The Martyrdom of the Aged.

"Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were young, you used to dress yourself and walk wherever you wanted, but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and carry you where you do not want to go." (This he said to show by what kind of death he was to glorify God.)  (John 21:18-19a, ESV)

"The Martyrdom of St. Peter"
Caravaggio

Jesus speaks to Peter. From church tradition we receive the outcome of His prediction: Peter was martyred, crucified upside down, and his death strengthened and inspired generations of Christians. 

But can we understand this word of Christ in a wider sense? 

In my profession I provide nursing care for an ever-aging population. The majority of my patients are over 65 years old, disability is the norm rather than the exception, and deathbed care is not new to me. When I hear these words of Jesus, in my mind's eye I see and hear my patients:

"I used to be able to dress myself! I'm so frustrated!"
"I made a mess, I couldn't control it. I'm so ashamed."
"I wish I wasn't such a bother to you." or "I don't want to bother you nurses."
"I don't want you to turn me/change me/wash me/put me in a chair/lay me down in bed."
"I want to go to _______, but nobody will take me."
"My husband (son/sister/etc) died and I can't attend the funeral because the doctors say I have to stay in the hospital."
"I want to go home."
"I don't want to live in a facility."
"I'm crying because I feel like a baby. I used to feed myself and now others feed me."

I hear statements similar to these from my patients on a daily basis. And while we could talk about the proper responses of personal care and medical staff to these crying hearts, I want to take a step back and discuss the cross laid upon the aging Christian. 

When we think of Christian martyrs, we think of men, women and children who were killed because of their confession of Christianity. Death is understood to have occurred.  But originally, a martyr was simply someone who bore witness. (Derivation from Greek 'martur')

Roman Martyrs

In the West today, relatively few Christians are killed for their testimony to Jesus. Those that are, are in turn blessed with the joys of heaven and an early release from suffering here (though those who survive them surely mourn). Most Western Christians live to old age and die a "natural" death. 

But for a Christian, there is always the call to bear witness and there is no escaping martyrdom. 

Our elderly brothers and sisters carry a heavy and often unappreciated cross. Many of them bear disabilities, pain, isolation, weakness and dependency virtually silently, and often far more patiently than we of the younger generation bear even minor wrinkles in our schedules. As their bodies deteriorate, these saints are often marginalized from the life of the Christian congregation. They fall ill, we miss them in church for a few Sundays, we offer their names in the weekly prayer, occasionally we hear an update about how they are doing. But how often does the average parishioner take the time to visit or send a note of encouragement to a home-bound or ailing fellow congregant? (I'm as guilty as the next person. I think, "I'm too busy... maybe next week; they probably have lots of visitors and cards.") As I nurse, I see patients who do have lots of visitors and flowers filling the room. But I see far more people who have next to nobody, who are bored out of their skulls, who are frightened and who crave human conversation, warmth, and understanding on a scale that hard-pressed staff simply do not have the time or energy to give. 

With no human presence to turn to for comfort, in weakness and debility, in an unfamiliar and harsh environment, stripped of personal possessions and pride, physically vulnerable and dependent on others for basic needs, these saints cling to Jesus. I have listened to hospitalized men and women tell of Jesus, sometimes eloquently, often simply and matter-of-factly, at times even in the grip of dementia. They bear witness in their suffering, despite their suffering. 

Do not think that the trials of aging do not sorely press a Christian. This is a time when the inevitability of death becomes ever more real, and, with the clock slowly ticking away the lonely days, feelings of abandonment become harder push aside. Those aches you thought you had at 40 become magnified as your body becomes more debilitated, you lose mobility, and fewer distractions present themselves. 

What is pain, abandonment, emotional distancing and confinement but forms of torture to the human body and soul that were made for wholeness, community, love and freedom?

And to confess Christ in the face of torture is to be a martyr. 

Our saints, our fellow redeemed by Jesus' blood --  people you know -- are being martyred now in a hospital or nursing home near you:

They used to dress themselves with whatever clothing they wished, in any style they liked, and walk wherever they wanted to go. But now they stretch out their arms (or have their arms lifted by others) and others dress them. And others take them to places they do not want to be...

... and meanwhile, they hold to Christ. And as their bodies wear out and fade away, even on their deathbeds, they confess Jesus...

...and by this kind of death, they glorify God. 

Fellow Christian, we are on Jesus' road. We youngsters have just begun the trek. You know what cross has been laid upon your shoulders now, but the shadow of future you barely begin to feel. But Jesus knows and still he tells you to come. If you go where Jesus leads, you will not escape martyrdom. You will become tired. You will wear out. You will suffer. You will die. But even in weakness, in suffering and in death you will have Him and His peace. And beyond it all, eternal life. 

And after saying this he said to him, "Follow me." (John 21:19b, ESV)

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.

More Domesticity: Chess

This is last week. I'm sitting across from my husband, both of us cross-legged on the sofa with a chess board between us. We're down to a pitifully small number of relatively impotent players. Both Queens are gone.

The hubby moans, "I want my queen back". Wife starts to chuckle as she moves her pieces in closer.

"Offer me anything I ask for." Hubby starts to chuckle too

"Anything you want."

"I want my queen back!"

Quoting Princess Bride in a chess game. Worst mockery of chess ever.

Also, we are probably close to the worst players ever.

How Camelot Should Have Ended: Little Musgrave

When I first came across this ballad while listening to Planxty's album, "The Woman I Loved So Well", I was not a little taken aback. Rather say, horrified. I do not like tales of adultery, though I'm by no means unused to running across them in traditional folk music. This sin, like any other, is part of the fabric of history. Nevertheless, there were lines from the song I could not put out of my mind, specifically the footpage's declaration, "although I am m'lady's page, I am Lord Bernard's man."

I ran into the tale again while skimming my collection of Francis Child Ballads and was again intrigued. There is something different about this ballad than most folk ballads that deal with infidelity. I had a sense of what it was but could not put a finger on it.

About a month ago, my husband and I went to see a production of the musical "Camelot." I had never seen it before and was quite struck by Arthur's vacillation in the case of Guinevere and Lancelot's adultery. In the musical's portrayal, Arthur not only acknowledges his knowledge of the affair without interfering in any way, but actually wishes to warn the 'lovers' of surprise by another party. When the pair are exposed and Guinevere is condemned by the court, Arthur cannot seem to find any way of reconciling his respect for the judicial system and his love for his wife except by encouraging his rival to engage Arthur's own knights in a bloody battle to rescue her. In the end, Arthur forgives his wife, but seems to adopt almost an "you couldn't help being in love" attitude toward the pair.

I myself couldn't help feeling a little disgusted with the Arthur of Camelot. As a husband, he failed his wife. Before the affair even began, Arthur allowed his wife to flout his authority when he believed she was acting foolishly. He saw the attraction between Guinevere and Lancelot begin, but did nothing to separate them or address inappropriate behavior. If he had believed that adultery was mortal sin, surely he had a responsibility to prevent his wife and the knight he admired from imperiling their souls. Instead, he essentially sheltered them from any consequences. Then, when their affair was exposed, he again relinquished his responsibility to act. Being king, Arthur had the authority to pardon his wife or commute the sentence of death to something like enforced convent entry, since he did not have the will to see her die. But he couldn't seem to figure out how to use that authority. Rather he failed not only his wife, but his people in encouraging the attacker and failing to support his knights.

To me this whole mess seems to spring from the Camelot Arthur's skewed sense of justice and mercy. To him, the merciful and "civilized" thing to do is not to punish (separate) Guinevere and Lancelot for something they couldn't help (falling in love). To him, justice is played out when he allows the sentence of the courts to stand, but encourages a foreigner to violate his boundaries and by much slaughter prevent that sentence from occurring. Merlin's education obviously did not include a course in logic.

But back to Musgrave.

When I saw "Camelot" I realized that Lord Bernard is what Arthur should have been. The "Ballad of Little Musgrave" is how "Camelot" should have ended.

( Click on the links above to hear the song or see the Child Ballad variations)

Not a verse into the ballad,we know there's gonna be trouble when "Musgrave to the church did go to see fine ladies there." Our suspicions are confirmed when Lord Bernard's wife invites Musgrave to a special bower of her own in Bucklesfordberry, unbeknownst to Lord Bernard.

So far, these two would be lovers have all the favorable circumstances, but Lady Bernard's footpage happens to overhear. In some versions of the ballad, he is offered gold to keep the secret, in some not, but in any case, the foot page considers his allegiance to Lord Bernard primary, and spurns reward and danger to carry the news to his master.

Lord Bernard is shocked and promises the footpage great rewards (versions vary as to what the reward is) if his tale is true, but certain hanging if he has lied and maligned his wife. Lord Bernard rides for Bucklesfordberry, forbidding his men to wind horns, for fear Musgrave will take flight.

But just as the adulterous couple were betrayed by the footpage's higher (and proper) allegiance to Lord Bernard, Lord Bernard is betrayed by the friendship (and improper allegiance)] of one of his men with Little Musgrave. This man "blew his horn both loud and shrill: 'away, Musgrave, away'."

Unfortunately for the pair, Lady Bernard convinces her lover that the horn is a shepherd lad and Musgrave wakes up to find my lord at the foot of the bed.

Lord Bernard confronts Musgrave with the evidence of his current position and orders him to "rise up," dress, and fight him, offering Musgrave his best sword. Musgrave wounds Lord Bernard, but is promptly killed. Lord Bernard then confronts his lady who bitterly denies any obligation to her husband and essentially defies him. Hearing this, Lord Bernard deals death to her also.

At the heart of this ballad is the question of fidelity and of honor. In these matters, Lord Bernard is set against Lady Bernard, but so also is the little footpage set against Lord Bernard's unnamed knight. The foot page recognizes his duty to my lady, but acknowledges that first and foremost his duty is to my lord. The unnamed knight ignores his duty to Bernard for the sake of his friendship with the guilty Musgrave.

Lady Bernard cares naught for her obligations as a wife, nor for the honor of her husband, nor for the honor of her lover. She makes this very clear. Lord Bernard is conscious of his responsibility to his wife, and of his responsibility as the local justice. He threatens to punish the page severely if he has falsely accused Lady Bernard, thereby indicating that her honor is dear to him. When he finds Lady Bernard's adultery, he gives her a chance at repentance. When she shows no remorse, he deals the judgment he is authorized to give. Even in her death he acknowledges her station by having her placed uppermost in the grave and mourning her death. He does similarly with Little Musgrave, refraining from striking him down where he lay, bidding him to dress and determine the matter with a sword.

Lord Bernard has a few things to teach King Arthur about duty and fidelity. He knows that the honor of a knight is tied up in carrying justice forward, and not in allowing unfaithfulness to run unchecked. He does this in such a way as allows the lovers each a chance in turn. Unlike Arthur, Bernard does not sacrifice the difficult course of action for the sake of love of his lady and finest knight. In the end, Lord Bernard acknowledges the lovers as the best night and fairest lady in the realm, but that does not stop him from dealing justice.

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

Shared Associations -- An Example from Married Life.

Friday, about 2:30pm. Hubby,in bed, still sleeping off the night shift. Wife,wanting to be close but not wake the hubby, enters with book and stretches out on the other side of the bed. Begins to read. Grows more and more amused. Chuckles sporadically.

Husband begins to stir. Wife chuckles again. Husband rolls over.
"What are you laughing at, Wife?"
"This book."
"What book is that?"
"'The Three Musketeers'"
"Who is that by?"
"Alexandre Dumas. It's full of, um, lots of sword-fighting and killing. I'm only into, like, the third chapter and I think five people have died already."
"Ohhhh." Husband chuckles and begins to sing. "'The first one he came to, he ran him through amain. And the second one he came to, he served him just the same...'"
Wife chuckles. "Exactly like that, though the others don't flee."

Thus the association is fast made between "The Three Musketeers" and the "Jolly Soldier".

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.

Of "The Man Who Was Thursday"

"I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God."

The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.
"I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offence to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls -- and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace."
Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.
"No, said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."
Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said --
"It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself."
Bull said -- I understand nothing, but am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep."
"I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell."
And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child --
"I wish I knew why I was hurt so much."

Thanksgiving at Work!

It has been a very pleasant Thanksgiving Day, though I spent it at work. It was one of the best work days I've had.

To my delight, we had two nurse aides working. I'm not a slacker, but I distinctly feel that 13 patients (the most I've had alone) is too many for one aide to care for well. I am dissatisfied when I am unable (at a minimum) to thoroughly wash all of my patients and fulfill their requests. In 12 hours, one cannot thoroughly bathe 13 total care patients, pass trays, take vital signs and weights, and all the other various duties of the aide position. Personally, I think 6-7 patients per aide to be the ideal ratio for providing effective and efficient care. Hence my delight in having two aides yesterday.

In addition to the fact that I was caring for a number of patients within my ideal range, the nurses I was working with were some of my favorite nurses - nurses who are compassionate, industrious, and willing to help in whatever way necessary. My fellow aide was also of this type. I knew it would be a good day.

As if that weren't enough, there was food. Oh, yes. My co-workers had planned for a brunch and lots of pot-lucky food. So I broke my personal code and had a piece of chocolate at 8 am, only one hour into the day. The cafeteria provided a Thanksgiving brunch for workers, but I barely touched what they gave. We had better on the unit. While I covered the floor, my fellow aide cooked up blueberry pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and omelet. Some of the other nurses provided fruit trays and dip, caramel corn, fruit breads, danish, and so much more. It was almost too good to eat.

And as if that weren't enough, more than half of my patients were unusually pleasant people. I'm pretty used to the thanklessness of the job. I mean, when you're in pain and people are poking you and prodding you all over, and you can't do anything for yourself, it's understandable for you not to really be very polite or express any gratefulness to the pokers and prodders. But more than half of these patients said thank you, spoke pleasantly, and worked with me. It was so very nice! On days like these, I feel like I'm going to see a new friend every time I enter a patient's room.

When it came to baths, one of my patients was independent care, so after changing her bed, I had only to leave her with towels, washcloths, and soap. The others, were total care (except one who was partial care), but were so extremely obliging that bathing was cooperative task and not a battle. I was done with morning bathing before twelve o' clock trays and my two afternoon baths left me with plenty of time for lunch and various tasks. Vital signs and weights were finished an hour before I usually finish them giving me an opportunity to put in a Foley (urinary) catheter (I'm always ready to jump at a chance to perform sterile procedures) under the supervision of a nurse. To my relief, the task was easier than it often is and the patient tolerated it well. My duties were completed before the new shift came on, and I was able to leave just as the clock struck 7:20pm.

When I arrived home (only slightly hungry) leftovers were waiting for me and better than that, David and Karen were there playing cards. We played Rummy for a bit, then went to the barn to watch "Faith Like Potatoes". David and I were both exhausted by the time devotions were finished but then we got talking and before we knew it, 12:00 had rolled around.

Thus ended a wonderful Thanksgiving. I'll thank God for many more like it.

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.

Mental Nausea

We've all been nauseated before. It usually happens when one's about 9 years old and has just eaten Thanksgiving. You eat turkey like a pig, and then try to fit in apple pie on top of three piece of pumpkin and whipped cream. Finally, you look at the fruited pastry in you spoon and feel repulsion and a little bit of remorse. You think to yourself, "Why?" You realize that consuming half the turkey and one piece of pie would have given you greater pleasure. Now all that food is in your belly and you've got to let it sit there. After a couple hours you'll be able to sit up, run around, sing, and laugh again. But for now, all you feel is overload.

I've got the brain nausea. My head feels like vomiting, but it can't. There's too much going into it. "Don't cram," they tell me, "don't cram." But what else can one do when one has 15 chapters of reading and two papers due a week on average and must progress in group projects, independent clinical assessment study, and group research papers too? So I sit down with my text book and read for hours till the page swims. Then I go "work out" or hike while listening to my prof's lectures I've recorded.

It'll get better. Eventually, I'll digest and the pressure will diminish. But meanwhile when I say stupid things, or look at you blankly, or lash out senselessly, or burst into tears unreasonably, hold me accountable but forgive me. I am cognizant that I've a pretty easy life: I've parents who love me and each other, a home with electricity and running water, a church with pastors of high theological and liturgical caliber, food on the table, opportunity for education, a healthy body, employment, love. But I am weak and in my weakness, I am ashamed of my weakness. I am ashamed that you should see me in the nausea of my mind. When my wits return I wish that I could take back whatever I've said or done in the pitching and tossing of thought and word and deed.

It would be nice to be normal for a change, but it would be even nice to feel normal. I don't know that I remember in what "normal" consists.

School. First Day Back

I think this semester will be good. I like my prof. I can see that sometimes she'll be intimidating, but she's good. Her lecture style is amazingly clear and easy to take notes with. I recorded one hour of lecture (after we used the first hour for syllabus notes) and played it back while working out. It was still enjoyable and easy to follow even on second listen.

I'll be spending a significant amount of time at the college this semester. I intend to stay at the school long enough to work out and get as much studying done as possible. Also, check email. Recreational internet has been (or is soon to be) banned at home.

I'm also trying to complete my online learning modules and tests for my work. Haha! Education they never told you you'd have to take.

Homeward bound, now.

That "I'm gonna DIE" feeling...

I just printed off my syllabi and took a look at what I have to read for the first classes.

I was struck by a distinct sinking sensation akin the words, "I'm gonna DIE..."

All my classes are taught by the same professor. This could be really good or really, really bad.

Anyhoo, just sharing the gladness.

Another New Blog

"Bedside Manners" is rudimentarily up and running. What on earth do I need another blog for? (After all, I only have 3 plus facebook already. :P ) Well, go look and see...
http://mannersforcare.blogspot.com/

If you leave me to myself...

'Nother Michael Card song. From his album, "The Early Works": this album has some of my favorites as well as least liked Michael Card songs, but oh, well. Here's one that often comes to mind when I'm feeling empty and futile.

Failed again to make the mark,
lost my way once more.
Tried to do it by myself
like so many times before.
Once again I turn to you,
I'm hungry and confused.
Now all my strength's dissolved away,
and I feel like I've been used.

If you leave me to myself, O Lord,
it will always be the same.
It's you who'll have to hold my hand,
and protect me by your name.

I turn and find you there for me,
You've been waiting all along.
In your arms the sweet relief,
and you whisper me a song.
At times like these I ask myself,
"How could I have ever strayed,
and forgotten all you've given me,
and lost sight of what you paid?"

If you leave me to myself, O Lord,
it will always be the same.
It's you who'll have to hold my hand,
and protect me by your name.


Hmm. Songs from "The Early Works" that I really like:

Love Crucified Arose
This Must Be The Lamb
Hound of Heaven
Dragonslayer
By Your Name

Songs from "The Early Works" that I like but have theologically questionable lines:

The Voice of the Child
Light of the World
Stranger on the Shore
No Rusty Swords
Don't You Know
Now That I've Held Him in My Arms

Songs from the "The Early Works" that make me cringe or squirm decidedly:
I Have Decided
Tell the World that Jesus Loves You
Jesus Loves Me

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.

Oh, my little blog.

I've dreadfully neglected my little Adiaphoron this past year, both from busyness and from a lack of time for thought. I've felt as though I haven't anything significant to say that touches not on either the highly personal or confidential. My confidence in my own knowledge and mind are declining. (At least, on most days. There's always the occasional spurt of confidence with which I do something idiotic to rue later.) I'm learning to shrug off my social accidents and awkwardness; it's not like I can do anything about spilling the drink down my dress after the fact. Sure, I can be more careful: if anything, I'm learning to be more deliberate about social moves. If I must be conspicuous, I try to choreograph the period of visibility ahead of time. At the same time, I'm tired of trying to be someone. Even trying to be who I am is challenging. (You'd think it a simple thing to be yourself, but, actually, if it is important to you to be consistent and you are a woman, being a consistent self is a constant struggle.)

I've always kept myself soothed and calmed by singing to myself. It's not a lullaby - it's a "workaby". If the song is running on, I can continue to move forward. When it stops, my wheels slow and grind to a halt. At work, I sing my day through, one song-story after another, out loud in the hall, inwardly as I bathe patients and clean up messes. When I stop singing, I'm in trouble. Truly.

When I was very, very small, it was Wee Sing Bible Songs. In early elementary, I sang patriotic songs, old Methodist hymns, kids' Bible songs, and songs from church. Middle school and highschool floated through on tunes of Michael Card and LW hymnody. My first year of college, I got to know LSB and historic Lutheran and Christian songs amid a surging tide of Hope College postmodernity and Augustine College classic Christianity. This past year, I've hit a new lode as I've nosed down the shaft of folk through a tunnel of celtic gems. There's more sadness here, to be certain, and a few wells to avoid falling into.

Speaking of work, that's a pretty new part of my life (though it seems routine to me now) that hasn't gotten much coverage on this blog. Confidentiality is partly to blame. I do like my work. If I weren't serving people whose needs (physical, emotional, and psychological) didn't demand immediate and careful attention, I'd be bored with working. But people can't sit on the shelf like paperwork, nor can one ignore them like dirty dishes. They literally scream at you.

12 hours is a long time. When I walk into the unit, I leave the rest of my life behind. It's just my patients, the nurses, therapists,aides, and doctors and me dealing with the same problems from different perspectives. I'm a valued part of the team as are all of the other members. If one of us left, the whole system of work would go up in smoke. Even though I'm relatively new, I feel like I belong and am useful - and that is nice. It's fulfilling to be needed (if only to empty a bedpan) and comforting to share something (if that something is but the challenge of getting a confused patient to eat supper).

Somedays, I feel as if I'm in a madhouse. Disoriented and demented patients are calling out without surcease and other competent patients hit the call button before you have even walked 5 steps from their door to have you rearrange the pillows yet again. On these days I constantly sing myself calm and constantly plan the next steps I must perform. When I leave, it is as if I have lost part of my life. Whatever happened that day has to stay at the hospital until I come back to it. My family and friends are totally excluded from it. And yet, my work is the most interesting and challenging (physically, psychologically, morally) part of what I do now.

I've taken back over management of the goat herd. We're selling out all but six does and the buck. I'm keeping them dry until school gets out next year, so hopefully I can get by with only daily chores. It's been hard letting some of the girls go. I've shed tears.

There's more I would say, but I cannot and if I could, time would not permit now. Dear reader, farewell and Godspeed where'er ye be.

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.