A Better Death

( I wrote this more than half a year ago, but haven't had a chance to review it yet. After another look I think I'll let these observations stand. More in the future - this is an incomplete train of thought. Eager for comments.)
So, I've been thinking about death recently. Reading this article on FT prompted further ruminations. I think I'll just think out loud here for a bit.

Is there such a thing as a good death? In our society there is so much equivocation that it is difficult to conclusively answer this and other questions, because there is not universally accepted definition of "good."

Positing some opinions:

1. Death cannot be a "good" of the body because it detracts from rather than perfects the body's "being".

2. Death is inevitable in the current human condition (unaltered by divine intervention e.g. Enoch, Elijah).

3. It is possible for an evil of the body to be preferable to another evil. This is true objectively as well as situationally and relatively. (Preferable to lose a toe than a leg. Preferable to be martyred for one's faith than to recant; but preferable to surrender one's wallet than be shot.)

4. Are "better" and "preferable" synonyms? Can one legitimately say that one evil is better than another? Certainly, one evil of the body can be less egregious than another evil of the body.

5. Thus, one death can conceivably be less of an evil than another death.

6. And yet, the imperfection of the body wrought by death is not the only evil attendant thereon.

The state of the soul must be also in view inasmuch as death closes the opportunity for the actions and grace given in earthly life. The soul is foreclosed upon and an account required.

7. Therefore, if a person be a Christian (the definition of which is understood for these purposes) at the time of death, the result is eternal bliss, the person's accounting being that of Christ's righteousness. And in due time the body will be resurrected imperishable, an unquestionable good of the body. Thus, an evil of the body may be a necessary precursor to the final end of the soul and the perfection (good) of the body.

8. And yet, if a person be not a Christian at the time of death, then death marks the ending of that time in which a person may apprehend and believe the Gospel, without which eternity holds but separation from God (man's final end). This is an unquestionable evil of body and soul.

9. So we conclude that death is an evil of the body which is followed immediately either by a good of the body and soul or by an evil of the body and soul depending upon the state of the soul previous to death, death preventing any alteration in the state of the soul. A double evil being undoubtedly worse than a single evil leading to a far better good, the death of a person as a Christian is indubitably "better" than the death of a person as an unbeliever.

10. If it is true that a single evil is less harmful to one's being than multiplied evils, than one could conceivably hold that death pure and simple is "better" than death accompanied by other evils of the body.

11. And yet, death is never pure and simple: death occurs in a context, in a situation, from causes, modified by circumstances. Some of these circumstances include the following:

- place: where the death takes place.

- people: who is present and what actions they take.

- pain: level and duration of pain leading up do death.

- cause/pathophysiology/course: if natural causes, this is the way the cause of death plays itself out in the body.

- conditions: what the environment is like (noise, tubes, machines, personal incontinence, linens, restraints).

- spiritual readiness: see items 6-9, last rites/sacraments

- awareness: level of measurable awareness of all other circumstances/approaching death

- activity and distress: extent to which the dying person's body moves, indicates distress, fights death.

- presence of "life prolonging" measures: tube feedings, CPR, mechanical ventilation, heart pacing, etc.

12. Because the above circumstances can be modified or managed, the evils accompanying death can be lessened or decreased.

Marriage and Motherhood

In some ways, I feel very different than I did this time last year. Last year, I was a girl, a student, a daughter primarily. Now I am a woman, a worker, a wife, and a mother. My person is the same, but I have stepped out of old roles and into new ones.

I haven't really talked about this transition, except with my husband and my mother, because while these new roles give me great joy they also made me feel awkward and shy, especially around around the young people I interact with. I don't feel that I've really entered the adult ranks, and yet I have most definitely left the general mass of youthdom behind.

As a wife, I've gained a great deal of love and respect for my husband that I could not have fathomed as a single person, even on the threshold of our wedding day. As a new bride, I did not know what to expect from my husband, well as I thought I knew him, and I discovered him to be a far better man than I had ever imagined he could be. His gentleness, compassion, spiritual leadership, intellectual vigor, and the strong emotional and physical support he continues to offer me are gifts I don't know how I ever managed without.

Being married is a huge positive in terms of my mental health. After we were married my stress level decreased by a subjective 80%. I have a strong feeling of security and identity that I (didn't realize that I) lacked before. Though marriage brings new responsibilities and stressors, the benefits compensate by far.

In the early months of our union, my husband and I often discussed how marriage did or did not match our expectations of what it would be like. One thing that pleasantly surprised us both is that much of the bliss of our relationship comes from mundane domestic life. In a way, marriage is not so much excitement as emotional and physical security and relaxation. It's a trust that we live in.

Now, we've got a baby to care for and look forward to. For me, this realization is another line that separates me from the child I used to be and the children with whom I used to keep company. Though we kept the secret for a while and enjoyed it between the two of us, eventually my husband and I had to make it public. With that public knowledge, I again feel shy and out of place. It as if I don't know what I am in the social circles I find myself in. At work, little has changed, and with my husband I know exactly how he regards me, but in the public eye, I am ill at ease. It's that subconscious, "Everyone is looking at me," feeling.

The physical changes in my body are no easier to share. How long does it take before people are tired of hearing me say I feel sick? How many naps are acceptable in a single day? How far can I make my wardrobe hide the gradual growth of my child?

From the time we first showed a positive test, both my husband and I have been very concerned about properly caring for this child. (Why else would I take that horrible prenatal vitamin every night). Until we had our first ultrasound at 10 weeks, it was always a question for us as to whether our child was still alive, had implanted, had developed a heartbeat, or would simply disappear in silence to our grief. When we saw our baby's heartbeat, saw him (or her) moving on the ultrasound, I couldn't help crying. I know my husband was relieved as well. We both talk to the baby, whether he can hear us yet or no, and pray for him daily.

On a spiritual level, I know that children in the womb can hear the word of God and have faith and I pray that God would grant faith to our child, and yet I will be so much more reassured when the child is baptized. Till then, I read the Bible, pray, attend church, and speculate to myself on whether the Eucharistic elements cross the placenta. (I think they do.)

This child also brings with him (or her) a new level of anxieties requiring a new level of trust in God. The baby makes me realize that with his advent I am not able to be as independent as I could be before. I need my husband more than ever, both for financial and physical support and for emotional support. If something were to happen to him, it would be difficult for me alone to raise this child in the way we plan to. I am not able anymore to control my body and it's reactions (especially to smells). I am more obviously dependent on God to make it through a work day and pray often during the shift that the nausea will not get worse or my emotions flip out in stressful patient situations. Just ignoring fatigue and finding time to eat the frequent small meals I've found helpful is a delicate balance at work.

And, as I mentioned above, I continue to be concerned about the baby's safety. I know too much, and while my womb is the safest available home for my child, it seems incredibly hostile considering everything that could go wrong. I have recurrent nightmares about miscarriage and other adverse events.

The realization that I am a mother is taking a while to really settle in, though. Apart from the ultrasound, the baby doesn't seem very real to me. I can't feel any movement yet, and my physical changes so far aren't really connected in my mind to a living human being within me. Nevertheless, I continue to hope, pray, and wait for the awkwardness of this transition to pass and for myself to find a place in the ranks of wives and mothers.

The Water is Wide

I'll start out satisfying my recent blogging impulse with a brief post about the song my husband and I used as a sort of theme for the secular part of our wedding. "The Water is Wide" is derivative of an old, old song, the original of which itself has been lost. In the Child Ballads there are several related but dissimilar songs. "The Water is Wide" is also related to "Oh Waly, Waly."

The modern version I've chosen to learn is as follows:

1. The water is deep, I can't swim o'er,
And neither have I wings to fly.
Build me a boat that will carry two,
And both shall row, my love and I.

2. There is a ship, and she sails the sea.
The sea's sae deep—as deep can be—
But not so deep as the love I'm in...
And I know not how I'll sink or swim.

3. I leaned my back against an oak,
Thinking it was the strongest tree,
But first it bended and then it broke,
And that's the way love treated me.

4. I reached my hand into the thorn,
Thinking the fairest flow'r to find.
I pricked my finger to the bone
And left the fairest flow'r behind.

5. Oh love is handsome and love is kind,
Gay as a jewel when first it's new.
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew.

(Sometimes, two additional verses are included, as follows. These I often omit, as we did at our wedding.)

6. Must I go bound while you go free?
Must I love a man who doesn't love me?
Must I be born with so little art
As to love a man who'll break my heart?

7. When cockle shells turn silver bells,
Then will my love come back to me.
When roses bloom in winter's gloom
Then will my love return to me.)

The best commentary I have on this song is found in what I wrote to my husband when we were choosing songs for our wedding reception:

Here's what I've been writing to help me think about this song, as I would like to give some sort of verbal and/or written explanation:

The Water is Wide
At first glance, this song may not impress the listener as being particularly happy or relevant to a wedding. It has a mournful, sober approach. But on deeper inspection, these lyrics deal quite realistically with the reality of marriage and speak to our hopes for our married life.

The Water is Wide relates two principles – the insufficiency and transience of the passion of love and the necessity of the boat which will carry the couple as they labor together.

Love alone is a poor support for us. Like the oak, which the singer thought “was the strongest tree,” it bends and breaks when one relies on it and like the rose for all its beauty, it pricks one’s finger when one grasps for it.

The feelings of love we have for each other are both overwhelmingly deep, but also shallow and transient against the test of time and hardship. Sentiments and passions are “gay as a jewel, when first it’s new.” But unguarded and unnourished “love grows auld and waxes cold and fades away like morning dew.”

Against all the perils of love and cynical disappointment in marriage is set the boat. Whether or not the early development of the song intended the metaphor, a boat has historically been viewed as a metaphor of the Church. Though the waters of love or hardship be wide or deep and despite our lack of swimming skills or wings to pass over or through the ship of Christ’s Church, in which we receive forgiveness of sins, life, and peace, in Jesus’ Name, will carry us over, even in the times when we “know not if [we] will sink or swim.”

I'm Gonna Start Blogging Again!

Hey Guys,

It's been awhile. But now that I'm married, not in school, and "settled down" (irony) I think I'll start blogging again. Particularly, I'd like to take a closer look at folk songs and tales here on the blog. My goal is to write a short commentary/analysis here once every week or two. Hopefully, this endeavor will assist me in my bardic aspirations. I'd also like to update the "Bedside Manners" every week or so with something new I'm learning. I'm well aware that I do not have time to write long, well-revised posts, so I'm going to have to accept less polished writing from myself. That said, here we go! :D

A Post, Finally

So what it's ten pm on the night before clinical? I'm gonna write a blog post, since I haven't done that in like a bizillion years.

I actually made a New Year's Resolution this year; after my usual fashion of waiting until two weeks post-New Year's. I thought I'd blogged it, but apparently not.

This year I resolve to learn assertiveness. I've spent too long being passive or passive aggressive and bottling everything all up until I burst out in anger or absorb a bunch of disappointment and hurt over things that I never told anyone I wanted for fear of rejection in the first place. My depressed thoughts have got DYSFUNCTIONAL and MALADAPTIVE written all over them.

I plan to learn to say, "No," when I can't do something, instead of sort of mumbling about it and ending up over-committed.

I plan to learn to tell my loved ones when I would like them to do something, instead of hinting, vaguely hoping that they'll notice, and feeling disappointed and guilty when they don't.

I plan to learn to take responsibility for my own actions, behavior, and feelings, without taking responsibility for others' actions, behavior, and feelings which are beyond my vocation or control.

I plan to learn to appropriately confront people with whom I have a conflict instead of talking about the conflict with everyone but them.

I plan to learn to address problems to the appropriate authority, with proposed solutions, instead of bemoaning the problem, my helplessness and frustration.

I plan to learn to eliminate false, self-injuring, 'automatic thoughts' which tear down my self-image and destroy the joy God has given me in who He has made me to be. I additionally plan to learn to put the best construction on the words and actions of my family, friends, colleagues and supervisors at work and school, rather than allowing myself to become more and more insecure by assuming negative connotations.

I plan to learn to stop making self-deprecation my automatic fall-back when others give me attention, reduce discomfort by other methods, and learn to appropriately respond to compliments.

I plan to learn to prevent myself from becoming tense and anxious whenever I anticipate my parents, teachers, and other authorities observing and evaluating behavior on my part that they have not specifically sanctioned. (E.g. There's no reason I should get a pounding headache, almost burst into tears, and feel extremely guilty and trapped when an authority says they wish to talk to me about something, when a parent hears me singing a new folk song, or a fellow student corrects a minor mistake in a clinical technique.)

And so the list goes on. Some of these non-assertive, pathological thoughts and behaviors have grown with me since childhood. Some have emerged insidiously since the onset of adolescence or the beginning of nursing school. I do not want these dysfunctional processes to control or define me.

I want to be a self-disciplined, self-controlled, self-aware Christian woman who can use her body, mind, and behavior consciously and deliberately in service to her neighbor within her vocation. To this end I make my resolution, petitioning the aide of Almighty God, who does not abandon me even when I feel irrationally alone and excessively guilty, but who strengthens and upholds me and will preserve even my fragile mind to life everlasting, along with my body and soul.

Picture Panel Explained

For a while I've wanted to comment briefly on the panel I've placed at the top of my blog. Like many other things, that's been pushed to the very back burner while I'm pursuing education and whatnot. Tonight, I find an opportunity. Perhaps I could make better use of my time working on a research paper, but I'll lay that scruple aside for now and let myself enjoy writing for pleasure once again.

When I first made my blog, I wanted the title and description to say something about me and my intent for this blog. I wanted the title to reflect that the thoughts I here write, while often important to me, are not a matter of dogma nor would I refuse to be pursuaded contrary to them. Some posts are for fun and are therefore useful but not essential. Some posts are principles, observations, ruminations, and ramblings - non of these would I hold to adamantly. My writing is part of my thought, but not my essential identity. Hence I deemed it fit to title the blog, "The Adiaphoron".

When I began my blog, I did so in hopes that by writing for fun and by writing things I could not immediately express in conversation, I might be able to get to know myself better. I might be able to read back and get an idea of what I, the inward person looked like when turned inside out. Writing has always helped me get a handle on myself, and for a year or so The Adiaphoron served that purpose very nicely. Now things are altered - but that's another post. All this is to say that the quote from "The Scarlet Pimpernel" simply signifies that I sought to peep closer at that complex problem which is my own female heart through my writing.

Now for the panel. I included pictures because of what they symbolized to me. The first painting on the right,"On a Sailboat", was painted by Caspar David Friedrich, one of my favorite Romantic painters. We talked at length about this piece during one of our art lectures at Augustine. Dr. Tingley pointed out that the couple is sitting on a boat together. They are not sailing the boat per se, but the boat is carrying them. Unlike so many depictions of lovers, these two are not looking at one another, but at a point in the distance toward which they travel, toward which the boat is carrying them. It is a city. A golden city. In a larger picture, one can see that the city is lit up as if either glowing from within or as if the sun is setting behind it. Whether the artist intended it or not, to me (as to Dr. Tingley) this painting is an allegory of the kind of marriage I want to have. A union where both spouses are joined by a common journey to a common eternal destination, carried by the single boat of the holy church.

The next image is Luther's Seal. You friends of mine know that my confession is that of the Holy Scriptures and the Lutheran Confessions. It was through my Lutheran fathers that the weight of the Gospel of forgiveness and peace first impacted my soul and pierced it through, bringing joy and comfort. Christ is foremost and a faithful confession of Him paramount to my life and practice, though I fall short in action. This picture symbolizes my confession of Christ crucified for my sins and free forgiveness by His resurrection. It reminds me that I have sworn to retain this confession unto death.

The next photo is of a group of my baby goats from several years ago. It's hard to explain to people who have only known me for the past few years, but my herd was a lynch-pin of my life for over a decade of my life. I grew it from one goat to twenty or more at one time, managed them in health, cared for them in sickness, grieved them in death, and competed with them in many shows. When one feeds an animal twice daily, milks it as often, and grows up with it, one loves it with a bond seldom formed between creatures. My goats were my children, my "bitties". Though I've not really consistently been a goat-herdess for two and a half years now, my herd was foundational to who I am now, my experience, and my character.

The picture of the the parchment with the heart and cross drawn upon it and the words, "Dieu Le Roi" I chose for somewhat obscure reasons. I found this image on a Wikipedia page treating the La Vendee resistance and massacres (as I have written elsewhere on this blog). La Vendee is the French province that refused to surrender their priests or provide soldiers to the Parisian Committee of Public Safety during the French Revolution. They clung to their nobility as well. When they resisted the Revolutionary Government, the entire population was brutally murdered. The fragment in the picture above states, "God is King" - a dangerously politically incorrect statement for the time and place. I first heard of La Vendee while reading G.A. Henty's boy's series. (Excellent works for the most part; I hope to write on them at some point.) G.A. Henty greatly influenced both my understanding of history and my moral development. (I've several shelves worth of his books and read them all; some twice or more.) It is as much because of his influence as because of my admiration for the Vendeans' piety and courage that I place this picture on my blog.

The next image is one I found when looking for artistic (not movie) depictions of Eowyn (LOTR). As many of you know, I used to (and still do to a lesser extent) strongly identify with Tolkien's character of Theoden's "sister-daughter". From the beginning of my fascination with Tolkien's works, I was awed by the insight with which Tolkien crafted Eowyn. I felt as if at last at I had found a male author who understood the female psyche. But that aside, the picture above depicts Gandalf, Aragorn, and Eomer around Eowyn's bed. Aragorn, in his office as the king-who-heals has literally brought Eowyn back from the dead with the "common" herb athelas which those esteemed wise treated as of little worth. Those who have only seen the movie completely miss the dialogue of Aragorn, Eomer, and Gandalf about Eowyn and the pathology of her condition. Read the book. It's beautiful. Eowyn has raised her eyes and set her heart on being what she is not, in a place not meant for her. She is restless with what she sees as her helpless femininity entrapping, caging her capabilities and spirit. When she finds and finally understands love, she is at rest. No more must she be a shield maiden and long to fight and kill and die, but she will "be a healer and love all things that grow and are not barren."

The next image - I'm sure there's a name for it, but I don't remember. But obviously, it shows Christ holding out His Body and Blood "for us Christians to eat and to drink". These are my life and salvation, my consummation yet here on earth. My life, the culmination of a week of prayer, and guilt, and the shame that threatens my sense of identity and worth. Before this Presence my fear would hang my head and plead for mercy, but Christ gives His gifts for peace and not fear. He has absolved me already, though my heart forgets or does not grasp it. Here, no matter what my fear or confidence, He loves me with a love that overwhelms any doubt and fear. "Here. I give my body to you." No mention of my sin or failures or my half-hearted devotion. The God of the Universe encounters me and instead of condemning He embraces me. "What sin do you have? My blood is for the forgiveness of your sin."

The last painting is also one that I encountered in my Augustine "Art in Western Culture" course, though I don't remember actually talking about it at the time. I think I looked it up later. It's called "Domine Quo Vadis", Latin for "Lord, where are you going?" Tradition has it (according to Wikipedia) that Peter fleeing from probable crucifixion in Rome met Jesus and put Him this question. "I'm going to Rome to be crucified again" came the response which turned Peter around in his tracks and sent him back to martyrdom. Sometimes "Domine, quo vadis" is the cry of my heart as well, "Lord, I don't understand. This isn't the way to do things. This doesn't make any sense. Where are you going?" My Lord didn't say that following Him would make sense or wouldn't hurt. But He goes before me. He's done it all before and I can trust Him, even when it looks to me like I'm only trudging along the procession of the condemned to crucifixion.

Anyway, that's the panel. Oh! I suppose I could mention Joan of Arc on the sidelines down there. She doesn't make it into the panel because I'm not really sure about her. (Material for another blog post someday.) She was one of my childhood heroes and I'm 99% positive that she was a faithful Christian. (She makes a good confession anyway.) What exactly she heard speaking to her, I'm not sure of. (Like I said, more later, hopefully.) But the lass had spunk, and religiously driven spunk too. She did hard things, changed people's lives, and changed the course of history without political background or aspirations. There's something that attracts me about courageous women who are not afraid to do what needs to be done. That's why she's on my blog. More of a symbol of female bravery for me than of the historical Joan.

I'm up too late again. Why do I do this on nights before church? Late or not, it's nice to write again. Maybe God will grant me time to do more blogging in the future. For now, so long, dear reader.

Phone Calls and Such

Has anyone seen Veith's post on phone conversations? Thought provoking.

I admit to feeling embarrassed calling specific people. Most of the embarrassment, though, seems to stem from a fear of being annoying or unwanted. I am alright with business calls, for the most part. One is expected to call about business, to straighten out one's affairs, and then to hang up. It's straightforward and no one objects. I enjoy getting personal calls, even though I'm often stilted, stammering and awkward on the phone. Personal-social calls tell me that the caller cares a lot. I mean, a TON. (It takes effort to carve out time for a call, and effort to maintain a conversation. It takes courage to reach out across the invisible miles to the unseen other and poke him/her in the shoulder. "Hey! Talk to me a bit. Please.")

Don't get me wrong. I like email. I appreciate email for the very reasons that at times I prefer phone conversations to email. With email one can precisely formulate one's words with deliberation, while phone conversations necessarily disallow deliberation. With email, one has a copy of what was said and can review the message at will to reassure one's self of the content and sender's meaning. With verbal messages, the words are distorted through memory. With email one has the opportunity to say much without interruption - to paint a landscape that takes concentration. A conversation necessarily involves a back and forth, a give and take. With email I personally am less inclined to hold back what I wish to talk about for fear that the other doesn't want to hear it. In a phone conversation or face to face conversation, I feel rude if I talk of myself uninvited, or talk long. The insidious little voice in my ear whispers that it doesn't really matter to anyone but me anyway - the listener is probably smiling and nodding politely with closed ear and thoughts afar. I could babble as well as any, but when I do, it leaves me feeling the emptier and more foolish because there is seldom a response that indicates anything other than the polite listener. Those who ask more, who draw me out, who respond genuinely, give me the best gift any humans have and I love them with a sinner's love (Even the pagans love those who love them). Among these are my father.

To sum up, I like phone calls because they are risky, unchoreographed, and pure grace. One must remember them in faith. I like email because I can control it, prepare it, return to it for (relative) certainty, and participate with low risk of rejection. Phone calls are dangerous because they put you in direct contact with another human being, their ambitions, aspirations, vocations, loves, hates, moods, babbling. Emails buffer you from all these things and put you in contact only with a mind - an almost disembodied mind - that can deal with you coolly as and when it will in a disembodied and removed manner.

As in the days of my infancy, blood and gore are more beautiful than unruffled clothes. The rag doll is more exciting than the stiff china maid. The fragile china makes one tingle with delight, while the disposable paper plate does not.

No Girl Left Behind: some initial thoughts

Ok guys, so I'm gullible. It's one of my lesser, but more dangerous delinquencies. Earlier today, I was directed to this website and being the aforementioned gullible person, took it mostly seriously, and seriously engaged it in a blogwritten argument. About 10 minutes from completion of this 2 hour blogpost, I found I was sticking pins in a chimera: it melted, leaving a pile of pins. Having spent two hours on it, I figured I'd let you see the pins, before I sweep them up.

I'll admit, when I first read it, it struck me as a tad incredible, but I believe in taking people seriously, when they appear serious. If they turn out to be joking, I've only enlarged the joke. Hence what follows.


What I write here is preliminary: some quick reactionary thoughts after skimming this website. But I think there is more in this topic worth discussing.

Will the reader be pleased to peruse the writing upon this site as the discussion below doth pertain thereto: http://nogirlleftbehind.99k.org/

Many of the statements and lines of reasoning followed on this site make me nod and say, "I know exactly what you are talking about. I can see it. I watch it regularly in friends I love."

More than half of my close personal friends who are greater than 5 years my senior are unmarried - none of them from choice. Male and female. I know the females more intimately and have heard their longing for love, for a family, for children. (Almost every girl experiences these feelings for some period, age aside. I am no stranger to these.) Some of us have talked at length about how this comes about - that a number of Christian women are waiting for husbands who never come, while a number of young Christian men fool about or wait for the "perfect woman" who doesn't exist.

I've wondered to myself - what is the answer? Is there one in this earth? Shall we "leave the matter" to the hands of God? But are not His hands on earth, human hands? The hands of fathers, pastors, family, friends?

So, I am sympathetic, yea, even tentatively in favor of proposed arrangements as I read down the list of "Things You Can Do". But a few notes of the site strike a discord in my soul and unease in my mind.

1st. The treating of marriage as a "right".

No one has a "right" to marriage. If there is any such thing as a "right" (I admit to conflicting thoughts about "rights", not to be discussed here), then surely it is something that is universal to all in a set (eg, a human right is universal to the set of all humans)and the absence of it (the right) is an evil which denies the member of the set a part of her nature. To say that all humans ought to be free from ownership by another human is one thing: to say that all women ought to be married is another. God gives some to be eunuchs for the kingdom of God. (Matthew 19:12) The one who can accept marriage, should, Christ says; yet Paul apparently did not marry and speaks to the Corinthians of the ways in which the celibate may serve the church even more vigorously. To say that all women have a right to marriage is to say that to live singly as a women is to be less of a woman, to which all Christians must cry, "error".

Further, marriage is a gift, not a right. Yes, first it is a gift of God. But it is also a mutual gift between husband and wife. It is beautiful because it is grace, undeserved love, promise. Now, if it is by right (or merit) it is no longer by promise (or grace). Where would the tenderness be if a woman could say to a man, "It is my right that you love me. By right, I require you to die for me everyday in everyway." It is absurd, but when one says, "all young women are naturally entitled to marriage" (I quote from the site linked above) that is what they are saying. It could as well be rendered, "all young women are naturally entitled to have a fellow human being lay down his life for them". But the reality is more like the reverse: It is the precious responsibility of every young man to lay down his life for the neighbor Christ gives him, and the closest neighbor is his wife, whom God gives him because it is not good for him to be alone. No human deserves love of himself or herself, but is made lovable and loved by God as a gift; loved through humans and by humans as a precious gift of God and man. God grants us to be like himself in the giving of this love. To treat marriage as a "right" of a young woman robs the young woman of the astounding joy of unmerited love. And it robs young men of the only truly God-like gift they can give their wife (other than forgiveness).

2. Where did the chain of command fly off to? Hello! When it comes to "what you can do" to help solve the problem of unwedded matrimonially aspiring maids, we see an array of advice bewilderingly out of keeping with biblical precedent. Sure, talk to your friends if you want. Blog if you want. Raise awareness if you have time, energy, and an iron to burn. But please, please, don't get the government involved. The bill mentioned just about makes me ill. Why are we going to the Gentile courts? Have we not competency to judge these matters in the church of God? The only truly sensible piece of advice on this 'action' page is communication with your pastor - but in the misguided form of "harangue".

If anyone should be consulted, any external body employed in correcting a problem of unweddedness, it should be parents and the church. Parents are given the governance of their children till they reach adulthood. Even after majority, a father who carries out his vocation will remain a protecting, guiding head for his unmarried daughter. This includes helping her to find a spouse if marriage is what daughter and father discern is her vocation. If a girl's father has died, a mother or brother may well facilitate this process. Failing this, or if family is uninvolved, or in addition to family, a girl should have recourse to her church in matters of marriage. In a more hierarchical church structure (by which I intend the type of liturgical/sacramental church in which a girl's clergy is [or should be] a close spiritual father to her, this can be a matter of personal guidance, advice, and activism by that father. In a less hierarchical setting (for example, numerous nondenominational churches)there are plenty of mature Christian couples who could take a girl under their wing and seek a husband for her if necessary. Mayhap church leadership would need to assign a fostering parent set to a girl, but there are ways these things could be arranged within any church.

3. Rights become Force.

But the idea of "external pressure" (I quote) to "force marriages" (I quote again) is a more grievous violation of human rights than any so-called "right to marriage". These phrases show clearly how warped the American idea of "rights" has become: If you have a right, we will force you to claim it. You must be married, whether you like it or not. It is like as to saying, "You have a right to freedom of speech. Therefore, if you will not express your political opinions, we will put you in jail."


4. The Government as Enforcer

To place the enforcement of rules coercing matrimony in the hands of the state is a recipe for disaster as well as a travesty. I'm sorry, the Bill is stupid from start to finish. Those of you who know me know that I never use the word "stupid", because it indicates a sort of brainlessness. But I do believe this whole thing demonstrates a remarkable failure of the speculative intellect. I sense that a point by point rebuttal would be a slap in the face to my readers' intelligences.

Indeed, it is at this point that I felt a bit mocked myself, just reading the piece.

************************************************************************

I realize that this website may be satirical, a farce, or a joke. Nevertheless, the satire is so perfect and comical because the topic is serious. So, I don't consider the exercise of writing this post wasted, though I critique a paper man. The paper man is a caricature of a real one, and like all caricatures, the features are exaggerated, but not fabricated. Thus, there are real concerns which I could only think about clearly by meeting their ultimate hyperbolic incarnations. But my reasoning is the better for encountering them, fencing with them, and being humiliated by their vaporization.

Be gentle: I'm gullible.

Admonition

You. Read Ecclesiastes today.

Drill for the Semester

I really hoped it wouldn't be this way. But it is. I'm going to have to give some things up.

I didn't want it to be church. But it's an hour travel time either way, 3 times a week. I've just got to come to terms with it: I'd be prudent to cut out midweek services. I'm running myself into the ground, and it hasn't even been a full week since school started.

Here's how the week looks.
Monday, get up at 4am, go to the hospital, work clinical till 2:30 or 3:30, home between 3pm and 4pm. Write up Nursing Process Papers on each patient till time to sleep. (around 10pm) Supper, shower, and devotions in there of course.

Tuesday, get up at 6:15am, pick up carpoolers, drive to school. Pharmacology 8am to 10am. Med-Surg Theory 10:30am to 12:30pm. View assigned audiovisual materials. Try to work out and study at the same time. Voice lesson from 3pm to 4pm. Go home, read my brains out till I go to sleep.

Wednesday, same routine, only without the Voice Lesson.

Thursday, catch up on Pharmacology and Med-Surg Reading. Finish Care Plans and Clinical paperwork. Read assignments for Clinical Sleep.

Friday, up at 4am again. Same drill as Monday.

Saturday, try desperately to read assignments for coming week's Pharmacology, Clinical, Med-Surg Theory, finish clinical paperwork

Sunday, go to church, finish clinical paperwork. Bury my head in my books. Try to sleep.

Pass Go, collect grades, stool specimens, bloodied paperwork by the pen of the preceptor.

Not sure where I'm going to fit in the hour and a half of voice practice in there.

My posts have greatly deteriorated, however, I have no time for anything more literary.
Goodnight. Peace to you, dear reader.

On New Year's Morn

Snow falls. 2010 will dawn this day. Another year of my life is completed.

As I review the past, recent years fall into discreet emotional categories. 2007 was the year of my spiritual searching and enlightening. 2008 was the year of my testing and breaking; emotionally, philosophically, and spiritually. 2009 was the year of healing and humbling in the same three areas. What shall be 2010? None knowest but him who knoweth all.

New Year's Resolution? I have none that I'll risk the utterance. A few public hopes have I here for the coming year:

I would like to sleep 8 -9 hours every night.
I would like to get all my homework done by the day before it is due.
I would like to get to church at least twice a week.
I would like to work this summer for a decent pay rate.
I would like to spend some quality time with my siblings every week.

Let's see how this works out. I realize that this post is ridiculously impromtu, but that's what I turn out at 0133. Blessings in this year of grace two thousand ten.

- TQ

Contexualizing the Christmas Story

If you have access to Facebook and wish to add to the discussion I hope to have provoked there, please do.

Merry Christmas and a Blessed Nativity of Our Lord to you all! As I do every year, I’ve spent considerable time humming or singing Christmas carols and hymns. And as I have for many a year passed, I’ve contemplated one particular hymnodic question.

Briefly consider this hymn written in 1643 by the Jesuit priest Jean de Brébeuf (#Canadian patron saint, Canadian martyr) for the Huron natives. Called “Huron Carol” or alternatively “’Twas in the moon of wintertime,” the hymn illustrates a question of contextualization that intrigues me.

*‘Twas in the moon of wintertime
When all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchee Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead.
Before their light the stars grew dim
And wandering hunters heard the hymn:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender babe was found
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapped his beauty round
But as the hunter braves drew nigh
The angel song rang loud and high:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so bright and fair
As was the ring of glory on
The helpless Infant there
And chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus in born.
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest green
O sons of Manitou
This holy Child of earth and Heav’n
Is born today for you
Come kneel before the radiant Boy
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.

I would ask, “Is this hymn appropriate for Christian use?” If so, in what settings is it appropriate: liturgy, private use, caroling? Why or why not?

On the one hand, the song is beautiful (at least, the Jesse Edgar Middleton translation I am working from) and confesses the birth of Jesus Christ. However, I am curious about two aspects of lyrics.

First, how appropriate is the use of the name “Gitchee Manitou” for God? Is the use of this Huron name similar to the anglo use of “God” for YHWH, or is there significant reason to avoid using this name to refer to the Divine (ie; syncretism with indigenous paganism)?

[Wikipedia:
"Gitche Manitou (Gitchi Manitou, Gitche Manito, etc.) means "Great Spirit" in several Algonquian languages. The term was also utilized to signify God by Christian missionaries, when translating scriptures and prayers, etc. into the Algonquian languages.
"Manitou is a common Algonquian term for spirit, mystery, or deity."]

Second, how appropriate is the re-description of the characters in the Christmas story to fit the Huron context? For instance; “wandering hunters” for shepherds, “chiefs from far” for magi, "fox and beaver pelt" for gold, frankinscense and myrrh, and “ragged robe of rabbit skin” for swaddling bands. Are there substantial objections, theologically or otherwise, to such modifications? Objections considered, are the alterations of detail acceptable for hymnodic use?

I do realize that these may be questions lacking conclusive answers, but what do you all think?

* http://www.christmas-songs.org/songs/twas_in_the_moon_of_wintertime.html
# http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/huron_carol.htm

Need for Caution: Contrition

I've become abruptly aware recently that many of the sayings and metaphorical phrases which I grew up hearing and using in a clean and witty sense may be understood in an unclean, perverted sense. I shall have to exercise much caution if I mean to keep my communication as clear as my thought.

To all my friends and readers: Forgive me if I have unintentionally said something offensive, suggestive, or improper. If it occurs again, please correct me and clarify. Apologies in advance.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's ok too.

B-day

Last evening through today have together composed the nicest birthday I think I have ever had. Simple, no fanfare, relaxing, are effective descripters. I did what I wanted to do.

Last night I came home to a nice, homecooked stirfry complete with vegetables, mushrooms, and onions. Instead of cake, we had apple pie at my request. Mom even bought cider. It was a very cozy meal - just the family, nothing elaborate. After dinner I received a few gifts - beautiful writing from my youngest sister, a CD of Handel's Messiah from my Grandparents, and a cell phone from my parents. Best of all, Dad brought out the guitar. He hasn't played since...I don't know when - probably at least a year. We drug out the old "Word of God" community song books and sang the beautiful charismatic semi-liturgical songs I used to love as a wee lass. The Te Deum setting in Daddy's book is still one of my favorite songs.

Instead of going to sleep or forcing homework down my gullet or even socializing online, I took up a book - the first fiction book I've cracked this semester. George MacDonald regaled me with his narrative of "wee Sir Gibbie" till nigh on 1:30am. It was delightfully satisfying and seemed a combination of several styles of writing I've appreciated in the past. The young, dumb, gentle-hearted orphan overcomes the odds with simplicity and forgiveness, wins the maiden, and in poetic justice inherits the house of his forbears, all in (relative) Scottish dialect.

The day of me birth I spent wi' me ain bonnie lad and some other friends. I would not have had the day any other way. It was relaxing, low key, and not "me focused" at all. I may safely say that in all my -- years, I've had ne'er a more pleasant birthday, nor received it sae gratefully as a day of rest.

Sunday Night's Addition: A note on the makeup. I'm going off of it. I've been wearing it off and on for the past week and a half because of acne severity. I hate acne: I hate the blotches on my face. I also abhore a mask, particularly clay, especially clay connected by association with coquettish behaviors. But I put it on because I hated the unnatural physiologic more than the unnatural cosmetic. Tomorrow, however, I'm done. I will not be ashamed of my face. If it causes unpleasantness to others, I will hide it again, but not till then.

Goodnight, dear reader. Tomorrow I begin my clinical work in Geriatrics. I don't have to get up at 4am, but I do need to rise at 5, and hence I shall now turn in. Here ends another post with no particularly deep point.

Bones

This Post Not For the Squeamish. Death and Decay discussed.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Today I gathered bones.
***********************************************
In August, Chatter, my 2nd original goat died. I heard her cry out from the barn, but I thought nothing of it for the sound ceased as abruptly as it rang out. My goats often cry when they hear people's voices and I was busy. On a "rough day" scale of 0-10, it had been about an 8 already(one of those days where in order to keep my mind and body from pathologic thoughts and acts I hurtle myself into the woods to run till I cannot breathe and movement requires more than will). I was barely holding together as it was, dead tired from readying projects for entry to the county youth fair the next day. So, when conscience pricks drove my weary feet toward the barn, my foggy mind only considered it a routine animal check.

Her body still and bloated. Limbs outstretched. She did not answer my call. A glance told all.

When a foggy mind is slapped with something it is unprepared to handle, it goes haywire, shrieks, calls for help, pleads. But only for a moment. Negative feedback kicks in and the mind goes numb, for one must be able to act logically in crisis, even an emotional crisis.

Dad summoned, I returned to the barn. I touched her; stroked her face, her flank. The children came weeping. Perhaps I was a bit short with them. Dad sighed. It was already growing dark outside. Every piece of equipment capable of digging had broken down. We'd never manually dig a large enough hole that night. But something had to be done. It was warm and there would be no time the next day or the next week to shovel dirt.
"Sarah," he said, "It's the only good choice."
"Alright," I said. "I'll help you drag her."
******************************************************
We laid her 14 year old frame on a hillock under a single tree at the lake farm. Heavy but frail she seemed: I could not help but remember the stubborn, strong doe I first met. I touched the reddish black curls for the last time under the stars and glanced into the darkness. Were the coyotes already gathering?

I had not wept.
******************************************************
Today I gathered bones.

The leaves rustled beneath my feet. I carried a white cardboard box - probably used for bulk foods. The chill wind nipped around my ankles and the edges of my sweater. I thought of nursing and giving life. I pondered dirt, things that live, that grow, as weeds tangled my feet. Toward the tree fled my feet, my thoughts far away.

My feet stopped. I sniffed the air and set down my box. Clean, crisp autumn filled my nostrils as I pulled on vinyl gloves. Though I appreciate physical contact with my work, somehow, even symbolically, I didn't want this dirt on my skin or under my nails.

White, brittle pieces of mineral. The scavengers and elements cleaned well. Gently, I gathered every bit - some bones had been carried a few yards away. Some were missing altogether. Into the box, rib by rib, every tooth and chip, every dried scrap of sinew. Even three hooves remained. For some odd reason, this brought a joy to me, remembering how much difficulty Chatter had given me during hoof trims. Three locks of the glorious red coat also lay preserved, finding their way to the box as well. Last of all, I found the skull. Off all the bones, this was the only one I could clearly visually identify as Chatter's. I could see the smooth grove I used to stroke my fingers along while her eyes closed and head relaxed, the prominent ridge I used to itch for her. I laid it atop the pile. Having combed a 50 foot radius around the spot where we laid her, I broke off dry grass plumes and cushioned the rest of the box.

It's not that Chatter is in her bones, but they once were in her. I understood why we left Chatter's body to the birds, dogs, wind, sun and rain. It was sensible. It was necessary. Yet, part of me had always planned to bury her on the farm, next to Darey (my first goat) when he passed. When we left her clay on the hill, I thought of returning for her bones. One voice inside me pointed out that such action would be sheerly childish and sentimental, that there was no need. Yet another part of me quietly rose up, and, as if in defiance, resolved to go for the bones for the sake of practicing the childish and sentimental even while recognizing the sensible. I do many irrational things in my spare time which one could regard as silly - why not this as well?

******************************************************
There is nothing so much like a freshly plowed garden as a newly dug grave.

Two mounds near the pasture. Two more near the woods. The original herd and cat have passed. Even the doe I raised from a kid shows her years. The herd is unfamiliar to me now - I even have to ask the names of the younger ones.

My brother brought me two crosses. I was tempted to be annoyed, theologically. But the same part of me which brought back the bones squelched it. He meant kindly; he felt bad about the deaths, even though I do not. I laid them on the dirt for him, an adiaphoron. Even if Christ did not die to earn forgiveness of sins for animals, He certainly renewed all Creation by death and resurrection. Goats too belong to that created order.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Their Creator knows.

His Blood Upon the Rose

Hello, Dear Reader,

I've not blogged for some time now, and all sorts of things are filling up my mind and making me ache to put them to paper, but time does not permit. Perhaps I'll find time for a few soon. Tonight, just one random point of interest.

My lovely sister introduced me to this song several months ago, but it never really caught my interest until recently. Like many other artistic works, it is the story in and behind Grace that most endears it to me. For me, underlying stories make up for many artistic defects. Symbolism in a song attracts me almost more than a story. So, when I tripped over the last verse, I sat back, puzzled, and scratched my head a tad (bit).

Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too

On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know

I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

It seemed clear enough that "His blood upon the rose" was a symbolic reference to something or somebody, but who? My theological impulse of course brought a particular Man's particular Blood to my mind, but I shook my head. Couldn't be. Not in this type of song. But it couldn't be the singer's blood either, for he hadn't been executed yet, and even if he were envisioning the future, he wouldn't refer to himself in the third person, would he?

I asked my dear sister about this (or she asked me, or maybe we both asked each other) and we concluded that the best way to discover any potential reference would be to google the words, "his blood upon the rose." Having done this, she sent me this link. It appears that this poem was written by Joseph Plunkett, the singer in the song;

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

It's beautiful. Really, it is. Creation seen in light of, contained in, and redeemed by Christ's Passion. All pathways by his feet are worn...His cross is every tree.

So the reference in the song is to Christ. Amazing. In the midst of tragedy, in his last twenty-four hours with his newly married wife, Plunkett wrote "some words upon the wall" there in the Kilmainham Jail. It is my guess that these are the words. Not words of sorrow over separation from his wife, nor of anger over his impending death, nor a hymn to the fighters for independence, but an expression of the significance of Christ's Godhead and Manhood for creation.

Particularly am I struck by the last line of the poem in the context of Plunkett's approaching execution. His cross is every tree. Though I have no way of knowing how Plunkett was put to death, I'd hazard a guess that hanging was standard procedure. With this in mind, I'd venture that Plunkett saw in his death a participation in the death of Christ - and an entrance into life. Now that's beautiful.

The song Grace retelling Plunkett's last day ends with the words, "I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose." Whom did he love? His wife? But that doesn't make sense, except in the sense that he looks into eternity to see a future reunion. Rather than that, it would seem that Plunkett loved a Savior, and his wife in the brilliant light of the the Same.

Anyway. There's a late night extrapolation on the basis of very slight evidence. However, I just couldn't get this out of my mind. Take it or leave it. I can't support my speculation - I just think it's awefully lovely.

Good Night! (Morning)