us, inviting them to look at those names also and to remember them well.

"I am going to tell you a story," I say. "It is a story about these very brave people whose names are carved here. They stood up for the truth when everyone was against them."

And that is the story of Salem.

A Quick Baptism Update and Homeschooling Idea

2010-03-29T12:08:00.000-07:00

For my baptism series fans, I am very excited to report that my pastor either saw the light or wearied of my nagging, and he has decided to devote a few Sunday evening sermons to the subject of baptism. I consider this excellent news for the future of this blog series, since I am not a theologian and often descend into muddled and incoherent rambles on difficult subjects. More to follow soon (yes, I know I keep promising that).

In the meantime (and speaking of incoherent theological rambling), I would like to present a question in regard to homeschooling, for all you Reformed people out there who homeschool or know someone who does.

When I began homeschooling my daughter Kaylee, I began teaching her the Westminster Shorter Catechism. Kaylee had learned much of the Catechism for Young Children already, but the language level of the Westminster had eluded her. However, I saw an opportunity to mix vocabulary study with religious training, and so we took on the 'Big Girl Catechism', as I called it while I was selling the idea to Kaylee.

I searched for a workbook on the WSC that would explain the vocabulary and concepts, but I searched in vain. I found nothing about the Shorter Catechism that seemed directed toward children, which is very odd, considering that I am told that religious instruction of children is the main purpose of said Catechism. Undaunted, I proceeded to make my own workbooks--first on the Catechism, and then later on Pilgrim's Progress (the modern English version). These turned out to be quite helpful in two ways--first, in teaching my daughter, and second, as something to show the elders whenever I woke up in the middle of the night panicking about whether I was teaching my daughter correct theology or heresy. (So far, the verdict has been pleasantly in favor of 'correct theology', although sometimes I wonder whether they read it or whether they are laughing too hard to take the situation seriously).

Regardless, the point is that I now have a growing set of children's study guides. My husband Rick has wondered whether I might find that other people may be able to use them.

So here are the links to samples (the rough and unedited samples, I might add, but I just want to see whether any interest exists):

Westminster Shorter Catechism workbook

Pilgrim's Progress Study Guide for Kids

Let me know what you think!

An Intermission

2010-03-23T21:26:00.000-07:00

Well, I realized that my last few posts are a little too serious, and I suspect we need to lighten things up a little around here before I climb back onto my soapbox.

I cannot think of a better way than this:

My husband recently attended his mother's wedding in Los Angeles, and he took our older kids Kevin and Kaylee with him. (Sydney, being only three, was deemed too young to fully appreciate a vacation that involved lengthy airplane flights and a wedding). The day after the wedding, he took the children to Disneyland for the first time in their lives.

My son Kevin has talked for years of going to Disneyland. He knew the names of all the rides and rollercoasters ever since he was eight years old. But I wondered if he would really appreciate them. He is so afraid of heights that we have to request ground floor rooms in hotels. How would he handle the rush and speed of Space Mountain?

Apparently, quite well.

And Splash Mountain?

Well, I see that he's a braver soul than I realized. Good for you, Kevin!

Baptism, Part 2: Magic Words?

2010-03-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

After my last post, illness in the household and then a video project kept me occupied and away from blogging for a few weeks. I was reminded of my negligence this morning, however, when the topic of Sunday School class was ... baptism!

While the usual discussions about the meaning of baptism and paedo vs credo were in full swing, I was diligently waving my arm around, attempting to attract the attention of the elder who was leading the discussion so that I could ask my own question.

At last, I succeeded. "It says here in the Westminster Confession," I said, "that a person should be baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

"Yes," the elder replied.

"Well, in the church that I attended when I was younger," I continued, "baptism was in the name of Jesus because they were not Trinitarian. It was the UPCI - Oneness doctrine."

The elder was familiar enough with my background to nod that he understood.

"So there is a debate among some ex-Pentecostals about the reasons for the formulas. We are all sick of hearing when we were in the UPCI that someone had to be baptized in the name of Jesus in order to be saved. We feel that this effectively turned the name of Jesus into an incantation that people have to recite in order for the baptism to be effective. But that raises the question of how it is viewed in Trinitarian churches. Do you HAVE to say 'Father, Son, and Holy Ghost' in order for the baptism to be effective? I know that you reject UPCI baptism, but is that because of the Jesus-only formula itself or because of what it means to the UPCI? In other words, if someone were to be baptized in THIS church in the name of Jesus, would that be a legitimate baptism?"

"That's an excellent question," the elder said.

And then there was a moment of awkward silence, broken only by the sound of my pastor chuckling behind me, doubtless filled with glee that someone besides himself had to field these questions once in a while.

"We would never baptize only in the name of Jesus," another elder pointed out.

"Yes, but if you did by mistake or something," I said. "Or, for example, I know someone who was baptized in the name of 'the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, which is the name of Jesus', because she was baptized at a joint convention of Oneness Pentecostals and Trinitarian Pentecostals who decided to compromise on the formula. So is she baptized or not?"

Such dilemmas seem to be rare in the Reformed world, but they strike the ex-Pentecostal world quite regularly. Pentecostal baptisms (even in Trinitarian Pentecostal churches) are often carried out haphazardly by ministers that pride themselves on their flare and creativity rather than their faithfulness to Scripture.

Are words important? In my own consideration of the issue, I had to conclude that the answer is both yes and no. Words are important insofar as they signify the doctrine of the church. Why does the UPCI baptize in the name of Jesus? Well, in part, they do so because they do not believe in the Trinity. 'Father, Son, and Holy Ghost' are dismissed as mere titles of the same person. Beyond this, however, is another massive doctrinal error: the name of Jesus is viewed as holding supernatural power in the word itself. I remember as a child hearing people repeat the name of Jesus for hours as they sought to overcome some obstacle in their lives. The name of Jesus was spoken while oil was applied to people, doorknobs, walls, clothing, and anything else that was suspected of hosting demons. At times, the teaching became ridiculously bizarre. One UPCI pastor was heard to claim that the five stones that David selected to fight the giant Goliath represented the five letters J-E-S-U-S. The concept of translation from Greek or Hebrew text was evidently lost on him, or else he simply did not care about such technicalities. In his mind, the word was magic, and only when it was spoken (in English) would the sick be healed, the dead raised, and demons cast out. And only when the word was spoken (in English again) would a baptism be legitimate in the eyes of God.

Such a concept reduces the precious name of our Savior to something very near the practice of witchcraft, and I can only think that it is a blasphemous use of the name. Sacraments are not magic spells. There are no magic words. In a certain sense, the words spoken carry no weight at all. They are not powerful in themselves.

Does this mean that ministers can say whatever they want during a baptism? I will discuss this (and the conclusion of this morning's story) in my next segment coming up tomorrow. :)

Baptism, Part 1

2010-03-01T08:53:00.001-08:00

When my husband and I first began attending Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church, I was not very familiar with Presbyterian procedures. One Sunday, at the conclusion of the service, I wandered up to the front of the church to ask a question that had been on my mind for some time.

"Where is the baptistry?"

The pastor was gathering his books together. He paused and glanced up with a serious expression. "It's under the floorboards," he said.

"It is?" I looked doubtfully at the apparently seamless carpet at my feet.

"Yeah. That way, if someone is too stubborn about getting baptized, we coax them up to the front right about where you are standing. Then I press a button under the pulpit, and the hatch drops open, and they fall in."

There was a moment of frozen silence while I contemplated my peril, and then I saw the little half-grin sneak into my pastor's face, and my husband, who was standing behind me, burst into laughter.

"You guys are awful," I protested. "Seriously, is the baptistry outside?"

It turns out that Presbyterian churches baptize by sprinkling. I remembered later that I had heard that somewhere, but I had never seen a sprinkling baptism in my life, and it was difficult to believe that churches really did that.

Since then, I have read many arguments both for and against sprinkling, and I have really no conclusion on it at all. I have submitted my own children for baptism by sprinkling, and I am quite content that they are firmly baptized, and yet I still have questions.

I have been baptized twice, both times by immersion, and both times in Trinitarian churches. The first baptism is a nagging irritation in my memory, performed over my own inclinations by a pastor that I despised. I remember the water being cold. I remember clinging to the sides of the baptistry, not wanting to be immersed. I remember very little else about it, and I try not to think of it at all.

I was rebaptized as an adult in an Alliance church. I did not attend the church regularly, and I had no intention of ever doing so. In fact, at that time, I did not attend any church regularly at all. But I happened to be there when they asked who wanted to be baptized. Eager to remove the stain of my previous baptism, I hopped into the tank.

Which of these was my real baptism? Or were either of them? If I had been baptized in a Oneness church with a 'Jesus-name' baptism, would that be a baptism? If someone is baptized in a Mormon church, is that a baptism?

I tend to think that the method must be subservient to the intention. Baptism is not a magic rite, but rather a sacrament. And yet, it seems that even sacraments have their limits. An ex-Charismatic friend of mine told me once of a church service that she attended in which cake and Diet Coke were substituted for the 'boring' bread and wine. Such extreme liberties in procedure are not liberty at all, but blasphemy. We should not repeat the sin of Cain and expect God to be pleased with our offering. And yet, it seems not entirely clear to me where the limits of liberty are set for baptism.

I shall try, in the next few blog postings, to discover some answers to the question of where we find this balance. Feel free to post comments if you have thoughts on this. And stay tuned!

Dangerous Games

2010-02-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

This evening, my husband and I were settling in to watch our DVR recording of the Olympics when his cell phone rang.

I picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. "It's your subcontractor," I said. "Wanna talk to him?"

My husband waved his hand. "I'll call him back in a little while. The Koreans just crashed in speed-skating. The Americans won silver and bronze. Do you want me to rewind it for you?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "The Koreans crashed? That's awful! The Americans won? Yay! Yes, rewind it!"

I am an American who grew up in South Korea, and my husband is a Dutchman who grew up in Mexico. Our Olympic loyalties are conflicted.

It occurred to me later (when we paused the game to get some ice cream) how much our Olympics viewing has changed over the years.

"Do you remember when we couldn't pause the TV?" I said. "Do you remember when caller ID didn't exist and we had to actually answer the phone to find out who was calling?"

Soon we were reminiscing about more. "Do you remember when you had to buy a whole album to get a song? Do you remember pay phones? Do you remember the computer game 'Oregon Trail'?"

Although I am only thirty-five, I remember all of that and more. I remember a day when someone would ask which movie won the Oscar for Best Picture in 1975, and if no one remembered, everyone just went on wondering. There was no Google search engine to answer all our questions about every useless bit of trivia. I remember writing five-page reports for school in pen, dabbing white-out on my mistakes. I remember stuffing carbon paper into a typewriter and turning the handcrank on a mimeograph machine. How ancient I must sound to my children when I talk about these things!

But there are also things that I shall never tell them--at least, not while they are young enough to be led by my example. As I recall, my siblings and I flirted with disaster on nearly a daily basis. I look back and wonder how we all survived to adulthood.

I remember riding in cars that didn't have seatbelts. I remember my baby sister falling out of the van onto the road when the door popped open unexpectedly. I remember riding a bike without a helmet with my baby brother (also without a helmet) strapped into a kiddie seat on the back. I remember reading Robinson Crusoe and then eating random leaves and grass in the yard while pretending to be stranded on a island.

I remember playing with guns in the front yard. That's right. I said that I remember playing with guns in the front yard. My mother owned a 12-gauge shotgun, and my parents bought my older brother first a bow and arrows and then a .22 rifle for his 12th birthday. The idea initially was that my brother would become a great hunter and bring back venison for dinner. Unfortunately, since we lived in a suburban area and venison was not teeming in the immediate vicinity of our yard, our attention quickly turned to tin cans and handmade targets. As far as I recall, parents were not involved in this exercise. We broke a window in the upstairs of the house on one occasion, and my brother accidentally shot the head off my sister's doll with his rifle. Still, I have to credit my brother for keeping us alive. "Stand behind this line!" he would say, in an authoritative tone that we rarely questioned. "Don't point the gun at anybody!"

As dangerous as those things were, they all pale in comparison to a habit that we developed during my junior and senior years in high school. My family lived in Soyosan, South Korea, at that time, but my siblings and I attended an American school in Uijongbu--about a half-hour trip by train. The train station was about a block from our house. Procrastinators that we were, we never simply prepared for school on time and waited patiently in the train station. No, we were far too clever for that. We staged a lookout on the balcony to scan the tracks opposite our home, while the rest of us wandered about in a lazy early-morning daze, half-heartedly gathering our books and finding our mittens.

And then ... "THE TRAIN IS COMING!!" the look-out would shriek.

We would seize our bookbags and race for the door, through the gate, down the road, and across a busy two-lane highway, dodging cars that were traveling in excess of 60 miles an hour. In the meantime, the train had already pulled into the station. We would dash onto the platform, breathless and still holding the half-eaten remains of our breakfast. By then, the train was usually starting to pull away. We would run after it and leap onto the moving train, oblivious to the huge wheels rolling below us. No one ever stopped us, and so, day after day, we did that. If we had slipped even once while running across the road or jumping onto the train ... Ah, but God was gracious to foolish children. Day after day, amid snow and rain and ice, our shoes found sure footing, and not one of us so much as skinned a knee.

My brothers and sisters and I all survived childhood somehow without gun wounds or amputated limbs. We survived to own cell phones and email accounts and blogs and to watch the 2010 Winter Olympics on DVR. We survived to put locks on our weapons and tell our own children to stay out of the road and away from the train tracks.

Do as I say, kids, not as I did.

Caroline Goes to a Funeral

2010-02-20T10:08:00.000-08:00

A dear elderly gentleman in our church passed away last week. He was in his nineties, and his passing came as a shock to no one. There is a certain wistfulness about not seeing him hobbling about with his walker, and yet he had been so weak for so long that there is some joy to think of him now in Heaven.

It was my first occasion to attend a Reformed funeral, and in characteristic Caroline style, I panicked. "Can I go to the funeral?" I emailed my pastor frantically. "Is it family-and-friends only? Is there somewhere I should sit? Should I bring food? What should I wear?"

"Sure you can go," he replied. And thus I was reminded yet again of the futility of asking men questions about food, clothing styles, and seating arrangements.

It turned out to be no more formal or restrictive than an average church service. Old friends and family were present, along with those like myself who were latecomers to the life of the dear elderly man. I think that he would have loved it. I found myself looking around, wondering if he was there among us. I have always wondered whether the dead can look in on the happenings on earth. There is so little that we know about life after death. The Bible tells us that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. Is that literal in any sense?

I have thought all my life that my grandmother sees me. I never knew my grandmother. She was killed by a drunk driver when my father was a teenager. I have seen only one picture of her. I am told by everyone that knew her that I bear an extraordinary resemblance to her--so much so that at least on one occasion when I visited her hometown, someone approached me to comment that I must be some relation to Pearl.

I am not one of those that has ghostly visitations or hears footsteps in the attic at night, although I have always wondered why (if such a thing were to happen) anyone would find it particularly alarming. If I were to see the ghostly form of my grandmother, I can think of no reason that I would believe she was there to harm me any more than I would if she knocked at my door while still alive.

The Bible forbids speaking to the dead or calling them up. I am not certain all of the reasons, but I suppose it has something to do with the human inclination to worship all things spiritual. Those that do seek out contact with the dead also revere them or fear them as powerful beings. And we are called to reverence and fear of God alone.

And so, on Tuesday, we commended our friend to the care of the God that he had served for more than fifty years. I don't know how God cares for the souls of those who depart, but I am certain that He does.

* * * *

"But," said Eustace, looking at Aslan. "Hasn't he - er - died?"

"Yes," said the Lion in a very quiet voice, almost (Jill thought) as if he were laughing. "He has died. Most people have, you know. Even I have. There are very few who haven't."

~CS Lewis, The Silver Chair

Idols of the Heart

2010-02-02T07:18:00.000-08:00

Tota fere sapientiae nostrae summa, quae vera demum ac solida sapientia censeri debeat, duabus partibus constat, Dei cognitione et nostri.

So Calvin begins the Institutes of the Christian Religion—not with a summary of Christianity or an eye-catching tease, but with an uncomfortably sweeping generalization—nearly all true and sound wisdom, he says, consists of knowledge of God and of ourselves, and these so closely interlinked that it is impossible to say which comes first.

At first glance, the statement appears nearly too broad to make any sense. In our minds, we categorize too keenly. God has His place in our thoughts—a good place perhaps, even an honored place, and yet a separate place. We Christians too often operate our lives with little thought of Him, and atheists generally proceed with no thought of God at all. How could Calvin say that all that we know even of ourselves is so interwoven with our knowledge of God?

I can say little of the thought processes of atheists. In my lifetime, I have never been one, nor am I at all certain how they operate day to day. The universe in which we find ourselves so pulsates with the immense Presence that I cannot even imagine it how it could be otherwise. In curious moments, I have tried to picture a universe absent God, but the best I can do is to briefly envision that God has grown distant or turned His attention away. And even that thought is such a horror to my mind that our vibrant planet suddenly looms as an utter wasteland. A universe without God is a concept that I cannot even begin to grasp—such desolation and emptiness as cannot even be fathomed. How someone could simply go on unparalyzed by the notion is something that I shall never understand.

But I know much of false gods and idols. I have never knowingly worshiped a carved image, and yet the idols that haunt my religion are ever so much more subtle and dangerous for that. Calvin notes in Chapter 11 of the Institutes: Man's mind, full as it is of pride and boldness, dares to imagine a god according to its own capacity, as it sluggishly plods, indeed is overwhelmed with the crassest ignorance, it conceives an unreality and an empty appearance of God.

How I wish that I could say that Calvin was exaggerating the condition of the human heart. But, sadly, those words ring even truer today than they did in the mid-1500's when Calvin penned them. In today's cheerfully tolerant atmosphere, people are not only permitted but even encouraged to imagine God however they want Him to be and to worship Him in whatever manner they wish. In modern ideology, God is viewed as a one-size-fits-all smock that can be stretched or penned up however we like to suit our personal dimensions.

At first, the pride of the human heart makes this seem like a brilliant idea. How freeing to consider a universe entirely on our own terms! We feel like gods ourselves, making our own reality and rules. “I cannot believe in a God who would hold this rule,” we say decisively, as though that settles the matter and as if our own preferences dictate the will of the Almighty. And so we deceive ourselves that we mold the universe with our own hands.

But idols have a way of forcing us into subjection. Our will and our experiences sculpt our image of God, and then we are natural worshippers. “[Man] prefers to worship wood and stone rather than to be thought of as having no God,” Calvin observes (Institutes, p.44). And so we fall at the feet of the idols that we made with our own imaginations, and the would-be masters become the slaves.

“It seems to me that God is harsh,” says one. “No matter what I do, He seems to be angry with me. I don't feel forgiven, and so I keep trying to do more for God, but He never seems any nearer.”

“It seems like God is far away,” muses another. “I can't believe that He'd let these bad things happen, so He must not be here at all.”

We become frantic and fearful. The diabolical images that we created for ourselves begin to gnaw at our understanding of ourselves and our condition. Those whose god is ignorant will quickly become deceptive, since they believe that God does not see their sin. Those whose god is an exacting tyrant will fall into despair. But those who worship a permissive god, a small and limited deity who will let them do as they please, suffer the worst fate, because they are abandoned to their own inclinations. We never know what horrors lurk within us until we give full voice to the whims of our hearts. Paul writes of these in Romans 1:“Since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, He gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done. They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless.”

When, by the mercy of God, we come to our senses, we find ourselves crawling back to the foot of the cross, with a better sense of our own smallness and our own wickedness, to find comfort once again in the knowledge of God as He really is and of ourselves as we really are, and to acknowledge the rule of His law in the universe, not only as a fact (although it certainly is), but even for our own good.

The idols we set up for ourselves—whether literal images or merely the fancies of our imaginations—do not love us. They have no compassion, no pity, no fatherly interest in our well-being. They abandon us. They let us fall into sin and despair. They leave us always hungry and always wandering.

If, like the prodigal son, we open our eyes to the real world, we finally see the pit to which all our proud self-reliance has brought us. And then, by God's grace, our thoughts turn homeward, and we remember who our Father really is and we yearn to be once more in His house.

“Thus,” writes Calvin, “from the feeling of our own ignorance, vanity, poverty, infirmity, and—what is more—depravity and corruption, we recognize that the true light of wisdom, sound virtue, full abundance of every good, and purity of righteousness rest in the Lord alone... Accordingly, the knowledge of ourselves not only arouses us to seek God, but also, as it were, leads us by the hand to find Him.”

"Mom, the spiders are flying the rocketship!" and other random things children say

2010-01-11T15:51:00.000-08:00

Today I was sitting on the couch writing up a vocabulary quiz for Kaylee's homeschooling when my three-year-old daughter Sydney came tearing through the living room. "MOM!" she shrieked. "THE SPIDERS ARE FLYING THE ROCKETSHIP!" And then she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Toddlers are some of the world's most prolific generators of random sentences. One could scarcely have imagined 'spider' and 'rocketship' in such close proximity in a phrase, and yet there it is, with no further explanation.

But autistic children are not far behind. Their randomness is of a different sort, more mundane and literal, and yet no less surprising.

My autistic son Kevin arrived home from school today with two pieces of candy. "Here is candy," he said, holding it up before the eyes of his envious sisters. "It was a reward for me."

My ten-year-old daughter Kaylee eyed it hungrily. "A reward for what?" she demanded.

Kevin seemed puzzled at the question. "A reward for me," he explained. He paused and then added helpfully, "It's candy."

I've always wished that adults could still hold conversations like this. It seems that the world is a cooler place with spider-navigated rockets. And I would love to be able to explain myself the way that Kevin does.

I shall try that when my husband sees the receipt for the books that I ordered today. "What is this?"

"I ordered books for myself."

"More books? For what?"

"For me." Pause. "They are books."

Do you think it will work?

Driving in a Winter Wonderland

2009-12-05T14:31:00.000-08:00

Today, my husband and children and I were scheduled to travel an hour north to visit my 19-year-old daughter. We had neglected to check the weather forecast, and so it was with some surprise that we opened the front door in the morning, all bundled up for our trip, and saw the first fat snowflakes of the season drifting out of the overcast sky.

"Oh, look, Mom," Kaylee squealed. "I prayed that it would snow, and God sent snow! Isn't that wonderful? I should tell Him thank you!"

"Be sure to thank Him for me, too," I said through gritted teeth, trying not to let any hint of sarcasm slip into my tone. "Especially mention the fact that we are traveling for two hours today and have no heat the car, but, hey, at least it's snowing! Tell God that your Mom says thanks for answering that prayer."

"Definitely!" Kaylee beamed. "This is gonna be GREAT!"

And so we set off through a flurry of snow that continued all through the afternoon. By the time we returned home (and further adding to the already overflowing joy of the children and deepening the dismay of their parents) the snowplows were starting to wake from their summer hibernation and fling icy sprays of slush into the air.

We finally arrived home. The children were tired and hungry and starting to complain of the cold. My husband was wishing he had brought a heavier coat, and I, his loving and supportive wife, was pointing out every time I saw him shiver that I had TOLD him to bring a heavier coat, and that he hadn't LISTENED to me, which was so typical of a MAN. My fingers were sore from the death-grip I had on the armrest every time I believed we were approaching an intersection Too Fast For Such Icy Conditions, and my husband was complaining that I had been married to him for a lot of years now (neither of us can recall anymore how many exactly without doing some math) and he hadn't crashed the car yet, so why didn't I trust him?

But as we stepped out of the van into the crisp cold air, and the snowflakes tickled our foreheads and noses, we all stopped our noisy quarrelling and looked up at the sky. We pointed and murmured to each other about the snow glistening on our brown rail fence and on the branches of the giant oak tree in our yard.

There's a breathtaking beauty and a deep sense of peace about a snowfall. We forget from year to year and dread the beginning of the 'Shoveling Season' ... and suddenly there it is again in all its splendor and we remember that there are sleds in the shed and there will be snowmen and snow angels in the yard.

So indeed, there are troubles and inconveniences about everything in this world, but at least it is snowing.

Holiday Blues

2009-11-28T17:22:00.000-08:00

For some reason, holidays always make me sad. I don't know exactly why. Partly, I think it is simply the schedule disruption and pressure. When I was a child, I hated school field trips so much that the only times I played hooky from school were days that there was some big event planned. Other kids seemed to look forward to them. But to me, they meant a lot of walking and a lot of pressure to keep up lest one get lost. And for all the trouble, the field trip never went anywhere exciting, like the Pyramids of Egypt. In fact, I cannot remember even one of our destinations--only the endless treking around, trailing slightly behind and hearing the annoyed voice of my teacher telling me to stop dawdling.

This is sort of the way I feel about the holidays. They mean exhausing trips to the store amid crowds of anxious shoppers. They mean putting up decorations and sweeping up pine needles and pretending to be thrilled about it.

But I think it is at holidays also that I most miss the people who are gone. Holidays have always seemed to bring a particular punch about them; some of the deepest tragedies of my life occurred during the holiday season.

There is a certain forced joy about the holiday. We sing of peace on earth and goodwill to men, and we decorate and feast. But sometimes it feels to me as though we are dancing in a funeral home. I put on a smile for the children, and I do not tell them that one of the candles that I light is for someone that I cared about who died in a horrific murder-suicide two years ago.

Is there a way to put aside loss and truly find joy in the festivities? I tell myself every year that this time I will find it. This year, I will forget the empty places at the table and remember the ones that are still filled with people I love. This year, I will be so busy planning Christmas pageants and hosting parties with friends that I won't remember to be sad. This year will be only happy. But every year, I move through it quietly and, at the end, glad only that it is over and life can move on at its usual pace.

But maybe this year ...

Where has the blogger gone ...

2009-11-18T09:09:00.001-08:00

Hi, everyone. I'm sure some are starting to wonder by now whether my health problems finally got the better of me. The answer, fortunately, is no, not yet anyway, although we did have a run in with Pig Sneeze that made us briefly wish that Jesus would return sooner rather than later.

But we're all healthier now, and even less disabled than usual. But things have been so crazy here that I've scarcely had a few minutes to put a few words on a screen.

The biggest news is that, after years of declaring that I would never homeschool my children, I am homeschooling my daughter Kaylee. It was a decision a long time in coming, but ultimately made rather suddenly.

My sweet Kaylee suffers the same connective tissue disorder that plagues her mama. By the time she turned three, her feet were flat, her knees turned in, her spine became overly flexible. I braced myself for what I knew was coming as she approached her teen years.

"Mom," she said one day, nearly in tears, "I hurt all over. My feet hurt, and my hands hurt ..."

I know, baby, I know. Nobody could sympathize more on that than me.

Her teachers began to complain that she wasn't listening at school. Kaylee began to complain that noises were too loud and hurt her ears.

I know, baby, I know.

They ran the mile in PE at school, and she could barely walk later and cried that she was way behind the other children, and that her time was worse than last year.

I kept thinking through all of this how I wished I had more time with her. When she got home from school, she was already so tired, so scattered, so worn out. But I wished I could help her. We could work on minimizing noise while she is trying to work. I could teach her to watch people's lips when they talk so that she can understand them better. We could do yoga and swimming instead of sports that hurt her joints or that were so competitive that they made it obvious that she could not keep up.

So I received a call from her teacher a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to set up a parent-teacher conference because 'Kaylee is not keeping up with the work'. He sounded nice. He sounded concerned. I found myself saying, "I have decided to homeschool her."

And so the past few mornings, I have awakened every day to see Kaylee's face beaming a huge grin two inches from my nose. "Oh good, you are awake, Mom," she says. "It's time to start my schoolwork."

We start the day with breakfast and yoga exercises. Then she studies her Catechism, and then we work on spelling, grammar, vocabulary, and math. After lunch, we study biology and history and geography. We work on Spanish on Tuesday and Friday, art and technology on Wednesday, and flute lessons on Monday and Thursday. We are planning our first field trip for Friday.

And I have never enjoyed teaching more.

Six Little-Known Facts About Caroline

2009-10-20T18:36:00.000-07:00

A dear friend tagged me in her blog yesterday with the challenge to post some little known facts about myself. I do love these lists--partly because they give me such interesting things to read about other people (who would have thought that sweet Heidi once kicked over a trash can? and does anyone have that moment captured on videotape?) and partly because there are certain things that I always wanted to say and never quite found an opportunity because they are so random that they don't fit anywhere in the usual blog scheme of things.

So here we go.

Little known facts about Caroline:

(1) I think Korean rice is one of greatest comforts in life, and I am ever grateful to the Asian market for carrying it. And anyone who thinks that pathetic atrophied excuse for rice in the American grocery stores is an acceptable substitute .... phooey, I say, phooey. You can't smell American rice and have all those memories about freezing snowy mornings riding the train to school in Uijongbu, warming your hands on a little packet of rice and taking little nibbles of it as the train pulled out of the Soyosan station ... okay, maybe that's just me.

(2) When I was a teenager in Korea (attending a school for American children), I once won $1000 for an essay in which I declared ignorance and apathy highly destructive to the American government process. The essay won locally and then regionally, and went national, where it ranked in 4th place, slightly out of prize contention for a college scholarship or something (I don't really remember anymore). Ironically, as an adult, I have never voted, mostly because I grew up in Korea and in a very secluded environment, and so I am extremely ignorant about American politics. I realized early in life that any vote that I cast would be selected by the fun but ill-informed process of Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Moe, and that didn't seem particularly helpful to the American government process, whatever it is.

The truth is that writing for the contest was a required assignment in my high school English class--a fact that I remembered on my way to school that fateful morning as I nibbled my tin-foil wrapped packet of Korean rice. And so, I pulled out a pen and a sheet of notebook paper and, in the final ten minutes of the ride, reached the pinnacle of my writing career. It has been downhill ever since.

(3) I can recite numerous chapters of the Bible from memory, but I am so bad at references that I am sometimes not sure which book they are in. Um ... Chronicles? Corinthians? Colossians? I'm pretty sure it starts with a 'C' ... I can also recite most of the Westminster Larger Catechism, but can't ever remember the number of the questions. Uh ... it could be 19 ... or 91 ... or possibly 119 ... or 191 ... If I ever do study up on politics and go to vote, I'm sure that, when faced with a ballot, I shall remember all the speeches and debates in great detail, but none of the candidates' names.

(4) I have a tattoo on my upper back that reads in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs: "I live in truth. Let not my heart be taken from me."

Upon reflection, I'm not sure that I can categorize this as a 'little known fact' because a few weeks ago, my shirt slipped down slightly at church, revealing this tattoo for the great amusement of all the people sitting behind me. It turns out that Egyptian hieroglyph tattoos are not very common in Reformed churches. (Perhaps they are not common anywhere at all--I didn't really take a poll about it.) I have ever since been pondering whether it was the tattoo in general or whether it was the hieroglyphs ...

(5) Speaking of church ... I'm the world's worst book borrower. Probably at least half the theological books on my shelf are marked 'From the Library of Rev. Tom Trouwborst', which only has the effect of making me say to myself, 'I really should return this at some point', as I flip through it for the hundredth time. And I fully intend to return it, of course, but not quite yet, not while I'm still reading it... I suspect that poor Pastor Tom is reaching the point of hesitating to let me see anything that he is reading. When it comes to theology books, I'm like the annoying little sister lurking vulture-like over her brother's ice cream cone and saying, "So are you gonna finish that or what?"

(6) I love to hear my husband play the guitar, even though I don't tell him that enough. He plays brilliantly. When we were first dating, he wrote a couple of love songs for me. Nowadays, of course, we are an old married couple and we don't often indulge in such romantic nonsense as poems and love songs. But every once in a while, he pulls out the guitar and strums a few chords ... and it brings back memories of being young.

I think the best things in life are always the those that connect us somehow to memories of good friends and fun. Things that are sweet even in their own way are sweetened so much more when we can say, "Oh, don't you remember ..."

Well, I don't know whether I have bored everyone to tears, but Heidi, here are my six little-known facts. I have to think now about who I can tag. Hmmmm ...

Phebe? Tag. You're it.

The Dreadful Word

2009-10-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

I had a conversation with my daughter Kaylee yesterday evening that went like this:

Kaylee: Mom, do you ever use the f-word?

Me: The f-word? Do you mean 'furbies'?

Kaylee (laughing): No, not THAT f-word. You know the one I mean. (lowering her voice to a whisper) The really bad f-word.

Me (being evasive, as the memory of every time the f-word has ever slipped out of my mouth flooded my mind): Well, I've never used it in front of my kids.

Kaylee: Oh. Okay.

Me (deciding that this would be a brilliant moment to discuss the concept of being in the world but not of the world): So where did you learn the f-word? At school?

Kaylee: No, I learned it at church.

So there you have it, friends. My daughter goes to public school, but she learned the f-word at church. My first impulse was to homeschool my daughter for Sunday school, lest she someday emerge from the church basement on the Lord's Day with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My second and milder impulse was to ask how it was that she came to be discussing the f-word with her friends in church.

The story, as it emerged, was as follows: It all began with the scrawling of the f-word in an obscure location in the girls' restrooms by some unknown miscreant. The adult women, who generally lack the curiosity level requisite to examine the underside of a toilet paper holder, missed it entirely. The little girls, of course, found it almost immediately.

Kendra at once snapped into High Alert and notified Misty who, in her shock and outrage, went to find Hannah, Violet, and Megan. Megan felt that Kaylee and Lisa should be warned. And so, within minutes, there was a knot of girls crowding the doorway of the bathroom stall and leaning over backward to gaze in awe and horror at the Dreadful Word.

"It's a really, REALLY bad word," Kaylee informed me solemnly. "It was inappropriate and a sin. We were VERY angry with whoever did it."

When I finally stopped laughing, I assured her that, yes, it was indeed a word inappropriate to be found upon the property of a church, and that I would talk to her Daddy (who volunteers in his spare time as the church painter) about painting over it so that it would no longer distress her or her friends.

I reflect today that, as much as we cover our children's eyes and ears to protect them from the knowledge of certain things in life, it is inevitable that someday it will find them. For now, it is only petty vandalism with a 'bad word'. But there are far worse things to be discovered in the world, things that we want to warn our children about but dread to even tell them. Children naturally tend to see the world as an Eden, unspoiled and safe and well-provided. How we wish they never had to know that even amid the beauty and splendor of God's creation, there is evil that haunts every corner. I do not even wish my daughter to see the obscenity scrawled on the bathroom stall of a church. But she is growing up, and so I cannot prevent her from seeing that, and eventually, much more.

But I hope and pray that all such knowledge will find her in such a sweet and innocent way. If, in my daughter's life, evil is always confronted by a knot of outraged girls declaring it wrong and sinful and 'inappropriate' ... then I will be a very lucky mother. Very lucky indeed.

To Infinity ... and Beyond!

2009-10-01T15:31:00.000-07:00

Like many autistic children, my son Kevin loves water. He loves pools, fountains, lakes, puddles, rivers, and even standing in the rain. He seems to find a comfort in feeling it touch his skin. His characteristic hand-flapping slows. He smiles his beautiful smile, and he seems calm and peaceful.

Unfortunately, he has never mastered the art of swimming, and so we had several close calls. When Kevin was four years old, my husband walked with him to the community pool one afternoon. My husband turned away for a moment to find a place to put their towels, and he turned back around to see Kevin's brown hair bobbing below the surface of the water. He told me later that time seemed to freeze as he raced toward the pool and leaped in to pull his child out. Kevin laughed as his head came back above water, entirely oblivious to the danger. But the image of Kevin's hair under the water has haunted my husband ever since and even reappeared in his nightmares.

I was reminded of that incident today after reading this story. The autistic boy in the article could swim very well, but, like my son, he loved water and lacked awareness of the dangers.

The story is well told, and you can almost hear the anguished cry of his father's heart as his son slipped away in the sea and the darkness of the night, and then the overwhelming relief of finding him alive after all hope had been lost.

I have been asked sometimes (although fortunately not often) whether I wish I had known that my son was disabled before he was born so that I could have aborted him. I have been asked why I do not 'put him away somewhere'. Few people are quite so brazen in that line of questioning, but something not too far removed from that seems to lurk behind the more common things that a few people will say. "I could never care for an autistic child," one woman declared recently when I introduced my son to her. "You must be a very special person to do that." My face flamed red as I staggered between impulses to thank her for the compliment and to slap her for insulting my son. My son had not even done anything to warrant this judgment, as far as I could tell. He merely rocked back and forth slightly and struggled to maintain eye contact as he extended his hand and greeted her in his sweet lispy voice. "Hi. My name is Kevin. What's your name?"

But I think there is no explaining to those people who cannot see the soul of the child underneath the odd mannerisms and slow speech. And I expect that they could never understand the father that called Disney catch-phrases to his son hour after hour in the darkness of the ocean.

But, fortunately, there are many people who do understand. And, as one of those very lucky people, I say, May Walter Marino be blessed with many more years of caring for his autistic child--to infinity, and beyond!

I'm a Presbyterian (so now I'm not ashamed)

2009-09-26T18:50:00.000-07:00

After my partial post of the lyrics to 'I'm a Presbyterian' on a certain forum, I have received several requests to post it in its entirety, whereupon my head grew three-and-a-half hat sizes, and I decided that it would be impolite refuse people who flatter me so. (Thanks, ya'll!)

However, it may be helpful to some who read my blog to give a little bit of context for it. My little ditty is based on a real song called 'I'm a Pentecostal' which recently became wildly popular in my former denomination, the United Pentecostal Church International (UPCI). For a denomination so vigilant against the evils of television (and jeans and women cutting their hair and so on), the UPCI is surprisingly quick to video record themselves, and so, thankfully we were all able to enjoy this hyperactive song in a manner that would not otherwise have been available to us. Naturally, my ex-Pentecostal friends and I were so affected by the lyrics that one would have thought we had all fallen under the spell of the Toronto Blessing, and we determined instantly that we had to write our own equally inspirational song. I put my hand to the task and produced an ode to Presbyterian churches and sane pastors.

I have been asked also whether anyone has yet recorded this song on Youtube, and the answer is no, as far as I am aware. Anyone is welcome to do so, if they wish, and I only ask that they send me a link to it because my friends and I would enjoy that nearly as much as the original, I'm sure.

So without further ado ...

I've been known to get wild
I grew my hair way down,
Spoke in tongues almost every day,
While rolling on the ground.

I shouted and ran the aisles
And danced all around,
But being such an idiot
Is not as fun as it might sound.

I got tired of the lies and tired of the games,
Now I'm an ex-Pentecostal and that is why I say ...

I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
You might think my church is boring,
But at least they're not insane!

And now I can wear jeans
And nobody says I'm trying to be a man,
And it's been sixteen years since I got
My hair caught in a fan.

Well, my church don't have 'revivals',
And they don't hug in greeting,
But one thing about Presbyterians--
They can really hold a meeting.

We've got spreadsheets for our budget,
We've got Calvin on the shelf,
And we'll never judge your salvation
By your hair length or your health.

We worship nice and quiet,
We never shout or dance,
And if you fall down on the floor,
We call for an ambulance.

There's a hunger in the UPCI for stability and integrity today,
They're crying out for a better life, and that is why I say ...

I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed!
My pastor doesn't scream or rant,
Because he's not insane.

He doesn't steal our money,
And he isn't rude or mean,
And the only woman he's sleeping with
Is his wife Colleen.

So if you're tired of the madness,
Pentecost done you wrong,
You're feeling dry and empty
And no longer have a song,

Well, the story is not over,
Things for you can change.
Leaving the UPCI doesn't mean
That you'll end up in hell's flames.

There's many who have come,
And many on the way,
They're leaving crazy churches
For the good ol' Reformed faith.

There's a hunger in the UPCI that gets bigger every day
They're crying out for a better life and that is why I say ...

I'm a Presbyterian,
So now I'm not ashamed,
I am a still a Christian,
But I am not insane.

Saved Unto Good Works

2009-09-19T07:35:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, I help you!"

These have become my three-year-old daughter's favorite words. Whatever I am doing, she is convinced that she can do it quite as well as anyone else (or better). And she is eager to join in.

"Mommy, I help you!" as she proudly throws clean clothes into the dirty clothes hamper.

"Mommy, I help you!" as she pours half a gallon of orange juice on the floor trying to fill her own glass.

More often than not, my little Sydney's 'help' makes my job more challenging, but there is such sweetness in seeing her eagerly rushing through the room with the mop, knocking over furniture and nearly clobbering the cat in her haste to help clean up the milk that she spilled when she tried to help Mommy fix breakfast.

In her tiny hands, the adult-size dishes and laundry baskets and cleaning utensils are enormous and unwieldy, but she does her best. And when she is finished, she glows with pride because she helped Mommy. And I smile and tell her from the bottom of my heart how proud I am of her and how pleased I am with her work, and that I am glad to have her 'helping' me. In fact, when I have a big cleaning project ahead of me, I even call to her, "Sydney, will you help me?" and she appears in the doorway with the enthusiasm of a toddler on a mission. "I help you, Mom!" she says.

I wondered today if perhaps this is something like how God sees our work. Reformed Christians speak often of the depravity of man. We are reminded constantly that our works will never save us. And all of this is true. And yet the Bible tells us that God is pleased with those who do good (Hebrews 13:16), and Paul tells us in Ephesians that God even prepares good works in advance for us (Ephesians 2:10).

There is no question that Almighty God does not need the assistance of His little creatures to accomplish His purposes. And yet He calls us to be His 'workers' (I Corinthians 3:9). In our weakness and our sin, we make mistakes even in our efforts to do good. But, like a patient Father, He smiles upon His children and welcomes us to 'help' Him in His work. How often we spill the milk and dump the fresh laundry into the wrong bin ... but in the end, His hands are bigger than ours and His eyes see the things that we can never comprehend. The gigantic tools of righteousness that are so clumsy to us always move easily for Him, and He works all things for good.

When we claim that we minister to others in the name of Christ, perhaps we sound like toddlers crowing that we are helping our Daddy as we wave a hammer wildly about, striking our own thumbs as often as we hit the nail. But the glorious thing is that, in spite of all our limitations, God sees the heart that wants to serve and He graciously tells us that He is pleased with us (Hebrews 13:16).

Double Cousins, Almost Sisters

2009-09-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

My cousin Jessica died very suddenly yesterday morning at the age of 36. Since I heard the news, I have been unable to think of her without crying. I miss her, and yet I know that others will miss her infinitely more. She left behind a husband and three young children. I ache for them and the terrible loss that they will suffer for the rest of their lives.

There are not even words for this kind of tragedy. What does one say to a child who has lost her mother? I cannot think of anything that could ease their grief.

But I hope that one day I will be able to tell them how much I loved their mother--that the times we played together as children were some of the happiest memories of my life.

Jessica was two years older than me, and she was everything I wanted to be. I borrowed her clothes and teased her about her acne, and she took it all in her patient, good-natured way. She had a sweet spirit, but a wicked sense of humor, and I learned from her that love and laughter can go hand-in-hand, and that life is not always to be taken so very seriously.

In my mind, I can still see her at age 12, peering down from the top bunk of the bed, her glasses (so thick that she referred to them as her 'goggles') sliding down over her nose, to tell me some little story. Or when we were younger still, and she would put on adult-size clothes and stuff them with pillows to make it look as though she were enormously fat. Then she would proceed to give a politician-like speech complete with grand gestures, while the pillows wobbled wildly and I collapsed to the floor in shrieks of laughter.

Life in our world was always terribly complex, and yet there were moments that still shine to this day.

I wrote my last post on funerals only a few days before the most cutting loss I have experienced yet in my life. I can only say that, Jessica, I wonder whether you knew how much I always wanted to be like you.

Double first cousins, we used to say, almost sisters.

A Measure of a Life

2009-09-04T06:53:00.000-07:00

The subject for today is ... funerals. No, I have not gone to one recently, nor am I planning to attend one soon (as far as I know). And, although I suppose I shall definitely be the subject of one some day, I hope that day is not terribly soon.

But I sometimes do find myself pondering what my funeral might be like. It seems disappointing that the final goodbye in which people say what they think of you has to be held without you. I wonder who would attend, who would speak, what they would say.

My pastor and I had a chat about my funeral early on in my attendance at the church. I don't know what he thought of being asked by a young woman with no apparent (at the time) health problems whether he would take charge of her funeral. If he thought it was odd, he was too nice to say so. "Sure," he said, squinting at me as though he was pondering whether I always introduced myself to pastors this way. "I'll do your funeral. If you die, I mean."

"Don't let anybody else do it," I said. "Promise me that you won't hand it off to someone else."

"Ok," he said, squinting a bit more. "I won't try to dodge it."

The truth is that I can't bear the thought of having a funeral that even smells of Pentecostalism. I don't want anyone talking about how fantastic and 'on fire for God' I used to be before I 'backslid'. I don't want anyone speaking in tongues or claiming that they saw me in a vision with a message from beyond the grave. And most of all, I don't want anyone trying to raise me from the dead.

So I went on to explain to my pastor that I don't care what he does at my funeral exactly. "It can be really short," I said helpfully. "And you could lead off with 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', for all I care. Just don't try to raise me from the dead or speak in tongues or call me a backslider."

"I'll do my best," he said. By now, the corners of his mouth were twitching. "And we have some good songs in the Trinity Hymnal that aren't about dead witches at all."

"Whatever," I said. "I'll be dead and won't be able to sing along, so that's really your call."

But as I think it over more now, I realize that I do care. I don't care at all about the format. In fact, I still wouldn't mind them singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead', as long as it was all in good fun. But a funeral is a unique measure of someone's life, and I wonder how well I would measure up.

There is an unwritten rule that people are allowed to say only nice things about the deceased, and yet still .... well there are funerals and then there are funerals, if you know what I mean.

A friend of mine who is a pastor once told me about a funeral that he did for an elderly woman. He didn't know her well, so he went outside where a few of her relatives were smoking cigarettes and talking together, and he asked them what he could say about the dearly departed.

"I dunno," her nephew said. "I didn't like her at all. Frank, do you have anything?"

"Nope," said Frank.

So my friend had little to say at the woman's funeral beyond, "Thank you all for coming. Now let's put her in the ground."

On the other hand, I listened to a recording of a funeral for an elderly man who had attended my church, and I was surprised and touched by the genuine grief poured out at his death. I hadn't known him very well, but it turns out that many people did know him. Some told of his talent at woodworking, some talked of his generous nature and his ministry service as a deacon. Some laughed in fond remembrance of his quirky little habits, like telling the same stories again and again and always as if they had never been told before. I knew that any of those people would gladly have had him back to tell them one of those threadbare stories one more time.

So I wonder what kind of funeral I would have. I wonder what sort of things would be remembered, if I died today.

"She would always ..."

"She would never ..."

"I'll never forget how she ..."

I can almost hear the beginnings of the sentences, but not the endings. And I suppose that is the blessing of still being alive--that there is still time to fill in the blanks, and not with great achievements and huge successes... but by being the sort of person that people can love and that later they will remember in many small ways.

Rob Thomas and Parkinson's Disease

2009-08-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

I have heard that Rob Thomas's song Her Diamonds was written about his wife's struggle with lupus. I happened to see the music video today, and then had to show it to my husband. We both agreed that something about lupus must have a lot in common with Parkinson's disease. Or perhaps (more likely) there's a certain common element to all diseases that are chronic and debilitating in nature with a lot of ups and downs.

The analogy of being frozen is perfect, the lyrics are brilliant, the emotion is ... well, let's just say that hubby cried. (Shhhhhh ... don't tell his construction worker buddies ...)

Love One Another

2009-08-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

I heard some news of an old friend tonight--a former friend, I mean. I once loved this friend very much. It was a complete shock when, several years ago, I found myself discarded for reasons that I did not even entirely understand. I had hoped that my friend was merely going through a hard time and that reconciliation would be the end of the matter. But the rift turned out to be quite permanent. I have not heard from my friend for at least two years now.

I still struggle to understand. I still wonder why and how she came to believe that I had turned against her. I wonder whether she would have acted as she did if she had known how very much I cared about her and how, even years later, I feel nauseating pang of regret in my stomach at the mention of her name. That rejection was a devastating blow at a time in my life when I needed to trust someone, and it affected all my friendships for a long time, warning me that the more I trust someone, the more bitter the betrayal.

I hear now that my friend is very lonely. There is no joy in this for me. I am afraid to talk to her or else I would trip over myself in my hurry to re-establish the friendship that once meant the world to me. I wish we could rewind the events of the past few years and try again. I wish that I didn't know now some things that I didn't know then.

And what do I know now? Well, quite frankly, I now know that this is a long-established pattern for my friend. I discovered only after I had been cast aside that my friend had a troubled history of friendships that ended abruptly when people wronged her (or when she felt that they had wronged her). Her friends' faults would be suddenly magnified to astronomical proportions and people once lauded a the best on the planet were suddenly estimated by her to be the most villainous scum to ever crawl the earth. She would have no imperfect people around her, and so eventually, she had none at all. The saddest part of this story is that my former friend is a gifted person--a wonderful, interesting person, and a natural leader. She could have so many friends that she couldn't keep track of them all ... if she could simply learn mercy.

Hearing this news of my friend forced me to reflect more on my own attitude toward those around me. How often do I become so consumed with getting my way or being treated properly that I alienate those around me? How often do I fail to appreciate those who would love me if only I gave them a little grace for their faults? Doubtless, there are cases in which certain people are too toxic to be tolerated. There are times when ties must be cut in order to maintain sanity. But sometimes, oh, how quickly and rashly we rush to judgment! How eagerly we sever the cords that seem to bind us, and yet, in the end, we may discover were the only thing holding us together. Every soul that we turn away, as we angrily declare that we will have none of their silly weaknesses, is one less person in our lives. And, in the end, if we cannot learn to love, then we will be alone.

Back in my more foolish days, I sometimes protested that God's command that we forgive those who wrong us is a harsh and difficult command. Now I wonder if it is even so much a command as it is an invitation. A feast is spread before us, and He bids us to come and eat, and if we foolishly pout, "Who is God to make such demands?" then we will starve forever. The command that He gives is at least in part so that we may have friends to share our lives, emails in our inboxes, loved ones sitting around our table at Christmas, visitors when we are in the hospital, and helpers when we are struggling.

I have only begun to learn this myself. The impulse to flee from all of those who may hurt me is something that subsides only slowly, and I have to admit that (although perhaps not to the same extent as my former friend) I also have a history of alienating others. In fact, I have wondered recently whether my health problems are part of an ongoing sanctification plan in which God cripples me until I have no choice but to lean on those around me. If so, it has worked marvelously well. When I was healthy, I was also far more lonely and miserable. Now I am ill, but I am loved. And I would never go back, if I were given the choice. In fact, I only now really begin to see the extent to which I still have far to go and much to learn. And so may I grow weaker in body if it means that I learn to love more deeply and forgive more quickly. May I be afflicted if it means that patience and mercy flow more freely. May there be so many imperfect people in my life that I have to constantly forgive somebody for something, even as they must forgive me for my many imperfections.

I hope that, in my heart, I will always keep a place at the table for my former friend, should she ever come back to join me at this wonderful feast of fellowship. I worry for her. I miss her. But, in the meantime, I am compelled to the table myself by the hand of God, who loves me too much allow me live as I would have thought best. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Caroline's Daughter Finds an Old Notebook ...

2009-08-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

I'm frankly not sure of the wisdom of posting this, and whether my readers on the Unlikely Calvinist blog may lose all respect for me, but here goes...

My daughter found an old notebook while we were cleaning out a cabinet. The notebook has been floating around for years, but now my daughter can read, and she latched on to the fact that it contains stories--stories that her mama wrote as a child.

"Read it to me, Mom!"

So I found myself revisiting the hours that my sisters and I spent playing with dolls and the imaginery world I built around them for my siblings. I have no particular pride in this, having long ago realized that my enthusiasm for make-believe friends as a child stemmed at least in part from loneliness, constant relocation, and lack of real friends or long-term relationships.

But then, I saw my daughter's eyes when I read her the stories, and heard her squealing, "One more chapter!" just like my sisters used to do. Perhaps not everything that springs from a seed of sadness is still a sad thing.

So I'm posting the link to a secondary blog, run by my daughter with help from mom. I type, she chooses the pictures from a clipart site. If the blog seems silly, it is. It was written by a kid for kids about dolls. Male readers may want to flee.

But for the rest of you who might want a giggle or two in your day ... Introducing: The Doll Kingdom Chronicles.

How to Write a Humor Article

2009-08-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

When I was a freshman in college, I took a class called English Composition II, and it was the worst class that I ever took in my life.

It was not merely that the class was taught by a sarcastic graduate student with a Napoleon complex, nor that the class was held in a dungeon-like room under the campus gymnasium with the noise of feet and basketballs pounding on the roof overhead. It was not even that I gave birth to my son two weeks before final exams and had a battle of wills with said graduate student over whether childbirth constituted an excused absence. All of these things are true, but the worst indignity that I endured in those weeks in English Composition II was the insult of being taught how to write a humor article.

"When one sets out to write a humor article," droned the expressionless instructor, "it is best to consider some unfortunate situation and try to persuade the reader that it is a fortunate situation even though it isn't."

"I don't get it," said the girl with the sparkly barrettes who sat in the front of the class but never understood anything.

"Well, like maybe if you got lost but you found a nice restaurant while you were wandering around lost," the instructor explained darkly. "See, that could be funny."

"I don't get it," said Sparkles, tapping her pink feathered pen on her notebook.

"Well, like if you got stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction, but you met the love of your life at the hospital. That could be funny, too."

"I don't get it."

The instructor glared at her. "How about if you failed English Composition II, but you learned not to ask stupid questions? I think that'd be hilarious."

So we never sorted out exactly what was funny about turning an unfortunate situation into a fortunate situation, and, although I do not recall what I ultimately wrote that passed for a Humor Article, I do remember that it was the least funny thing I have ever put on paper, including condolences I have written for the deaths of grandmothers and beloved pets. While following the formulas that were supposed to make me funny, I could not possibly actually be funny.

But I survived English Composition II and went on to sponge it from my memory as best I could so that my writing style would not fall victim to the university's well-intentioned strangulation. But recently, a friend's daughter asked me to help her to understand how to write something funny.

I tried my best to describe my philosophy. "Humor is an art, not a formula," I said. "It's about timing. It's about use of words. It's like a boxing match. You time your punches for the best effect."

"I don't get it," said my friend's daughter.

I thought it over and had another go at the explanation. "You don't TRY to write something funny. You just write about something you want to write about, and it comes out funny because of the WAY you write it."

"I don't get it."

Well, I don't get it either, and so I don't blame her. How does one explain humor? For that matter, how does one explain writing?

I want to tell her that words spin and shimmer, rise and fall. You catch a rhythm and you begin to dance, and if you do it well, the world dances with you. But you have to be quick and you have to be brave. You have to see the opening and dive for the punch, and you have to do it with split-second precision, or you'll be swinging at air and staggering like a fool.

But then, when you finish, you pause and wait, because no matter how well you leap and prance and twirl, you are never quite sure that you succeeded. You hold your breath for a moment that seems like eternity until you hear the best and happiest sound in all the world ... and then you know that, at least this time, you made them laugh.

Theology and KFC

2009-08-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Conversation with my autistic son Kevin two weeks ago over a bucket of KFC chicken:

Kevin (pointing at the picture on the bucket): Mom, who is this man?

Me (between bites of chicken): That's Colonel Sanders, sweetie.

Kevin: Colonel Sanders?

Me: Yep. *munch, munch* He started the KFC restaurants, I think.

Kevin: Can I meet Colonel Sanders?

Me: Well, I think he died a while back.

Kevin (sadly): Oh.

* * * *

Conversation this morning in the car:

Kevin: I'm going to be in eighth grade.

Me: Yeah, I know. You are getting old, kid.

Kevin: Some day I will be very old.

Me: Yes.

Kevin: And then I will die.

Me: That's true. And do you remember where you will go when you die?

Kevin: I will go to heaven.

Me: That's right. And who will you see when you get to heaven?

Kevin (without hesitation): Colonel Sanders.

* * * *

Quote from Wikipedia that I read this afternoon:

"Shortly before his death, Sanders became a born-again Christian after attending a McDuff Brothers gospel concert."

Well, it seems that my son is quite right. I can't wait to see that introduction.

My Husband, the Chef

2009-07-29T08:15:00.000-07:00

My husband Rick and I were sitting out in the front yard watching our youngest daughter play in the sandbox. It was one of those beautiful moments wherein the sun was setting and the first stars were peering through the wispy clouds and the canvas lawnchairs were so very comfortable and the whole world seemed right ... until the evening cloud of mosquitoes descended upon our necks and ankles. Then we remembered that there was a bug-free zone on the other side of the screen door and that perhaps it was time to go inside for the night.

"I'll start dinner," Rick said.

"Okay," I replied. "I'll wash the sand off Sydney's hands and start a load of laundry."

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen to find a gleaming array of steaming dishes on the table and the fragrant aroma of fish and grilled tomatoes in the air. "What's this?" I asked.

"Trout amandine with black beans, corn tortillas, and homemade salsa," he said. "And there are sopapillas with honey for dessert."

"Wow." I scratched my head. "How long was I in the laundry room?"

"Oh, this was just something I whipped up quickly," he said. "I wasn't in the mood for anything complicated. All I did was breadthefishwithflourandalmondsandpanfryitinbutterandalittlebitoflemonjuicewhileIbroiledthetomatoesandjalapenosforthesalsaandheatedupthecorntortillasinthetortillawarmer ..."

"Stop!" I said. "You promised me you'd never speak in tongues again. We had that whole long talk about revelatory gifts."

"Very funny," he said. "Will you go call the kids in for dinner?"

Yes, that's right, my friends--I married a brilliant cook. And it's a good thing, because if it were up to me, we would subsist largely on apples and Spaghetti-O's. But it is sometimes difficult to convince other people of my husband's talent. When he hosts fellowship hour at the church, I am always the one who fields all the compliments about his cooking.

"This crab dip is marvellous!" an elder's wife exclaims. "You simply must give me the recipe."

"Thanks, but you'd have to ask my husband about that," I explain. "He is the cook here. I'm sure he'd be glad to share the recipe with you."

She wrinkles her brow in confusion and wanders off, only to return a few minutes later. "Whatever gave you the idea of using cookie cutters to shape the watermelon pieces into stars? It makes the whole setting look so nice!"

"Thanks, but again, that would be my husband's idea," I say. "Believe me, if I were hosting, there would be two baskets of pretzels on the table ... and maybe a plate of Oreos if I was really going all out to make it special."

I think the dilemma partly lies in my husband's appearance. Over six feet tall, bearded, and bearing the scars of years of labor in the construction industry, Rick is just not the sort of guy that people would figure for the one who sculpted the avocado into a clover leaf for St. Patrick's Day and sprinkled it with lime juice to give it a nice zesty flavor. Sometimes people are gifted in surprising ways.

So I enjoy my husband's secret talent, but it does have its downside. The price of being gifted is the curse of being surrounded by lesser mortals.

Rick injured his back last week while painting the upper level of a house, and he was in so much pain that he could barely move. Pleased that I could serve him lunch for a change, I proudly drew myself up and asked what he wanted to eat.

"Hmmmm ..." He thought for a moment. "I'd like grilled chicken on an italian roll, lightly toasted, with tomato paste mixed with minced garlic poured over it and fresh Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top, with a side of lightly boiled squash and broccoli."

I turned rather pale, and there was a long uncomfortable silence.

Finally ...

"I heard 'cheese sandwich and a pickle'," I said.

"Yep," he replied dolefully. "That's what I said. Thank you, my love."

I turned toward the kitchen.

"And, honey ..." he called after me. "After that, will you please email the pastor and have the church pray that my back will improve very, very soon?"

"Definitely," I replied.

Of Tuxedos and Spider-man Pajama Shorts

2009-07-27T08:02:00.000-07:00

So after viewing the video of Kevin and Jill's spectacular wedding entrance (posted below) about three thousand times, my daughter Kaylee asked, "What was your wedding like, Mom?"

That's when I realized that my own daughter had never viewed my wedding video. I went to the back room and dug it out of a stack of videotapes gathering dust in an obscure cabinet. "It's not as exciting as the one with the dancing," I warned her, as I popped it into our only remaining VHS player and prayed that it would not get hopelessly tangled in the machine.

The picture lurched to life on the screen. There was the church where my husband and I had met. There was my husband, in his younger and thinner days--and me, younger, thinner, and decidedly less shaky, wearing the long white dress that I borrowed from my aunt because I could not afford my own wedding gown.

I felt a mix of bittersweet emotions about viewing the video now, after so much time has passed. I laughed to see my husband struggling to repeat his vows and getting tangled up in them because he was so jittery (the poor man has always been a nervous wreck about public speaking). I smiled to see my sister wandering around in her bridesmaid dress slightly squinting because my maid of honor sat on her glasses and broke them while we were fixing our hair for the wedding. And then there were moments of sadness. That happy couple waving at the camera got divorced seven years ago. That dear friend of my husband who was in our wedding party later borrowed $100from our credit card and then disappeared, never to repay, but even worse, never to be heard from again.

My son's voice broke into my thoughts as the tape rolled. "Where am I?" he asked, squinting at the faces in the crowd.

"You didn't exist yet," my daughter responded impatiently.

"I didn't exist?" My son looked horrified.

"You existed in the mind of God," I assured him quickly. "That's why God had your Mommy and your Daddy get married. He wanted more beautiful children for His household."

My son relaxed. "Oh, okay."

"I wish I could have gone to your wedding, Mom," my daughter said. "I would have told you that you were going to have a son and a daughter and then adopt a big sister for them and then have another baby that was really wild and loved to play." She watched the progress of the ceremony for a moment. "You were standing up for a long time. Didn't you hurt?"

"I wasn't as sick then, sweetie," I responded.

"Oh, I see. You didn't know you were going to get Parkinson's."

"No, I didn't."

"Would Daddy have married you if he knew?"

The assurance that I wanted to give her died on my lips. I honestly do not know whether my husband would have married me if he had a crystal ball that gave him a glimpse into a future of illness and medication and pain. It is not as though I think he ever regrets marrying me now. But looking at the very young faces smiling on the video and saying 'until death' so glibly, I realized that it is the mercy of God that we are not able to see the future. None of us is ever really prepared. Our dreams for ourselves never include pain and tragedy.

The truth is that I do not think my husband and I knew each other very well when we married. We were in love, but we were so very, very young. But neither of us would trade our life together for anything now, despite that it has turned out nothing as we had expected. All of the things we dreamed of--great careers, money, travel--have faded, but we have something better now.

This morning (before watching the video), I awoke to the usual unrelenting, steadily radiating pain oozing from every muscle in my body. As I stood up, the tremors began, like a hand had seized me by the back of the neck and was shaking me. I eased my way to the kitchen, clinging to walls along the way for balance, and I reached for my medicine. But then my hand froze in mid-air. I tried to move it, but it was stuck there, shaking. I called for my husband. He appeared in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and still in his Spider-man pajama shorts. "Wow, okay, sit down, babe. I'll get the medicine. Do you want it with juice or coffee? Do you need me to hold the cup or can you get it with your left hand?" He popped the pills into my mouth and helped me steady the wildly rattling cup, and then he kissed the top of my jerking head. "You always look so sexy in the morning," he said.

I laughed. "Twitches and all?"

"Hey," he responded, winking at me, "not everybody gets a twitchy wife. Most guys get the plain boring ones that stand perfectly upright in the morning. I am a very lucky man."

The odd thing is that I think my husband really means it when he says those things. The man who stood there in the wedding video mumbling awkwardly, " ...in sickness and in health" now routinely pulls a shaking wife up against his shoulder so that she won't fall out of her chair. Would he have spoken those words if he had known that it would be mostly 'in sickness' that he would be with me? I don't know. It is difficult to say what any of us would have done if we had known the future back when we loved each other less. But God's wisdom in his design of marriage is evident in that, no matter what we would have done, we are here now, and, in the words of Tevye, we are so happy that we do not know how miserable we are.

So, in the wedding video, the happy couple started down the aisle to begin life together as husband and wife. The last song launched, lighthearted and upbeat: "This is the day that the Lord has made, and I will rejoice, I will rejoice ..." Finally, the picture faded to static.

My daughter got up and yawned. "You were right, Mom," she said, as she wandered out the door. "That WAS a boring video ..."

In an odd way, that's true, even for me. The video represents a youthful dream of love, a fantasy with a white dress and flowers. This is the real world, and it is here where all the real love is worked out every day in a million ways, big and small--and not by a handsome groom in a tuxedo, but by a gentle husband in jeans or even Spider-man pajama shorts.

Caroline Covets Someone Else's Brilliant Wedding Idea ...

2009-07-24T11:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually in the habit of posting Youtube links, but every once in a while, something comes along that I can only say, "Wow. I wish I had thought of that ..."

I like these people already. You go, Kevin and Jill! Now THAT'S a way to start a wedding!

Reflections on the Second and Third Commandments

2009-07-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

I walked (or rather shuffled ... darned Parkinson's) into a Christian bookstore a few days ago for the first time since ... wow, it must be at least twelve years. Ordinarily, I order books online or browse the shelves of Barnes and Noble. But there was something rather nostalgic about the sight of a Christian bookstore. I worked in such a bookstore briefly as a teenager--one of many brief and low-paying jobs that put a little money in my pocket during my first years away from home. As I opened the door of this bookstore, the familiar smell of potpourri and new books assailed my nose in a nauseating wave that suddenly brought back the hours of standing behind a counter in a skirt and high heels counting out change for customers over their newly purchased piles of 'Jesus stuff'.

It surprised me back then (and yet again as I walked into the bookstore recently) how little actual book sale goes on in a Christian bookstore. The few rows of books were overshadowed and almost crowded out by large displays of mugs, pencils, erasers, license plate borders, and t-shirts bearing the word 'JESUS' in giant bubble letters or the familiar image of a man with flowing brown hair and beard.

There is something in me now that recoils from these items. It is not that I am opposed to sharing one's faith openly, even by way of bumper stickers or other tacky merchandise. In fact, the keys that I carried in my hand as I browsed the bookstore were attached to a self-designed keychain that snarled 'You don't scare me! I'm a Calvinist!' at the world.

But I could not help but think as I gazed at these items that the name splashed in festive fonts across cheap mugs and license plate borders is the name of the almighty and eternal God whose voice thunders from the pages of His Word to declare that He will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain. And the image carelessly plastered on t-shirts and bumper stickers represents the face that so terrified Isaiah that he cried out, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts."

I asked myself, as I gazed at the 'Jesus stuff', whether such things were a sign, not of faith but of unbelief. We who were once far from God have been brought near by the blood of Christ (Eph. 2:17). We have been granted the amazing privilege of calling God our Father and speaking the name of the One who gave Himself for us so that we might approach Him with confidence through faith in Him (Eph. 3:12). And yet, once brought close, do we who truly believe then stamp the name of our Redeemer into a pencil so that we can sell it at a higher price? Could Isaiah, after He tasted the coals that cleansed his guilt, then grind the coal to dust so that he could parcel it out to those who wanted a souvenir of God's spectacular manifestation in the Temple?

Perhaps in my old age, I have grown rather legalistic. I am sure that many would read this blog and wonder what could be more harmless than a few keepsakes emblazoned with the name or likeness of Jesus. But there is something in my heart that wants sponge the writing on the silly merchandise away. I want to remind those who would be so careless that God can see them, and that the same Jesus whose likeness they sell once drove out the money changers in the Temple.

So I find that I must side with those such as Christian columnist Andrew Rumsey, the wonderful self-described 'old buzzard' who muttered as he drove past a sign that boasted the name 'Jesus' in huge letters, "That's LORD Jesus, if you don't mind." Amen.

Chaotic cards and the sovereignty of God

2009-07-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

My son collects Chaotic cards. If you don't know what Chaotic is ... well, I'm afraid I can't help you, because I don't know either. Chaotic is a game apparently engineered for the sole purpose of confusing parents to the point where they take out their wallets and spend perfectly good money on massive quantities of small pieces of cardboard decorated with mysterious pictures of monsters with names that appear to have been generated from random collections of letters.

Although no one over the age of 25 understands the game, the younger folk were apparently born with an innate comprehension of every nuance. Chaotic is sweeping the nation, and every house with a teenage boy living in it is knee-deep in shiny monster cards.

My son (being autistic) does not really grasp the game, but he does love to collect the cards. What is it exactly that captures the attention of young boys about these overly fanged and muscled beasts pictured on these cards? I cannot say. Whatever it is, little girls don't quite get it. This is the conversation that I heard between my 13-year-old son Kevin and my 3-year-old daughter Sydney a few days ago.

Kevin: Do you see this card, Sydney? This is Gaffat-Ra. He's a Warbeast.

Sydney (admiring the card): Awwwww ... it's a doggy!

Kevin: Not a dog. Warbeast. Look! He has horns on his head and big teeth.

Sydney: Woof!

Kevin: Well, look at this one. It's Jaidwarl.

Sydney: Ooooooooo ... it's a birdie. Tweet, tweet.

Kevin: No, not a bird, Sydney ...

There is something very sweet about that conversation. Those cards would have given me nightmares as a child. In the Pentecostal church, our world was haunted by 'demons'. We were told constantly that demons were at work in every bad thing that happened to us. We were told stories of demons trying to kill people in their beds at night. In fact, monster pictures such as the sort that were on those cards would be said to represent demons and bring them into our home. People were reported to suddenly fall ill or lose their faith when a someone slipped even a troll doll or smurf necklace into the home.

Where was God in all of this? I wonder now about how we could have claimed to believe in a powerful God, when He could be defeated by a picture unwittingly brought into a home by someone ignorant of the power of the dark forces. The level of vigilance required to prevent accidental exposure to something 'demonic' was exhausting. A mere glimpse of a Chaotic card would have terrified me for days.

So now I hear my children talking about them. My son thinks they are cool fanged monsters. My daughter thinks they are doggies and birdies. And they are not afraid. What freedom and security we find in knowing the grace and sovereignty of God!

We are experiencing technical difficulties ...

2009-07-14T06:50:00.001-07:00

Unfortunately, some people have experienced problems recently with posting comments to the blog. I have been working on resolving the issue, I believe that everyone should now be able to comment to their heart's content. Please do! :) I LOVE comments.

If anyone continues to have difficulties with it, please let me know. My email address is available in my profile. -->

Thanks!

A Prayer

2009-07-13T12:31:00.001-07:00

As I type this, I am waiting to hear the news about my sister-in-law's cancer. It isn't the first time for her. She was undergoing treatment for cancer fifteen years ago when I met her brother, who is now my husband. I was young then, and it never really registered with me that her life was in serious peril. I knew she was a little sick--but she was going to get better, of course. And she did get better, for which I am ever grateful to God.

Even so, her life hasn't been easy. Her husband has muscular dystrophy and has become more reliant on a wheelchair these days. And now the cancer is back. This time, the surgery will be more extensive and damaging. And we wait to hear whether it has spread beyond the three small tumors that have already been discovered.

The older I get, the more I realize that life is full of tragedy. I am sometimes surprised by the number of things that go wrong in my life ... disabled children, health problems closing in. But then I realize that I am far from alone. Some of my friends mourn the loss of a child. Some have wedding pictures of a happy smiling couple kissing and vowing to be together till death, but the promise was betrayed and now they are alone. Some have stories of remarkable and heroic survival , but they are haunted by memories and nightmares that they cannot escape.

I have never had a time in my life in which I was a serious unbeliever. Raised in an ultra-religious home, I never held God far from my thoughts, even amid all the suffering caused by bad doctrine and abusive leadership. I have sometimes wondered how unbelievers live in this world. Where do they go when the walls close in and their life shatters into a million pieces that seem as if they will never fit together again?

I love my sister-in-law. I was a bumbling teenage misfit when her brother fell in love with me. Eighteen years old, outspoken and a little wild, living a nomadic life, moving around from house to house as money was tight and roommates were scarce, working as a janitor and attending a vocational school at night ... I can't have been the girl that she dreamed that her brother would marry. But she accepted me with unquestioning graciousness and said she was happy that her brother had found someone who made him happy. She helped decorate the church for my wedding, wore the weird shockingly blue homemade bridesmaid gown that I sewed, and wished us a long and happy life together, even as her own life expectancy was, at that moment, still gravely in question.

Now she is far away, and I can't be there to help her, and I miss her suddenly very much. So I turn to the One who is everywhere and whisper the prayer of my heart--that whatever comes, He will be shelter her so that she will not be beaten down by the storm and that He will carry her burdens so that she will not be crushed.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.

A Series of Fortunate Events Part VII: Grace Poured Out to Me

2009-07-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

I am now reaching the point of joining the two threads of this story line, and I have been trying to think how best to do that. I finally decided to drag out of the oblivion of my old high school notebooks ... a poem. Yes, that's right, I said 'a poem'. A poem I wrote in high school.

Anybody still here?

*the sound of crickets chirping*

Well, I'm still going to post it. So there. :)

Ahem.

Grace Poured Out to Me (a poem by a very young Caroline)

I sought to cleanse my heart
Of all the vile stains of sin;
I stood outside the Holy Place
And strove to enter in.

I drenched my soul in waters of law,
And I strained to lift the veil,
But the spots appeared yet darker still
And I labored to no avail.

So I saw that all my washing
Could not cleanse one single stain,
And though ever I might search for holiness,
It all must be in vain.

And a wept for the filthiness of my heart
And the sin that I could not bear,
And I cried to God in my hopelessness
And the depths of my despair.

But then I saw the nails tears His flesh
And the spear pierce deep His side,
And then I saw the veil torn in two,
And the Holy of Holies open wide ...

A blood-fount sprang from the compassionate wounds
With a strength that I could not know,
And it flooded my heart with redeeming power,
And washed me white as snow.

So now in holiness not my own
I stand before Him cleansed and free.
The veil torn--not that I came in alone,
But that His grace poured out to me.

Cleaning the Living Room. Or Something Like That.

2009-07-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

I realized today that my children have become masters of chore-dodging. I had but one modest goal ... to clean the living room with the help of my little darlings. We had just finished lunch and they were slurping down their ice cream cones when I decided that this would be a good time to break the bad news of my plans for the afternoon . . .

"Children," I say, smiling as though I am about to bestow a great gift upon them, "we are going to ..."

That is as far as I get. Ice cream cones are briefly suspended in mid-air as my children vanish like elephants in a David Copperfield act.

I am pretty sure they are still in the house somewhere, and I do not like to think of myself as one of those 'yelling moms', so I go looking for them. I catch my 10-year-old daughter hiding out in the laundry room.

"Oh, hi, Mom," she says uncomfortably, "I was just ... um ... pretending that I'm washing my Hannah Montana shirt."

"You don't HAVE a Hannah Montana shirt," I remind her.

"That's right," she says. "So how about, instead of whatever you were going to say, we could go to the mall and buy a Hannah Montana shirt." She smiles brightly. "We can stop at the pretzel stand and get you one of those garlic pretzels."

"Not a chance," I say, getting irritated now. "Go find your brother and sisters and tell them to come help clean the living room." She trots off dutifully, and I wander to the living room and begin to dust. Ten minutes later, silence still reigns in the back of the house.

"KIIIIIIIIIDSSSSSSS!" So much for the no-yelling mom. "COME HERE RIGHT NOW!!!"

There is a reluctant patter of feet in the hallway, as my children emerge looking wide-eyed and innocent. "What, Mom?"

I take a breath and remind myself that I am the 'no-yelling' mom. "We are cleaning the living room."

"I am hungry," says my son.

"You just ate lunch," I reply.

"But I'm a growing boy," he protests.

"I'm thirsty," my daughter pipes up.

"I need to go to the bafwoom," whimpers my three-year-old who is still in diapers.

"EVERYBODY BE QUIET!" no-yelling mom shouts. "NOBODY IS LEAVING THIS ROOM UNTIL IT IS CLEAN!"

There are a few minutes of silence while the children begin picking up toys and books. Then ....

"Mom?" It is my 10-year-old again. "What's DNA?"

Ah, they have found their scientist-mom's weakness.

Two hours later, my husband wanders into a living room strewn with toys and books and a nifty model of a DNA double helix made out of beads and pipe cleaners and a chart showing the correct matching of the base pairs. My autistic son is shouting, "Deoxyribonucleic acid!" over and over, so proud of having learned such a long new word.

"What's going on in here?" my husband says, looking amused and baffled.

"Hi, Daddy!" says my three-year-old proudly. "We cwean the wiving woom."

Part VI: A Series of Fortunate Events"The people living in darkness have seen a great light ..." (Matt. 4:16)

2009-07-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the delay, folks. But I am actually quite touched by how many of you commented or emailed to request to hear more of this story. It's the kind of encouragement that warms a blogger's heart. Thanks, ya'll!

So okay, back to the story ....

When I left South Korea in 1992, it was one of the most depressing experiences of my life. I was 17 years old, with no plans for the future and no idea what to do. I still harbored vague fantasies about being a missionary, but in my heart, I dreamed of a more 'normal' life and secretly wanted to be a math teacher. I had confessed this once or twice to my parents, who were less than thrilled with the idea. It was a 'worldly' goal, in their eyes. I had applied to a Christian college and had been accepted, but I had very little money, and I had no idea how to get there or how to pay for it, so the idea of actually going to college appeared hopelessly out of reach.

But worst of all, I was increasingly disillusioned in my faith. It was a secret, deeply hidden in my heart, but gnawing at me with growing intensity.

I have sometimes tried to express the agony of this crisis of faith to people who grew up in a more secular environment, and they seem puzzled. What is the big deal? they wonder. It's just a religion, just a church. If you weren't happy there, then find another one. But for me, it was not 'just' a set of religious beliefs or rituals. Pentecostalism was my life, and I knew no other. I had prayed in tongues, I had fasted every Friday, I had evangelized ... I had really believed. Now I found myself waking as if from a long slumber to find that everything in which I had trusted so firmly had no more substance than a dream.

And yet, to turn away from it was unthinkable. My soul suffered agony at the very thought of being forever separated from God. I felt paralyzed--unable to believe anymore and yet unable to 'fall away'.

And so it was in this desperate condition that I picked up the book The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis. I had never read Lewis's theology writing before, and I do not even recall how the book came into my possession. But I thought it might pass the time on the long plane flight back to the United States.

Whenever I mention now that my life was changed by reading this book, it seems rather puzzling. People sometimes even start to correct me. "It must have been Mere Christianity that you mean," they say. "That's the conversion book. The Problem of Pain is just about understanding why bad things happen even though God is good." But no, it was The Problem of Pain, and it couldn't possibly have been more providential.

As a Pentecostal, you see, I was always taught that if I had enough faith, only good things would happen to me, and I would never be ill or sad. We sang songs about having 'the victory', and we claimed our blessings in Jesus's name. The problem was that it never worked. In spite of all the dancing, shouting, and believing, we still got sick and bad things still happened. When we claimed healing for a terminally ill person in Jesus's name, the person still died. I asked my mother sometimes why these things happened. "God's will is almost never done," she said. That terrified me. If God could only do things when all the conditions were exactly right (which they never seemed to be, no matter how hard we tried), then what hope was there for any of us?

C.S. Lewis offered a perspective that stopped me right in my tracks. He frankly acknowledged that bad things happen in the world, even to those who love God very much. He denied emphatically that such hardships indicated that God does not love us or that God was failing in any way ... but that these things are part of a greater plan. The God that Lewis took for granted was one that I did not even recognize but that took my breath away. Lewis scoffed at the idea that God's kingdom was shaken in the least by our influence. "A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word 'darkness' on the walls of his cell." (p. 46)

But even more shocking to me was Lewis's casual assumption that God loves His children. I had worked so hard to earn God's love and approval, and I always felt that I was failing at every step. I had come to believe that God despised me as weak and useless for His kingdom. Lewis shrugged the idea off. "And it appears, from all the records, that although He has often rebuked and condemned us, He has never regarded us with contempt." (p.33)

As the plane landed in the United States, I still had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I can't say that I had totally figured out the nature of God or fully understood the error of Pentecostalism. But it was a start. A new light had pierced the deep night, and it would grow steadily brighter and brighter until it burned the darkness away.

My Beautiful Son

2009-06-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

When my son Kevin was a baby, everyone said he was an unusually beautiful child. Of course, people always say that about babies, but when they saw my son, people seemed especially awed. "I feel like I'm looking at the Christ Child," I was often told. And I knew what they meant. His face was serene. He rarely made any noise. His skin seemed to glow. All that he lacked to complete the effect was a halo over his tiny head. He seemed to watch the world with a peaceful abstraction and an air of wisdom.

I dreamed--as new mothers do--that he was destined for greatness. My journal from those years overflows with optimism for his future. "You are so smart, Kevin!" I gushed. "Your mommy is sooooooo proud of you!" I was only 21 years old at the time, and I was too busy planning for my perfect family and happy life to consider other explanations for the behavior of my beautiful but strangely silent child.

When he was three years old, my son was diagnosed with autism. Suddenly, his silence seemed not peaceful so much as ominous. I searched his eyes for a flicker of comprehension of the world around him. My dreams of someday sending him to college shattered. I dreamed now that perhaps in time he would learn to talk, be toilet trained, learn to tie his shoes.

Many of those dreams have come true. These days, my baby boy is 13 years old. He can talk moderately well (for an autistic child) and he can use the bathroom all by himself. He never has quite mastered the art of tying his shoes, but we get him his favorite brand of velcro-fastened sneakers, and he is quite content.

I wonder now how I ever could have thought it so important for him to be smart. He is generous and kind-hearted. He loves his mom and dad and his sisters. He loves God, and he prays most sweetly and sincerely.

Today, my three-year-old daughter Sydney was cranky and in need of a nap. Kevin attempted to help her get some juice and gave her the wrong color straw for her drink (she is all about having pink straws for her juice cup these days). Sydney flung herself on the floor in dramatic toddler fashion and began to kick and scream. I picked her up and took her to her bed, but her angry wails continued to reverberate throughout the house.

"Mom," Kevin said tremulously, "Sydney is angry."

"Yes, sweetie," I said. "Don't worry. It's not your fault. Babies do this sometimes. She just needs a nap."

"But Mom ..." Tears stood in his eyes. "I love Sydney. I want her to stay out here. Please give us another chance. I will give her the pink straw, and she will be happy."

Kevin, you are so sweet, and you have a heart of gold. Your mommy is sooooooo proud of you.

Sometimes I can still see that quiet glow about him that gives me the sense of awe. He makes odd expressions and flaps his hands as autistic children do ... but every so often, there's the light that seems to shine from his face and his eyes. It's like he caught a glimpse of heaven that I can't see ... somewhere far, far away, but somehow nearer than I knew.

To view a short video about my son and his autism, click here.

Turn the volume up at the end to hear him talk.

A Rant About Music

2009-06-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

When I first arrived in the Reformed community, I was totally on board with the idea of hymns and other traditional forms of worship. I was tired of being told that I should experience some deep emotional thrill while singing some nonsense like, "Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning." (Seriously, doesn't anyone ever finish reading that parable? Matthew 25:1-13, folks. Anyone who sings that song, your assignment is to open your Bible, read, and describe briefly what happened to the five virgins who asked for more oil. Thank you.)

But as time has progressed, I find it harder and harder to understand the steadfast insistence of Reformed churches on singing hymns that were written centuries ago.

A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing,
Our shelter He against the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.

Now, I am a college-educated woman who has been in churches all her life. But I have NO IDEA what a 'bulwark' is. And I'm even a little hazy on the 'mortal ills prevailing'. I can't even imagine how difficult it would be for someone who was poorly educated or did not speak English as a first language to get any meaning at all out of that hymn.

Reformed churches often criticize Catholicism for their insistence upon using Latin in the mass. The Reformers sought to make worship services more accessible to the average parishioner by doing away with Latin liturgy and writing hymns in the language of the common people. If only modern Reformed churches would follow that example. These hymns may have been in the common language of the century in which they were written .... but when have you ever heard this type of conversation?

Bill: Hi, Fred. How are you?
Fred: Well, I'll be honest, Bill. Today I have a bad case of mortal ills prevailing.
Bill: You should get a bulwark.

No, you just don't hear it, do you? It's OLD, DEAD LANGUAGE THAT NO ONE USES ANYMORE. Just like Latin.

I'm not saying that we should bring Charismatic or Pentecostal music into Reformed worship. But we've got some good musicians around here. Let's write some new material, people. No one should need a degree in classical literature to understand our songs.

Let's sing unto the Lord a new song. (Psalm 96:1)

How You Can Tell If You Are Reformed ...

2009-06-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

When you are creationist and cessationist,
Infralapsarian and post-mil,
And you read the works of Calvin
And Cornelius Van Til,
And your copies of Boettner and Dabney
Just slipped off your sagging shelf ....
...well, my friend, it's very likely
that you have 'Reformed' yourself.

If your blog is bogged down in details
Of exegetical interpretation,
And your three-year-old can lisp about
'Owiginal sin and pwedestination',
If you ever planned a picnic
And called it 'providential' when it rained ...
...then you must be a Calvinist
because God so ordained.

Can you name all of the Solas?
Can you quote Ursinius and Knox?
Is your internet homepage opc.org?
Does your shirt say, 'TULIP rocks!'?

Well, if your answer to those questions
Is 'both/and' or 'it depends',
And you count dead theologians
Among your very closest friends,
Then we think you'll feel at home here,
And you are someone we'd love to meet ...
... but we do things 'decently and in order' here,
so please be quiet and take a seat.

A Quiet Life

2009-06-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

"Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody."

~ I Thessalonians 4: 11-12

When I was a Pentecostal kid, I planned to be a missionary. We all did, to be honest. I don't remember there seriously being an alternative offered to us. Everything in our household was always about missions, and 'reaching the lost', and no other career path was ever discussed.

So I planned to be a missionary. And not just ANY missionary. I planned to live in Mongolia or Zimbabwe or somewhere else exotic and dangerous. I planned to travel and run an orphanage and perform miracles to heal the sick and disabled. And, if Jesus did not return too soon, I planned to lead thousands to Christ and build a huge mission that would impact the world.

Today, I live in a quiet corner of upstate New York. I am afraid of flying in airplanes, and I always have been. Other than brief excursions to the coast, I do not like to travel. And I myself am disabled, and I cannot heal myself.

My former (Pentecostal) self would have thought that my life turned out a miserable failure. And yet I am quite content and happier than I would have thought possible. There are some whom God has called to live and work in far corners of the globe. And yet, whatever Keith Green would have had us believe, that is not a life that is healthy or appropriate for anyone and everyone. We are all called to good works (Ephesians 2:10), but we are not all called to fame.

The Bible speaks of a few such as Peter or Paul, great apostles who travelled and preached and gave their lives to full-time ministry. And for them we are ever grateful. And yet those were very few. The vast multitude of the early church lived and died in quiet anonymity. Their names are not recorded anywhere except in the Lamb's book of life, and we shall not know them until we join them in glory. They were fisherman and traders and carpenters and scribes and soldiers who were never called by Christ to leave all and follow Him. And so they remained at their jobs and worked and raised their children and taught them in the faith.

It was difficult and humbling for me to admit that I was not anyone special. I am not Paul or Peter. I am not called to greatness or gifted to travel the world. When I die, I shall be mourned by only my friends and family. No books will be written about my life, and in a few generations, no one will remember my name. I am not better than all the millions of Christians who have gone before me.

And yet, I find a certain freedom and contentment in that. I do not have to do amazing things, which is good because I am only a very average person. I can raise my children in a quiet, stable home. I can grow old with my husband. I can take the time to read books and write blogs and play Scrabble. I can have friends that I can live near for the rest of my life, and we can laugh as we age about how young we were once.

God knows my name. He remembers each of the millions of His children, from the famous like St. Paul to the stillborn infant who never drew a breath, much less preached to thousands. And so long as I am not forgotten by Him, that is enough for me.

But even beyond that, I have noticed in my own experience that the greatest people that I know are really quite ordinary folk who content themselves with doing good for those around them. They are too busy tending to their responsibilities, caring for their children, and helping those in need to worry about building a ministry empire. They are ordinary people, but they are heroes to me and to others who are fortunate enough to know them.

It will be one of the wonders of Heaven to have eternity to meet all the others who disappeared quietly and humbly from the earth, but who were true heroes of the faith in their quiet and ordinary lives.

"So Did You Get Your Flu Shot Yet?" and Other Bad Lines in Front of a University Handicapped Elevator

2009-06-20T12:13:00.001-07:00

I know it is going to be an awkward moment as soon as I see him waiting for the elevator. The sign next to the elevator proclaims in bold letters 'FOR HANDICAPPED ONLY', and the young man standing there certainly does not appear handicapped in any way. This is not unusual, and on a personal level, I do not even care. When I was a young and healthy college student, I was not above sneaking the occasional ride in the handicapped elevator when I was tired from a long day of lugging a heavy book bag around campus. But what no one expects when they press the button hoping for a quick and unnoticed ride on the forbidden elevator is that an actual handicapped person will show up to join them for the ride.

I nonchalantly park my wheelchair next to the young man. His eyes dart instantly to the sign, and then he glances around nervously. I can almost hear the wheels spinning in his mind as he evaluates his options. He shifts his book bag uneasily and takes a step back as though to start edging away. Perhaps I will think he is merely waiting for a friend and never intended to ride the elevator. Then he pauses and ponders the lit elevator button. Nope, no good. He has already pressed the button. If he walks away now, I might think he doesn't want to ride in an elevator with a woman in a wheelchair. He takes a slightly limping step back. Perhaps he will pretend to be injured. No, I might see him later around campus and know he was faking.

By now, his face is flaming red with embarrassment. Sweat pops out on his forehead. He stares in frustration at the closed metal door in front of us. What is taking the elevator so damn long?

The silence is intense. I can feel his growing compulsion to say something, say anything. The nervous tension has driven him nearly cross-eyed. His face is almost purple with anxiety.

His eyes dart toward me.

He licks his lips.

Here it comes ...

"So did you get your flu shot yet?"

"Um ...what?" I stutter, not because I haven't heard him but because I need a moment to try to think how to field that kind of question.

"Did you ... uh ... did you .... uh ...." The poor guy is nearly choking.

Fortunately, at that moment, the elevator doors finally slide open, and so my poor desperate companion is spared the humiliation of repeating the question in its entirety.

Hoping to stave off further flu-shot discussion, I make small talk about the cold weather as the elevator makes its slow descent. Once in the lobby, the young man seizes his book bag and beats a hasty retreat out the glass double doors and into the safe anonymity of the campus.

I'm guessing that next time he will take the stairs ...

Categorizing Posts

2009-06-19T09:50:00.001-07:00

I have been trying for a while to sort out blogging code enough to create some categories ... and I think I finally succeeded. I am going to start out just with two: the story of my transition from Pentecostalism to Calvinism (to which I shall continue to add as time goes on) and my Presbytery series (which I have posted on Facebook, but have wanted to post here on my blog as well).

As time goes on, we'll see how this progresses. I hope I shall eventually have a theology page, a humor page ... But one thing at a time.

Introducing ... my Presbytery series!

Due to some difficulty reported by readers who had trouble following the sequence of the series when it was posted in the usual blog format (1st post at the bottom of the page, last post at the top), I am going to resequence the completed Presbytery series so that it reads in a normal top-to-bottom format. Hopefully, this will make it easier to follow. Let me know if it is helpful!

Enjoy!

Caroline Goes to PresbyteryPart I: It's Behind the McDonalds

2009-06-19T09:40:00.000-07:00

(April 8, 2009)

So I'm going to Presbytery.

At this point, half of my readers are saying, "What is Presbytery?" and the other half are saying, "Was it a ransom demand made by someone who kidnapped your firstborn? Because that's the only reason I would go to Presbytery."

So, okay, for those who don't know (as I certainly did not know a few years ago when I first started attending Calvary), Presbyterian churches are governed by elders, including the pastor and a handful of 'ruling elders'. These are called the Session. Then, every so often, the Sessions of a bunch of churches in the area get together to ... well, frankly, I'm not sure what they do, but I'm sure it involves a lot of big words like 'supralapsarianism' and 'soteriology'. As it turns out, this month, the Presbytery of New York and New England is meeting in Amsterdam. No, not THAT Amsterdam. They are meeting in the little town of Amsterdam, New York, only a few minutes drive from Schenectady. And I want to go.

And now to answer the other half of my readers--why would I want to go? The general consensus among many is that Presbytery meetings have all the fast pace and drama of bridge construction and that the only people who would voluntarily subject themselves to these things would be chronic insomniacs desperate for a few hours of boredom-induced slumber.
But that is precisely what I find so fascinating about Presbyterian meetings. I'm an ex-Pentecostal, of course, so I figure that any church event that doesn't involve someone in the pulpit screaming "GLOWRAY!!!" is pretty awesome. But beyond that, I am fascinated by the fact that I am allowed to attend Presbytery meetings at all.

In most of the churches that I attended before I became Presbyterian, the FBI couldn't ferret out their form of government. Most of the time, we weren't even sure who (if anyone) besides the pastor was in charge. We put money in the plate and it simply disappeared. Was it being used to support church programs and outreach? Was it spent on massages for the pastor's wife's sister's cousin's pet poodle? We never knew. Meetings were always carried out behind closed doors. If a decision seemed dubious and we protested, we were merely told, "You don't know all the facts. You would agree with us if you knew the situation." Perhaps, but how could we know that for sure? And these decisions often involved sudden and dramatic changes in direction. The pastor would go to a regional conference, come back with a new 'vision' that God had supposedly given him, and we were all expected to jump on board. Anyone who didn't immediately support it was 'hindering the Spirit'. Every few months, it seemed, the rug got yanked from under us for no discernable reason. We had to jump fast and jump blindly.

So I love Presbyterian meetings. I love the openness. I love the slow pace. I sit back there with a big silly grin on my face, completely enthralled by all the boredom. I look forward to a wonderful snooze-fest in which all the representatives talk too much and nothing much happens and it takes an act of God to end the darn thing on time. Amen. So let it be.

Having said all of that, my experiences thus far are limited to corporate and congregational meetings. This will be my first ever real Presbytery meeting. Although, yes, I realize I can't directly participate in this one (only observe), I am very excited. I also have no earthly idea how to get there.

I am told it is at Covenant Orthodox Presbyterian Church, but I have never been there. I asked for directions. "It's behind the McDonalds," a good friend informed me helpfully. Hmmmmm. That doesn't really narrow it down. 'Behind the Pyramids of Giza' would narrow it down. McDonalds are as ubiquitous as bacteria (not that I'm suggesting that there's a connection).

My husband is not a fan of the idea of me simply going looking for it. "That gives me the chills," he says. " Honey, I love you, but you suck at finding new places. You will end up in Canada. I just know it." He's right. And if that happens, I may miss the whole first part of the Presbytery meeting. And who knows, that might be when all the exciting stuff happens (although, judging by my experience in Presbyterian meetings, I'm not sure how you can tell when we are in the Exciting Part).

Sooooooooooo ... I either have to catch a ride with someone or figure out where this church is.

But stay tuned. I think this is gonna be a lot of fun. More updates to follow.

Caroline Goes to Presbytery Part 2: What Should I Wear?

2009-06-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

(April 18, 2009)

Well, Presbytery is now only two weeks away, and I am preparing my heart as women do by asking the all-important question, "What should I wear?" I'm a jeans and sweater gal usually, not really dressy. But will I be the only woman there who is not in a nice dress and pantyhose?

Truthfully, it doesn't really matter if I am. I grew up in a church with such severe dress restrictions on women that we were told that God would not permitted to us wear pants or shorts for any reason. (Or a bathing suit. Have you ever tried to swim in a jean skirt? I have. You spend the first few minutes trying to keep the skirt from washing up over your head, and then once it has absorbed enough water for gravity to hold it down, it feels like you have a cannonball attached to your body, and you spend the rest of the lovely afternoon trying not to drown.) So the only way I will ever be seen in a skirt again is if someone dresses me in one for my funeral. And even then, I hope God will permit me to rise again just long enough to slap the one responsible.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I may stand out regardless of what I arrive wearing, as I might be the only person there without a Y chromosome. But conservative business-type attire may help me avoid the appearance of having just accidentally wandered in from the McDonalds.
It's a pity, though, because I think we could have so much more fun with this. Here's what I would wear if I wasn't so self-conscious:

or perhaps this one (with a nod to my friend Gregg's hilarious humor):

Ok, and here is one that I can't quite fill out. The joke is there, but I can't fill in the blanks. My husband Rick says he thinks it works just fine as it is, especially since I haven't been to presbytery yet, but maybe you all can suggest some adjectives ....

Well, anyway ...

This will be the last pre-Presbytery note, but when the big day arrives, I look forward to writing a full Presbytery report. There will be pie charts and bar graphs and pictures ...

Stay tuned.

I Found It!

2009-06-19T09:20:00.000-07:00

(April 25, 2009)

Caroline Goes to Presbytery Part 3: Preliminary Meeting Report

2009-06-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

(April 28, 2009)

Presbytery opened at 4:00 pm today at Covenant OPC with great fanfare. As each of the representatives entered the sanctuary, they were announced over a loudspeaker to wild applause and a shower of confetti. When all were present, the lights were darkened, and an amazing pyrotechnics display sent a shower of sparks in the air as an enormous banner bearing the OPC logo rose over the assembly.

Well, okay, I was 15 minutes late, so I'm not exactly sure that's what happened. But that's the way I picture it. By the time I got there, every trace of confetti was vacuumed up, the smoke cleared out of the air, and it was all business. In fact, by the time I got there, it looked suspiciously like a bunch of pastors holding a meeting, and what with Presbyterian punctuality and all, it was already well underway.

Not wanting to disrupt, I slid onto an empty little half-pew in the back that was blocked on the left by the church sound system (more on this later). Tom--brave man that he is--wandered over and gave me the handouts for the meeting, thereby running the very real risk of being generally acknowledged as pastor of The One Who Arrived Late. (Thanks, Tom!)

So what was Presbytery like? Well, the sanctuary was quite nice, if somewhat in defiance of the 2nd Commandment (there was a large and rather disturbing stained-glass picture of Jesus at the front). It was spacious and well-lit. There were approximately 60 people present, at least 50 of which were guys in gray suits. I counted five women. Several other women milled about in a kitchen area setting up for the dinner.

As it turned out, the sanctuary was perhaps a bit TOO spacious. Trying to listen in on it was a bit like listening to a golf game with the volume too low--there were murmurs in which I could catch an occasional word, but often not enough to follow the gist of it. I did understand that there was some effort to approve minutes. For a few intense and thrilling seconds, the Presbytery was poised to approve them, until some guy in a gray suit stood up and noted that with the 5mph wind from the northeast and the slope of the green, he really felt that we should use a putter on this shot (or something like that), and the decision was put off until the following day.

Moderator, the woman in the back moves that the representatives be required to use a megaphone.

After a few more preliminaries, the Presbytery turned to examining a candidate for pastoral office. And here at last, microphones were employed to their full potential and things got loud enough to be interesting. The guy asking the questions dragged a small pulpit over and planted it right next to the only open side of my short half-pew (thereby trapping me there for the duration) and he started firing questions at the candidate, who stood at the front of the church behind a larger pulpit that was probably mostly there to prop him up, as the questioning was quite intense at times.

The Candidate (I have forgotten his name) turned out to be an ex-Pentecostal, which made me feel some instant camaraderie but also caused me to hope fervently that someone would inquire into his views on prophecy and tongues. Fortunately, the Questioner had anticipated that (or perhaps they always ask this, I dunno), and, after other questions regarding his basic beliefs, he asked whether the candidate believed that God continued to speak today through special revelation (tongues, prophecy, etc).

"No," the Candidate replied.

*grin* I never get tired of hearing that from an ex-Pentecostal. I think that only those who have been raised Pentecostal fully appreciate what an brilliantly brave thing that is to say, even in front of a bunch of Orthodox Presbyterians. "No, I don't believe it." Amen, Candidate Dude.

Well, sadly, 5:30 arrived quickly, and thus ended the preliminary meeting of the Presbytery. There was a dinner later ... but, sensing that my husband and children may also be having dinner, I opted for their company instead, and I returned home.

However, I will definitely be back tomorrow morning for the rest of this exciting series. Will the minutes be approved? Will the candidates pass their exams? Will I be able to tell if they do? Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion ... and later in the week for my post-Presbytery analysis!

Caroline Goes to Presbytery Part 4: All the Drama

2009-06-19T09:05:00.000-07:00

(April 28, 2009)

Well, it's been quite a day, folks. I am exhausted beyond belief, and so much happened today that I don't even know where to begin.

I managed to arrive today at Covenant OPC at promptly 9:00am, the reported starting time. Nevertheless, I was still late. I guess the representatives just couldn't wait to amend a procedural motion and proceed with an amended motion-- a trend that carried on throughout the day. This time, not willing to be boxed into a pew again, I opted for a chair at the back of the sanctuary (more on this to follow).

The day begin with the more examinations for ordination. One candidate preached a sermon, and then the examination from the previous day continued, as well as another examination after the first was completed. Phrases like ''justification" and 'framework interpretation' and 'optimistic amillennialist' flew like machine-gun bullets. Still, both candidates held up quite well and eventually passed their exams. We were warned that there were two more examinations yet to come. Then there was a lunch, followed by a series of debates.

In the meantime, however, I was having my own little drama. The chair that I had originally chosen had the unfortunate effect of pressing against my spine in such a way as to make my legs go numb. I switched it out for a more comfortable, padded chair. By lunchtime, even this one was pure misery. As meds waxed and waned, maintaining my balance unsupported in the chair became an agony ... and yet, I saw no reason to believe that returning to the discomfort of a hard pew would improve matters. Asking around a bit, I managed to procure a more comfortable rocking chair (with armrests) from the nursery. People sitting around me began to be a bit amused by the woman who appeared to be playing an odd game of musical chairs in the corner of the sanctuary. But at least I was finally comfortable as we headed into the afternoon debates.

And there was little time to think about physical discomforts. There was a complaint against the Presbytery brought by a church member, and the merits of it were in hot dispute. Also, one church was leaving the OPC and another joining. Each of these issues carried with it dozens of items for discussion and decision.

What stood out most to me, however, was not the particular issues or decisions of the Presbytery, but the manner in which the discussion was conducted. It was a clumsy process. Motions were made, seconded, amended, seconded again ... at one point, no less than twenty minutes were spent on the decision to rearrange the order of the items to be voted on. Item #1b became item 1, and items #1a,c,d, and e became items #3a,b,c, and d in a lengthy discussion so complex that it nearly imploded under the weight of its own technical jargon.

But, at the same time, it was a process so beautiful that I couldn't tear myself away from watching. The greatest argument in favor of any particular course of action was always founded primarily on whether it was biblical and whether it was loving and whether it was right.

"The Bible says that we should ..."

"How can we be good examples to our congregations unless we ..."

"The rule of love would dictate ..."

The most emotional moment in the entire meeting came when one minister hinted at the misconduct of a church member involved in a complaint. "OBJECTION!" another pastor sharply cried out, "These types of insinuations of personal misconduct are inappropriate unless there is a trial and formal disciplinary action."

At the beginning and end of every portion of the gathering, prayers were offered up for wisdom and guidance from God.

I became so engrossed in the proceedings that ultimately, I failed to remember my rather significant limitations. I first began to realize I was in trouble at the conclusion of the afternoon session when dinner was served. The representatives rose and made their way to the dining area. I was hungry, but suddenly the floor looked a mile long and I realized the pain radiating from my body and the shakiness of my hands spelled trouble. Having already consumed all the medicine that I was supposed to take for the day, I was uncertain what to do, so I decided to do nothing at all. I curled up in the comfort of the rocking chair and decided that eating was rather more trouble than it was worth at the moment.

As the evening portion of Presbytery began, my Parkinson's symptoms worsened, and I became more anxious. There was no way that I could drive home like this, but my husband back in Schenectady had three children with him and only his work van to drive, and, while there would be plenty of options for rides once Presbytery ended, it did not look like that was about to happen any time within the next decade.

Finally, I realized that my only hope was in taking another dose of Sinemet. I staggered to my feet and began the agonizing walk across what seemed by now to be acres of floor back to the church kitchen. Once there, I collapsed onto a chair with a cup of water and my medicine ... only to find that my hands were no longer able to open the lid.

I started to panic. By then, the kitchen workers had cleaned up after the meal and were gone for the day. I had no doubt that I would be found eventually, but my imagination began to spin scenarios in which Presbytery ends with a humiliating scene involving an ambulance ride. Fortunately, at that moment, a woman wandered into the back of the kitchen to take out the trash.

"Excuse me ..." My voice wouldn't rise much above a whisper, but, thank God, she stopped.

"Do you need help with something?" she asked.

"Will you open this for me?" I stuttered and held out my medicine bottle, my hands shaking so much that the pills inside rattled. She deftly popped open the lid and handed me a pill.

People ask me sometimes what it's like to take a dose of Sinemet. There's no high or buzz to it. But the comparison that comes to mind is rather like being held under water and then finally coming up for air. The brain seems to let out an appreciative gasp, and Parkinson's tremors subside and balance improves and pain ebbs away.

Worried about another relapse, I hastily grabbed my keys and headed home.

So I missed the close of Presbytery. And sadly, driving home, I had to reflect that it was likely both my first and last Presbytery, as my body does not seem to tolerate sitting for such long hours very well.

*******

My husband just asked me why I wasn't laughing as I typed this. My Presbytery reports are always meant to be mildly humorous, and I am not above laughing at my own jokes, so I'm usually giggling as I type these things. I'm not quite up to it tonight, I guess. But Presbytery reports aren't quite over. My post-Presbytery analysis, coming later this week, is already being sketched out with photos and graphs and weird humor.

But, in all seriousness, today made me glad to be a Presbyterian, and even more, glad to be a Christian. It was a priviledge to be there, and in spite of the price I am paying even as I type this (exhaustion and radiating pain from every fiber of my body), I'm glad I was able to go, at least this once.

Post-Presbytery Analysis

2009-06-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

(May 7, 2009)

Hello, everyone! Sorry it has taken me this long to come through on my promise (or threat, depending on your perspective) to conclude my Presbytery Reports with a final Post-Presbytery Analysis. Things haven't been all peachy over here (at least, not from a health perspective). I am reminded of the old song we used to sing in elementary school: "The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be ..."

Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway ..... about Presbytery .... Presbytery was a special opportunity for me. You see, I don't know much about Reformed churches. My experience is largely limited to Calvary OPC, and while that has been a good experience for me, the question lurks in the back of my mind: are other Reformed churches maybe very different? So I went with a lot of questions, some of which I was able to get answered by observation, and some of which I am still camped out in Pastor Tom's email inbox about.

But here are some of the questions that I had and what I was able to learn:

(1) Do Reformed pastors believe in God?

Hey, don't laugh. It's a real question. Sure, they can preach. But do they really believe what they say? When they are making their decisions, are they conscious of their own duty before God? Or do tempers flair and egos run wild and are decisions made on an arbitrary sense of what is best for the church officials rather than what is right? Based upon my observations, I think they really do believe in God. Sure, there were moments in which tempers became a little edgy, especially as dinner time approached. But overall, patience was in good supply and God seemed always on the minds of those present. "We should do this because God commands it" was always a good reason in that group. As I noted in my last Presbytery report, this was very impressive.

(2) Can Presbyterians do anything on time in a meeting?

Yes. They went to lunch and to dinner precisely on schedule. Other than that, no. In fact, getting them to return from lunch and dinner practically required the use of a cattle prod.

(3) Do Presbyterian pastors ever wear regular clothes?

Well, I don't know about ever, but certainly not at Presbytery. You'd think they'd break out the jeans for a thirteen hour meeting, but no.

More than fifty men in formal attire for 13 hours on a warmish day is what it was. Imagine the dry-cleaning bill.

(4) What is the EPSI at a Presbytery meeting?

EPSI is an acronym for Elders Per Square Inch that I developed back when I was looking for a church. Ordinarily, I use it to calculate the balance of authority within a church.

Generally, a good EPSI somewhere in the middle range. A very low EPSI suggests a cult-like authority by one or two people, whereas a very high EPSI suggests that the church ordains anyone who will stand still long enough. Both extremes spell trouble.

Of course, I knew that the EPSI in Presbytery was going to be off the charts, for reasons that had nothing to do with the authority balance. But it was interesting to note how it progressed throughout the day. Below is a chart showing the change in EPSI over time in the sanctuary (blue bars) vs. the fellowship hall (red bars).

As you can see, the day started off quite well, with all representatives in the sanctuary and none whatsoever dawdling about in the fellowship hall, and that was surprisingly well-maintained throughout the morning. The EPSI of the sanctuary dropped off sharply at the lunch hour, as the representatives rushed upon the fellowship hall like a herd of cats that just heard a can-opener. Following the lunch hour, there was a weird time (marked by an asterisk on the chart) in which many of them seemed to be nowhere at all, apparently in a vain attempt to put themselves beyond earshot of the call back to the sanctuary ... until they were gradually pulled back by the insistant and rather forceful hymn-playing that signaled the beginning of the next portion of the Presbytery meeting. The pattern was repeated for the dinner hour, after which attendance in the sanctuary began to gradually drop off.

(5) How was the time divided in Presbytery?

The allotment of time in Presbytery is shown in the chart below:

Due to the unusual number of candidate exams, a large portion of the meeting was devoted to this. Other than that, the bulk of the time was spent on rewording documents. You see, what would happen is this ... some committee would report on some problem and how they proposed to resolve it. Usually this involved writing a some sort of declaration of intent to do something. At this point, all the representatives would frown deeply and begin to rewrite the document. "It says we intend to erase his name from our rolls. I think it should say, 'Intend to erase his name from our rolls unless we hear from him in writing before our next meeting.'" "Wait. The next meeting is a special meeting. It should be the next regularly scheduled meeting. Or how about before the end of the year?" "I move that we say 'intend to consider erasing his name'." And so on.

By the end of the discussion the Note would be qualified fifty different ways. "Our dear Brother in Christ," it would read, "We pray that all is well with you ( if you are okay with us praying for you). It is with deepest regret that we must notify you (or I suppose 'must' may be too strong, but we should notify you) that, inasmuch as you have not shown up now for three years and you emailed us all a karaoke version of Steam's song Na Na Hey Hey Goodbye (except Fred, you didn't send it to Fred, but we think maybe you didn't have his email address), you may no longer wish to be in fellowship with us. That being the case (and we hope that we do not misread these things, we suppose there are lots of reasons that you might want to send us that song), we are considering erasing your name from our rolls (but don't panic if you didn't really want to leave, because, really, we are only just starting to think about this) ..."

(6) What was the best moment?

In a complex case that I won't go into completely here, there was a complaint brought before the Presbytery regarding a decision made previously. The complaint itself was clearly out of order, and yet there was a lengthy and anxious discussion regarding whether the person bringing the complaint should be granted the floor anyway, just to be sure that all due concern was given to that person, followed by another lengthy discussion about whether the decision should be overturned even if the person was not granted the floor. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have simply dismissed the complaint out-of-hand. The fact that this was agonized over at such length was impressive and showed a diligence and concern for average church members.

(7) What was the most ironic moment?

A very sincere and even emotional discussion regarding whether children's Picture Bibles showing illustrations of Jesus were violations of the second commandment took place ... directly in front of the enormous stained glass picture of Jesus that dominates the front of the sanctuary at Covenant OPC (see photo below). Nobody mentioned Huge Jesus, but the potential viewing of picture Bibles was a grave concern to some.

(8) What will I always remember from this experience?

To bring my own chair. I'm pretty sure the chairs at Covenant were designed by someone who had an agenda to avenge the slaying of Servetus.

Besides that, I will remember the hesitancy--perhaps even to a fault--to do anything harsh or drastic. Actions that seemed mild even from the start were qualified, softened, worried over. It was rather like watching a group of over-protective parents trying to plan a day trip for their children. "We should make sure they wear sunscreen." "And a hat. Don't forget the hat." "What if they don't want to wear sunscreen? Would it seem harsh to insist on it?" "Well, we should make it available to them and strongly encourage it." "How shall we word that?"

It was sweet.

Concluding Thoughts:

I was knitting a shawl for my daughter Kaylee this week (yes, this is related to the subject, you'll see). I have a shawl and she thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world, and she wanted one too, so I let her pick out some yarn and spent an afternoon knitting it for her. When she got home from school, I gave her the new shawl and we went outside and sat in the lawn chairs while she told me about her day at school. She told me that they had run a mile in gym class, but she had been way behind the other kids. Not only that, but she had a worse time this year than last year, even though she was taller and had thought she'd be able to run faster.

"Well, sweetie," I explained, "you know you've got your mama's disease. Don't feel bad about it. When I was your age, I couldn't keep up with the other kids either. But it's not a fair race, so don't ever be embarrassed. The other kids don't have the problems that you have, and it's not your fault that you can't run faster. Just do the best you can and that's all you can do."

She thought about this for a minute. "Am I going to be all shaky like you when I get older?" she asked.

"I don't know, honey," I said. "Most people who have this disease don't get the neurological Parkinson's-like problems like me. So probably not. But you will probably always be slow and have pain in your joints."

"Ok," she said. She thought for a moment. "Well, Mom," she added, "we both have the same disease but we also both have beautiful shawls. So we are even."

And sitting outside in the spring sunshine, watching a chubby squirrel hanging upside down from a branch to steal sunflower seeds from our birdfeeder, I kind of understood what she meant.

The world is full of pain and fighting and sin and grief. We can become overwhelmed and drown in it if we stare at it for too long and think too much about everything that could happen and all that could go wrong. But the world is also a good place with pretty shawls and sunshine and cute squirrels and good conversation with people we love.

In some ways, Presbytery is like that. Fifty guys in suits will never make a dent in the condition of the world; they will never stop wars or turn the tide of a cultural rush toward godlessness. They aren't gods ... they are just guys who talk too much and take too long to come back from lunch and make the meeting run late. All the same, they are guys who do believe in God ... and so it's a small glimpse into the church of Jesus Christ that spans centuries and denominations. In fact, every Sunday at worship is such a glimpse, although from a different perspective, which is why I love going to church so much. These are moments sitting in the sun, looking at a peaceful and happy world that isn't quite here yet, but will be someday.

And so we are even.

A Series of Fortunate Events Part V: A New World

2009-04-13T06:37:00.000-07:00

As I am alternating segments of this plot line, I now return to how I began attending Calvary Orthdox Presbyterian Church ...

My husband and I first attended Calvary OPC on August 8, 2004. It was a VERY tense morning. My husband, you see, did not want to go to a non-Charismatic church. He was fine with leaving the church that we had been sporadically attending, but he was still very much a Charismatic.

"Those churches are dead," he told me. "No one there really loves God. They go to church because it's the thing to do. They show up on Sunday, go through the motions, and then go home and do whatever they want."

"Maybe not," I said. "Let's just try it."

"And they probably have a pipe organ," he said. "I hate pipe organs. And they probably sit on those old wooden pews."

"Maybe they don't," I said.

Rick finally agreed to go with me .... "Just to show you how bad these churches are," he said bitterly.

And so it was that we nervously sidled into an Orthodox Presbyterian church that morning. The service was already starting, and the swelling tones of a pipe organ immediately assailed our ears as we surveyed the neat rows of wooden pews. I avoided Rick's triumphant glance, and herded the children onto the pew furthest in the back. My autistic son at once began to hum and flap his hands. I tried to quiet him.

We sang a few hymns of the incomprehesible sort that contained words like 'bulwark' and 'mortal ills'. I mumbled along as best I could.

At last, the pastor took the pulpit. My husband leaned over to me and hissed, "Now you will see. This is going to be SO bad. I tell you, nobody here has any interest in real Christianity or having a love for God!"

I really can't think of a good way to sum up what happened next. I told Pastor Trouwborst some years later that he could not have prepared a better sermon for that moment if he had the gift of prophecy and six months to prepare. It was called 'Formalism: the Death of Religion', and it opened from the very beginning with an appeal that resonated over the congregation: "Do you love the Lord?" The words struck deep into my heart ... words that would stay with me and ring through my mind again and again through the tumultuous months that followed. "I know that there is this aspect in your life called religion that you have attached yourselves in some way to the Christian church... but do you love the Lord? Do you have any devotion for the Lord? Do you have any desire to serve the Lord? Do you have any desire to obey the Lord? Do you have any knowledge of what the Lord has told us in His book? Do you have any inclination to serve this God whom you claim to serve? Do you really love the Lord?”

After the service, my husband was fuming as we walked back out to the car, not because it was a bad sermon, but because it was a good one and had thus defeated his argument. "Ok," he sputtered. "Maybe THAT guy loves Lord. But what about the rest of them? Do you think anyone was even listening? And I can't even BELIEVE we are thinking about going to a church that has a pipe organ."

For the sake of my dear sweet husband, I should skip ahead in this narrative and say that ultimately, Rick came to entirely change his opinion about the church and to developed a deep respect--not only for the pastor but also for many others there--but at this time, he was still so poisoned with years of Charismatic prejudice against 'non-Spirit-filled churches' (the very term is an arrogant insult of staggering proportions) that he could scarcely fathom the idea that anyone outside of the narrow Charismatic realm could really be a 'spiritual' Christian.

As for myself, I loved the church. I loved the quiet and thoughtful atmosphere. I loved the intelligent and God-centered preaching that came as such a relief after the screaming, incoherent rants of Pentecostal pastors. I loved the benediction at the end, where we were sent away with God's blessing, rather than with a diatribe of threats and a call to the altar.

But, for even for me, the decision was hardly over. Rick may have had only Charismatic prejudices to sweep away. But I had years of distrust to overcome. My disposition was like that of a stray dog who shows up on the doorstep begging for food, but snarling at everyone who approaches.

If I were to stay here -- if I were to stay in ANY corner of Christendom-- I had to learn to trust again. It wasn't going to be easy.

A Series of Fortunate Events - Part IV: The Beginning of the End

2009-04-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

And now, I suppose I must return to the events that led to abandoning my old beliefs when I was a teenager. I really dread writing this part of the story. I keep considering whether there is some way to tell this story without telling this part, but I do not think there is. So here we go....

I am not sure what pushed it over the edge when I was seventeen. But really, I think it was simply cumulative. Things seemed constantly chaotic around me. My family had moved thirteen times over the course of my childhood, and we were about to relocate again. There was always a revival supposedly just around the corner, or Jesus was about to come back, or some great healing was going to take place ... and yet nothing ever seemed to work out.

During my teen years, my family had been living in South Korea, and we became involved in a strict, non-Trinitarian form of Pentecostalism called the United Pentecostal Church. Threats of martyrdom and speculation about the return of Christ were now augmented with denials of the Trinity nature of God and a strict dress code (especially for women and girls). Then, as quickly as we had joined, we relocated and we were gone from that sect. Things that were great sins one year became quite acceptable the next. But our experiences were not any less extreme. We became involved with a local Pentecostal cult centered around a woman who supposedly had healing powers. This supposed 'gift' was expressed in bloody rituals in which she scratched and cut those who were sick, claiming to be delivering them from diseases. Those who did not recover were accused of harboring secret sins. Over and over, I watched blood spatter all over the stage as the cries of those who were being 'healed' were drowned out by shouts of 'Hallelujah!' and songs of praise.

The mental strain of these types of experiences is beyond description. I became increasingly depressed. Questions swirled in my mind, but there was no one to ask. I felt guilty for my 'doubt' and I became increasingly convinced that my soul was lost. I tried to pray, but as usual, my prayers seemed to produce no response. I was unable to 'hear' God the way that I had been told I should. I was unable to heal anyone. I couldn't 'feel God's presence'. More and more, I simply wanted out. But to leave was unthinkable--it meant walking away from God. How could I do that?

Things finally fell apart in 1992. I was about to graduate from high school, and I had no idea what to do. Not having ever expected to grow up, I felt unprepared for life. I had vague dreams of college, but very little money, and I hadn't lived in the United States since I was twelve. Those around me told me to pray about it and seek God's direction for my life, but there was no response from God.

I was finally struck by a thought ... if I died, I would see God face-to-face. Maybe I could ask Him all of my questions. Maybe He would explain it all to me. Maybe I could tell Him how sorry I was that I hadn't ever been able to get things right, hadn't ever been able to break through to the next level of spiritual victory to get all those supernatural gifts that would save the souls of thousands. I knew He would send me to hell, but still at least I would have a few minutes to talk to Him and hear Him answer me like everyone always said He would. At judgment, at least there would be a moment in His presence, a moment that I would know Him just a little.

I started planning my suicide. The plan ended up derailed when a teacher at my school called my parents. I ran off and quickly attempted suicide, but not being really prepared for it, I failed and had to return home. My parents believed it was simply a discipline problem and treated it as such. It was in the aftermath of this incident--disillusioned and depressed--that I picked up a book by C.S. Lewis called The Problem of Pain.

Again, it was an accident. I knew nothing about Lewis or his theology (beyond reading his fictional books as a child). I didn't know that there was any other understanding of God than the one I had always been taught. I was simply looking for something to pass the time on the long plane trip back to the United States.

But now everything was about to change.

A Series of Fortunate Events Part III: Testing the Water

2009-04-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I don't want to get all depressing with that part of the story. There's only so much of it I can take before it just gets too dark. I'll get back to it, but let's go back to the first plot line.

My first introduction to Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church (as I described in my first post) nearly took the form of taking out the fir tree on the corner. And it's a good thing that it didn't happen that way because I'm not sure Pastor Tom's first thought upon seeing a maroon van embedded in the tree on the corner of the church lot would have been, "Hey, I'll invite her and her family to the evening service." Well, who knows, it really might have been. He takes his job pretty seriously.

But there was a reason that the Orthodox Presbyterian sign caught my attention so dramatically. You see, a few months before (around January of 2004), I had acquired high-speed Internet access, and for the first time in my life, started to take an interest in the big expensive paperweight called a 'computer' that had been sitting on my desk. I looked around the Internet a bit, and I happened across a link to something that advertised itself as a resource for former Pentecostals and former Charismatics. It was called an 'email group', but I didn't know what that was. I put in my email address, thinking that maybe it was some kind of emailed newsletter or something. To my surprise, emails began appearing in my inbox--people discussing various things--theological things, things about dispensationalism and soteriology and predestination. I drank it in like a woman dying of thirst.

At last I began to tentatively make my own inquiries--asking people to explain the Bible to me, this verse or that verse. It was a whole new place for me. As Pentecostals, we thought we had all the answers. And anything that we didn't know we learned to hide, because it might be perceived as 'doubting'. Now, for the first time, I could actually ask questions and get straight answers.

Where did these people come from? I wondered. Where are there more people like this?

Hesitantly, I typed in a question to the group. "I'm going to a Charismatic church now, but I don't like it. The pastor won't talk to me or answer any questions. I don't want to be in these churches anymore, but I don't know where to go."

"Try an Orthodox Presbyterian church," someone suggested. "Or PCA. Or Reformed Baptist."

These terms were as foreign as Japanese to my ears.

These days, Reformed people sometimes ask me what Pentecostals think of them. The answer quite simply is that they don't. To Pentecostals, other denominations tend to be quite invisible. I didn't know the first thing about how to go about even looking for one of those churches. And what would I do if I found one? Just walk in? What if I made some sort of mistake - like I didn't address the pastor correctly or I stood up when I was supposed to sit down or something - and everybody turned and stared at me?

I put the idea on the back burner.

That was when I nearly crashed the car into the tree outside Calvary OPC. After that, I couldn't get the idea out of my mind.

I decided to take the scientific approach. I developed A Plan. I would CALL that church (and maybe a few other churches, just to compare), and I would ask a bunch of questions. I wouldn't just walk right in. No way. Nobody should walk right into a church without a bit of scouting around.

I put together a list of questions. I had to think about these carefully. Don't want to take up a lot of the pastor's time or he'll get mad, so I have to make them good ones. Four or five questions, maybe.

#1: Do you baptize mentally disabled children? Yeah, had to ask that one. I had three unbaptized children, and they weren't getting any younger. A lot of churches (as I had learned from bitter experience) won't baptize mentally disabled kids.

#2: Are you Calvinist? Just to be sure where we stood on that.

#3: What do you think of dispensationalism? Ok, now here I thought I was being very clever and sneaky. See, I didn't really care about that subject much. But 'dispensationalism' is a nice long word. If the pastor was smart and read a lot of theology books and stuff, I figured he'd know what that word meant. It was a Pastor IQ Test is what it was. If you want to learn the Bible, you have to find someone who actually knows something about it, right?

#4: What do you think of the Charismatic and Pentecostal movement? I practiced saying this one out loud several times, saying it very evenly. Don't give away the 'right' answer with a vocal inflection. If anything, I wanted the pastor to think I was a Pentecostal, make it as difficult as possible for him to answer that one. I wanted to be sure that, if he said he didn't speak in tongues, he'd stand by what he said and wouldn't be all wishy-washy about it.

Finally, I looked up the church in the phone book, took a deep breath and dialed the number. The nice lady who answered the phone said that the pastor was not available but that he would call me back.

I snorted as I hung up. Yeah, sure he will. Because pastors are just so good about getting back to people, right? I dropped the list on the desk and wandered off to work on some grading for my classes. By the time the phone rang several hours later, I had forgotten all about it.

"Hello," said the voice on the other end, "This is Pastor Tom Trouwborst from Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church returning your call ..."

I panicked. Where is my List of Questions? "Um ...." My mind went blank. I faked a coughing fit to stall while I searched frantically amid the papers near the telephone. Fortunately, I found it, and I managed to get through my questions, though not as composed as I would have liked.

Pastor Tom seemed nice. He said he was a Calvinist, and that he baptized mentally handicapped children. He talked briefly about his dislike of dispensational theology, and he said that he definitely wasn't a Pentecostal and had never spoken in tongues. He politely invited me and my family to a church service, but he wasn't pushy about it.

I told him I'd think about it.

A Series of Fortunate Events Part II: Living in the Last Days

2009-04-10T04:21:00.000-07:00

I was born into a Pentecostal family. To say that my family was 'religious' would be like saying that Tiger Woods plays a little golf. My grandfather and great-grandfather were both ordained ministers, and my mother did her best to follow in their footsteps.

I often find that when I try to describe my childhood, I cannot seem to find words to fit. It was a strange world that we inhabited - full of demons and angels, blessings and curses, unseen dangers and ethereal ecstatic experiences. Real life moved about us as a secondary event. We believed that we were the 'special people', chosen for great things, destined to be leaders in these Last Days, and ushering in the return of Christ.

I never realized that I would live to grow up. Perhaps this is one reason that my health problems do not trouble me as much as they might otherwise. Age thirty-four might seem young to some people, but it seems to me that I have already wildly outlived my life expectancy. When I was eight years old, there certainly was no talk of living to 34--no, Jesus would surely have returned by then. We were in the very last days - the signs of it surrounded us. The Soviet Union and the United States were locked in a cold war that could boil over at any second, plunging the entire world into chaos, and from that chaos, the Antichrist would arise, offering stability and peace to the entire globe in exchange for their souls.

My family was mid-trib. This meant that prior to the return of Christ, we expected a severe period of persecution in which many Christians would be killed. The rapture that followed would take only the lucky survivors. Most Christians would lose their lives in a bloodbath of torture and death, in which, to save their own souls, they must refuse to deny Christ to the bitter end. "If you deny Christ, you will go to hell," my mother told me. "But don't worry. There's only so much pain the human body can take and then you will die. And if you don't deny Christ, then you will go to heaven."

The pressure of living under this kind of expectation is incredibly intense. There was no talk in those days of marriage or career for the future. The only thing that mattered in these last days was reaching as many people as possible for Christ before the final curtain fell. Many in the remote jungles had never heard the name of Christ and would go to hell not ever even having a chance to be saved if we did not reach them. And always, we had our own souls to prepare. Were we ready? Were we strong enough? Were we 'prayed up'? Were we living in the Spirit? If we slacked off in any way, Satan and his demons stood ready to snatch us away from God. I cried myself to sleep many nights, terrified that I hadn't done enough to preserve my soul, and that perhaps in the night, the demons would slip in to drag me to hell.

There was also pressure of another kind. Those truly living in the Spirit were supposed to have extraordinary power, supernatural power - power to heal the sick and raise the dead and cast out demons. At any moment, we might find the key to that new level - if we prayed enough and believed enough and fasted enough. At any moment, revival would surely break out as suddenly we would discover that we could merely touch the sick and see them recover before our eyes, thus proving to all around us the truth of our message.

This power always seemed frustratingly elusive. We fasted and prayed. We spoke in tongues. We believed. But the promised results never materialized. Why not? It wasn't enough, of course. You have to pray harder, believe more, spend more time in the Word, spend more time in the Spirit ... are you sure that you are even saved?

By the time I was seventeen, I felt like I was ninety years old. I was so tired. I remember thinking to myself many times that I just wanted to lay down and sleep for a year and then maybe I would have the strength to go on and face the constant threat of martyrdom, the need save the lost all over the world, the danger of hell, and the elusiveness of God. But there was no time to rest. There was work to do. The last days were upon us.

It all crashed to an end in 1992, but not the way that I expected. There was no nuclear explosion or guillotine or even the angels heralding the return of Christ. It all changed in a very different way, in a sort of accidental way ... in a very fortunate series of events.

To be continued (again). :)

A Series of Fortunate Events Part I: The Church on Rugby Road

2009-04-09T18:47:00.001-07:00

I sometimes joke that I live my life in a series of accidents. Nothing ever goes as planned. Oh, sure, I have made plans. I have made lots of plans. When I was a child, I planned to be a missionary, preaching the gospel in the remotest jungles of Africa. Later, I dreamed of being a famous neurosurgeon, skillfully saving lives by cutting away deadly tumors and repairing traumatic brain injuries. I planned to start a college fund early for my children so that they would not have the pressures that I had experienced trying to scrape together money for an college education. I planned and I planned and I planned.

Now, living in New York with my dear husband and our mentally handicapped children, teaching math in a college, while a progressive neurological disorder slowly robs my legs of the ability to walk and my hands of the ability to write, those plans all seem strangely ironic.

And yet, despite all of this, I think I am a lucky person. In fact, I believe that I am the luckiest person that I know. The events that truly defined my life have fallen upon me like lightening bolts--unplanned, unexpected, and desperately unwanted at the moment. With the advantage of hindsight, I can say now that they were the greatest blessings of my life. I never would have thought that then.

One such moment occurred in the spring of 2004. I had taken my autistic son in for dental work that required sedation, and I now had the groggy child in the back of the car. His eyes were half shut and a trickle of bloody saliva oozed down his chin. Anxious to get him home, I decided to try a smaller street that might be a shortcut. It was a big mistake. Not even half a block down, I came across road construction that sent me on a detour. I got confused. Several wrong turns later, I pulled onto a street that I had never taken before.

I barely noticed the building on my right until, just as it was about to leave my field of vision, I caught a glimpse of the sign in the corner of my eye--Calvary Orthodox Presbyterian Church. I spun around in my seat, craning my neck to get a better view, while my car (already speeding on the narrow residential road) nearly slammed into a tree. An Orthodox Presbyterian Church? A real one? No kidding? But in a second, it disappeared behind me, and I focused back on the road. It was a defining moment, but at the time, it seemed over. My mind shifted back to getting my son home, and thoughts of the church on Rugby Road drifted away ... for a while.

But to get to why this was so important, I have to go back to an even bigger 'accident' several months earlier ... and to one twelve years before that had shattered my whole world.

(To be continued)