A Real Bible, Just Small ~ Jen

“Mom” Gabriel says one day when he comes home from school, “For my birthday, can I have a Boys Backpack Bible?”

“A what?”

“A Boys Backpack Bible. It’s small so it can fit in my backpack.”

“Is it a kids bible? With pictures?”

“No, it’s a real Bible, just small.” This with an eyeroll.

Pretty much, when your eight year old son asks for a Bible for his birthday, you make that happen. Even if the good folks who make the backpack Bible don’t make a Catholic version.

Don’t worry my Catholic friends, Grandma was in charge of getting the Bible and when she was at the Religious Education Congress last week, she let some publishers know they got out maneuvered by the Protestants in the boys backpack Bible market.

The adults in my family, Catholic and non-dom church alike, could not wait to see what this backpack Bible was all about. When Gabriel opened it last weekend, we snatched it out of his hands and passed it around.

I can report that you need to be eight to read the teeny tiny print required to make the Bible backpack sized.

I can also report that there’s an insert called Grossology, with a list of scripture where gnarly things happen. And before you wonder if that’s appropriate, I found Gabe huddled with the Bible looking up those scripture, book, chapter and line. You know, studying.

There’s also a list of Good Guys and a list of bizarre happenings.

I think this is brilliant. Christians believe the Bible is a dynamic, inspired book but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Especially for kids. But here’s this approach—to meet the boys where they are and show them there is something for them in there.

Yes, there’s a girls version, but I haven’t seen it. We could get into the whole gender specific argument but this Christian mom is going to shake it. My eight year old is reading his bible, people. ‘Nough said.

The company who makes this bible is called Zondervan and they have a ton of different and accessible bibles for kids and young adults.

I did some preliminary research and couldn’t find a complete bible in a smaller, light size for Catholic kids. There are lots of kid’s versions here, but they don’t appear to be scripture. I am sure there is something out there that would do and I just didn’t find it.

And even if there’s not, Grandma made sure some people know that needs to change.

The Names We Call Ourselves ~ Jen

For a long time I have thought about a tattoo to commemorate that I am a cancer survivor. But for four years, I haven’t done it. The hesitation came from something I read in an illness recovery book, that we have to be careful about the way we visualize our illness and our struggle against it. It makes so much sense not to use images of violence, domination, anger, loss. A sick person does not need to bring these energies into their life.

I didn’t battle my cancer. I told it to leave. And then I shut the door against its return. I guard the door carefully, with all the things that reduce my stress and keep me peaceful: food, exercise, God, family, friends and creating.

This is not new age-y philosophy. This is ancient wisdom, reflected in the scripture of Proverbs 17:22: A joyful heart is good medicine, But a broken spirit dries up the bones.

So even though the symbol of thyroid cancer is a butterfly–and what could be more peaceful than a butterfly–I wasn’t sure this was good medicine.

Then last week I read this*:

If we stay survivors only without moving to thriving, we limit ourselves and we cut our energy to ourselves and our power in the world to less than half…once the threat is past, there is a potential trap in calling ourselves by names taken on during the most terrible times of our lives…it is not good to base the soul identity solely on the feats and losses and victories of the bad times”.

That’s it.

For a long time, every time I said out loud that I was a cancer survivor, a voice in my head yelled “GOOD LORD! I HAD CANCER! I COULD HAVE DIED A YOUNG WIFE AND LEFT BEHIND MY KIDS WHO WOULD HAVE NEVER REMEMBERED ME!!!!”

Every time, it was like hitting a wall. Or any other metaphor that describes the moment in a perfectly wonderful normal day when something makes you remember: I have been hurt. I have been abused. I have lost. I could have died.

It took me a long time to get past that place. It took a lot of work, prayer, reading and support. That time in my life is still framed in fear and anger and doubt, but those emotions are no longer with me on a daily basis.

If I marked my body with a symbol of that time, then those emotions would permanently be present. And for the love of all that is good, why would I do that to myself?

Whatever we have survived—cancer, sexual assault, violence, addiction, loss, our parent’s ugly divorce, our own ugly divorce—it’s part of us, but not who we are. It’s a piece of our story, but not the whole story. The story isn’t over yet and we have to choose carefully which emotions and energies we are going to carry forward.

Not just for our mental and emotional health, but for our physical health as well. Because how we feel, and what’s inside of us deep, deep down will manifest itself physically. It will make us pay attention.

If you are in the midst of surviving, in the midst of the battle for your life and your heart, soldier on. Don’t be scared of the scars you are earning. Scars heal stronger than what was there before. I’m proud of my scars.

But if you are past the battle, like I am, then we have to consider the truth in the words: There is danger in calling ourselves by names we earn in the hardest times in our lives. We can get stuck there, in the pain, fear, anger, grief, bitterness, abandonment, addiction. Or worse, bring these things forward into our future where they will constantly demand our attention and make us sick in body and spirit.

I don’t want to manifest anger, fear, illness. I want to manifest joy and health. So no butterfly.

But that doesn’t mean no ink. It just means I am waiting for the right inspiration.

For you make me glad by your deeds, Lord; I sing for joy at what your hands have done. How great are your works, Lord, how profound your thoughts!– Psalm 92:4-5

*From Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

What We Have Failed To Do ~ Jen

In my church we say an Act of Contrition towards the beginning that I have always felt nailed Jesus’ call to action right on the head. It goes, in part, like this:

I confess to almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do…

What I have done and what I have failed to do.

Months ago Dana wanted to write about our stance on the LGBT community and I balked. She gets pretty fired up about the issue and I was scared to offend some of our readers who do not share our opinions. The blog was new and growing and still feeling its way.

So the Supreme Court decision on Prop 8 came and went and we stayed silent. And the controversy over Russia’s intolerance of gays came and went and we stayed silent. Not yet, I said. There’s too much to lose.

In a way, I was right.

Last week in Kansas, the Republican dominated House of Representatives passed KB 2453, which says the following:

Notwithstanding any other provision of law, no individual or religious entity shall be required by any governmental entity to do any of the following, if it would be contrary to the sincerely held religious beliefs of the individual or religious entity regarding sex or gender: (a) Provide any services, accommodations, advantages, facilities, goods, or privileges; provide counseling, adoption, foster care and other social services; or provide employment or employment benefits, related to, or related to the celebration of, any marriage, domestic partnership, civil union or similar arrangement; (b) solemnize any marriage, domestic partnership, civil union or similar arrangement; or (c) treat any marriage, domestic partnership, civil union or similar arrangement as valid.

Although KB 2453 was passed in the name of religion, it has nothing to do with religion. It has to do with power and fear. But not feeling fear.

These people want to cause fear.

You think they didn’t know that we would all draw the same conclusion? That provision (a) of KB 2453 sounds similar to this:

Between mid-1933 and the early 1940s, the Nazi regime passed dozens of laws and decrees that eroded the rights of Jews in Germany. Some were seemingly insignificant, such as an April 1935 edict banning Jews from flying the German flag; or a February 1942 order prohibiting Jews from owning pets. But others withdrew the voting rights of Jews, their access to education, their capacity to own businesses or to hold particular jobs. In 1934 Jews were banned from sitting university exams; in 1936 they were forbidden from using parks or public swimming pools and from owning electrical equipment, typewriters or bicycles. Jews were also subject to cultural and artistic restrictions, forcing hundreds to leave jobs in the theatre, cinema, cabaret and the visual arts. – See more at: http://alphahistory.com/holocaust/anti-jewish-laws/#sthash.V0qUpHSt.dpuf

Today, various news outlets are reporting that the Republican dominated Kansas State Senate will not pass the bill into law, with its leaders claiming the bill is discriminatory and so, even though they stand for traditional marriage and family values, they cannot support it.

As if they were not working with their colleagues in the lower house all along. They floated a test balloon on Friday to see if it would fly and it didn’t. Today, state Senators got to stand in front of news cameras and take the high road.

But what if it no one noticed that the bill passed the House? Would the Senate have gone on to pass the bill this week? Would institutional discrimination have become legal? And from there, in the name of Jesus, what would have happened next?

These are the questions I asked myself. And then I knew that if real followers of Jesus do not speak up against those masquerading as followers of Jesus, then hatred and bigotry and evil will win.

I am sorry. Sorry that we’ve kept quiet. Sorry for what we haven’t said and haven’t done. Sorry that while we’ve talked about love, truth, Jesus, family, friends and faith, we haven’t seemed to extend that to all our brother and sisters. Even though in our hearts and in our lives and the way we are raising our kids, we are doing it. We are teaching them to love, and walk as Jesus walked, and to know, as Pope Francis tells us, that it is not for us to judge.

Dana and I are children of God raising children of God to live among children of God. We are pro-strong marriages and pro-strong families. We have gay married friends who are welcome in our homes and in our lives and we thank God for them. It’s who we are. And I think we’re done being quiet about it.

#Truth

Some truths are easy and fun. We’re not dealing with those today, because those aren’t the ones that cause us trouble.

All the time, I see these posts on Facebook that tell us to Live your truth! Find your truth! Speak your truth!

It always makes me think Why not just say “Live, Find, Speak The Truth”?

Truth is Truth—verifiable, supported by facts, actual. In a sense, the quality of Truth is one size fits all.

We can be in denial, or fear, or have strong opinions about the Truth in our lives. We can wish the Truth away, act like it never happened or try to misrepresent the Truth in our words and actions.

But none of that changes the Truth. It’s still there, squatting powerfully in the corner of our hearts, driving us to reach for anger, fear, shame. Another drink. Another bowl of ice cream.

That truth can be hard. Scary hard. Especially when it tells us that we are our own worst enemy.

Or that our lives are not going to go how we thought.

Or that a dream is not going to come true.

Or that we have experienced a pain from which it will take years to recover.

None of those things create “my truth” or “your truth”. They create the Truth. And isn’t there a kind of beauty and consolation in knowing it’s a shared Truth? Because these things happen to everyone. Which is how, in God’s wisdom, these hard truths can give us new life.

A life of recovery. A life of surviving. A life of new beginnings. A life of triumph.

Truth is not darkness. Truth is coming out of the darkness into the light.

It’s not complicated and oppressive. It’s simple and straightforward.

Even hard truths can be known, tolerated, understood. The moment we accept these hard truths in our lives, we can begin to move on from them. We can heal. We seek forgiveness. We can forgive.

And I just know, because God is good, that the more we stand on Truth, the less hard Truth there will be.

So whatever we are eating, drinking, smoking, snorting, hitting, stealing and lying about, it’s not the Truth. If it’s keeping us in the darkness, it’s not the Truth. It’s shame or anger or fear of the truth. It’s what we are letting ourselves accept, or take responsibility for. It’s how we wish it were all different. But it’s not the Truth.

The Truth is somewhere else, bathed in Light. If we seek it, we’ll be in the Light too.

Crazy Mode ~ Jen

Crazy is a tough word.

In the purest definition, it refers to a mentally deranged person. Through common usage, it has also come to mean “possessed by enthusiasm and excitement, immoderately fond and infatuated, intensely involved and preoccupied, foolish or impractical”.

I have been all those things.

Not so very long ago, control was my unhealthy obsession. In the “intensely involved and preoccupied” sense, I was crazy about my control. I believed that if I could control things—myself, others and things, then I could shelter my family from the storm. I read every horrible story on the internet about every child who died or disappeared. I read the story until I found the place where someone had lost control, where if they had just made a different choice, none of it would have happened. Then I held on to that “lesson” in my head to make sure I never made that choice.

The stories where there was no moment when a choice was made, when there was nothing anyone could do, haunted me. Two of those stories had things in common: a mini-van, a big rig and an off-ramp. Accidents. But I traded in my crossover for a Tahoe. It has a third seat that I didn’t let my kids sit in. I needed the four feet of empty space between my babies and the big truck with no brakes slamming into the back of us. I started avoiding the off-ramps where traffic had a tendency to back up suddenly. And if there was a big truck behind me, I’d move over.

In hindsight, I realize this was the start of my postpartum anxiety journey that would come to a fractured head in 2012. My efforts to control everything around me were evidence that I was slowly sliding off my rocker. In the midst of my madness, it’s fair to say that I was addicted to control. I was also only working in my head. It was an overly practical, logical place to be. My heart was crying out for rest from all the worry, horror and anxiety I was dumping into it, but my brain was driven to understand, to head trouble off before it came knocking on my door.

Trouble came knocking anyway. It always does. Life and death will out.

In recovery from my crazy, I spent a lot of time reading Richard Rohr, who I have talked about before. Two of his books met me where I was, like the Good Samaritan: Everything Belongs and Falling Up. They were a challenge to get my heart and faith in the game. I had left them behind. I wasn’t trusting God at all. I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t praying. I wasn’t reaching out a hand. I wasn’t letting myself be loved. I had crowded God out of my life and was trying to do His job.

And I was letting fear—a huge, angry, anxious, evil fear—eat my peace.

I needed to unlearn the things that hormones and fearful motherhood taught me. I have unclenched my fists, to let go of what I was holding so tightly.

It’s no good to me strangled.

I turned my hands up and out and am learning to cradle. I’m giving my fear to God, as fast as it comes to me. I am listening. I am praying. I am believing.

I had to give up my need to control, which drove me out of control, to get some self-control.

I would have never believed it five years ago, but letting go has brought me more peace than trying to control it all. It has decluttered my life, simplified it, clarified it.

In a wonderful turn of events, I have less to worry about now than I did when I was trying to control everything so I would have less to worry about.

Crazy, but true.

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