From "Welcome to Paradox," Day One: Jerusalem

Has it really been a year since I've posted anything? One year and 9 10 days, to be exact. Well, since it's like an anniversary of sorts, how about I throw something out there?

I started college as a political science major. It beats in my veins. Though I laid that passion down years ago, it still courses through me and is ready for a resurrection. I'm also philosophical about it (and I don't think there's any other way to be, by the way). Without mentioning the craziness over in the Middle East (oops), I have been inspired by it to revisit something I wrote 8 years ago about a trip I took 7 years before that. It's a light travel piece, but it helps me ease back into blog posting rather lazily. If at all. Because, let's be honest, I'm looking to get paid for this schtuff. But it also explains a bit of the turmoil and history over there. If you've been wondering, here's an abbreviated version. The points are purposely not editorialized, though you know I have myriad thoughts on what this all means in application.

Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem

Originally published in "Champlain Anthologies: Best Student Travel Writing," 2008.

Reprinted with permission from the Champlain College Publishing Initiative.

Day One: Jerusalem

I stood atop the Mount of Olives, feeling surreal. A slope of gravestones in the distance led up the other side of the valley floor to the ancient city wall. This stone wall stretched for miles from left to right, trees rising in deep green just on the other side of it. Jerusalem bustled with modern-day activity beyond that, packed with hundreds of square and rectangular buildings of various sizes, leading to the horizon that met the dirty blue sky in an uneven line. A saturation of sandy beige touched everything within our view, everything but the trees.

In the middle of it all, the largest structure in sight loomed above everything else. Just beyond the trees, a muted, indigo-blue octagonal building stood atop the Temple Mount, perhaps the most controversial couple of acres in the world. A bright golden dome sat atop the octagon, standing twice as tall as the base structure and measuring about 60 feet across and 100 feet high. It glowed regally, proudly, in the sunlight. It was the Dome of the Rock.

Everyone in my group had found different spots to sit along the low stone wall surrounding the parking lot, gathering in small groups for panoramic photos. I found an empty area to sit with the sun warm on my arms, wondering what the deal was with this golden dome and what it would be like on the inside in a few hours.

When a few hours came, though, we never got to go inside. Visiting hours were not always consistent, and during prayer times, the time we showed up, only Muslims were allowed entry. I even remembered to wear my long skirt and bring the sleeved shirt that I'd tied around my waist to throw over my shoulders before we entered.

We had approached the complex of mosques on Temple Mount from the north and walked up the 20 or 30 steps to the top platform with the Dome of the Rock, a Muslim shrine. A sort of gateway with four arched openings and three narrow columns topped each of the eight sets of stairs spaced symmetrically around the complex. Walking under the stone arch of the Graceful Arcade at the top of our stairs, we entered the expanse of parched stone tiles that wove throughout all of the buildings. We all stared and murmured to our friends, pointing out every colorful detail.

Our leader's whistle turned all of our heads to him in unison, and he began with a question. "So who can tell me what they know about all the fighting that's going on over here right now?"

I had some thoughts, but we all just blinked at him.

"Come on, guys. This is not a trick question..." he pleaded with us.

"The Palestinians and the Israelis are fighting over a piece of land," some kid I didn't know spoke up from the back with an unsure pitch to his voice.

"The Gaza Strip. That's right. But it's not just about the land. It's steeped in traditions, the religions, of these people, the Jewish faith in Israel and the Muslim faith in Palestine, both fighting over their own version of peace. Look where you're standing. It's a hotbed of passionate debate." He moved his arm in a sweep that indicated the building behind him.

Tiny, square tiles--turquoise, rust, cream, indigo, and brown--covered the upper facade of the octagonal structure with a giant mosaic of geometrical designs and symmetrical patterns spreading all around the building. Eight columns stood, four to the right and four to the left, on either side of the heavy, fifteen-foot wooden door that arched at the top. The gold dome loomed above us, majestic.

"This is where both the first and the second holy Jewish temples were built during early Bible times. The first was built by Solomon nearly a thousand years BC and was destroyed by the Babylonians around 580 BC. It was rebuilt only to be destroyed again, this time by the Romans, around 70 AD. The dates aren't that important, but think about this..." He raised a finger in the air. "To the Jews, this is Mount Moriah, the center of the world, the place where Adam was created and gave sacrifices, where Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac, where Noah built after the flood, and where Jacob saw the ladder in his prophetic dream, to name a few. It's the place the Jews always went to offer sacrifices to their God. To them, it is holy and is the place that their faith always intersects."

"Yeah, so what is a giant Muslim mosque doing in the middle of this obviously Jewish nation? I don't get it," a tall girl in the back asked behind her mirrored surfer glasses, slouching like a bored model in her little, pink t-shirt and baggy pants.

"It's actually not a mosque; it's a shrine, the oldest one in Islam and," he paused and looked at the rest of us, "the only one in pretty much its original state."

The guy from Virginia who always had answers chimed in. "They have the story written in this pamphlet I picked up outside Capernaum."

"All right. Enlighten us, Steve," our leader put his hands in his pockets and nodded.

"So the Jews think this exact spot is holy, like you said.  The rock inside the mosque..."

"Shrine," our leader interjected.

"Shrine. ...the rock in there is where it all happened. But it's also where it all happened for the Muslims, their world center. It's where they believe Muhammad ascended to heaven, and they believe it has his footprint in it along with the hand print of Gabriel who held down the rock when Muhammad left."

"I still don't get it." The mirrored surfer glasses flashed at our leader, and the whole crowd looked at him quizzically.

Smart Guy started in quickly, drawing our attention back to him. "Essentially, when Muhammad died, the guys who led Islam--it says they're Caliphs--wanted to build political headquarters in Jerusalem. Christians and Jews think they picked the ascension passage from the Quran and built this place to attach that story to Jerusalem in order to compete with the Christians and Jews. They really didn't have any connection with Jerusalem until then, or not that can be proven, because the Quran passage is really vague."

"Pretty good," our leader jumped in while Smart Guy took a breath. "So really, Jews and Christians have their religious claims and want to tear down the Dome of the Rock and rebuild their own Temple. The Muslims consider it holy ground in their faith as well, so if the Jews or Christians actually did anything, there would be a great, big, nasty religious war."

"So how come they're worried about the Gaza Strip?" the short girl in front of me asked quietly.

"Exactly! Both sides want Jerusalem for their own. The Gaza Strip is the bit in the middle. The Palestinians want it and want Jerusalem. The Israelis want it and want to keep Jerusalem. Truth is, there's been bad blood between these peoples since the very beginning."

"So how on earth do we think we're going to solve this through politics?" The short girl crinkled her forehead and frowned.

My thoughts rushed and spilled over themselves. We all looked at our leader, then I looked up at the shining gold-plated dome.

"Well now, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" He quickly raised his eyebrows twice at us, and before Smart Guy could say anything, walked off to leave us with our thoughts.

Words and Kidspeak with a Dash of Bushwa

Words are magnificent creators.  (Not creatures. That's different.)  I love words.  Words, words, words.  They mean something, every single one.  I wrote my college entrance essay on the power of words.  That's all it was about, words.  Not a joke.

One of the best things about words is how our kids mispronounce some of them.  I do my best not to correct them, because I don't want to nag and I just love it when they do it.  I merely continue to repeat the correct word in my own speech and know that they'll eventually--and all too soon--start using the correct one.

When Levi was very little, he used to call school buses "stookle buses."  I still call them that, even though he started saying it the right way several years ago (so, so sad, because "stookle bus" is obviously better).

I already mentioned in my post about his baptism that he thinks he got "bathtized," and so he did!  Washed clean.  At six, his verbal skills are great, so I relish these little mispronounced jewels of childhood.  He still says "gantar" (guitar), "ganputer" (computer), and "thake" (fake).  "Thake" always makes me want to squeeze him and kiss his face off.

Adelaide melts my heart with some typical three-year-old-isms like "lellow" (yellow) and "wackanoni" (macaroni).  My most favorite of hers, though, that will stick with us till the very end is "shmarpillow" (marshmallow), because--yes!--they are like little, delicious pillows.  And just today she had me laughing again.  At today's first class in ballet camp, she was introduced to her teacher Miss Chloe.  During lunch, she told us about all the things "Miss Cloudy" taught her.  Miss Cloudy sounds like the type of person who'd love to sit and eat shmarpillows.

(Please note: Roxie takes this decidedly downhill.)

If you're opposed to the explicit, you will want to skip Roxie's 18-month-old and unintentional faux pas.  (But if you do proceed, there is redemption at the end!)  She is constantly saying "What's THAT?" with emphasis on "that" and sort of slurring them together and not really saying the "wh" at the beginning.  It's more like "uhs-AT" and ends up sounding exactly like "asshat," which is inappropriate and therefore hilarious. 

Speaking of inappropriate, here's a Public Service Announcement for all you young lads and lassies from your dear Auntie Jen.  Seriously, be careful little minds what you think and ears what you hear and mouths what you speak.  I went through what I'll just call "a phase" in my college years and, to be blunt, cussed like a sailor.  (Sorry, all you sailors of high report, who cannot be justly categorized in such a way but are nevertheless constantly subjected to unrelenting prejudice.)  It was a hard habit to break, and by "was," I mean "has been" or rather "is."  It is crass and mostly unladylike (and ungentlemanly, to be fair to both sexes) and can send the wrong message. 

Because it became such a habitual part of my outer and therefore inner dialect (I was not so careful with my mind/ears/mouth), such language still punctuates my thoughts, albeit less than it used to do, even if it doesn't come out of my mouth.  And every so often, in unreserved moments, it might escape.  Some very few occasions seem to lack their full expressive potential unless such language is utilized; some punchlines just don't punch the way they ought without it.  For instance, I have struggled (and remained victorious!) against the urge to post something public on the Internet that has something to do with Obama and the refuse that a cow produces from its hind end.  But I don't want to go there.  I am personally not hugely offended by off-color language, most of the time--most likely desensitized to it by my past--but I know others are.  I happen to know that one such word of offense had its beginnings on ships (you sailors again!) when certain cargo was labelled Store High In Transit.  But they used the abbreviation.  Somehow it has evolved, and since our culture deems it unsavory, so it is. 

But I now have a remedy for my need to reference cow dung without "going there."  It came via gift left in my inbox by my Word of the Day e-mail from dictionary.com.  I am so excited about it, which reveals something, I know, but I have a new favorite word.  Ready?

Bushwa.

:)

It means rubbishy nonsense; baloney; bull.  And it's just perfect.

Now I have the crowning artillery in my arsenal to satisfactorily communicate what has long pounded with passion in my innermost being about a lot of things, but mostly:

OBAMA IS FULL OF BUSHWA.

Ah!  Sweet, sweet release!!!!!!  Thank you, dictionary.com. 

Maybe you love Obama (who actually has little to do with my point), but if that's the case, and if you're anything like myself, I know you will find some other way to put this little gem to use.  See how exciting the right word can be??

Words are the best.  :)

Baptizo {} My Little Pickle

We were excited to baptize a few people in Lake Champlain at our church picnic last weekend, and good thing baptism is about immersion in Christ rather than the body of water into which you're dunked.  'Cause the lake water that day was kinda naaaasty.  Lake Champlain is gorgeous, but it has its days.  I'm glad we got to bring it a little holiness.

Baptism is rich with symbolism, but one cool thing to me is what the original Greek word baptizo means.  It means to be pickled.  How funny!  And sobering.  And appropriate.  It's the perfect description of one thing going into a solution and coming out a new creation, flavored by (and one with) that solution.  Baptism symbolizes the spiritual change we undergo, the complete transformation from what we were to who we are, ones who've been given a second chance, a new start, totally immersed in the goodness of Christ.  Spiritually speaking, we look, smell, taste, behave, move, think, act...like Him.  But not just like Him.  A cucumber doesn't become like a pickle.  It becomes a pickle.  In fact, it can never be a cucumber again, so infused it is with that new solution.  We don't just become like Him.  We become one with Him, godly.  That's some heady stuff, to be pickled into Christ.

At last year's baptism, Levi was really intrigued by it and kept saying he wanted to do it, but would then forget about it and let it go.  He was 5 1/2, and we're not constricted by age boundaries.  As his parents, Jed and I just wanted to see real revelation about it all.  Last year, he seemed to have it, but we had a little check in our spirits that told us to hold off and let it become deeper revelation to him.

This summer, the church picnic and baptisms rolled around again, and Levi was excited again about wanting to get "bathtized."  (He is so verbally precocious that when he does one of these little mispronunciations, I don't want to correct him!)  We had conversations.  We asked questions.  He acknowledged Yahshua as His Lord and Savior, as he's been doing since the beginning.  We asked him if he wanted to willfully make that choice and take that stand on his own.  We asked him what he thought baptism meant.  We were trying to sort through if this was a real proclamation from his heart, or if he thought maybe it was just a cool thing to do.  But we believe children are born spiritually alive.  We have seen spiritual proclivity in our children and the children around us from very early on.  We have done our best to nourish that and not squash it out, to enrich it rather than make them believe they're too young for things of that nature and can't "get it" till later.

In the end, he was ready. 

:)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  *heartnearlyburstingsohappysoproudsomovedsochallenged*  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)  :)

So we lead Levi down to lake's edge, and in those murky waters of New England, a light burst forth from our anointed young son who had a declaration for the world. 

So brave...

Ready to go, with Dad nearby...

"Or don't you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death?  We were therefore buried with Him through baptism into death...

...in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. 

For if we have been united with Him in a death like His, we will certainly also be united with Him in a resurrection like His."  Romans 6:3-5

As soon as he emerged, he bobbed excitedly and looked back at Apostle to exclaim, "Did you know I just got pickled??!!"  Boy's been listening.  :)  He got a laugh from his daddy and apostle, who repeated it to the crowd and drew more laughs and cheers.

(And I snuggled Adelaide, watching my son from the shore where I couldn't coach him or hold his hand--for this was his very own personal deal--while trying to manage the giant balloon of emotion expanding to fill all my insides, plus the simultaneous laughing and crying, without spontaneously combusting.)

And Apostle placed his hand on Levi's head and prayed for him, prophesied over him, and blessed him. 

(More emotional mama.)

"If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation: the old things are passed away;

behold, all things are become new!"  II Corinthians 5:17

The immensity of emotion is so rich and deep that my verbosity could take over here, but it's also overwhelming enough to render me nearly speechless (whew, right?!).  I'll indulge my mom-ness and state simply that I'm so proud of my little pickle, as I've been calling him to his secret delight.  He is a joyful spark of light and insight in our family and God's kingdom, and...I'm really proud of him. 

We love you, Mr. Leviticus Maximus!

  

Abortion Undertones and Overtures: Open Letters to You, and You

Don't worry.  I'm not going to talk incessantly about abortion without reprieve.  I will focus on it a bit in the weeks to come, as I've already begun, but it won't take over completely.   

Honestly, the whole abortion debate can easily wear us out, can't it?  And that's too bad.  I hope I'm able to address it in an enlightening, refreshing, new, and yet galvanizing way that ignites our passion for change.  I already have rumblings in my rumbler about how to take a new approach, how to look forward with hope rather than standing down in the mire, combative, doing the same thing we've always been doing.  I think we can pull out of the mire.

In that spirit, then, before I post any more about it, I want my heart to be laid as bare before you as I possibly can.  As I said, the way the battle's been fought has been so. very. wearying and emotionally charged.  But we all have a responsibility to fully understand what's really going on, so I just can't look away.  And I refuse to hold strong opinions without having personally looked into it myself so as to get all the relevant facts, a process I started several years ago.  (It can be arduous, and I hope that what I unfold here is helpful to you.)

In short, here's what I'd like to say to those who disagree with me, and moreso what I'd like to say to anyone who has had an abortion or who has been closely involved in such a situation.

My heart is for you.  I know a lot of good people that I admire who have been in both camps.

The things that I will uncover here are upsetting, but they are not--may I repeat, NOT--a personal attack on human beings who are facing life the best they know how.  My research goes much deeper than that in an attempt to help us all.  I hope to unveil a new approach to this debate that says we are all capable of joining our compassion and fight to find and perpetuate a better way.  I think the majority of people on both sides of the debate are honestly trying to "fight the good fight."  I do not think that people who support abortion are also secret serial killers in the dark hours of the night.  I also believe that most women who get abortions do not do so without some sort of emotional revolt on some level, nor would they want to choose it if they felt they had any other viable option. 

So here goes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear You, You Who Fight with Passion for Abortion Rights,

I do not want to scream and claw at you.  I believe that your intentions are good.  From my experience, you on the grassroots level are compassionate for the plight of women in trouble.  I love that and think we all should fight for those who need help and support.  I also believe that some of you think that even if a woman isn't in trouble, she still just has the right, whatever her reasons, to an abortion--that she shouldn't have to answer for it or defend herself, that she should be secure in her right to determine what's best for her body.  You have a heart for people's rights, unmeddled with.  You're against any sort of restrictions that would tell us how we can and cannot manage our own most private affairs.  Regarding the last two statements, you and I are largely on the same page.  On this particular issue, though, a full picture causes my thoughts to deviate from yours, as there are two lives with inherent rights in the balance.  But I get it.  And I will not brush you off.  If I disagree with you, I do not hate you.  This is a bigger issue than just you and I or any individual, and I hope we all can transcend the chaos, unencumbered by preconceived notions and emotional alliances, for a glimpse of the truth.

(If you are a politician or medical practitioner/affiliate or a corporation, or anyone, who merely makes your decisions based on how it will profit you personally, this letter does not apply to you.  I feel very differently about you and your motives.)

Sincerely,
Jennifer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear You, You Who Has Had an Abortion,

My heart is for you.  I definitely do not hate you.  I might know you.  I am not pointing an angry finger at you.  My problem with abortion is not a problem with you.  Most of you I don't know, but some of you I do.  From my experience with those I do know, all I want to do is hold you and listen to you, or give you space and grace, or whatever you need.  I cannot imagine your circumstances, but I do know what it's like to be in a tight place that feels out of my control, or to be faced with something that was just the last thing I felt I could deal with.  I also know what it's like to feel caught-off-guard, defensive, scared, distrustful, grieved, annoyed, desperate, misunderstood, unheard, undervalued, disappointed, confused, exposed, indignant.  I know some of you could care less what I've ever felt and don't want my hug or listening ear.  I guess my deeply rooted feeling is that I think we all need support.  I don't know if you got, or get, support or not.  But as I unfold my findings and thoughts about abortion, I pretty constantly imagine what it must be like for someone who's had one to read my words, and I do not want to create pain.  I pray for the strength and bravery we all need to face such an issue.

My conclusions are not a judgment against you.  Heavens, no.  They are a judgment against a mindset that  has been dishonest with all of us.  Whatever any of us has done in the past, is truly in the past.  If it was right, wonderful.  If it was not right, we can be healed and forgiven and forgive ourselves and be thankful for second, third, fourth...chances.  My prayer is for tremendous grace to cover anyone who might have a hard time facing what I'll be writing here.  I need the grace to face it, too.  And I remove any incrimination from settling onto anyone who has every right to move on with her life in strength and dignity, by the grace of God, armed with the truth. 

Sincerely,
Jennifer

Looking Away Is Cowardice--Let's Face It Together

Ah, humanity.  We humans have proven ourselves capable of a whole spectrum of behavior from self-sacrificing love to horrific and gruesome hate.  From the first apostles to Nero, Mother Teresa to Hitler, we have just really run the gamut of behavior.

Did you know that most Germans had no idea what Hitler was doing during the time of the Holocaust?  After the fact, when they were taken to tour concentration camps and witness the carnage, they were devastated and bewildered.  I mean, of course they were!  All of us recall that part of history with the same reaction (or we should).  It's awful to be faced with such truth.  It was inhumane.  He chose specific populations and decided that those lives were not as valuable as the rest, not based on crimes committed, but rather on general prejudice in the assumption that those races or groups of people (e.g. the disabled) were fighting for space that more appropriately belonged to superior races (like the Germans, naturally).  Keeping those other guys around was inconvenient and not good for "the rest of us," so said the Nazis.

(We can all think of a handful of people that make our lives inconvenient, but we don't round 'em up and off 'em.  That's insane.  Hitler was a mad man.)

We saw similar confusion about the intrinsic value of all human life when we waded through the whole horrible era of slavery.  Of course, it's been going on throughout time and still haunts our modern world in the form of the booming business of sex trafficking.  And oh my, to devalue those lives in such a way makes us indignant, as it should until it's brought buckling down to its knees. 

Then I see the purity of goodness in so many around me from all walks of life and backgrounds and political affiliations.  I see more of that than I do the bad, to tell the truth.  These bad incidents are so yucky and often so horrifying in scope that they seem huge, but I see goodness everywhere!  I have friends who would go out of their way to not step on an ant, so great is their respect and compassion for life. 

Imagine, then, how horrified I was just earlier today to find out that in our civilized society, we still participate in what is very similar to the torture and execution method of human quartering--that is, forgive me, the tearing apart of living people limb by limb. 

But we do it to babies while they're still alive.  I honestly had NO IDEA that was the primary method of performing an abortion.

Did you? 

I bet a lot of people don't know it, those for and against.  And we all ought to know.  We ALL MUST become educated about it.  Because we hide from what we don't want to acknowledge, but hiding doesn't make it not real. 

I have a lot more to say, particularly regarding common methods of aborting (What the WHAT??!!), what the medical handbooks actually say to guide the abortionists, and the church's role in this issue.  Oh, and then we have the statistics of how many abortions occur because of life-and-death situations compared to the ones that are a matter of convenience.  Because we can rally cry all we want about the life of the mother, but the VAST majority of these mothers are healthy and actually pose an added health risk to themselves to undergo the procedure.

And finally, it doesn't matter what we call a baby while it's in utero.  It's really fine if we call it a fetus--or a blob or a mass or a horse or a river--but it's a little human who's alive, and for all intents and purposes, the smallest, developing humans are, in fact, humans, human babies.  We call the smallest, developing anything babies.  So I have more to say.

Hey!  I'm 8 weeks old!

But not tonight. 

Tonight, we should ponder the idea of tearing apart the body of a living human, limb by limb.

...And all the tremendous goodness of heart out there on every side of the issue that could make it stop.

Other answers abound.  We can do better.

Come on, humans, let's rise above.

On God Talking

If you know God, you're graced with several assurances that give a peace others find unfathomable. 
(If you don't know Him, go ahead and jump in!)

Two granddaddies of all these assurances are inextricably linked:

1.  God talks.  To you.
2.  You win.  Because Yahshua won.  So you can start living that way right now.

Well, that's a relief!

Hearing God is something we are created to do.  It is possibly the most natural and inherent aspect of our nature.  The fact that we're having to re-learn, first, that it's even possible and, second, how to do it merely points to a robbery along the way.  We were robbed!  But don't worry, Yahshua came to restore that which was lost, stolen, and given away.  And He did.  And we can hear God talk.  And we win.  Yesssss.

I try not to talk much about my six-year-old son Levi's diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes, because it's one of those things that matters a lot but also doesn't matter at all.  It does matter because it's a battle we fight daily in our personal lives and that we'll continue to fight for others.  We fight spiritually and naturally, and I fully expect him to walk right out of it by the word of the LORD.  Don't freak out about that.  I'm not a pie-in-the-sky, name-it-and-claim it Christian with no grounding.  My relationship with God is pretty firmly grounded, and that grounding is solid enough to elevate my expectations beyond the boundaries of others' experiences and expectations.  So Levi's diagnosis does matter.

However, it doesn't matter in that it doesn't rule our lives, and we don't operate out of the fear that tries to link itself up with the disease.  Because we know God, and He talks, and we win. 

I'm really, really, really, really, reeeeeeeee-heee-heeeeaaallly excited right now, because Yahweh has been talking to me (in itself a thrill, as He's the Creator of the cosmos) about Levi and this sniveling intruder we call diabetes.  I am not foaming-at-the-mouth, obsessively consumed with curing Levi, though he is always on my radar.  We have a lot of important purpose to fulfill and will not be distracted from that.  BUT, when Yahweh talks, I listen.  And I obey.  And because I adore my son and could very easily start foaming at the mouth and becoming obsessed, I'm relieved and blessed that my Father wants to talk to me about it, that it's in His heart too.  Of course it is. 

From the beginning, all the fabulous medical staff told us that Type 1 has nothing to do with what you eat. Type 2 is created by poor diet (and other things) and can often be fought and cured by a better diet, but Type 1, what Levi has, is just a genetic thing that may or may not be triggered by any minor infection that in turn causes the immune system to go into overdrive and attack the pancreas (in a nutshell, making it an autoimmune disease).  So Levi could continue eating whatever he wanted.  We're pretty healthy eaters, so we knew that wasn't an issue.  And I've been explaining to people who ask that this is not a food thing; it can't be changed by eating better.  That's what the experts told us.  That's the boundary of their experience and expectations.

But then Yahweh started talking to me.  He started talking to me about diet, especially regarding Levi, and I was curious and excited.  Because I am forever blessed by our advances in medicine, but it can only go so far.  Western medicine, especially, is incomplete in its focus.

It's not uncommon for me simply to hear His voice, like when he told me I wouldn't be returning to the worship leadership position after Roxie was born.  But here's how hearing God unfolded in this situation for me, and it's continuing to do so.  In short, it's been one of those "coincidental," "that-was-random" situations in repeat. 

First, I became obsessed with healthy soil as I planned our garden this year; I had no catalyst for it beyond just knowing it to be hugely important.  Second, a godly, mighty friend said she knew Type 1 isn't affected by diet but couldn't shake Levi from her spirit as she came upon a couple books about healing through diet and wondered if I'd like to borrow one.  This was especially unexpected: "Yahweh, what's going on with this? You trying to tell me something?"  Third, I clicked on a random FB article posted by someone I hardly know and read it with my hair on end as it talked about all this crazy stuff about healthy soil; it addressed exactly what's been brewing in my spirit.  My jaw dropped when I reached the end that tied all these healthy soil facts and studies to...wait for it...Type 1 diabetes.  The title had not prepared me for that:  "OK, Yahweh, you've definitely got my attention!  Where we headed?"  A few days later, I received the aforementioned book from my friend.  Chapter 1:  Crazy, Mind-Blowing Stuff Including...Healthy Soil, Type 1 Diabetes Reversal, and the Astronomical Importance of Your Gut (Digestive System)/Immune System/What You Feed Them.  A wave of significance washed over me and over me and over me as I devoured every word.  "Thank you, Yahweh; I'm listening and ready."  Last, another godly, mighty friend who had no idea of any of this other stuff approached me and said she knew Type 1 isn't affected by diet but couldn't shake Levi from her spirit as she learned some new stuff about healing the body through diet.  She showed me a video that talked about the incredible healing significance of...the gut and what we feed it.  By the way, guys, the gut...huge.  HUGE.  It directs so much traffic.

I sought none of this out beyond my faithful prayer and warring in the spirit for my son and trying to make food changes that have been in my own spirit for my family.

I guess I'm giving this rundown to show one of the ways God talks.  Sometimes we wait for Him to send a letter in the mail, to spell it out in the clouds, to overwhelm us with a thundering voice.  However, it's often subtler than that.  You get to the place where you start acting in faith on what you've heard.  Some of it will turn out to have just been your own emotions or vain imagination, and that's OK!  You'll learn to differentiate along the way if you keep pursuing Him with pure motives and an open spirit.  He has already accounted for our learning curve and directed our paths accordingly.  It's fool-proof!

So I'll return to where I started:  we, all of us, were created to hear and to know God.  There is none excluded from that possibility.  I'm treading some supernatural ground right now, and it's what differentiates my experience as one who acknowledges my Creator from the experience of another who's just buying the current expectations and information at face value.  But we don't have to settle for status quo in our lives or in our kids' lives or in the world around us.

Because God is talking. 

(to you.)

Because God Himself Identifies with You, Loves You...

Been remembering this since it first popped up on my little daily verse thingie on April 10:

"At the supreme moment of His dying, Jesus so identified Himself with men and the depths of their predicament and agony that no man can now sink so low that God has not gone lower."  -Os Guinness

How encouraging!...even moreso that upon His resurrection and revolutionary defeat of those depths, we can take His hand and by the Spirit walk up, up and out, till we're soaring far above it all by His grace and love and Truth and might. 

I hate cliche religious talk, so I apologize if this all sounds like mere religious banter.  I know it to be so real and earth-shattering that my heart skips a beat to ponder His goodness and BIGNESS, and intimate relatability.

Whether you've always believed, never believed, or did once but got jaded along the way, don't ever let your or someone else's religious activity/expectation/habit drive you away from, or stand in replacement of, the totally explosive, radiant, life-altering, mind-blowing, heart-swelling LIFE that is a relationship with the One who loves you.