Book Thirteen

The Future of Us
Jay Asher & Carolyn Mackler

What a clever concept for a book!  Especially for a girl who graduated high school in 1995 and vividly remembers her first foray into email and chat rooms.  Emma and Josh are lifelong best friends who have grown apart through the beginning of high school when one of those 100 hours of free America Online CD-ROMs we all used to receive allows them to travel from 1996 to 2011 where they stalk their own Facebook profiles.  Clever, clever, clever.

Obviously Asher and Mackler have the benefit of living in both 1996 and 2011, which makes it easier for them to hold a mirror to the obsurdity that is social networking in the second decade of the twenty-first century.  The Future of Us is billed as a young adult novel, and it certainly works as that, but I do wonder how much of the novelty of this book is lost on readers who were barely born in 1996.  I loved the memory trip of songs, dial-up internet, and phone cards.  I also enjoyed the look at Facebook and the way that Facebook allows us to believe that everything about us--our mood changes, our dinners, our deep thoughts--are of utmost importance to the world.

Above all, I think The Future of Us is a love story.  It's not just a love story between teenagers, but it's a love story with self and with parents and step parents . . . and with an idea of what the future should hold.  With its clever concept, it transcends the "young adult" genre and should provoke those of us who are Emma and Josh's ages--graduating high school in the mid 90s--to ask ourselves some important questions.  What is it we're doing on Facebook--reconnecting?  Holding on to an image of what we wish we were?  Social networking gives us all the platform to pretend that we're philosophers, while ensuring that none of us actually go beyond networking into deep relationships--with our spouses, our friends, our families, ourselves. 

So the questions are these:
* If I had a chance to know my future, would I want to?
* If I didn't like what I saw there, would I try to change it?
* Is it time for me to give up trying to know the future and simply live in the here and now?


Favorite Quotes:
"Even with our ability to look back on [Vietnam]," he says, "there's no way to know for certain what was lost and what was saved.  But that's how it is.  History's a bitch when you're in the middle of it."  (p269)

"He broke your heart!  How can you call it love when he hurt you so badly?"
Kellen pops another fry into her mouth.  "It was love because it was worth it."  (p53)

"Why does it say she has three hundred and nineteen friends?" Josh asks.  "Who has that many friends?"
...Josh turns to me.  "I can't believe she's writing these things."
"Not she," I say.  "Me."
"Why would anyone say this stuff about themselves on the Internet?  It's crazy!"  (pp31-32)

The Twenty-sixth Sabbath

The song that woke me up on vacation: day two.  Megan and Addie were singing together yesterday morning.  At the top of their dear, little lungs.

Praise Him, praise Him,
praise Him in the morning,
praise Him in the noonday.

Praise Him, praise Him,
praise Him when the sun goes down.

Love Him, love Him,
love Him in the morning,
love Him in the noonday.

Love Him, love Him,
love Him when the sun goes down.

Serve Him, serve Him,
serve Him in the morning,
serve Him in the noonday.

Serve Him, serve Him,
serve Him when the sun goes down.

"Praise Him," by Byron Cage

Vacation: Day One

Day one of vacation:

* Laid in bed for 1/2 hour after I woke up.

* Lost my temper (before 9:00 a.m.).

* Signed Ellie up for a summer reading club.

* Dropped Ellie and two friends off at church for a field trip to Blanford Nature Center.

* Weeded my garden and picked cilantro, dill, and lettuce.  Trimmed the tomatoes and cucumbers, determined not to have unmanageable growth of greens and no tomatoes this year.  Realized I never remembered to plant spinach and wondered what happened to all of the carrot seeds Meg planted a few weeks ago.

* Neglected to notice that Addie and Kate decided to play in the puddle at the bottom of the kiddie pool . . . fully clothed.

* Discovered that I had a number of work emails (thanks a lot, "Smart" phone) so I checked them.  Discovered that we were awarded a two-year grant funding $10,000 (1/2) of the expansion of our body-safety and sexual-abuse prevention program so we can train 1,000 preK-1st graders as well as 10,000 2nd-5th graders.  Danced a jig.  Called my boss.  Called the program coordinator.  Wrote the thank you/receipt letter.  Danced another jig.

* Realized I had made it exactly 3 1/2 hours into my vacation without checking my work email.  (FAIL.)

* Made two PB&J sandwiches (Addie and Kate) and one Cheese & Pickle sandwich with mayo and ketchup (obviously Meg) and then ate half of a sweet and juicy honeyrock melon while I was cutting that for the kids' lunch.

* Put a 4 year old and two 2 year olds down for naps.  Which they took.  Still pinching myself.

* Folded four loads of laundry.

* Realized I had written some incorrect information in the thank you/receipt letter.  Called my boss.  Again.

* Broke my personal rule regarding number of children at the store and took three kids grocery shopping.  Spent less money than I feared I would.  And didn't cry like I feared I would.  (WINNING.)

* Arrived at the cottage in sweltering heat.  Found myself hoping gauchos are still in style and then wondering where I could buy some.  (Can they please still be in style?  Are they?  I've never worn anything more comfortable and only got rid of my two pair because they were maternity and don't stay up without that 3rd-trimester bump.)

* Enjoyed a golf cart ride with the girls on which we actually all got cold.  First time in weeks.  Felt amazing.

* Prayed with each of the girls and tucked them in.  Zero crying from anyone at bedtime. 

* Plans for the rest of the night: playing on Facebook, blogging, watching the Tigers, reading Real Simple and Vanity Fair, staying up way too late, sleeping on the porch under three blankets.

Hmmm . . . haven't lost my temper since 9:00 this morning.  Must be vacation.

Enduring Injustice

I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago.  As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice.  And a lot of pain.  But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.

There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice.  Life isn't fair.  Relationships hurt.  We get blamed for things we didn't do.  Our relationships end, and our hearts break.  We want to rise up and defend ourselves.  We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.

Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that.  We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions. 

But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.

For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.  (I Peter 3:17b-18)

And that's what it all comes down to.  When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will.  That's the point where you endure. 

It hurts to be wrongfully accused.  It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter.  But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it. 

May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan. 

May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me.  He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives. 

And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.

Taking Off Our Shoes

"Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground." Exodus 3:5

Picture this with me:
 
Moses is out, minding his own business (or rather his father-in-law's business), and there is a bush.  Okay, pretty common.  But this one is on fire.  And it's not burning up.  And Moses approaches it, which probably isn't what I would have done.  I'm quite certain that I would have wandered away--quickly--in the other direction.  But Moses approaches it.
 
Then a voice speaks out of the bush.  And it calls him by name.  Yet he still doesn't wander away--quickly--in the other direction.  He stands there, and actually tells the bush, "Here I am!"  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have said that or stuck around to find out what the crazy bush said next.
 
But Moses does.  He waits.  And then the bush, God, says, "Do not come any closer.  Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground."
 
I wonder at what point Moses figured out that it was God.  Obviously he had to know something was up because there was a bush on fire and not burning, but did he know that was God?  Or was it when he heard his name come from the fire?  Perhaps it wasn't until he was told to take off his sandals?  Or, maybe it wasn't until the next words came:
 

I am the God of your father: the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. 

 
Either way, Moses gets it, and he hides his face from God, because he is afraid to look at God. 
 
Moses and God have a special relationship.  Later in Exodus we read that God spoke to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend (Exodus 33:11).  Exodus ends with Moses spending so much time in the presence of God--with his face uncovered--that he needs to wear a veil to protect the eyes of the Israelites from God's glory radiating from his face(Exodus 34:29-35).  But here, now, at the beginning, Moses takes off his sandals, and he hides his face.  Because that's what you do in the presence of a holy God.
 
I've been thinking a bit about this since our pastor's message on Sunday.  He talked about focusing on God--making Him big--instead of dwelling on the thoughts and opinions of people--making them small. 
 
Some of the commentaries I glanced at as I was looking up Exodus 3:5 suggested that by telling Moses to take off his shoes, God is saying one of two things.  Perhaps He is referring to taking off the shoes like we (men, mostly) are told to take hats off in church--it's a sign of respect, not for the place of worship as much as the Subject of worship.  So, while it's holy ground, it is only holy because God is there.  Another commentary suggested that it was because shoes get filthy as they walk along the ground, and taking them off is a symbol of shedding the dirt and filth of everyday living.  So we, too, need to cleanse ourselves of the dirt and filth of everyday living when we go to stand in the presence of God.
 
I hope it isn't too much of a leap to say that maybe taking off the shoes to stand in the presence of this holy God could be about recognizing that life is a bit different there.  Recognizing that my "shoes" (sorry, Pastor Tim!) might be the things that keep me from being fully God's--whether it's people's opinions, or my fear, or my pride, or my sin--and they need to come off.  I'm pretty certain that if I encountered that bush, I would have steered the sheep in another direction as quickly as I could.  The shoes would have helped with that.  But, if Moses had done that, would he have gotten to speak to God face to face later in his life?
 

“Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.”
--Elizabeth Barret Browning

 
Holy, God.  Help me see You.  Help me walk toward You.  Help me take off everything that hinders me from standing fully in Your presence so that I might talk to You.  Face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.

The Twenty-fifth Sabbath

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;
Angels, descending, bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.

Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Savior am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.

"Blessed Assurance," Frances J. Crosby

Branching Out

I had an epiphany today.  As I was reading Sports Illustrated, I came across something I wanted to blog about.  I thought, "EEK!  I can't have two sports-related posts in a row!"  So then I was trying to figure out what to do, how to make it work in my head and on my blog . . . and then the lightbulb.

I have another blog.  I have for years.  In fact, it was the first blog (after Xanga, which is crazy), though I haven't posted in it since I moved everything to this blog.  Why don't I just hijack that one for sports posts?  I'm still meeting my goals, because the point was to try to write daily.  It wasn't to try to write daily on Better Than A Hallelujah.  It was the writing.

So, I'm branching out.  You can read what you want, but I encourage you (the five of you who also love sports) to check out She Loves Sports (originally known as FunnyWriterGirl).  Here's my first post: "It's All About Money." 

And now I got two posts in one day.  Because I'm clever.  :)

Indulge Me for a Minute

I'm going to lose a few of my readers with this post.  That's tricky with only 10 people reading, but this blog is about who I am and what I think.  So, indulge me for just a minute.  And I hope you'll be back next time.  It's not as if I have anything controversial to say--at least not today (I'm not THAT brave, after all)--but it might be just a bit boring.  Bet you can't wait to keep reading, eh? 

So here's the thing about me.  I love sports.  Love them.  I don't know what it is, because I don't recall being a big sports fan when I was growing up.  I never really played them.  Oh!  Except Little League.  I played t-ball, and maybe another year, on the Langeland's Funeral Home team in Kalamazoo.  They had me in right field.  For t-ball.  I may have been afraid of the ball.  Anyway I picked a lot of clovers but never found any of the four-leaf variety.  Checked every one of the Kalamazoo Little League fields for one, though.

Back to the sports.  I know my dad watched them as I was growing up.  He watched baseball and college football.  He also watched the NFL.  It may have been that he actually watched teams, though.  Like U of M and the Detroit Lions and the Detroit Tigers.  And the Olympics.  We always watched that, too.  I remember being in a hotel room somewhere between here and Vancouver, BC, and watching gymnastics floor routines.  Or, rather I remember pretending I was in the gymnastics floor routines by tumbling across the beds in the hotel room.  I may have gotten in trouble for that.  I also remember being in the winter Olympics and figure skating around my living room while my parents and the rest of their Bible study watched through the windows from the church next door.  And of course I remember the '84 World Series and the '88 Series.  It may have been Kirk Gibson I remember from that last one, though.

In high school I discovered soccer.  I watched it in the heat and in the floods and everywhere in between.  I'm not sure I missed many games during my junior and senior years of high school.  Along the way I also discovered the Green Bay Packers and the Detroit Tigers (for myself now) and Notre Dame Fighting Irish football.  The Sports Illustrated subscription has always been in my name, and my husband has to tell me to turn off ESPN.

A couple of years ago I decided to prove to the boys that I know more about football than what Brett Favre's smile is like (though it feels creepy to say that now), and I devoured The Idiot's Guide to the NFL.  And I discovered that I loved two more things about sports: learning the terminology and impressing the boys.

More recently, I discovered Josh Hamilton.  His story is so compelling, and let's be honest--it's a treat to watch him play baseball.  I also came across CJ Wilson in an issue of Sports Illustrated.  I was intrigued by their partnership in staying drug and alcohol free (Hamilton because of his addictions, and Wilson because he is straightedge), and I found it interesting that Wilson went from AAA ball to a relief role for the Rangers to being the Rangers ace in just a few short years. 

And then Albert Pujols!  Don't get me started on how interesting that story line has been this year!

Turns out I'm a pretty big baseball fan.  My interest has gone beyond just cheering for the Detroit Tigers and into watching certain players, observing how they impact their teams, and noting how the fans respond to them.  I'm excited to be watching Bryce Harper and Mike Trout transform and ignite their teams, and I can hardly wait to watch their careers continue to develop as they become even bigger superstars than they already are.  And the stats.  Wow.  There's so much to track.

I know that my minute is almost up, and the two of you who are still reading are about to close your browsers (except Matt Gajtka, who better be sticking around--I blame him for enabling me), but I do have a conclusion. 

Matt and I had a conversation the other day about learning.  I realized that part of what I love about sports is that there's always something more to learn.  My dad helped me see the importance of learning something every day (I don't know if he'd claim that, but it's something that I feel like I learned from him).  With sports I get to do that.

Then, I was talking with some people at a work lunch, and we discussed the psychology of sports.  I find it fascinating the way people are such "homers" and the way that fans can turn on a player and the way that Twitter has changed our access to athletes.  I love the brain and group think and people's motives and fandom in general.

I do like impressing the boys by talking sports, and I like sharing my opinions with more than just my dashboard while I listen to Mike & Mike or Colin Cowherd, and I surely like doing more than just filing the stats in my brain.  Don't worry, I wont hijack Better Than a Hallelujah with sports.  Because then I really will have the Gajtkas as my only readers.  It's just hard to figure out how to reconcile all of these parts of me while still maintaining the theme of what I've got going here.  I may have turned 35, and I may have figured out what I want to be when I grow up, but I'm still trying to figure how exactly who I am and how I should let it out.

The Twenty-fourth Sabbath

Posted a day late, because yesterday ended up being a long day of church, worship team, work, visitation at the funeral home, dinner with a good friend, and collapsing in bed in the sauna that is our upstairs.

We sang this song in church on Sunday, and it felt very fitting as our congregation prepared to say goodbye to our friend and "family member," Bruce.

Jesus! what a Friend for sinners!
Jesus! Lover of my soul;
Friends may fail me, foes assail me,
He, my Savior, makes me whole.

Hallelujah! what a Savior!
Hallelujah! what a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

Jesus! what a Strength in weakness!
Let me hide myself in Him.
Tempted, tried, and sometimes failing,
He, my Strength, my victory wins.

Hallelujah! what a Savior!
Hallelujah! what a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

Jesus! what a Help in sorrow!
While the billows over me roll,
Even when my heart is breaking,
He, my Comfort, helps my soul.

Hallelujah! what a Savior!
Hallelujah! what a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

Jesus! I do now receive Him,
More than all in Him I find.
He hath granted me forgiveness,
I am His, and He is mine.

Hallelujah! what a Savior!
Hallelujah! what a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
He is with me to the end.

"Jesus, What a Friend for Sinners," by J. Wilbur Chapman

Book Twelve

The Fault in Our Stars
John Green

Warning: this is a hard book to read.  It's a good book, and it's worth it, but it's hard.  Consider yourself warned.

On the cover of my copy of The Fault in Our Stars, there is a quote from Jodi Picoult.  I feel like I could simply write that as my review, and it would have summed up the entire book: "Electric . . . Filled with staccato bursts of humor and tragedy."  Truly, nothing more needs to be said.

John Green has written a young adult novel about life and death, from the perspective of a 16-year-old girl living with terminal cancer.  She narrates her journey through a terminal life--the same life we're all living, really--and the friends she meets along the way. 

As a mother, my heart broke on nearly every other page.  I can't even imagine the thought of normal being certain you have enough oxygen tanks to get your daughter through her next journey out of the house.  Or knowing that your child will never see again.  Or knowing that there is nothing left to fight with except hope.

At the end of the day, while The Fault in Our Stars is about the crap that life gives out and recognizing that people don't die after a long battle with cancer but rather after a long battle with life, it's really a story about hope.  It's about finding love and loving, and it's about being strong enough to break down and cry, and it's about making today your best day.  It's about leaving something behind that will last.  It's about life. 

Because it isn't just this novel that is filled with "staccato bursts of humor and tragedy."  Life is too.


Memorable Quotes:
" 'Always' was a promise! How can you just break the promise?"
"Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them," I said.
Isaac shot me a look.  "Right, of course.  But you keep the promise anyway.  That's what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway."  (p61)

"Our city has a rich history, even though many tourists are only wanting to see the Red Light District."  He paused.  "Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom.  And in freedom, most people find sin."  (p157)

"The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention.  The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything.  He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox."  (p312)

"You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you.  I like my choices.  I hope she likes hers."  (p313)

Thoughts On Saying Goodbye

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that.  His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died.  He was 67.  He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.

I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group.  Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team.  I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late.  The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello.  Because most of the time you just don't know.

As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life.  At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects.  In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident.  In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers.  How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents?  It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.

There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history.  We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone.  We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord.  And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them.  That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death.  We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land.  So we grieve, even while we celebrate.  When we grieve, we grieve with hope.  But we still grieve.  And it sucks.

I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there."  I wonder when Bruce really did die.  I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.

Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus.  I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial.  That is a pain that cannot be matched.  Life shouldn't include death.  But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times.  I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.

Saying goodbye is a funny thing.  We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain.  I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too.  This is a tender time.  And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts. 

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He was only 67 years old.  But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.

Being a Monument

I love Washington, DC.  It is one of my favorite cities, and one of my favorite places to be is sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial as dusk falls on the city.  The lights on the Washington Monument, the White House, the Vietnam Veterens Memorial . . . it's all so beautiful and poignant.  I love what it represents, and I love to be in the middle of all of that history.

Our country is big on monuments.  DC is obviously full of them--they're all so different and the artists have done so much to capture the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  Everywhere you look in that city, you are reminded of the wars we have fought, the freedom we have won, the men and women who sacrificed so much for us.  Downtown in my city, monuments remind me of a woman who refused to move from her seat on the bus to a seat that society demanded she take.  They remind me of a president who was our "native son."  In Oklahoma City and New York City, they remind us of the horror that men can inflict on other men--and of the heroes who will always step in to help.  In Rapid City, SD, they represent the first 150 years of our nation's independence.  We flock to them, and they become tourist attractions (you can even buy them on a keychain so you never have to forget!).

Monuments. 

Merriam-Webster defines a monument as "(1) : a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of someone or something notable or great (2) : a distinguished person b : a memorial stone or a building erected in remembrance of a person or event."

It turns out we Americans aren't the only ones who love monuments, either.  In The Message, Eugene Peterson translates Psalm 148:13-14 as follows:

Let them praise the name of GOD--
it's the only Name worth praising.
His radiance exceeds anything in earth and sky;
he's built a monument--his very own people!

That has stuck with me since I read it in my morning devotions several days ago.  "He's built a monument--his very own people!"  We are a monument.  Us.  Apparently God wanted to create "a lasting evidence, reminder, or example of Someone notable [and] great."  (capitalization mine)

What an incredible thought.  As with the monuments erected on this earth, the Artist has created us all unique--yet He has captured the moment, the memory, the people, the commitment, the struggle, the honor, the beauty.  My testimony, my life, my story, is a living monument to the glory of God.  When people see me, may they remember.  And may they praise the name of GOD, because it's the only Name worth praising.

Why Am I Watching This?!

Beau thinks I have too many TV shows on our DVR (it's possible that's true, but it should be noted that there is still 79% remaining space, so he can record 334 hours of TV), so I'm working hard to watch what I have there.  This is all happening while another show is recording, so I'm positive I'm defeating the purpose here, but it's the thought, right?

Tonight's show of choice: Killer Kids on Bio.  This particular episode is "Family Killers," and I recorded it several weeks ago.  For obvious reasons, I have been putting off watching it--mostly I just didn't feel like ending the day with such a heavy subject.  I have no idea what made me turn it on tonight, but I did.  And now I'm glued to it.

True crime is my favorite genre of book, film, and television show.  I've always been fascinated by the glimpse into the mind of the criminals and the motives behind the crime.  I think there is never just one motive, and I think that very few crimes happen with absolutely no warning signs.  In the murder cases that they have featured on this show, all of that is true.  But warning signs are always easy to see in the rear view mirror.

Teenagers are some of my favorite people, too.  I love the angsty, sullen attitudes they adopt at that age.  I love their honesty.  I love them.  They make my heart sing, and they make my heart break.

Killer Kids.  What a horrific thought.  These kids are all teenagers--12, 13, 16--who snapped on a given afternoon or evening and murdered their families, always beginning with their parents.  Obviously that's wrong.  I'm not going to dispute that--there comes a point where you have to take ownership of your actions, and I think you can begin to do that at a very young age.  These kids were all out of line, and they needed to be punished.

But what makes a kid a killer?  Sometimes there is a psychiatric break, but for these kids that wasn't the case.  For these kids there was a premeditated moment where they decided the best option would be to kill their parents, "driven by mindless rage . . . disconnected from himself and with no feelings for those he is mowing down" (taken from the narrator's remarks in the show).  The show goes on to ask that same question: if there isn't any mental break, how can we make sense of why this happened?  I'm just not sure we can.

The only thing I can see is that none of these kids had a good relationship with their parents.  At least one of their parents is overly controlling.  There isn't a lot of grace.  There isn't room to be themselves, to be creative, to make mistakes, to be kids. 

God, it is hard to be a parent.  It is hard to lay down rules for safety and to teach children responsibility.  It is hard to be gracious and forgiving, especially in the middle of the daily frustrations of being disobeyed and disrespected.  It is hard to love unconditionally in the midst of angsty, sullen attitudes and hurtful raging.  But they need us to do it.  They need us to love them and forgive them and give them rules and discipline them and hold them and cry with them and talk to them.  Give us the strength to do it.

And, man, I am glad these murders took place in Canada and Norway, and kids in the United States don't do stuff like this.

The Twenty-third Sabbath

In honor of my parents' 40th wedding anniversary, Here is a song that was sung at their wedding, my sister's and my baptism, and both of our weddings.

1. Savior, like a shepherd lead us,
much we need thy tender care;
in thy pleasant pastures feed us,
for our use thy folds prepare.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Thou hast bought us, thine we are.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Thou hast bought us, thine we are.

2. We are thine, thou dost befriend us,
be the guardian of our way;
keep thy flock, from sin defend us,
seek us when we go astray.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Hear, O hear us when we pray.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Hear, O hear us when we pray.

3. Thou hast promised to receive us,
poor and sinful though we be;
thou hast mercy to relieve us,
grace to cleanse and power to free.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
We will early turn to thee.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
We will early turn to thee.

4. Early let us seek thy favor,
early let us do thy will;
blessed Lord and only Savior,
with thy love our bosoms fill.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Thou hast loved us, love us still.
Blessed Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Thou hast loved us, love us still.

"Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us," attributed to Dorothy A. Thrupp