Sticky Black Suit - Pornography

The Sticky Black Suit
I’ve been rearing kids for 26 years; my two oldest children are married and raising their own broods. My younger two are just into their teen years, with ten years in between the two sets. I wish I had known at the beginning of starting a family what I know now. But then, we all have things we would do differently if given a second chance. Because there aren’t a lot of do-overs in real life, I think it’s important to discuss the clear and present, and highly accessible danger that is – PORNOGRAPHY!

We are living in an age of a technical revolution that has become intertwined into the very roots of our social structure. With the genius of the computer age, advancements are being made in medicine, education, invention, humanitarian efforts and communication, to name a few. Unfortunately, the availability of information has led to an addictive disease that is seeping out into millions of homes, attaching itself to the viewer like a sticky black suit they cannot shake and eventually overtakes them and the people they’re around.

The sticky black suit analogy comes from an epiphany I had after I had watched Spiderman 3. The suit evolves from an extraterrestrial parasite called a symbiote that attaches itself to Peter Parker. Every time Peter chooses to don the suit he surrenders to the influence of the symbiote. The power of the suit changes him, giving new boldness, strength, and prowess. It also makes him aggressive and sarcastic. It calls to him, tempting him to partake, over and over. In the embryo-stage of his new knowledge, Peter struggles with the desire to continue enjoying the secret enhancements to his persona, and an innate knowledge that whispers a warning in his ear to abandon the growing addiction. Happily, in the end Parker acknowledges the insidious evil that accompanies the sticky black suit, and over time and with great effort to resist, conquers the beast that he will become if he surrenders to its call.

I know wonderful people, men, women and children who have been afflicted and/or affected by a like symbiot, sticky, powerful, and alive. They have experienced the devastating effects pornography has on their personal lives. They also see this resident evil as a worldwide attack on every soul, from an adolescent’s first sighting, a housewife’s secret erotic book collection, a man’s air-affair. The wise ones will remember the warnings of scripture about the “prince of the power of the air,” and how he roams about “seeking whom he may devour,” chewing up his victims and spitting them out in ruined heaps.
Whether we have been personally affected by pornography, or have simply heard of its potential deadly grip, we know from the Bible that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23) and “there is none righteous, no not one” (Rom. 3:10). Blessedly, the Son of Man, Jesus Christ, “came to seek and to save that which was lost” (Luke 19:10.)  In Luke 4:18, Jesus quotes Is. 61:1, “The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound.”

My newest favorite song, the song I’m preparing my Jr. High music classes to sing in chapel, and the song every believer can sing by God’s grace is by Shane and Shane, called LIBERTY. The lyrics are,

 “The Lord is the Spirit
Where the Spirit of the Lord is now, There is liberty
And the Spirit lives inside of me
Where the Spirit of the Lord is, now
There is liberty, there is liberty,
There is liberty

For freedom You set me free
And yes, I am free indeed
You rewrote my name
And shackled my shame
You opened my eyes to see
I am free

When the spirit of the world
Comes to kill me and enslave me I will say
There is liberty
For the chains of sin that once entangled me
Have been broken, now I'm singing 'cause I'm free
There is liberty, there is liberty,
There is liberty

For freedom You set me free
And yes, I am free indeed
You rewrote my name
And shackled my shame
You opened my eyes to see
I am free

The storm rolled in
It was dark in the land
As the Son of Man
Was crucified
You don't take His life
He laid it down
He paid the price
And shed His blood

It is done!
The veil is torn
He has won
And I am free
And I am free
And I am free
I am free

For freedom You set me free
And yes, I am free indeed
You rewrote my name
And shackled my shame
You opened my eyes to see

For freedom You set me free
And yes, I am free indeed
You rewrote my name
And shackled my shame
You opened my eyes to see
I am free.”

Watch this song on You Tube and be inspired to live in victory.

WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE?

WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE?
Who wants to be a millionaire? Ooh, ooh, pick me; I want to be a millionaire! I realize that it will never happen, but a girl can wish, can’t she? My daydream begins from an obsession with the new ABC show, Secret Millionaire. The show profiles millionaire men and women who take a portion of their wealth and bestow it on obscure servants who perform selfless acts of kindness, offering hope in difficult places, often to the demise of their own meager standard of living. The secret millionaire “scopes” out various communities, looking for these sacrificial persons or organizations that are giving above and beyond to the needy. The millionaire offers them a financial blessing and occasional personal, on-going friendship and mentoring.

I’m not whining about my financial status, as I, like most Americans, am not in need, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, even though I and my family may appear as having less, we are able to experience a superior quality of life. Could some things be nicer if I was a millionaire? Maybe…okay, yes. I’d certainly own a larger house than that of our current one of under 1000 sq. ft. I’d drive a newer car with less than the 200,000 miles on it. I would start my own business. I would bless my entire immediate family with an all-expense-paid “Dan in Real Life” vacation, etc., etc.

I reckoned a long time ago that I would never be a millionaire. Not that I believe God couldn’t or wouldn’t trust me with wealth and riches, though I have begged and pleaded, telling Him that I would spend it wisely, generously, and sacrificially. I know He loves me, and knows that I would be a wonderful candidate to be a millionaire. “Why can’t I?” I’m ashamed to say I have asked, like a child asking it’s mommy over and over again for a treat at the check-out stand. I was never allowed to pitch a fit about not getting what I wanted when I was a child, so I have decided to accept and even embrace my status with joy, hoping to grow, instead, in wisdom and grace.

This is where I go back to the reason I love Secret Millionaire. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the millionaire who gives out of a new-found sense of generosity, because I have been brought to tears over their sudden awareness of great needs around them. Why I love the show is solely because of the non-millionaire people who give to their last dime, their last shirt, their last resource, their last ounce of spirit and soul, because that’s all they have, except for the deep well of love they possess for  mankind. You don’t have to watch TV to know that these people are all around us: those who devote time and skill to better the houses of immigrants who have little and need befriending; those who offer heart to those suffering from cancer, abuse and depression; they that offer their own resources to help the proverbial poor, starving college student, money for a meager family to buy Christmas presents, even the last $10.00 to that man standing on the corner, crying behind a sign that reads, “Will work for $ to feed my children.”

I am not a millionaire, but I am wealthy beyond imagination as I purposefully give of my time, talents and love to my husband, grown children as well as the ones still at home, church, the kids’ schools, yes, even that honestly hungry man not asking for $ but work. I must protect myself, and so must you, from becoming cynical and self-serving in a world that demands things be done “your way.” What would happen if we dared to do things according to God’s way? What if we got married instead of just live with the one we love? What if we stood up against the F word, sex and violence in movies and on TV? What if we bought groceries or a car for someone in need, instead of going out to eat again this week or getting a second or third car, just for fun? What if we went to church instead of the gym? What if we simply engaged the store clerk in a cheerful conversation just for the sake of making her day, or complimenting a total stranger for something…anything?

Who wants to be a millionaire? Perhaps we should rethink what a millionaire is: someone with a million smiles to give, a thousand hugs to give, a hundred hours to give, $10.00 to give, 1 commitment to give for a lifetime of love and faithfulness. We can all be this kind of millionaire when we allocate our resources and places of our hearts to areas that pay greater dividends than just money. Yes, I do want to be a millionaire, THIS kind of millionaire. How about you? By the way, check out the lyrics to Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” It’s what I’m talking about.

First Love

This is a love story, not about a former love interest, or even my husband, who, incidentally, WAS my first and only love interest – now for nearly 30 years. No, this is not a story even of how I loved someone, but about how someone loved me. This is a story about a man who is no longer alive, but whose love greatly impacted the way I would eventually learn to love and be loved. This is a story about a man named Bill.

Let me first give a little background so you can figure out how Bill fits into my story. It all began with my birth mother, Twanette Marie. Tony, as she was called, had had a tumultuous childhood, living between her grandmothers’ and her parents homes. Eventually, she ended up in Kodiak, Alaska, where, I was told, she became a prostitute to provide for herself. This was the beginning of the mental illness that would eventually shatter our family. She met and married a native man, having three beautiful children with him; Deanna, Troy and Amber. The marriage didn’t last. But no love lost, she quickly moved on with a man she hardly knew, conceiving his baby. That baby was me. My birth father abandoned us, my mother and siblings, to start a family with someone else, never looking back (the exact words he would tell me in person 30 years later.) Tony fell in love again, to a man named Bill, with whom she would bear her fifth child, Liesl. I love to look at the few pictures I have of all of us, together, laughing and loving. Even though I was technically not Bill’s daughter, he would scoop me onto his arms, call me ‘Goober” and treat me like I belonged to him.

Hard times consumed our mother as she tried to cope with former issues of neglect and abuse, exacerbating her fragile mental state. One terrible day when we children were 9, 7, 5, 3 and 1 years old Tony gave up and took her life, leaving chaos, heartbreak and loneliness.

The three older children went to live with their father, and my little sister had her daddy, the man who had been married to our mother at the time of her death. Technically, I was an orphan, but Bill looked out for my welfare as much as he did his own biological daughter. Unfortunately, he was not only wracked with grief, but had also broken his back, rendering him unable to care for Liesl and me. The two of us went into foster care. My little sister was as cute a button and well-loved, with her bright blue eyes and round cheeks. But I became the one hated, beaten, neglected, and utterly bewildered. I was three years old, my mother had died, my older siblings had been torn away from me and all I had were my clothes, my little sister, and a bare bathtub I called my bed. Eventually Bill realized that he could not ever again take care of his girls, and when a married couple stepped in to adopt my sister and me, he consented.

This was not the end of Bill’s presence in our lives. It was, in fact, the resuming and continuation of the beautiful relationship we had once had, not so long ago. For all the hardships that ensued in our new lives, our adopted parents allowed Bill to have as much visiting time as he wanted. Remember, I was not his flesh and blood, so he could have chosen to devote his attention only to his rightful offspring. But he chose to include me as his daughter. He made every effort to visit several times a year and never forgot to send birthday and Christmas cards. I never lost the wonder and joy when I would read his signature at the bottom of a letter, “Love, Dad.” I would run my fingers over his words, tears welling up at the thought that I was loved. I marveled that someone so utterly unattached to me genetically would love a curly headed orphan-girl, making her feel like she belonged to him and he to her.

I grew up, becoming completely engrossed in my adult life with my husband and children. I temporarily forgot the feeling of awe that Bill’s love had on my life as a child, even though we stayed in contact. One day I received an invitation from Bill to go on an all-expense-paid vacation with him and my little sister. She and I have been adoringly close through the years, cultivating a deep love and faithfulness that has endured hardship and death. I was only too excited and accepted the invitation. We had a glorious time cruising through California, laughing, joking, talking and loving each other. We belonged to each other through trial and tribulation, and were, at last, together again.

Our reunion was sweet, but all things do have a natural end, even good things. About 7 years ago Bill died, leaving an example of unconditional love for me to ponder and cherish. A couple things come to mind at this point: one, never take for granted the love others have for you, and two, the impact your love can have on others. Lastly, my thoughts go to 1 Peter 4:12-13, "Dear friends, do not be astonished  that a trial by fire is occurring among you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice in the degree that you have shared in the sufferings of Christ, so that when his glory is revealed you may also rejoice and be glad."

Part 3 of 3 - Hunter

Part 1 was the back story to part 2, posted in honor of my sons 15th birthday. Today, the last of these three installations concerning the birth years, but certainly no less sweet, and certainly the addition necessary to complete our family.

My fifth child, Hunter, has always had the youngest child complex: "I'm not as athletic as..., I'm not as musical as..., I'm not as smart as smart as...," etc. Recently, he had a personal crisis, and during our beautiful and painful discussions my darling boy said to his daddy and I, "I don't feel like I deserve to be in this family." This is what I told him (more or less)...

I was an idealistic newlywed, in 1984, with dreams of a perfect, fairy tale life with four perfect children and a perfect husband who would fix all the bad stuff in my imperfect childhood. Truth be told, my dream came true, but not without a detour that would change my priorities and perspective. Details of my childhood are very harsh and sad, and I will share them with you, in time, but are part of what I believe is the beginning of another God-story of redemption. Certainly, my darling husband was and has always been an anchor in my life, my best friend and confidante, teaching me that relationships can be happy, loving, even wildly hilarious.

My first two children were every mothers fulfillment of beautiful, loving, and even intelligent children. I was tucked into my snug little abode with my two toddlers, my piano, and a banana-cream colored station wagon I was so proud of. My life was perfect, though not without a bump here, or a stumble there. I was living a life so different from that of my childhood, in terms of being deeply loved and loving deeply.

Then the great sadness knocked on our door (read Part 1 in my blog), threatening to knock down and break our hearts into pieces. God was with us in every moment of the blissful, the dismal, and finally, the whole and wiser parts of our lives. I say OUR lives because it's not just my story. It belongs to my husband, our winsome, wonderful and enchantingly perfect Hannah and Lucas, and the people who have lifted us up physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Then came Preston, as I wrote about in Part 2. I was feeling like the hole in my heart was very close to healed. But, remember my dream to have four children? I had birthed four children, but one was residing in Heaven, and I still longed to have four little people in my home, to love, to pass on whatever wisdom I have  acquired, and impart a passion to live your life to the fullest in Christ. To show them that fairy tales can come true: God can make the crooked path straight, marriage can be glorious, there can be sheer joy after heartbreak, and everyday is a gift from God to be grasped hold of and cared for as a precious jewel.

It wasn't long before I was pregnant with my last little one. The pregnancy was easy, birth was easy with five short hours of labor. I knew I had been handed another of the five miracles I call my children. Hunter was a sweet baby, content and bubbly.

Now at the ripe age of 13 Hunter is ever the friendly, gentle soul who has a natural aptitude to teach and comfort others. I have told Hunter, and I think he may be able to ingest this truth more as he grows older, that, had we not lost Elizabeth, our third child now living with Jesus in Heaven, we would never had thought of having another baby because she would have been the last in my predetermined number of kids. "Certainly," I've told Hunter, "the Lord must have something very special for you to be and to do, to have called your sister Home, and predestined that you be on earth. It is this family, this mother and father, sister and brothers who prayed you into our lives, and you do belong! We wouldn't be US without you, and I wouldn't be me without the part of me whose name is Hunter. None of us "deserves" anything good. It's only by the grace of God that we have the life with which He has blessed us. You are part of His blessing on my life! You belong!" He smiled, even laughed, and said, "Okay." I Love you, Hunter. "Open the gate and seize the day!"

Part 2 of three. Preston's Birth Story

To commemorate the 15th birthday of my son, Preston, I wanted to write about the blessing of his birth, and the healing it brought to our family. In part 1, I gave the backstory that led up to our decision to have another baby, which included the traumatic events of the birth, life and death of our 3rd child. Here, in Part 2, I wish for you to enjoy the healing that God graciously gave us, due in large part to the birth of my 4th child.
 After numerous consultations with doctors and geneticists, and many hours praying for wisdom and direction about whether or not to have another child, we decided to go forward,  trusting that the Lord would help us through our fears about whatever lay ahead. We had experienced the presence of God, and the never- ending comfort from the Holy Spirit as we walked through the darkest time of our lives, as well as the gift of friendships from God’s people during those difficult days. It felt good and healthy to walk out of the cloud of sorrow and doom, and consciously toward hope and the possibility of joy.
My pregnancy was blissful, the doctors assured me that the baby was healthy, and not to worry about a thing. I was ecstatic to meet the little guy, yet had crippling flashbacks of the previous birth. Late, as usual, the day came. I don’t know how we ended up in a hospital where epidurals were not only not a standard option, but also not provided, period. Oh well, no problem, I thought.  I had given birth three times, naturally, and was sure I could do it again. After ten hours, though, I began to think that I might not be able to take it much longer. 20 hours went by, and then 30. At 35 hours I was BEGGING the doctor for a C-section, just to end the agony. “Well,” she said, almost amusedly, “maybe we should talk about pain management.”  I’m a pretty nice person, but I suddenly had the urge to strangle that lady. I did quip back, in a rather sarcastic way, “YOU THINK?” Every time a nurse would walk by, she would peer in with doleful eyes, as if to sympathize with my plight for relief. The hospital actually called over to another hospital, asking to borrow their anesthesiologist for a much need epidural. Finally, the epidural was in and the much needed reprieve began. Blissful sleep claimed me, providing rest both physically and mentally. When I awoke 5 hours later, making it a total of 40 hours of labor, it was the moment of delivery. My little Preston Troy was finally born. If I asked once, I asked 10 times, “Is he healthy?” I wouldn’t believe the professionals until I could see him for myself. At 6.5, the little darling was perfectly formed and beautiful from head to toe. For the first time in over 9 months we all breathed our first breath of relief. I thanked the Lord and blessed Him profusely, as I held my precious boy, committing him to the Lord.
Puzzled about why I would have a 40 hour labor, when #1 was five hours, #2 and 3 were three hours. The nurses wept with me when sharing their relief over this healthy child, but shared that they had been very anxious for me, knowing that often past trauma can play havoc over the way the body is able to respond to messages from the brain. It was only when I was asleep that my brain rested enough to allow my body to do what was needed. Now laying there, holding this gorgeous child, I was thankful for every minute it took to have him, and mostly for trusting the Lord with his life and mine.
Now at 15, Preston is a tall, strong, beautiful boy. He is artistic, athletic and intelligent. He has been blessed with a wonderful dad who pours love and wisdom into his life every day, an older brother and sister who hold him accountable to live a godly life, and a little brother who challenges him to be a good leader.
To me, his mother, he is a gift of God’s “Hessed” (Hebrew for lovingkindness) that I neither deserved nor earned, even through sorrow. My desire for Preston is only that he cultivate such a love for the Lord that he is compelled to follow and serve Him all the days of his life. Happy Birthday, Preston, on this very day, July 13. I love you!
Part 3 will be posted next week, and is the conclusion of the “birthing years,” culminating in a final precious gift to round out our family, adding the cherry on the top of our wonderful life.

Part 1/3 of Preston's Birth Story

Preston’s birthday is Friday, July 13th, and I got to thinking how inspirational it was to read about my friends’ recent birth experience. But of course, back in the day, 15 years ago, we didn’t have FB. So I thought I’d share Preston’s birth story: 1 because having another baby was a terrifying decision, after a previous birth trauma; and 2 because having him brought incredible healing for our family and our then, church family. To put this in perspective, I am going to write this in 3 parts – the backstory, Preston’s birth story (not the gory stuff,) and, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest…of the story.
Part 1 (Or page 253 in my autobiography – if I get around to writing one)
As an idealistic newlywed, I had a few of the first years of my married life planned out, and after that I didn’t care. Paramount was the four children I dreamed of having, complete with the order of gender and full names of each child. I would have a boy, then a girl, because that’s the all-American order, I thought. Then I’d have another girl, followed by a little boy. That would result in two girls and two boys. Perfect!
Right on cue, I became pregnant, and I knew it was a boy. Birth day arrived, and in 5 hours, out came the most gorgeous little girl – my darling Hannah, now 26 years old. 17 months later (surprise!) and 3 hours of labor, I gave birth to a charming little fellow, whom we named Lucas, now 25 years old. See? Where does the time go? I tell you, young moms, embrace those sleepless nights, the three year old temper tantrums, the young “crushes,” and the tearful departures to college. One day, soon, they leave the nest to make memories of their own – like you did.
After Lucas was born, I was tired and decided to take a break from birthing. But, without warning came that ach to have another baby. No baby. A couple years went by, then five, then 9. Finally, a got Scott wrapped around my finger enough to consent to another baby. I prayed it would be a girl. After having the most adorable daughter, I wanted another one. I prayed every day and night that I’d have a girl.
Birth day came, and as I promised to spare you from the gore, suffice it to say it was filled with great trauma, terror and heartache. God had, indeed, granted my petition for a little girl, and we named her Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was born with Chiari III, a severe birth defect that included Occipital Cervical Encephalocele (you can look that up if you have the stomach,) bell-shaped lungs, and holes between the ventricles of her heart. She was blind, deaf, completely mute and utterly catatonic. After a week in NICU, being kept alive by machines, tested by numerous doctors, surgeons and geneticists, the news was that she most certainly would not live when disconnected from life support. Came the dreadful day to make that hard decision and say goodbye. The doctor turned off the machines and…she continued to breathe on her own, to the amazement of the healthcare professionals. Now what? We did what every parent does with their newborn – took her home, loved her, and set out to make every possible memory with her, knowing the inevitable would come. Another week went by, then another, everyday met with bated breath. Two months of cootchie-cooing a baby who had no response, gavage-feeding her, watching her turn blue and wondering if she’d take another breath, and loving her with every fiber of our being.
Hang in there, dear reader. Just a little more of this sad story and then begins the healing.
My idea of camping is barefoot in a 4-star hotel. But to make memories for the family, we did what our pocketbook could afford and went camping. It was a blissful little one-family island we canoed to, and set up to have a couple of fun days away from planning for a visit from the coroner and a memorial service, all in near future. I awoke the next morning and notice that Elizabeth was running a high fever. Instinctively, I felt this might be “it.” I tried to act casual as I wrapped her in a blankie and snuggled her into my jacket. She and I walked to the other end of the island, merely 3 minutes away. As I stood there, kissing her face, she opened her eyes for the first time in her entire 2 months of life. I was amazed to see they were a deep violet color, nearly purple. She looked up with the clarity of one who could actually see, took a big breath, and with a look of pure joy and awe on her face she uttered her first sound, something like, “Ahhhhhh!” That was the moment she left her broken body behind, and her soul entered heaven. I saw the moment she saw Jesus. It was beautiful, and terrifying. The rest of that day is as clear as a bell to me, but much more grief than I want you to endure, so I’ll spare you from opening that other box of tissues.
At Elizabeth’s memorial service, our dear friends sang the old hymn, “Does Jesus care?” Oh yes, He cares! In the days, weeks and months to follow, and even these 16 years passed, we have known how very much God loves and cares for us. Through the people of God in our church and church network in MN and all over the country, God’s comfort poured in to meet the needs of Scott, Hannah, Lucas and myself, as we muddled through the confusion of grief and praise.
We grilled the geneticist about the possibility of such a strange and horrible birth defect occurring again. He assured that the chances were vastly remote. Still, the dread of “tempting fate” fell heavy on us. After praying for wisdom, we decided to trust God with our hearts …and the chance of having a healthy baby. After what felt like eternity, I found I was pregnant. I, we, had nine months of joy mixed with fear, excitement mixed with crippling trepidation, and a certain measure of guilt that we were going on with our lives…without Elizabeth. And then the anticipated birth day finally came, the day our sorrow turned to joy, beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for the spirit of heaviness. It wasn’t without some incredibly hard and harrowing moments… but that’s in Part 2, to be posted on Friday, July 13.