what idiot said??

Let's play a game. Who said, "An abortion is a decision between a woman and her God?" If you guessed, our newly-inagurated and much-celebrated president, Barack Obama, then you are right. But, who else said it? I did. Yep, you read that right. I did, long before the Champion of Change swept the polls, as the Editor of my high school newspaper. It appeared in the final paragraph in what I was sure was one of the best written editorials in Ram News' history. How odd, I thought, when I heard my words come out of President Obama's mouth.

Coincidence? No, I don't believe in them. Rather, I think that the language is strikingly similar because it came from the same author, that wicked spirit who Paul says is working in the sons (and daughters) of disobedience. Ageless and wonton, his murderous message has not changed. It was the same in the days of the Kings of Israel when they made their little ones pass through the fires of Molech. It whispered to me back in 1991, convincing me not only that abortion was a humane choice, but that I should use my influence to convince others to believe the same. And yes, that same monster is speaking to our president, whispering lies about woman's rights and calling into question the value of even rice-sized human life.

But, Halleluia, while I was an enemy of Christ, self-righteously writing lies about His most precious ones, He died for me. One will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love for us, in that while we were yet SINNERS (God-hating, death-loving, lieing, filthy-minded, wretched fools), Christ died for us. Here I was railing against all that was good and instead of wiping me out, He saved me. And that, has made all the difference.

Brothers and sisters, if God can change me--once the biggest, ugliest feminist you'd ever want to meet, he can change our President. Pray that He does. And pray for the thousands of crisis pregnanncy centers throughout our country that have been quietly, lovingly, and effectively changing the hearts of coutless abortion-minded girls and women.

Good trees and bad fruit?

God has this endearing way of making us learn things we didn't even know we needed to know. Case and point. For the last two months, I have actively sought the Lord for direction on what to teach during my Sunday night Bible studies in the city. I was quickly coming to the end of a brief study on the early life of Christ. Actually, it was supposed to cover His whole life, butI couldn't seem to laso that one in. From past experiences, I knew I couldn't just go pick up a Bible study at the local Christian bookstore. They never seemed to work. The writers always seemed a million miles away from the situations my girl's faced. Plus, those studies are someone else's words and experiences. How am I supposed to teach that? The Bible isn't like Math or Biology. I guess, in a lot of ways, it's non-transferrable. And besides, there are no Bible studies geared toward this type of ministry anyway. I could say a whole lot about that, but most of it would fly in the face of the little lessons I've learned while preparing the latest study.

I don't know at what point, "The Fruit of the Spirit" popped into my head, but as soon as it did, it seemed the obvious choice. Personally, I wanted to spend the next 90 days or so drilling the merits of abstinence into their heads, but apparantly that will have to wait.

So, I snuck away for an hour, after a particularily trying day of school, and nestled myself into one of those super-cushy chairs at Starbucks and began to alternately slurp my Mocha Frapicino, write a few thoughts, cross reference a few verses, whip out a commentary, slurp some more. Well..you bet the picture.

Finally, after talking to the nice FedEx guy, who came over to see what all the slurping and page flipping was about, I had completed my magnum opus on the first Fruit of the Spirit--LOVE.

Today, as I hurried to reel in any wayward words or missed thoughts, a seed began to sprout in my mind. "A good tree," I read in Matthew, "cannot bear bad fruit." Oh yeah? I can bear some pretty big stinkers. How is that? The question hung there in my mind, unanswered all day.

Until, I began to teach tonight. Suddenly, I knew. It is true I can and do, bear some awful fruit at times. Spend a day homeschooling with us and you'll see. But, that fruit doesn't come from the Spirit who dwells inside of me. No, the bad fruit I so shamefully exhibit comes from my flesh, which is alway and anon making war with my Spirit. Anything that the Spirit does through me will be good. So maybe the good tree in Matthew 7 is not so much the Believer but rather the Holy Spirit who indwells us? The only fruit the Spirit can or ever will produce is good. The only fruit the flesh produces, will be phoney and ill-motivated at best, and worm-ridden at its worst. That is why Jesus says that a bad tree produces bad fruit. Even, when an ungenerated person does good (think Gandhi) God recognizes their fruit for what it is--something rotten, stinking of what He knows produced the fruit in the first place--vain glory, alterior and selfish motives, social expectations, personal agendas, and the list goes on.

Actually He's taught me a lot more, but I want to go read my book, so hopefully at a later time...we'll continue the discussion.

Paintball Mama

Moms of boys end up doing the strangest of things. For example, before I had my four sons I hated football. I thought it was brutish and infantile and rather pointless to boot. Of course, now after Josiah (the oldest) has played for five years I have become a football fiend. During on game last summer, I actually caught myself yelling out to Eric (who had just been splayed out just short of a touchdown) if he wanted me to sew him a dress? I haven't painted my face yet or dyed my hair blue and gold (their team colors). I guess I'm saving those embarassing "mommy theatrics" for high school.

It's the same with another one of my sons' loves. Never in my wildest, or for that matter, scariest dreams would I have imagined going paintballing, but yet there I was looking all cammando in my thrift- store army jacket and face mask last weekend. Tucked under my arm was a rented Pirhana. I wieled it like a Tommy Gun. I have to say I felt like saying something tough like, "you feel lucky, punk?" But, Josiah's football buddies were there and I knew that he could only stand so much embarassment.

Everything was going so well. Isn't that how it is right before disaster strikes? Sure, I had taken a paintball shot or two. The one to my inner thigh wasn't too pleasant, but I figured that compared to labor a few pings of exploded paint was nothing. I had even managed to shoot someone. Never mind that he was the biggest and slowest of the targets. No offense, Lee. You played with gusto.

Our team (the ones with the yellow strips hanging from our masks) was about to take a fort from an elevated position. Our enemy (the non-yellow ones) lie in wait, 300 yards downhill. Joe and I decide to flank to the right. Others would invade up the middle and to the left. We have it in the bag, I think to myself. The horn sounds and were off, running full speed through the uncut woods. Brambles and thorns tug at my jacket and threaten to knock the Pirhana out of my hands. I haven't run like this since I was a kid. The unfamiliar sensation of adreneline coursing through my veins, drives me onward. Twigs whip across my mask. We've almost made it to some cover when bam! I'm facedown in a pile of dead leaves. A root growing out of the ground in the shape of an arc, snagged my unsuspecting foot. My knee pounds and my shin throbs. My shoe is missing. Joe is trying to put it on. I push it away, afraid my ankle might be sprained. About a hundred feet away, I spot my neice. Out of pity, she waits to shoot me until I call all that "I'm okay." There's no glory in shooting a woman while she's down. I hobble to the nearest shelter to nurse my wounds, all the while thinking what I won't do for those boys of mine.

Even though my knee still aches, I'm grateful. It, like anything, could have been far worse. I could have sprained or broken any number of essential bones. And, it allowed me to enter into my boys' world. Someplace, I often dare to tred. They are so very different from me. As they should be. And, I guess, that is one more thing for which I am grateful.