Category: Uncategorized (Page 45 of 188)

This week marked my first to receive heartfelt gifts from my eldest. It started with the classic dandelion bouquet (in a vase, no less!); today he gave me a card and necklace that he made at preschool. (You can’t tell from the picture, but it’s plaster-of-paris on a string with an imprint of a beer cap in it. Yes, beer – he told me specifically. He knows his mama and I love his school.) 

Most precious: his excitement of the giving. He told me umpteen times how happy I was to get the flowers. And he barely let me wait to get home from school before unwrapping the necklace – he actually told me what it was upon first sight of me. “Mom!!!!! I made you a necklace!!!!!” I tried to convince him to let me wait until Daddy was around to unwrap it, but he would have none of it. Then, as we said our pre-nap prayers, he told me that he wanted me to take the necklace off when I ate because he didn’t want me to get it messy. Well, of course. 

I’ll treasure these sweet trinkets. I’ll lovingly store them away (well, maybe not the dandelions) and show them again when he’s older. 

As I enjoy them now, I’m drawn to reflect on the nature of love and giving and how we’re completely incapable of giving gifts to truly reflect our gratitude. Specifically, because lately I’ve enjoyed this parenting-as-God’s-perspective-thing (boy that sounds quite idolatrous, doesn’t it?), I have to wonder how many bouquets of dandelions I’ve handed to God, proud of my work and confident that it is, indeed the best. gift. ever.  

God lovingly accepts them. He understands that what we have to offer, no matter how meager, comes from the heart. It’s not the flowers or the necklace, but the diligence in giving. To be honest, it’s probably more for the giver than the gifted. My heart jumps because he’s so excited to give, not because I need to receive anything. 

So I consider how I try to express to God my love. My worship; my words of praise; my prayers. To think, these are likely plaster-of-paris necklaces, meager in comparison but gladly worn. Given probably more for my sake than His. 

It’s ironic, isn’t it? This year, at 4 years old, is the first H Boy has attempted independent (yet aided) gift-giving. The previous 3 years required a bit of help from daddy on the holidays. However, these first 4 years of life have been when he’s needed me most. In fact, of all my 3 (well, 4) kids, I find an inverse relationship between how much they need me and how able they are to give in response. 

Someday the time will come when my kids are grown and completely capable of giving me big, wonderful, expensive gifts of gratitude (massage, kids! Always massage!). But in those days, I would expect little. Dear ones, you don’t cause me near the angst or stress or tears as functional adults as you did this very week. 

Even now, what I really want is for them to take a nap. I would dance for joy if they each simply did want I asked. The gifts send a nice message, but how I yearn for compliance, to simply follow my commands. 

Hint, hint, self. Perhaps I need to invest slightly less energy stringing together elaborate phrases of love and adoration but put a bit more emphasis on those things God has asked and and requested of me: to live justly, love mercy and walk humbly. Oh, how that probably brings joy to God’s heart. We can offer him dandelion songs, but maybe he wants me to be a bit more intentional about loving my neighbor  Or not yelling at my kids. Or recognizing my bounty and giving some to those who need it more. 

It’s not to say that I should stop offering the handmade cards to God. He’ll treasure them, but not because of the greatness of the gift but rather the heart of the giver. 

After Queen Vashti lost her crown for insubordination, the King’s advisers recommended he find a new Queen. The method, as was custom in the day, called for eligible young maidens all over the land to come to the palace for a year of beauty treatments. When her time came, the young girl spent a night with the King. As soon as he found one he was pleased with, he would name her Queen. 

This is the PG version. Nearly a Cinderella* story. Let’s examine. 

First of all, the age of eligibility for these candidates is around 13. Second of all, the culture was not one that really asked her opinion if she wanted to go. But those seem almost minor when considering other facts about this process. 

They started in the harem for their year of beauty treatments. After their try-out appearance, they would go to another, separate quarters for the king’s concubines. They would never return to see the king again unless he summoned them by name. And let’s be honest. If he’s getting a new one every night, how good are his name-remembering skills? Some men can’t remember a girl’s name 2 hours after meeting her at a bar, let alone a year or two later among hundreds of others. 

So this girl’s entire life, her worth, gets reduced to one night with the king. No pressure. 

And that post-King-night life – let’s think on that. She’s living with hundreds of other passed-over, B Team girls. No one other than immediate family and the eunuchs are allowed in the harem. Because she’s no longer a virgin, she’s not really bridal material. Her one night with the king forfeited her future with a husband, family, village and greater community with which she had grown up. And I’ll mention one source cited the average age of death for women living in the harem is 17. Details were sketchy as to why such short life expectancy, only that “harem life was hard” and likely took an emotional toll that we’re unable to really fathom. 

So if harem life, as a concubine to the King, seems less than desirable, then how did the King fill his 365 nights with fresh young women? Well, for starters, he is the king. They tend to get what they want. But also we have to peer into the culture of the day. Young women were rarely an asset and most often a liability. They required things like food and shelter but couldn’t own much. 

A young women generally left the house as one of 3: a slave, a concubine or a wife (listed in order of least to greatest social desirability). A slave was sold into the role but could be released after 7 years of service. A concubine was a cross between a slave and a wife – not sold, but yet she also came without a dowry,  regarded as a linchpin of marriage, so also not the status of wife. She was cared for in the general sense that she was fed and housed and clothed, but the husband did not see her with the stature he would his wife. (On a positive note: any children a concubine would bear would be considered “true” heirs and the man would be required to take care of them, no matter if the woman left the arrangement or not). Lastly came the wife. She largely played a subservient role in the relationship, however – as we see throughout the Bible – there are specific ways God called society to a higher standard. Marriages weren’t often arranged around love, but rather economic and social factors, so commanding a man to love his wife made considerable leaps. Though, admittedly not quite to the level which we enjoy today (or the extent we continue to call for in pockets of contemporary culture). 

So tell me, dear friends – how would you wish to send your little girl out into the world? The goal would be wife. But when drought comes or the beloved horse dies or any of the unforeseeable occurs, how does the family afford the week-long wedding affair and the costly dowry required of a good marriage? Perhaps this one-night shot with the king isn’t such a bad option. Perhaps she will please him most of all. At worst, she’ll be fed and clothed – even somewhat “pampered” for a year (though I have my doubts the extent of this pampering… have you ever had anything waxed?). So, yes… take a guess what class of society these harem girls reign from? Probably not upper crust. 

So what we have here is a socially acceptable occasion of a man (though Xerxes didn’t come up with the idea) with great power and wealth, taking young women from the homes of families who find themselves amid economic hardship. It’s a good thing that still doesn’t happen today.

Right?

The movie Taken opened my eyes to a culture of power and corruption on the consumption side of modern day sex slave industry; however, in order to sell tickets, the victim was a rich white girl and the “bad guys” were foreign. While I appreciate the platform, we need to acknowledge that the key indicators for sex trafficking include: poverty, young age, limited education, lack of work opportunities, lack of family support (e.g., orphaned, runaway/throwaway, homeless, family members collaborating with traffickers), history of previous sexual abuse, health or mental health challenges, and living in vulnerable areas (e.g., areas with police corruption and high crime). (Source). 

I’ve recently heard staggering facts about the issue, starting with the fact that I-75 (which I can nearly spit on from my living room) serves as the “hub” of sexual trafficking, leading up to Toledo where, per capita, the highest concentration of sex slaves in the United States currently reside. 

In Ohio. The heartland state. Home. 

This is literally in front of my face – tell me I haven’t seen one of these victims at my gas station or in the fast food restaurants off my exit – and yet thrives under the guise of social acceptance and, often, victim blame. 

It simply shouldn’t be. 

Mothers Day began as “Mothers Day for Peace“, initiated by a woman who sought to unite women for peace. Essentially, these women were tired of their sons being sent off to war and wanted to express their frustration and a desire for alternative solutions. As the holiday evolved to become a celebration of the mothers, as opposed to their cause, the founder of the holiday actually denounced it. It wasn’t always about flowers and spas and attending church with ma. 

So I wonder, what if. What if mothers (and fathers) everywhere reclaimed the roots of the holiday. What if instead of a corsage or a hanging basket we asked our society to find and care for our little girls, sold or stolen from our homes. What if we vowed to raise our motherly voices together and to say this is not okay. These are our children...?

I wish I had something more practical to offer. I wish we could all donate $1 and end it. I wish I could stand on the street corner and point to where the victims are kept or who the perpetrators are, but I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed by the enormity and the hiddenness of the entire situation. 

So, I do what I can. I’ll point you to an organization centered on fighting it, rehabilitating victims and providing education. Give Gracehaven a motherly hug this month. Or take it a step further and take action on one of the 24 things you can do, even if small. Or leave another committed organization or resource in the comments. I’ll take as many as I can get. 




*OMG! I had no idea what kind of message the movie Cinderella was sending until I started lining up the similarities… 

So it goes without saying that when you spend a day moping around because you’re soooo pregnant yada yada and your kids refuse to listen blah blah and life is so hard bur bah bur bah bur… it’s hard to recognize that anyone else would have ever cried the same tears. We know in theory that people struggle the way we do. But on the couch, tucked between pillows, it’s simply theory. 

Which is why James tells us (5:16) to confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. I hear the whole sin-confession part and I shudder a bit. It’s not like I’m a teenager caught in the backseat of a car or a closet alcoholic that requires intervention. Something in that verse (really, in the connotation I attach to the phrase “confess your sins”) makes me think it has little to do with my emotional upheaval*. 

“Sin” has become a picket line word, something haters put on signs. And, if you ask me, we’ve spent a tad too much of our religious energy pointing toward it rather than redemption. So, in my tendency to overreact, I shirk away from the notion. I don’t like to deal with it – in my own life or in others’. I’d really rather ignore that naming piece and focus on what we can do about it. My approach takes on a motherly tone, saying “I don’t care who started it, everyone can end it!” 

I remember learning that sin is simply “missing the mark”, something we’re all prone to do. So we can acknowledge that we aren’t perfect, and some of us look to Jesus to make that all okay again. But James’ recommendation isn’t about conversion – it’s about the process of refinement. 

Tuesday night I came to the point where I realized I just needed prayer. The practice of prayer is not my strong suit and I decided that perhaps things would get better, quicker, if I enlisted the help of others. Jesus would hear my cry, but surely if enough of us make enough racket, He’d realize this should move to the top of the list. (Sorry for any of you with a sick mother-in-law that I just cut in front of**….).  So I sent a message to a list of ladies whom I know would understand, not judge and even follow through with a word to God on my behalf. 

When James says we should confess and pray for each other, I’m not sure which has more power to heal. For me, I took great comfort in knowing I had a list of ladies asking on my behalf, but even more so, I felt a new freedom simply by sending the message. By acknowledging, in a specific way, that indeed I’m coming up short. The dirty laundry went from theoretical to the middle of the living room. 

The next morning I awoke to encouraging texts, messages and phone calls – not just confirming that each did her part to move me up the priority list, but also to share expressions of love and remarks of solidarity. No one showed concern because they were afraid I wouldn’t crawl out of the dark hole – they cared because they knew it was important to hear “you are not alone.” 

One of the biggest lies we believe in the darkness is that we’re the first and only to encounter the particular struggle. That grace only extends as far as the “normal” stuff, but this – this – is new and different and probably not okay. We label ourselves other and outside. 

Loneliness and unhealthy solitude breeds shame, which is not the language of God. But a community of flawed and loving people, partnered with the Spirit of God, brings conviction – and that’s where healing can begin.