I woke up the next morning. Ned was a memory. He was completely gone.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wonder No More
Oh, it's happened. The thing that parents - probably more so mothers, than fathers - expect, know, is bound to happen. Someway or another. That really awkward happening. Where you don't know how to prepare for it. Or even know how you're going to respond to it. You just hope that all the stars align and make it, the "happening", happen as smoothly as will allow.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
Monday, April 7, 2014
I Am Not 23
It's never a good feeling to hear that your spouse finds somebody that they see on a regular basis, attractive. But not just attractive, hot. And not just hot, but they also have a tight ass.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Ezer Kenegdo - I Do Not Serve
I could start this blog out a million different ways.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
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