It’s the weekend before Thanksgiving and my neighborhood is teeming with elvish activity. All day long neighbors have gathered together in giggles, gossip, and good old-fashioned razzing, to join forces and create a spectacular winter wonderland.
Tim and I started early (at first light) with some strong coffee and a crap-load of lights I picked up earlier in the week at Big Lots. We were on a mission to get our house ridiculously ILLUMINATED. Last year’s paltry showing was less than desirable.
But this year the Keller’s decided to bring it!
We were first out of the gate on the neighborhood schedule for the lift rental, but it took about thirty minutes and five male egos to actually turn the darn thing on. Then we realized they had delivered the wrong model and it wouldn’t reach the tall peaks of our house. This necessitated planning another day of stringing lights for the four corner houses (of which we are one). No biggie–certainly not enough to deter our hearty holiday spirits.
And so Tim in all his manly glory began to string lights on our roof while driving around a vehicle that looks like a mechanical Brontosaurus. He was in heaven maneuvering and finagling lights like a ninja master thirty feet above ground.
There’s something kind of intriguing -sexy even, about watching my man, suspended dangerously high in the air in a small cage armed with nothing but a staple gun. Don’t get me wrong, he was wearing clothes. “Nothing” kind of sounded like he was naked. (That’s actually kind of a fun thought. Maybe a tool belt and some boots too? But I digress…)
Then we strung a cable from the roof of our house to our neighbor’s roof across the street. On the cable we placed dangling LED snowflakes that in the dark will look like they are floating from heaven in the night sky. I know, right? SO AWESOME!!!! Can we get a parade or something here?
I could go on and on, but some of the highlights were building reindeer (that light up and move their heads) with my four year-old neighbor Braydon, who (oh by the way), told everyone he wanted “Sam to hold him forever.” His darling mommy Keri brought me a steaming cup of hot chocolate and we hung out on our porch while neighbor children and daddies and dogs cavorted around us.
Braydon driving the lift
And so when I ponder what makes me thankful this season my heart seems to swell and maybe even hiccup a little when I consider how much I love this community –this little slice of heaven in Ladera Ranch that I call my home.
And it’s not about the lights or competing with the other track to have the brightest and best street on the block (though it would be so stinking cool to take them down this year), it’s about being in relationship with people whom I care about, people who are different from me, and people who sometimes even challenge me.
Putting up Christmas lights was simply an excuse to spend time with the faces I love and treasure –to do life together and to be an expression of the true and authentic community God designed us to live in.
And that is something not to be taken lightly. And so for a brief moment today, I experienced that which is sacred –true neighborhood and I am humbled, blessed and so thankful.
Every year ‘bout this time I get a little pouty and sad because Kyle’s football season has come to an end. But this year it’s an extra big deal, because it’s the closure of six years worth of youth football–wow, I blinked and it’s over. It makes me cry to think about it.
The Good Old Days
I was a single mom when I signed my second grade boy up for Jr. All American football. After the first week of hitting he came and sat on my lap and put his little hands on my face and thanked me with all his heart.
Kyle as center
“Mommy, I get to hit people and it’s ok –this is the best thing ever! I am going to play in college and the NFL. Football is my life mommy.”
And to Kyle’s credit he has pursued his dream with a vengeance.
We’ve been through tough seasons and injuries (a slashed eye, a bum knee, and the swine flu), made tremendous friends (you know who you are Chargers ladies and Titan mammas), and lost our voices on the field of victory and defeat. There have been teams filled with strife, years where the angels sang (2008 Chargers Clinic and 2010 Titans PW ranked 3rd in the nation) and ordinary years that have been just fair to middling.
Faith cheering Kyle on!
I remember suiting Kyle up as a little guy (six years old) and fumbling around trying to strap on the pads. I got so tangled up with the cords sometimes we’d get snapped in the face by an errant strap. Kyle and I would laugh because mommy was so clueless about the gear.
But not anymore…
I’ve washed those football pants thousand of nights with my eyes closed and I can place 20 pads in the right pocket blindfolded.
Titans 3rd Place National Champions
We’ve played in the ‘hood, been smack talked by Southgate and left with police escorts.
Pep talk with Deon Sanders in Florida
I now know what a center is, a full back, a nose guard, a right tackle, and a defensive end –because those are all the positions I’ve watched #70 play.
Kyle and Nate
Faith was always by his side cheering him on and now baby Kolby can lift her tiny hands in the air and yell for her big bro.
Baby Kolby Titan Team Mascot
Thank you to the coaches that volunteered endless hours, to the team moms who slaved away putting together collages, and to the kids who played their hearts out.
Kyle about to Pancake!
And mostly, I thank God for putting a dream in a little boy and directing his every step.
Getting ready for the Big Game
Now we are on to high school football –a new adventure, and while I’m wistful about the past I look forward to this next adventure with my beloved son.
I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)
I sat on the side of the road, with the baby in the back yelling, “mama, car broke,” and sighed.
“Ok God,” I thought, “you’ve got my attention.”
And this is what I sensed him saying.
Make the call. Ask for help. Let me love you.
It’s been a repeated theme ringing in my ears for the last few weeks after my husband and I got in an argument and he suggested that though I give love well I am woefully lacking in my “love receiver.”
To which I replied “maybe you’re a suck giver” (OK… I didn’t actually say that even though I wanted to)
But if I’m honest, Tim’s probably on to something.
I hate to ask for help. I struggle to accept gifts and I feel like I have to prove my worth (by working, writing, cleaning, ministry, etc…) before I am allowed anything good-like time with a friend, or a margarita, or a nap.
I run around all week like a chicken with my head cut off yelling (difficult to yell with no chicken head-but play along with me here) “have I earned my keep?”
I guess what I’m really asking is… “Am I valuable? Do I have worth beyond what I do?”
And when I stop (for more than a minute) God whispers “yes.”
So I made the call. I asked for help. I leaned in.
My husband showed up like a knight in preppy armor and rescued his damsel and baby damsel in distress. By the large goofy smile on his face, I realized, he was born for this “hero” job.
Sometimes I think God allows these break-downs so I will be forced to scream “uncle.”
And recognize that my greatest need is to allow Him (and my husband) to simply love me.
A woman came up to me last week at my son’s football game and said all in a rush, “I just discovered your blog and I’m like totally addicted and I had no idea you were so hysterical because in real life, you’re just, you know, the pastor’s wife. And, I’m not saying you’re dull or anything, but you’re not like all-out there in your face funny. And I really love your writing. I really do.”
“Uhhh, thanks,” I replied sheepishly.
I stood there with a dumb smile on my face not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted. And while I appreciate that she thinks I’m a funny writer, there’s this part of me, some striving little girl in legwarmers from the 1980’s that wants to be funny in public too (even though I’m most decidedly not).
I’m the girl who’s a bit socially awkward. I can fake twinkly gaiety and confidence around crowds for a set period of time, but I’m generally exhausted afterward (unlike my extroverted husband who’s like the energizer bunny).
I’d rather get to know a few people well at social occasions. I like deep probing discourse and intellectual stimulation. Smalltalk is death to me and what’s with the church hug? (I never know what’s appropriate) Either go in for the bear hug or go home-just don’t go in halfway and awkwardly hit my boob.
I am deeply envious of those quick witted folks who are stand-up comics on the fly. My friend-pastor Jeff Maguire is like that. His body language alone makes me snort and blow corn out of my nose. I can laugh just thinking about him.
One time at a wedding, Jeff was out on the dance floor showing off his Rico Suave moves, when this little old lady inquired about him. “Is that young man a professional dancer or a comedienne?”
“Actually,” I replied. “He’s a pastor.”
Which has to be the least funny job of all time, right? It’s like we lay down our right to be a sarcastic on the altar of religion.
I love it when people find out I’m the pastor’s wife and this look of horror comes over their face. “Oh no, I just had a beer in front of you (or said a bad word, or talked about sex).”
Once the cat’s out of the bag, people stand up straighter, tell me how they should go to church more often, and then tell me how they are more spiritual than religious. It’s like we have to get the confessions out of the way and I have to make the sign of the cross over them before we can really get to know each other.
I met a unique young woman at a blogging conference recently who struggles with bi-polar tendencies. She was transparent and funny and I found her irresistible. She named her blog “Crazy is my super-power.” I love it when people take their weakness and turn it around (with God’s grace) to be a force of strength and encouragement.
So I guess I’m a bit like Clark Kent-really, and my alter-ego is cooler than my regular gal aura.
And might I suggest that my super-power is funny and maybe that’s good enough. (Because even though Superman is awesome, Clark Kent isn’t cool, but we love him anyway)
But if I make you laugh hard enough to pee or snort corn, please let me know…comments make me deleriously happy.
I waved to my wailing baby, winked at daddy and dashed into an overcrowded Starbucks to grab a quick cup of Joe to get me through the afternoon. The line was snaked around the corner and I tapped my foot anxiously as precious minutes slipped by. I glanced outside at the car which was now shaking with toddler angst and daddy’s frustration.
I should have walked out of the store then and there and been the kind and loving wife I long to be, but my head was throbbing from caffeine withdrawal and I justified that a happy mommy is much better than a cranky mommy and “gosh, gee, golly” I was really doing my family a favor.
Besides, my teeth were already starting to hurt and once the teeth hurt a migraine must be lurking around the corner.
Finally it was my turn and I stepped up to the counter, ordered a triple Americano, gave them my name, paid and waited in the mosh-pit of caffeine addicted souls such as myself. After a few minutes, I saw what looked like my triple Americano in the hand of the barista.
Strangely enough the barista paused, looked a little baffled and then stared at the cup far too long. I started to walk toward the pickup counter, now curious, when he called out the name on the cup, “Scum, your Americano is ready, Oh Scum, please pick up your drink.”
The noisy, jubilant over-caffeinated crowd quieted down to a whisper. I heard the plop-plop of the percolator and the swishing steamer heating cappuccino froth and the individual thump-thump of my own heart.
Here was my make it or break it moment. Do I walk out to the car empty-handed, wasting not only my family’s time and patience but my money as well, or do I suck it up and take the walk of shame to the counter and admit that I’m the scum?
When I think of “scum” images of lewd women brawling on trashy TV shows pop into my head; I see Casey Anthony at her trial and Sandra Bullock’s sad face after Jessie James humiliated her. Entitled, selfish, and crummy people leaving the world worse for the wear are scummy to me.
But if I’m honest, I have scummy moments too. Like now for instance-feeding my helpless husband to toddler mayhem to soothe my coffee addiction and stubbornly justifying this behavior as acceptable.
I’m often selfish, full of pride, slightly rebellious, sometimes defiant, and generally envious of expensive purses. I’ve hurt people and should be the last one to be throwing stones at anyone. Without God, I am at best-the mutinous gelatinous scum on the scum of scum.
So, after a long painful pause, I made up my mind and decided to take the walk of shame. I strutted up to the counter and choked out, “Uhhh, yeah, hi! So, I’m the Scum, thank you very much.”
And Starbucks erupted into laughter and even few claps.
Because, the truth is we all have scum in our hearts, it’s just tougher for some of us to own it.
I saw a Real House Wife from the OC yesterday at the grocery store. This lovely is my neighbor, if you count living in the track across the street as part of my hood, and I do, because somehow that makes me cooler (or maybe not).
We both had three kids trailing at our heels and our eyes met in a moment of “Lord have mercy on me,” or at least that’s what I was thinking with a crying baby, my son begging for coconut water that costs five dollars per eight ounces and my daughter trying to assemble the perfect cake making materials to create an atomic particle (will somebody please tell me how the crap am I supposed to make positive ions out of frosting?).
Right about then it hit me who she was and the “ding, ding, ding,” bell of acknowledgement traveled though my thick skull.
Trying not to be too obvious, I snuck copious glances and did the female version of celebrity gawking. She was dressed in fancy workout clothes (because that’s what you do when you are a hot reality star) and her long blonde extended tresses were flowing around her shoulders. She had lots of makeup on and was a perfect shade of bronze.
I, on the other hand, am proud to say I did not have snot or poop or pee on me. It was a good day.
We checked out around the same time and somehow ended up right next to each other in the parking lot. I walked over to my Nissan Xterra and she walked up to a white BMW and then realized it wasn’t hers.
She started mumbling cuss words under her breath and for the first time I saw a REAL woman. The scenario was funny and dumb and something I would do.
And for a moment, I connected with a single mom who struggles to remember where she parked the stinking car. And I know that feeling of panic all too well, that “Oh no, is this early Alzheimer’s setting in?” I loved it! I love the MESS! I love it when we desperately need Jesus and I love it when people don’t have their act together and acknowledge it.
What I really want is a REALITY show where moms act like real moms.
• Real is: when they walk around all day with baby vomit on them and are too exhausted to care.
• Real is: when they show the parents pretending to be asleep when baby cries and then fighting over who will get up for the third time. “It is not my turn! It’s your turn jackwaggon.”
• Real is: when a mom prays for a girl who is a bad influence on her daughter to disappear and this bad girl moves and the mom shouts-“Yes Jesus Yes!!!!” and the daughter is baffled why her mom is having a big whoop dee doo in the kitchen because her friend (who didn’t even say goodbye) has just moved to Texas.
• Real is: when Facebook is the cause of endless arguments between teens and parents, and mom commandos the teen’s page and posts links to “Lord help me have a heart for the Poor and Needy.”
• Real is: when parents turn on Yo Gabba Gabba and park their baby in front of the TV and get crazy in the bathroom for five minutes because it’s the only time they have to be intimate.
• Real is: when neighbors come over and bawl and hug because it’s been a bad day and we pull out the Skinny Girl margarita mix and we encourage each other to forgive and forget, even when it’s tough and even when we know we are right.
• Real is: when real mommies and daddies fight and make up and pray and laugh at each other’s jokes, because mommy thinks daddy is freaking hysterical and adorable and the best thing, alongside Jesus and her babies, that has EVER happened to her.
I could go on and on… but for me, this would make REALITY TV far more real.
Some people labor in vain, while others are just vain laborers. (quote by Sam)
It started during the morning staff meeting. Just as I reached for the tapitio sauce to spice up my egg burrito, a wave of intense pain rolled around my tailbone then wrapped all the way around to my swollen belly.
I frantically gripped the counter of the church kitchen and panted, “whoo whoo whoo, heee heee heee,” in the breathy way pregnant women are instructed to huff and puff. That is, until the pain gets bad enough for the real guttural groans of childbirth. This is why you don’t ever tell the labor and delivery nurses you are in ministry. That way if an F bomb escapes while you are bearing down to push they won’t stare at you like you’re a hypocrite.
Emily, the children’s pastor, looked at me quizzically. “Are you in labor? Do you want me to get your husband?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know,” I replied. The last thing I wanted was to be an inconvenience to the team or to my busy pastor husband. We were trying to get this new church up and running and I really didn’t have time to fit birthing in on this particular day.
Ironically, it was my actual due date, but baby number three seemed quite content to hang out in the nice warm womb for the full term. Labor wasn’t really on my radar because we had a scheduled induction the very next morning. Wrapping up all my loose ends was on the agenda for today. I had the meeting to attend, a few quotes to do for work, and kids to pick up from school.
Besides, I had it all planned out down to the hour. The two older children were scheduled to spend the night with my ex-in-laws and the renovation on our condo from unanticipated flood damage was to be completed that very night. And most importantly, the baby’s arrival was perfectly coordinated to not conflict with Sunday Service. Our fledgling church was every bit as much as our baby as was the actual child now dropping precariously low between my thighs.
As we moved the meeting into the study, I alternately paced and rolled around on the sofa while the church staff shook their heads at me in disbelief.
“You are so in labor.”
“Uh, Sam, it’s probably about time to head on over to the hospital.”
Defiant, I stared them down, determined to keep my schedule. I picked up the kids from school then headed back to church and to my favorite sofa. Around 4:00pm. A gush of water dampened my seat. I ran to the restroom to check if my water had broken. But when I stood up, it seemed to stop. Embarrassed and humiliated that I had more than likely wet my pants, I kept my mouth shut and continued to deal with the contractions which were growing more painful by the minute.
My husband walked in around dinner time and suggested we head out to find some grub. Now my husband, the soon to be father of the baby on the way, was not the baby-daddy to my two older children, Kyle (eleven) and Faith (eight). So though he was a great step-dad to the kids, he was rather clueless about childbirth.
Planting a church during the pregnancy had required almost all of his time and energy, leaving little room for Lamaze classes or birthing preparation. When the Doctor had told him a few weeks prior I was about ready to pop, he had protested adamantly.
“But, I’m not ready,” he said. “I’ve got two more weeks! I’m just getting used to you being pregnant.”
The doctor and I looked at each other in bemusement. But now, here I was the stubborn one, clinging to my agenda and in complete denial of actually being in labor.
The kids and I piled into my husband’s grey Ford Expedition and we headed over to the Panda Express in Ladera Ranch. It sits dead center in a strip mall of idyllic suburbia. I timed my contractions on the dashboard of the car. They were about four to five minutes apart now. I figured I could make it to three minutes apart before I cried “uncle.”
In we trooped to the restaurant and ordered up our usual favorite fare. But my insides were violently churning and the mushroom chicken I normally adored didn’t look too appetizing. My husband urged me to eat up. “You need to keep up your energy; we are having a baby in the morning. “He decried jubilantly.
I smiled back weakly.
“Oh by the way, “he said, “I need you to drive your car back to the condo, pick up the kids bags and then take the kids over to their grandparents. I have to wrap up some work at the church and then I’ll meet you there.
My eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know if I can do it, I’m really in a lot of pain.”
He smiled his charismatic smile, “Kyle will be with you. He’ll take care of you.”
Mumbling low-grade insults, I drove the thirty minute commute back to Newport Beach in waves of delirious pain. The contractions were holding steady now at four minutes apart. I whined and moaned the whole way home as my son both encouraged and laughed with me at the absurdity of driving in labor.
We walked in the front door to our condo and were greeted by the roar of fans. The construction crew was still on sight, even though it was now after 8:00pm. And all of a sudden, I got grumpy, real grumpy.
I glared at them menacingly. “Hey lady,” the guy in charge said, your husband told me we had to have this done before you brought your kid home from the hospital. We are just doing our job.”
I grabbed the bags, shot the workers a dirty look and headed to the car. We pulled up at my ex-husband’s parent’s home (Mimi and Papa to the kids), a few minutes later. Mimi ran out and invited us in with open arms. Finally, I had found a nice place to relax. I plopped down in their big comfy chair, curled up in a cozy blanket and then “whoosh” another big gush of water burst forth. This time I knew it wasn’t pee.
“My water broke!” I shouted. Just then my husband walked in the door and everyone got very excited. The kids were laughing, the cats were meowing, and the adrenaline was pumping. My husband’s eyes got very big. “It’s time! It’s time!” he said with joy and trepidation.
We kissed the kids goodbye, thanked the ex-in-laws and headed back to our condo where fortunately the workers had retired for the evening. I told Tim I wanted to take a quick shower before we headed over to the hospital. Honestly, I just wanted to look decent for the round of pictures that I knew would follow. So, I jumped in the shower, blow-dried my hair, carefully applied makeup, and even managed a few curls with the curling iron. The contractions were now about three minutes apart.
At some point, I finally got around to calling my doctor to tell them we were on the way to the hospital. When questioned about my contractions and time of water breaking, my doctor seemed a little miffed that I was not already at the hospital. She sounded a little angry in fact, “Let me get this straight, you have been having contractions for the last fourteen hours, your water broke six hours ago, and you are now just calling me? Get your butt over to the hospital.”
“Ok” I said. We practically live next door. We are on our way”
Tim walked in and said nonchalantly, “Remember that day we were walking around on Balboa Island and we passed the photo shop with the gorgeous pictures of the pregnant woman with her belly showing. You know I always wanted to take some pictures of you like that but we sort of ran out of time. Could we do a few now?”
“Now?” I asked incredulously.
“Just a few, it will take two minutes, max.” he promised.
With a loud “fine,” I walked out to the living room and dropped my meticulously packed bags by the front door. I had packed the special little tie-wrap t-shirts my older kids had worn in the hospital when they were born, the perfect going home outfit for baby, a brand new mini-pacifier, soothing music on the iPod, and my favorite pillow. All the essentials a girl could possibly need for the hospital stay.
Tim lined me up where he wanted to shoot me and then had the audacity to request I change into a black satin top which he thought would curve nicely around my giant belly.
Seriously…a costume change?
I am going to stab you...in the eye.
But I adore my husband enough to play along with his badly timed request. So in the throes of labor, contractions now about two minutes apart, I do an impromptu photo shoot for my hubby. As a former model (yes, I’m serious. It’s how I put myself through school), I pose and smile, in between contractions of course, and make love to the camera with my eyes.
I hate you...
I throw in some more under the breath cussing at my husband for making me do this in the first place. My personality is now teetering between curmudgeon and loving wife.
When Tim is satisfied that he has captured my pregnant essence we head out the door to walk to the hospital.
Yes, I said walk to the hospital. Our condo complex was just down the street from Hoag Memorial Hospital in Newport Beach, so I figured we could save some money on parking and walk. I might have been hallucinating when I thought this was a good idea, but now fifteen hours into labor, I’m not really operating with a full deck of cards.
My husband pulls our travel bags with the rickety wheels across the cobblestone pathway as we make our way over to the hospital. Now reeling in pain, I stop several times and desperately hold on to the stone planter and screech in pain. Then we have two more minutes to walk as fast as I can trot.
Waddle, waddle, howl, waddle, waddle, yelp.
Finally, we arrive in labor and delivery. The nurses crowd around me and bark off directions but I refuse to let them push me in the wheelchair to my room. If I’ve made it this far, I’m not wussing out in the final stretch. I do let them convince me to take the epidural though. I’ve birthed one child drug-free and that was enough pain to last me a lifetime.
Epidural kicked in...I look sooooo out of it.
And so Kolby Grace Keller entered the world. She came out of the birth canal with a true knotted umbilical cord wrapped twice around her neck. The doctors believe Kolby tied her cord up around the fourth or fifth month in-utero. The knot completely blocked all blood flow and nutrients from reaching the baby. She should have died, but somehow the cord fused around the knot to give her just enough sustenance to live.
They said she was a miracle baby. The doctor was so amazed Kolby survived he had the nurse take multiple pictures of the mangled cord.
Call me Kolby the Survivor!
But it didn’t surprise Tim and I. Not that we deserve a miracle or take God’s grace lightly, but we do believe in a big God whose endless love allowed a little baby to survive against the odds. He is a God who can take the endless knots we tie and lives we so easily tangle and turn them into beautiful things.
My dear friend Bruce sent me this story in response to my post Helga the Cleaning Nazi. It was a great reminder to keep the main thing the main thing-namely the love of Christ working through me- and to let go of the little crap that get me all riled up and cranky.
Bruce Carl Aronson is a true spiritual guide to many at Mariners Mission Viejo Church and his wisdom and heart are off the charts! I am honored to share his story on a woman who I resemble all too often I really want to be like Mary, but my inner Martha keeps nipping at my heels.
I hope you enjoy this as much as did…
***
Martha’s House, Mary’s Village by Bruce Carl Aronson
Martha was pissed.
She had to watch over her two hair-brained siblings ever since her mom, Enchania, and her dad, Syro, died. That blighted tower that fell down in the earthquake, crushing both of the parents, and sixteen others, was the beginning of Martha’s great aloneness. Her exacting soul found great comfort in clinging to the idea that the disaster was not the punishment of God. Martha’s father had expected much of his first-born daughter. At least, if I had been born a son, she thought to herself, I could enjoy that, but now it’s just a talent (for Martha a talent was not a skill or ability but a load weighing 94 pounds, in her day). Martha saw her brother and sister as hopelessly scattered, and surely without Martha they would be both homeless and starve.
She worked hard to keep a proper Jewish Home: ordered, clean, and run with a kind of autocratic authority that her sister and brother found withering.
Now it was even worse, the Rabbi had showed up and nothing was ready. It was okay for the men to sit around and gab, but a worthy woman washed the feet of each guest, made sure there was plenty of food and drink, and that her guests lacked for nothing. So that is what Martha did. It was getting hot outside as the sun was now directly overhead. Even the cool, dark of her home was permitting some of that heat to enter. She needed to prepare the biggest meal of the day, after which, everyone but her would take a nap. She glanced around her home: it did please her enormously! The family business had prospered, blessed be, permitting them, not the tiny little four room affair that most families squeezed into, but a lavish two-story (with an open third story) wrapped around a small courtyard. Martha was in the kitchen, which opened on to the first floor looking out on the courtyard, but she could hear the laughing going on upstairs, in the dining room.
Her hands worked steadily as she plied the pita dough squeezing it, balling it up, and smashing each ball onto the heated brazier above her kitchen fire. She was squeezing the dough as if to strangle it and when she balled it, she smashed it on the hot metal she was using with rather more effort than the dough needed. She had just come down from dropping off the last pita’s, butter, and wine. The previous upstairs deliveries included olives, dates, and apples. She was tired from carrying all that food up and down the narrow stairs that led to her dining room above. There the Master was upstairs, on the floor in the center of the woven matt, with everyone hanging on his every word. He was saying something profound, he always was, but the person who sat directly in front of him now really annoyed Martha.
Mary was not at all disciplined. Martha wondered, Who would want to marry a girl who did not know her place? Martha certainly knew her place, but it had done no good: she was now the village spinster at 18. She had sent Mary up there to fill the water vat, knowing full well it would be a while before she ever came back. Well, it had been more than a while. Martha did appreciate Mary’s thirst for learning. Like Martha, she knew how to stand behind a curtained door or half way up the stairway so as not to interfere with the men’s learning and still partake of it. Much of Martha’s education had come from deliberately overhearing her father teach. Now the Master was upstairs with his emissaries, and a few others. Who was in the middle of all the men? Mary, of course!
The fourteen year old sibling just did not get that she was not a man and should never sit with them while instruction was going on. It wasn’t decent. It wasn’t seemly. And, no one was asking for her hand, in marriage either. It was getting late for Mary too. But, Mary was the pretty one. Men liked her. She got a lot of slack because she was gregarious, charming, and had a figure that could not be obscured by the robes she wore.
A cry of anguish slipped from Martha’s lips. She had not kept her mind on her work and the side of her hand had brushed the hot metal. She hoped that they had not heard that cry up above! What would you say about a homemaker who did not even know how to keep herself from being burned as she cooked? The skin was red all along the fleshy part of her hand. This was going to hurt. She was about to plunge her hand in the basin of water that was kept at the ready for such emergencies, when her nose reminded her that something was burning. It was the pita on the brazier! While she had been staring at her hand, the pita had blackened. Now, they were smoking. Could they smell that upstairs? She could already hear the gossip at dawn, the next day, at the village well. “Pitas get away from you, dearie?” “So much food you can burn it up? Warming the house with dough these days?” How they loved to laugh at her! (Of course, they were all jealous. That’s all.)
Tears leaked down her cheeks. Sure her hand hurt, but the shame of everyone thinking you are very competent and then you go and pull a small-minded stunt like this? Pull it together, girl! She swept the burned pita down off the brazier and into the fire below hoping that no one was the wiser. Then, she looked at her hand again. She thought, what to do?
Catching her completely by surprise, there was the Master scooping up her small hand in his great big ones!
“Martha,” his majestic, deep voice intoned, “you are working too hard. Come upstairs and sit with us.”
“Rabbi,” she stared up through her tears, “there is so much to do!” She knew it was unworthy to complain, but it slipped out, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work myself? Tell her to get back down here and help me out!”
He reached to her other hand and pulled her up to him, but merely said, “Martha,” as he held both hands. Somehow his hand was cooling against her burned hand. The pain seemed to be ebbing away…slowly.
Martha looked down. He did have beautiful, massive, well muscled hands. He lightly turned her hand side up and poured a little olive oil on the burned part. He worked it in tenderly with a gentle massaging motion. She still fretted in her heart that he would find her unworthy and stop staying at their home when he passed through Bethany or Jerusalem.
“Martha,” he said again, with such tenderness it made her heart ache with joy. He fixed his eyes to look squarely into hers. “You are worried and upset about many things.”
Martha nodded, of course that was true. She nodded fitfully that she understood.
He continued, “…but, few things are needed…”
She nodded again, transported by his gaze. Generally, she could not say that he was a handsome man. Yet, holding her wounded hand like this, he just seemed so beautiful. Would a man like him ever consider…?
He smiled as if he knew her thoughts, “or indeed, only…one…”
All the cares she carried seemed to leave like smoke in a wind. He was such a beautiful man!
He smiled again. “Mary has chosen what is better.”
Mary, she thought, why is it always ‘Mary this’ and ‘Mary that?’ Then, Martha’s mind became clear. Mary was so deliberate about knowing the Rabbi well. Carefully, she gleaned all that he shared. She went out of her way to really understand everything he mentioned –even the obscure stuff. Martha suddenly saw with clarity that it was not that Mary was younger or prettier (or luckier), it was just that she cared about relationships. Mary was all about relationships. Martha, realized (and it stung her) that she all about responsibilities. Mary and Martha. Relationships and responsibilities.
Martha lowered her head against the Rabbi’s broad chest. He whispered in her ear, “It will not be taken away from her.” But, she knew what it meant. You do everything so carefully, thoroughly, and well, Martha. Now, try Mary’s approach. She nodded to him as if he could hear her thoughts.
She looked down at her own hand. The redness was gone. The pain was gone. And he was sliding his arm around her back and gently leading her to the narrow stairs. Up they went. When they reached the dining room all the men were silent and noticing how the Rabbi was walking with her as if she were an adored daughter. People moved to get out of their way. Mary stood and vacated her place on the mat. Jesus pointed to that open place and indicated it was now Martha’s place. She realized that while Mary had taken this place, the Rabbi was giving it to her.
An interesting article came across my inbox this morning from a friend and I almost fell over. I guess the days of persecution and End Times Big Brother are hitting closer and closer to home.
September 20, 2011 – cbs2.com
MISSION VIEJO (CBS) — An Orange County couple has been ordered to stop holding a Bible study in their home on the grounds that the meeting violates a city ordinance as a “church” and not as a private gathering.
Homeowners Chuck and Stephanie Fromm, of San Juan Capistrano, were fined $300 earlier this month for holding what one city official called “a regular gathering of more than three people” that requires a conditional use permit, according to Pacific Justice Institute, the couple’s legal representation.
The Fromms also reportedly face subsequent fines of $500 per meeting for any further “religious gatherings” in their home, according to the Pacific Justice Institute (PJI). “We don’t like lawsuits, but we have to stand up for what’s right. It’s not just a personal issue,” Stephanie Fromm told The Capistrano Dispatch. “Can you imagine anybody in any neighborhood, that one person can call and make it a living hell for someone else? That’s wrong … and it’s just sad.”
After city officials rejected the Fromms’ appeal, PJI, which represents both the Fromms and other Bible study participants, will appeal the decision to the California Superior Court in Orange County.
Neighbors have written letters to the city in support of the Fromms, whom they said have not caused any disturbances with the meetings, according to PJI.
Officials with San Juan Capistrano did not respond to requests for comment.
This blows my mind. A small gathering of people gathered in a home to study and worship God is breaking the law?
What about monthly poker nights, mothers’ play dates, bunko gatherings, holiday celebrations, wine groups, book clubs and my personal favorite, Monday night football groups? Do all these count as a regular gathering of more than three people? I think so!!!!!!!
Or is it just the name of Jesus that get’s people’s panties all up in a wad?
Bit by bit, our freedom to worship God, is crumbling before our very eyes.
I am generally not prone to getting involved in politics, but I will be writing a letter to the City of San Juan Capistrano in support of the Fromms’ appeal because I certainly don’t want some yahoo calling the cops on me for my crazy Christian shin-digs; like ministry meetings, New Believers picnics and so forth. (wild…I know).
Very soon, Bible Studies may have a cover charge if we don’t stand up to this absurd ordinance. Next thing you know we will be meeting in underground house churches like the Chinese.
(Then again, maybe we need a little persecution to light the church on fire and help us remember exactly who we worship) A Very Big GOD!
I have a conspiracy theory. Somewhere in the world, in a hidden room decked out with 72’ HDTV’s, endless remote controls, and lazy boys lined up in a row, a secret society of Fantasy Football Illuminati is conspiring to take over the world, one league at a time.
My husband thought my theory was absurd, until we walked into a local Sports Bar on a Sunday afternoon that was as packed to the gills with screaming Fantasy Football fans dressed in sports attire. The internet connection was down in the restaurant after being bombarded by team owners checking their points on their iPhones. That night we watched a promo for a new show on TV about Fantasy Football called The League. The next morning the news released a story suggesting that Fantasy Football has become the new Internet Porn for guys at work. But, the icing on the cake has been the many guys in our congregation who have sheepishly confessed to my husband, a pastor, of their inner torment when debating between attending church or snuggling up in front of the game on Sunday morning.
At some point, I got his attention and a begrudging acknowledgement from him on my tongue in cheek theory. This has opened up a great dialogue as to the many reasons why the game has recently gained a disproportionate amount of popularity among mainstream American males. So, maybe the secret room (in all reality) is full of ad executives from ESPN, but there is no doubt that a movement from within our culture has changed the face of sports fans and what used to be a hobby for a dedicated few, has turned into a phenomenon.
Exactly how many dudes are we talking about? Well, there are about 30 million fantasy players in the U.S. and Canada, which is an increase of 54 percent from just two years ago.[1] According to Tim Keller, commissioner of The Men of Mariners League, part of the growing interest in Fantasy Football may be attributed to the growing availability of free game software. In the beginning of the Internet boom, sites like Commissioner.com and RotoNews.com charged a hefty fee for commissioners (up to $300) which made the game cost prohibitive for the average NFL fan. Most commissioners spent an inordinate amount of hours hand entering stats into an excel spreadsheet. It was a job that only the dedicated and few could maintain.
That changed in 1999, when Yahoo began offering a free simplified version of the league software, but it was lackluster at best, and if you wanted the Stat Checker you had to pay extra. In 2009 Yahoo made an even more impressive move by offering their formerly Premium Services for free. ESPN followed suit, and all of a sudden Fantasy Football became available to the masses. In a time of economic downturn, this little gift is akin to trading the injured Clinton Portis for Adrian Peterson.
Another factor driving the venerated game is quite simply—camaraderie. Guys enjoy having a common purpose and goal. The heckling at the water cooler, the taunts, the late night trades and the draft party take alienated men who struggle with relational skills and transform them into skilled negotiators. After approaching my husband about drafting my own team this year, I was surprised at his vacuous response. After some probing, I realized he didn’t really want me to join his league or any other for that matter. He associates Fantasy Football as a “guy thing” and subconsciously wanted to protect one of the last bastions of inherent maleness. I respect his stance of inclusiveness, and though I may still draft a team on Yahoo next year, I won’t push him to let me join the guys. I will go after his drafting stats though because they are a work of art (a complex algorithm he created on a spreadsheet)!
Then there is the sheer fun of the game. Like any hobby or recreational activity, Fantasy Football is an escape from reality. No mindless waste of time here, drafting a team requires gut instinct, intense preparation, knowledge and yes…mad skill. Managing a team, tracking free agents, monitoring injured players and figuring out what players to start each week is a labor intensive activity.
Is it any surprise that over half the players surveyed admitted they spend at least one hour per day thinking about their fantasy football team.[2] Another study from the Fantasy Sports Trade Association revealed that fantasy sports participants spend about three to four hours on the Internet per week, with nearly 1.2 hours of that time at the office. This too has become a controversial subject.
Those who argue against it suggest it is the new Internet porn for a generation of upwardly mobile, white-collar professionals[3], while players shot back with some research of their own. A 2006 Ipsos Survey found that 40 percent of respondents said fantasy sports participation was a positive influence in the workplace. One in five said their involvement in fantasy sports enabled them to make a valuable business contact. As a wife, I tend to argue the upside…Football or Porn? Umm, how about Football!
Thumbing through a Fantasy Football magazine, I was struck dumb by the wording of this advertisement. Fantasy Football is fun. You can play God with your players. Control their destinies. Draft them…Trade them…Fire them![4]These are some loaded words, but I think they touch on something deeper than the obvious power play. Men are dying to break out of their mundane lives and do something extraordinary.
Fantasy Football is a safe outlet for a serious adrenaline rush. It is modern warfare at home in front of the TV. A guy can scream at the screen, take big risks with low-cost, and have a sense of control in a world where his job is uncertain or his kids are blowing out. Every guy yearns for a sense of purpose, to be fully alive and to feel his heart pumping. These are God-given desires, embedded in the male DNA…and while I don’t suggest trying to play God, I would suggest that God delights in men playing.
So, enjoy the affirmation when you make a good trade, revel in your team’s domination and whine with other dudes when you’re running back tears an ACL. But, always be cautious of ad executives exploiting your childlike fun with promises to make you millions betting…and please, no matter how awesome your draft is, don’t quit your day job!
Article first published on Technorati, Oct 14, 2010
