I read through Titus in the last days of this month, and something struck me.
Chapter 2 begins with instructions to old men and old women, young women and young men (that just about covers all of us...).
Only one characteristic is commanded for all groups:
Be sensible. (presuming that old women must be sensible in order to teach sensibility to young women)
Why, out of all worthy qualities, would Paul highlight this one for particular mention these multiple times (2: 2, 5, 6)?
Seen in the context of Titus, with Paul's emphasis on sound doctrine and living in light of the truth, I suspect that there is a link between a sensible life and a commendation of the all-wise God.
He talks about the unbelieving who "profess to know God, but by their deeds, they deny Him" (1:16). In a similar way, one who claims to follow a God of order and insight but lives in a foolish, impractical, obsessive, or undisciplined way, is not honoring what is true of God.
Such a down-to-earth quality doesn't seem particularly spiritual, but considering my inclination (maybe everyone's inclination) to be unduly drawn to some interest or pursuit (though the object may vary), it is a helpful caution.
The stakes are high: through our lives we either dishonor the word of God or adorn the doctrine of God our Savior (2:5, 10).
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
The Busy Moose on the Loose
A morning in the life of a busy moose
Beginning with a few moments of quiet and repose
Snuggling with Dad
A refreshing morning constitutional
The call of a bookshelf... empty me, empty me
This is very serious business
But we do take joy in our work
A serious reader takes time for intellectual pursuits, even in the midst of a busy day
Time to give Mom a snuggle
Next it is the large bookcase that needs our attention
Alas, not quite tall enough for the third shelf yet
Next we spy a sad and lonely basket on the floor
Ah, time for another scholarly review
Oh dear, I hadn't noticed those little bins on the bottom shelf here...
One last task: the Box
Well, we take pleasure in a job well-done. And it's barely 10am.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Yep, Time to Pull Out the Long Johns
The real reason for these pajamas is that all the others were in the laundry. But it is getting delightfully chilly too at night. So here's the little man getting in the spirit of the season.
This is what happens when Momma looks up to make the little man smile.
Cut off half the head...
We are totally into biting our lips and doing the old-man-without-his-dentures look. Hilarious!
Monday, September 17, 2012
Raspberries
One of Victor's new favorite things is buzzing his lips. He is also good at giving raspberries.
(Sorry it's sideways. I'm a dunce.)
(Sorry it's sideways. I'm a dunce.)
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Andrew Peterson, Cedar Valley, and Bethlehem
Sometimes the strands of life weave together in an unexpected way.
On Monday, I listened to this presentation by Andrew Peterson called "What If? The Place of Imagination in God's Kingdom."
The message sent me back to my early days as a writer and my first book, Jill, the Princess Mermaid. (True confessions.) I don't know how many books I started in my youth...and then I ended up as a English Writing major in college.
It was delightful, so I was excited to listen to the second presentation, "So What? The Place of Imagination in God's Kingdom." An early line struck me: Imagination waters the garden of hope. Got my creative juices flowing.
And then he started talking about the song, "Queen of Iowa," written about a woman with AIDS in Cedar Rapids, IA who is full of hope in Jesus. He said, "People brag about the fact that they know Jody."
And I know Jody.
Well, really, I have only gotten to meet her in person once, many years ago. But it is my growing-up church, Cedar Valley Bible Church, that is mentioned in the store Andrew tells--a story about the couple, John and Jody, and how Jody contracted AIDS through a violent rape and John has faithfully loved and cared for her for a decade and a half, and how they both came to know Jesus through it, and how a church reached out to them to cover them with care and prayer.
And it makes me again remember how thankful I am for that little Bible church, where I saw Christ's body at work in such tangible ways all through my growing up years.
So, there's a tangle of connections for you, all pointing to God's grace at work.
(Here's a YouTube of "The Queen of Iowa." Somebody tell me of that's not legal and I'll take it off!)
On Monday, I listened to this presentation by Andrew Peterson called "What If? The Place of Imagination in God's Kingdom."
The message sent me back to my early days as a writer and my first book, Jill, the Princess Mermaid. (True confessions.) I don't know how many books I started in my youth...and then I ended up as a English Writing major in college.
It was delightful, so I was excited to listen to the second presentation, "So What? The Place of Imagination in God's Kingdom." An early line struck me: Imagination waters the garden of hope. Got my creative juices flowing.
And then he started talking about the song, "Queen of Iowa," written about a woman with AIDS in Cedar Rapids, IA who is full of hope in Jesus. He said, "People brag about the fact that they know Jody."
And I know Jody.
Well, really, I have only gotten to meet her in person once, many years ago. But it is my growing-up church, Cedar Valley Bible Church, that is mentioned in the store Andrew tells--a story about the couple, John and Jody, and how Jody contracted AIDS through a violent rape and John has faithfully loved and cared for her for a decade and a half, and how they both came to know Jesus through it, and how a church reached out to them to cover them with care and prayer.
And it makes me again remember how thankful I am for that little Bible church, where I saw Christ's body at work in such tangible ways all through my growing up years.
And coincidentally, Andrew Peterson is coming to my other church home for a concert on September 27. Ticket information here.
So, there's a tangle of connections for you, all pointing to God's grace at work.
(Here's a YouTube of "The Queen of Iowa." Somebody tell me of that's not legal and I'll take it off!)
Eating and Drinking
This week Victor ate his first little baby puff without gagging and puking. Way to go, big man! (He subsequently gagged and puked on a piece of banana, but we're taking baby steps...)
He is also quite adept at drinking from a straw. Actually, he's been drinking from a straw with Daddy for a long time, but Momma's been kinda freaked out to try. But he's quite adept at sucking down that water. And he loves it.
He is also quite adept at drinking from a straw. Actually, he's been drinking from a straw with Daddy for a long time, but Momma's been kinda freaked out to try. But he's quite adept at sucking down that water. And he loves it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Sweet Birthday Treats
Now, does it look like I'm getting spoiled, or what? Flowers, cinnamon rolls, and white-chocolate dipped strawberries...
And Ben changed Victor, to boot!My September 11, 2001
I turned 20 years old on September 11, 2001. I was a sophomore at Northwestern College, and the events of that day made a deep impression on me. In my own little life, God revealed Himself particularly on that dark day 11 years ago. Here's the story (written in 2004).
September 2001
It came the Saturday before my birthday, a cream envelope with Mary Englebreit’s pastel roses and a little blue watering can adorning the front. The handwriting for the address was my mother’s. I decided to save it, flipping it casually onto the stack of papers on my desk in my dorm room.
After all, I couldn’t open the card on the 8th; my birthday was still three days away.
Monday night, the night before my birthday, was a late one. The clock’s unblinking red numerals read 12:30 by the time I pulled on fuzzy blue pajama pants and a wrinkled Iowa Cyclones t-shirt in the bathroom, groggy and anxious to get to bed. Sarah was already asleep, and Jenny was still out in the end lounge reading psychology and eating popcorn. 12:30 a.m. I thought. It’s officially my birthday. I’m not a teenager anymore. The weight of two decades of existence seemed somehow momentous in the compact bathroom, and on an impulse, I dropped to my knees on the dingy navy blue rug. How melodramatic… I thought.
But since there was no one to laugh at me, I squeezed shut my eyes and whispered, “God, I don’t know what the future holds for me, but here I am, twenty years old. You take my life, the seconds and days of this year, and do something good in me. Bring glory to Your name. Amen.”
And then I went to bed, in the first hour of September 11, 2001.
* * *
When I was little, I used to dream about flying, about bungee jumping and sky diving. But my fascination with soaring alongside the birds was utterly squelched in my first personal flying experience. My senior class was going to Florida for our five-day senior-class trip in March 2000. We flew AirTran from Moline, IL to Atlanta, then down to Orlando. Unfortunately, we sat in the Atlanta airport for three hours while our plane underwent repairs. Besides becoming very unenthusiastic about the comforts of airport waiting areas, my confidence in our aircraft evaporated.
Seems like if you’ve got to work for three hours to fix something, it may be best to ditch the plane altogether…
We did eventually board, then sat there for another half hour while technicians fiddled around some more. Nerves made my stomach buzz like a hive of rattled hornets.
The plane finally started rolling down the runway, and my seatbelt was cinched around my waist as tightly as I could yank. Behind me, two guys from my class, both very experienced with flying, started muttering to each other.
“Look at those wings; they’re not supposed to flop up and down like that,” Danny sounded grim.
Josh, who was practicing for his pilot’s license, gave a concerned grunt of agreement. The plane bumped down the runway, thunking along faster and faster.
Danny leaned forward to speak in my ear. “Just so you know, this isn’t normal. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
The hornets in my stomach whipped into a frenzy, and I wanted to puke. God, give me grace. God, give me grace. I would’ve cried, but I was too scared for any tears.
Out the window, lines and poles flashed by faster still, and the rhythmic bumping churned into high gear.
“This is it; this is where we die!” Danny leaned forward in morbid excitement.
I squeezed my eyes shut. God, give me grace!
Shuddering a little, the plane lifted laboriously and haltingly rose above the airport. My abdominal muscles did not unclench through the entire rocky flight.
Since the trauma of that first flight, planes have remained my worst fear.
* * *
I was sitting on our beige dorm room couch, eating a bowl of birthday Honey Nut Cheerios, when the news report on the radio announced that a small plane had run into the World Trade Center. My stomach gave a little half-shudder. Starting my 20th birthday with a plane crash. Great.
It was not until I got to my 8:40 class that more news emerged, shooting a panicked adrenaline through my body. It wasn’t just a plane hitting a building; it was two planes, exploding through the Twin Towers. This was not a case of malfunctioning flight mechanisms; it was premeditated, intentional. The damage was not a few caved-in offices; the two buildings had collapsed.
The day took on a nightmarish feel. Clusters of people were talking everywhere—war, a draft, terrorism, Al Quida. There would be more planes, I knew, unconsciously scanning the brilliant blue sky above as I walked to Maranatha Hall. This was the just the beginning.
In chapel, I looked around at the rows and rows of young adults who usually chattered and tackled each other and laughed their way from class to class. All these men may be gone tomorrow, thoughts clenched my mind in panic. Who knows but that this is the beginning of the third World War.
My dad. What was the maximum age of the military draft? Would they take my dad away from me, take him to fight and die overseas?
Ironically, the sun beamed as I carried my birthday lunch from Café Naz outside, alone. I was jumpy, ears straining for the sound of aircraft, bracing myself for attack. I bowed my head for a mechanical prayer. There is no God. my mind taunted me. You are going to die.
I avoided televisions. It was bad enough to know that thousands were dead. Men had called their families to say good-bye, they were going to die. I did not want the image of an airplane nose piercing the thin skin of a tower seared into my memory. There was no good news.
I spent an hour of my birthday evening praying, alone in an end lounge. God, don’t leave me here. Don’t desert me now. There was no answer but the buzzing of the lights overhead.
It was finally bedtime, just twenty-four hours after I had knelt in the dingy little bathroom to pray. Was this God’s answer? Would this year be punctuated with raw terror ripping through every enclave of my life?
The yellow and white checked bedspread didn’t seem heavy enough as I clambered into bed. The white dorm walls were almost transparent, frail against the black outside. I was almost under the covers when I saw the envelope on my desk.
My birthday card.
Desperate for some shadow of normalcy, I flopped out of bed onto the orange carpet and grabbed the card, climbing back onto the top bunk to read.
My mom’s smooth, curling writing filled most of the inside.
Dear Amy, it read.
My shoulders drooped against the wall, and I felt the clenched muscles relax slightly.
As I anticipate your birthday, my mind goes back to those days when I was anticipating your birth. I was a little nervous about getting your two older sisters settled in someone else’s care and making it to the hospital on time. (As it turned out, there was no real rush. )
My legs felt long and heavy, finally loosening to sink into the mattress.
When I went through my “refresher Lamaze” course to get ready for labor, I decided to use Isaiah 41:10 as a focus for my thoughts:
I hugged my pillow against my chest.
“Do not fear, for I am with you.
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you.
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”
For a second, my breath caught, and I had to swallow and blink away a swell of warm tears.
That verse was a great reminder of my Father’s presence and help when you were born- And it has encouraged me other times since then. I pray you will experience the peace of knowing God’s presence and help throughout your life. You are such a joy to us…
Love, Mom and Dad
Fumbling for my Bible, my hands shook a little as I flipped the pages to Isaiah 41. The words were nestled there, straight lines in small, solid black text, as though printed precisely for this moment.
God is here, my heart trembled and quieted. God is here. And in little scrawling numbers next to verse 10, I penciled 9/11/01.
September 2001
It came the Saturday before my birthday, a cream envelope with Mary Englebreit’s pastel roses and a little blue watering can adorning the front. The handwriting for the address was my mother’s. I decided to save it, flipping it casually onto the stack of papers on my desk in my dorm room.
After all, I couldn’t open the card on the 8th; my birthday was still three days away.
Monday night, the night before my birthday, was a late one. The clock’s unblinking red numerals read 12:30 by the time I pulled on fuzzy blue pajama pants and a wrinkled Iowa Cyclones t-shirt in the bathroom, groggy and anxious to get to bed. Sarah was already asleep, and Jenny was still out in the end lounge reading psychology and eating popcorn. 12:30 a.m. I thought. It’s officially my birthday. I’m not a teenager anymore. The weight of two decades of existence seemed somehow momentous in the compact bathroom, and on an impulse, I dropped to my knees on the dingy navy blue rug. How melodramatic… I thought.
But since there was no one to laugh at me, I squeezed shut my eyes and whispered, “God, I don’t know what the future holds for me, but here I am, twenty years old. You take my life, the seconds and days of this year, and do something good in me. Bring glory to Your name. Amen.”
And then I went to bed, in the first hour of September 11, 2001.
* * *
When I was little, I used to dream about flying, about bungee jumping and sky diving. But my fascination with soaring alongside the birds was utterly squelched in my first personal flying experience. My senior class was going to Florida for our five-day senior-class trip in March 2000. We flew AirTran from Moline, IL to Atlanta, then down to Orlando. Unfortunately, we sat in the Atlanta airport for three hours while our plane underwent repairs. Besides becoming very unenthusiastic about the comforts of airport waiting areas, my confidence in our aircraft evaporated.
Seems like if you’ve got to work for three hours to fix something, it may be best to ditch the plane altogether…
We did eventually board, then sat there for another half hour while technicians fiddled around some more. Nerves made my stomach buzz like a hive of rattled hornets.
The plane finally started rolling down the runway, and my seatbelt was cinched around my waist as tightly as I could yank. Behind me, two guys from my class, both very experienced with flying, started muttering to each other.
“Look at those wings; they’re not supposed to flop up and down like that,” Danny sounded grim.
Josh, who was practicing for his pilot’s license, gave a concerned grunt of agreement. The plane bumped down the runway, thunking along faster and faster.
Danny leaned forward to speak in my ear. “Just so you know, this isn’t normal. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
The hornets in my stomach whipped into a frenzy, and I wanted to puke. God, give me grace. God, give me grace. I would’ve cried, but I was too scared for any tears.
Out the window, lines and poles flashed by faster still, and the rhythmic bumping churned into high gear.
“This is it; this is where we die!” Danny leaned forward in morbid excitement.
I squeezed my eyes shut. God, give me grace!
Shuddering a little, the plane lifted laboriously and haltingly rose above the airport. My abdominal muscles did not unclench through the entire rocky flight.
Since the trauma of that first flight, planes have remained my worst fear.
* * *
I was sitting on our beige dorm room couch, eating a bowl of birthday Honey Nut Cheerios, when the news report on the radio announced that a small plane had run into the World Trade Center. My stomach gave a little half-shudder. Starting my 20th birthday with a plane crash. Great.
It was not until I got to my 8:40 class that more news emerged, shooting a panicked adrenaline through my body. It wasn’t just a plane hitting a building; it was two planes, exploding through the Twin Towers. This was not a case of malfunctioning flight mechanisms; it was premeditated, intentional. The damage was not a few caved-in offices; the two buildings had collapsed.
The day took on a nightmarish feel. Clusters of people were talking everywhere—war, a draft, terrorism, Al Quida. There would be more planes, I knew, unconsciously scanning the brilliant blue sky above as I walked to Maranatha Hall. This was the just the beginning.
In chapel, I looked around at the rows and rows of young adults who usually chattered and tackled each other and laughed their way from class to class. All these men may be gone tomorrow, thoughts clenched my mind in panic. Who knows but that this is the beginning of the third World War.
My dad. What was the maximum age of the military draft? Would they take my dad away from me, take him to fight and die overseas?
Ironically, the sun beamed as I carried my birthday lunch from Café Naz outside, alone. I was jumpy, ears straining for the sound of aircraft, bracing myself for attack. I bowed my head for a mechanical prayer. There is no God. my mind taunted me. You are going to die.
I avoided televisions. It was bad enough to know that thousands were dead. Men had called their families to say good-bye, they were going to die. I did not want the image of an airplane nose piercing the thin skin of a tower seared into my memory. There was no good news.
I spent an hour of my birthday evening praying, alone in an end lounge. God, don’t leave me here. Don’t desert me now. There was no answer but the buzzing of the lights overhead.
It was finally bedtime, just twenty-four hours after I had knelt in the dingy little bathroom to pray. Was this God’s answer? Would this year be punctuated with raw terror ripping through every enclave of my life?
The yellow and white checked bedspread didn’t seem heavy enough as I clambered into bed. The white dorm walls were almost transparent, frail against the black outside. I was almost under the covers when I saw the envelope on my desk.
My birthday card.
Desperate for some shadow of normalcy, I flopped out of bed onto the orange carpet and grabbed the card, climbing back onto the top bunk to read.
My mom’s smooth, curling writing filled most of the inside.
Dear Amy, it read.
My shoulders drooped against the wall, and I felt the clenched muscles relax slightly.
As I anticipate your birthday, my mind goes back to those days when I was anticipating your birth. I was a little nervous about getting your two older sisters settled in someone else’s care and making it to the hospital on time. (As it turned out, there was no real rush. )
My legs felt long and heavy, finally loosening to sink into the mattress.
When I went through my “refresher Lamaze” course to get ready for labor, I decided to use Isaiah 41:10 as a focus for my thoughts:
I hugged my pillow against my chest.
“Do not fear, for I am with you.
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you.
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”
For a second, my breath caught, and I had to swallow and blink away a swell of warm tears.
That verse was a great reminder of my Father’s presence and help when you were born- And it has encouraged me other times since then. I pray you will experience the peace of knowing God’s presence and help throughout your life. You are such a joy to us…
Love, Mom and Dad
Fumbling for my Bible, my hands shook a little as I flipped the pages to Isaiah 41. The words were nestled there, straight lines in small, solid black text, as though printed precisely for this moment.
God is here, my heart trembled and quieted. God is here. And in little scrawling numbers next to verse 10, I penciled 9/11/01.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Fall in the Air
Dear Victor,
Yesterday felt like the first day of fall. It was crisp and fresh out, with low-hanging clouds and a cool breeze.
We sat in the backyard for a few minutes. I think you saw your first ant, at least the first you really examined. And, being a boy, you tried to eat your first bark (your pincher grip is getting good).
I've always loved fall, and I love being free to savor it in a fresh way with you. You get absorbed in exploring the texture of cement with your fingertips and then hear a car passing and up pops your head, peering to see through the slats of the fence.
Seasons change, baby. Daddy just came and whispered to me that you are standing up in the corner of your crib, evidently not dropping off to sleep quite yet. You can stand up now, and it won't be long before you're toddling around, making our lives more interesting yet.
God changes the seasons and times. So we must trust Him, when it's refreshing and sweet and when it's baffling and hard.
Love you, baby.
Go to sleep.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
8 Months!
8 months!
7 months
6 months
5 months old
4 months old
3 months old
2 months old
1 month old
2 weeks old
Dear Victor Albert,
You are 8 months old today. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of Victor Watter's death, whom you were named after. And that makes me think about the most important things in life.
One year ago today, this is what Victor's dad wrote on his Caringbridge site:
Written Sep 6, 2011 7:54am
Brian and I sat with Victor until 2:30 a.m. before finally giving in to our own need for some sleep. Victor awoke briefly to move around a little bit and to mumble "Dad" a couple of times under his mask, but he couldn't get anything more out ... words to treasure.
His breathing continues this morning, albeit 15 or more seconds between breaths. The whirr of the oxygen machine continues ...
You are getting to be such a big boy. So vibrant and strong and curious. You are exploring and expressing new things every day, it seems. And we are getting glimpses of the stubborn self-will you have inherited from your parents.
That's the problem, Victor. And without help, there would be no reason for you or anybody else to be named "Victor," because we would all be enslaved and defeated by sin.
But God sent a Hero. Stronger than Superman and more clever than Sherlock Holmes. And He did not just claim His kingdom ... He lived perfectly and died to ransom a captive people and make them sons and heirs.
That's the reason we call you Victor. Because Christ won the victory over sin and death. And how we pray, daily we pray, that His victory will be yours through faith.
This week, our church is memorizing probably the most beloved and well-known verse in the Bible:
For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.--John 3:16
The Father gave the Son. And through the Holy Spirit, we may believe and cry, "Abba, Father!" Oh, may those words ring in your heart throughout your life and in your very last day, whenever it is.
You are so precious to us, Victor Albert,
Momma and Daddy
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