To Fix, To Fight, or To Fall on Our Knees

This post is part of Julie's Hump Day Hmmm. It's a day late, but hopefully not a dollar short. To read some other great posts on the topic of "fixing" visit her site.

My father was diagnosed with multiple myeloma in August of 2003. Doctors told him he was lucky. They found it early, and with agressive treatment he had a chance of living another five to fifteen years. None of us ever even asked if not getting treatment was an option; it was just assumed that my dad would do whatever it took to live a few more years. In retrospect, I wonder if he made the right choice.

You see, even with several rounds of chemo and two stem cell transplants, my father only lived another three years. Some of that time was good, and he did get to meet three of his grandchildren, even being around Calvin long enough that Calvin still remembers his PopPop. But most of those years were not full of quality life. He and my mom spent several months at a time in Arkansas, far away from family and friends, so that my dad could get the most advanced treatment. When he was finally home and done with his transplants, my dad had about eight months of feeling pretty good until the cancer started to return. My workaholic doctor dad, who had always been fit and full of energy, spent most of his time on the couch, making the occasional outing to make memories with his family. In September of 2006, he passed into eternity.

Should my dad have gotten treatment? I don't know. I certainly don't regret the time I had with him or the memories he made with Calvin. I don't regret our last summer at the beach, when he spent time with baby Hobbes and watched Calvin and my niece play in the sand and waves. But I know that most of that time, my dad felt awful, and I believe that he only went through with later treatments for our sake. He was ready to go.

My husband and I have talked about this a lot lately, and I keep coming back with questions. Why do terminally ill people receive treatment? What would I do if I were diagnosed with a terminal illness? I am thankful for medicine and for the time it bought my dad. I also think that there is no question of receiving treatment if there is hope for a cure, or of using medicine if it can alleviate some pain and suffering in order to provide a better quality of life. But I do think that aggressive treatment in order to fight off death sometimes goes too far. Sometimes, people are ready to die. Sometimes people do not want to live in misery for just a few more months. Sometimes people are like Mrs. Dubose in To Kill a Mockinbird and just want to die in their full minds and at peace, not dependent on outside chemicals to regulate their bodies.

This is a tricky topic, and I think it extends far beyond terminal illnesses. There are so many medical treatments and medications that people use these days to lengthen life, hold off aging, "fix" a problem that may not be a problem (or at least not one that is meant to be fixed).

As I Christian, I can't help but see this pursuit of health and long life as proof that we live in a world that is not as it should be. Disease and brokenness are not part of the created order; they are a corruption of it. Death is not natural, it is the enemy. We are not meant to be comfortable with these things, but I also don't think we are ultimately meant to cure all of them. We are meant to live in this broken world and allow the brokenness to awake our longing for something more. We are meant to pray for God's kingdom to come into our brokenness and death and to bring healing and life. And ultimately, we are to look to Jesus, who was victorious over disease and death. His rule will usher in a new creation, where there is "no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away" (Revelation 21:4). Amen, Come Lord Jesus.

Conscientious Words

Maybe this is cheating, but I'm submitting this for Julie's Hump Day Hmm on the topic Using My Words. (Check out her blog for more entries.) Technically, it's Calvin using his words. But his words are so much better than mine! In other news, my 100th post is coming up soon. Check back for a cool book giveaway in celebration.

Calvin's two current obsessions are the Psalms and our hymnal. He loves to ask me to read some random Psalm. "Mommy, let's read Psalm 62 today." He almost always manages to choose one of those troublesome ones about God thwarting David's enemies. He also loves to look through the index of our hymnal and ask the titles of hymns. He was doing this with my sister-in-law the other night.

"Auntie __, what is the name of this one?"

"That one's called How Firm a Foundation."

"Auntie __, this one has the word holy in it. Can we sing this one?"

"Maybe we can sing it after dinner, let's go to the table."

"Auntie__, is there a hymn that starts with conscientious?"

"I don't know any songs with the word conscientious in them, Calvin."

"I'm going to write a new hymn. It's going to be called Conscientious Jesus Christ."

(Let's not get into the theology of that one or it's implications for my faith.)

Where did he even hear that word? Must have been me, though I am sure I wasn't talking about him. His brain is such a sponge, and he is listening to everything everyone says, all of the time. I have written before of his unusual use of vocabulary. I love it that he can memorize the prayers and creeds in church, that he recited the opening lines of Paul Rever's Ride at 18 months old, that he has memorized Shakespeare and Frost without knowing what it all means. I love to hear him sing Bob Dylan lyrics or quote an entire favorite children's book while he is at play. The child has always had a gift of language.

We who are parents know only too well the power of our words. They are the final authority for the little people in our house. They can be words of healing or of great hurt. They can be words of encouragement or of anger. Sometimes we forget that the words we use are also the ones that our children are learning to use, though Calvin tends to combine them in creative ways. I suppose talking about a conscientious Jesus isn't so bad, but I need to watch how I use my words. One of these days Calvin might tell me he is writing a hymn called Stupid Idiot Who Doesn't Know How to Drive.

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, My Rock and My Redeemer.

The Value of a Face

The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart. -Saint Jerome

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters...

-William Shakespears, Macbeth, Act I, Scene 5

All action is of the mind and the mirror of the mind is the face, its index the eyes.
-Cicero

Although I was the one who suggested this week's Hump Day Hmm topic on the ethics of social networking, I have no idea what to say. I am sure I am less qualified than anyone else writing on this topic today. But my very inexperience in the world of blogging, online social networking, Facebook, and all of those other things that I don't even know about, may give me a unique perspective.

I was an English major in college. I love books, the smell of a new book, freshly opened to its pages with clean white margins. I could get lost in the dusty and ancient aromas of a used book store, piles of books taking up every available space, the insight into past owners from the scribbles in the margins. Books, paper, nice pens gliding along a blank journal page as my thoughts flow.

I am in ministry. I love people, messy, funny, imperfect, kind, angry, unique people. I love watching people in airports and malls and wondering what their stories are. I love meeting people from other cultures, whose language I don't speak, and communicating with them anyway. People and their stories, faces and books. Reading.

My husband's best friend still goes inside the gas station to pay for his gas. He says we have lost the ability to communicate face-to-face and that it is damaging our culture. I have two kids in car seats, so I am not about to go in to pay every time. On the odd time that I do, however, I always wonder what the story is of the person behind the counter. I love looking into faces. I never use the self-check line in the grocery store unless the lines are extra long and I am in a huge hurry. I prefer the drive-up window over the ATM. I prefer real people and real paper over machines and computer screens.

How did a bibliophile who actually seeks out daily face-to-face encounters with people enter the world of online social networking? I'm not sure I did, really. I mean, I have a blog, mostly because my friends kept telling me I should. I only starting reading blogs to keep up with friends far away, people I actually knew in real life. I joined Facebook because it was the only way to get information about my high school reunion.

Both my blog and Facebook became a fun way to keep up with friends and exercise my mommy-brain a little, so after a friend invited me to join a social networking group for bloggers, I decided to try it. I had no idea what I was getting into! There were groups and rankings and people wanting to be my friends. Now, to be fair, I did meet a lot of nice people with interesting blogs. But the pressure! I felt like I was in a high school popularity contest or a sorority rush (neither of which I cared about in high school or college). I was bombarded with e-mails to check my ranking and approve friendship requests. I felt stressed. I felt I had to keep up with all of these friendships. I could have easily ignored my established relationships with neighbors and friends in order to increase my ranking and keep my online friends happy and returning to my blog. So I stopped.

That was my brief experience with social networking. I don't consider my blog much of a social network, as I have only a few regular readers. I also only comment on blogs when I really feel like contributing to the conversation. Through the online group I joined for a while and some other random links, I have found some bloggers with whom I feel some connection and whom I enjoy conversing with via comments and e-mails. I don't regret "meeting" those people, you who are reading my blog and participating in the Hmm, especially. But let's be honest. If we lost touch, I wouldn't be as sad as I would if I lost touch with a good friend, someone with whom I have shared cups of tea and late night talks and funny movies and good mountain views.

There is a reason that college friendships are often the deepest outside of family. We see those people face-to-face on a daily, or near daily, basis for four years. We don't just share ideas, we share experiences and silent moments of communication. We see one another's eyes and can read one another's souls. We hug, we wrestle, we dance, we high five, we connect. No amount of e-mail can make up for face-to-face interaction. No machine can substitute for a cashier handing you change and a receipt. Even on the most fundamental level, human touch and shared space are connectors in a way that virtual communication cannot be.

And so I enter the world of online social networking cautiously. I have met some interesting people and been able to engage in some fascinating conversations. I have found an excellent media for spilling my random thoughts without the work of writing a full-fledged book. I think that the blogosphere is a good thing, especially for moms who may be isolated at home. I think online social networking may be very useful for small businesses to connect with like-minded people. I think it can be used badly, to prey on people who want desperately to be popular. I think that it is very easy to make "friends" online for personal gain and at no cost to oneself.

Perhaps you could call me a Luddite, if one can be a Luddite and still use a computer. I approach all technology cautiously. If I weren't married to a software engineer, I probably wouldn't even know what a blog was. I may not even have internet at my house. As it stands, I still prefer reading a good book or a friendly face over reading blogs on a glowing screen.

Nothing can substitute for human interaction and shared space, even on the most basic level. I know the checkout people at my local grocery store, and they know me and my boys. I may not know the details of their lives, but they know which boy will want a sticker on his jacket and which prefers to hold it in his hand. If I need a good web designer, I am going to ask my friends who know my face, who have looked into my eyes and know what would suit me best.

We rush by people enough as it is in this hurried life we lead. We don't look into eyes. We miss so much. If the blogosphere helps us to slow down and connect, then it is a good thing, but we must take that into our lives as well. My suggestion? Try going in to pay for your gas next time, and maybe even use the attendant's name and thank her for your change.

Click here to read more posts on this topic.

Contraception Conversation Continued

Thanks to all for your great insights and comments on this topic. I realize that most of my readers and commenters are pro-life, as am I, though I hate that term because it implies that the pro-choice camp folks don't value life. To my pro-choice readers, I realize that I am only covering this very vast and complicated topic from my perspective, and I welcome your comments and what you have to say on this very important topic for all women. One of the things I love about the blogosphere is how we are learning to listen to one another respectfully and humbly, as this excellent post by Catherine suggests we should.

Julie has asked that I add this to this week's Hump Day Hmm, so if you missed the post and conversation, click here. While I don't necessarily this think is our culture's most important issue, I do think it is one of many important issues that require more discussion of the humble, non hostile type. Oh, and go read Catherine's post. (Did I mention that already?)

My Life in Music Part 2: Years of Darkness and Light

As I started thinking about the soundtrack of my high school and college years, I came up with a list of songs that was way too long. That’s not surprising, music was always playing, in my car, in my room, in my headphones, at concerts. There is always a song playing when I return to a memory from those years, and though my memory may sometimes insert the incorrect song, that is only because it has such a large collection from which to choose. This part of my story may seem disjointed, but isn’t that appropriate? This is the time when we are “finding ourselves” and the intensity of emotions involved in that search doesn’t always lend itself to clear memories.

I left middle school behind and started my journey toward becoming my own person, not someone just lost in the crowd. I said good-bye to pop music and started the only place I knew to look for some good sounds, my dad’s album collection. I discovered Abbey Road and found my voice. I had found the soundtrack of my life, unfortunately I was living in the wrong era. Thankfully, I found some friends who were, too, and memories were made, for better and worse.

This part of my story could be a novel, so instead of a narrative, I offer a playlist, with a few songs from my generation thrown in for good measure.

Brown Eyed Girl, Cecilia, and Blue Sky (by the Allman Brothers) are long nights with two older boys and my neighborhood girl friend, driving around in my mom’s Jeep Cherokee, singing and talking, stopping to climb on old railroad bridges, driving up to the mountains to watch the stars fade and the morning fog roll in, or finally giving up to go home and watch The Breakfast Club and talk until we all fell asleep on the couch.

Jewel’s You Were Meant for Me and James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James are getting in the car at a playground, late at night, after a heartbreaking kiss from one of those older boys, a dark, brooding, poetic boy who would one day truly break my heart.

Ramblin’ Man is a July 4th Allman Brothers concert at World’s Fair Park in Knoxville with that same boy and his college roommates.

The entire U2 Joshua Tree album is wanting so badly to get in that boy’s car and ramble across the country but being too responsible to do it.

Blessid Union of Souls’ first album is my senior year boyfriend and gang of friends, late nights watching stars from the boat in the middle of the lake, pizza after the football game on Friday night, staying too late at my boyfriend’s house and trying so hard not to get in trouble. A summer of carefree, mountain kid fun, no moonshine involved, trying to forget the dark, brooding boy away at college, and knowing that I broke his heart on purpose because he scared me.

The Bridge by Eddie from Ohio is newfound freedom my senior year of college, dancing with new friends at my first InterVarsity retreat.

Gillian Welch, Lyle Lovett, and Townes Van Zandt are discovering new music with my dad and going home to the mountains for concerts at the Down Home.

Long December by the Counting Crows is going to Tucson for Spring Break to visit the boy, hoping I can hide how much I like him while I listen to him talk about the girl of his dreams, sitting out in the desert at night and looking up at the stars, feeling as arid as my surroundings.

The Sound of Silence is the summer after my freshman year, when that boy came back and kissed me and we lay in the grass watching the stars and saying so much without saying anything. Funny, I can’t really remember any other songs from that summer, just words like “marry” and “forever” and “Arizona.”

April, Come She Will is sitting in my dorm room that September, reading a way too short and impersonal e-mail after weeks of silence while my insides go numb.

There is too much dark and depressing and melancholy music too mention from the next few years, but there were some moments of light. Bobby McGee is my crazy friend Katie doing her Janis impersonation at an InterVarsity retreat and making me laugh. Closer to Fine by the Indigo Girls is my roommates and high school friends coming together for front row seats at the Indigo Girls concert. Like a Rolling Stone is driving two hours with Mary from Minnesota to see Dylan in concert with a bunch of folks our parents’ age. The Weight by The Band is my Southern Lit class taking a road trip to Oxford, pouring a libation on Faulkner’s grave, and drinking too much Jack and Coke in his honor. Nanci Griffith and the Floating Men are road trips up to the mountains, just to get away from the darkness for a while.

And Lucinda Williams and Dar Williams are trying to get over him by running off to Europe for the summer before beginning my “real life.”

At some point after college, I threw out a lot of that music that reminded me of him, and I started over. I moved into a commune and learned to trust people, I entered a healthy relationship with the man I was to marry, I actually got married, and I have two beautiful boys. I still love music and enjoy introducing my boys to it. We started with bluegrass, Rich Mullins, and Johnny Cash. And as I settle into a life that is less dramatic and more secure, I am rediscovering some of my old friends. I'm making my Dad proud by teaching my boys the Beatles and singing them to sleep with Simon and Garfunkel. Thanks to the internet, I may even buy a few of those songs back from the darkness and give them some new memories.

My Life in Music Part 1: Childhood and Early Adolescence

I was so excited when I saw the topic for this week’s Hump Day Hmmm. I have wanted to start a “Soundtrack of My Life” meme for a while, and since Julie’s roundtable topic fit, I decided to write for it instead. Unfortunately, I realized that my life in music cannot be contained in one post. I’m not sure when the other installments will come along, but today I offer you Childhood and Early Adolescence.

Music has power. It creates moods. It takes us back to a specific place in our memories. It heals people. It wounds people. It lifts our hearts up to the eternal. For me, music can be a way of returning to my roots, of remembering the people and experiences that have shaped me, of reminding me of lessons I have learned, and of taking me back to raw, real emotion when I feel that my senses are dulled.

My first memories of music come from my father, and his influence on my musical taste and experiences will weave this narrative together. More than anything else, music provides a way for me to stay connected with my Daddy. My first musical memories are of him rocking me in the chair in my parents’ bedroom, singing “Hush Little Baby.” Not too long after that, he moved on to old hymns. I had forgotten some of these memories until I had children of my own and began singing the same songs to them.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…

Not content to leave my musical education at that, my father soon introduced his version of the classics. I’m pretty sure I knew the words to “The Boxer” long before I had any idea who Simon and Garfunkel were, and I knew tons of Beatles songs before I knew anything of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Though my Dad tried to teach me to appreciate Bob Dylan, I used to tell him to turn off that “man who can’t sing right.” Appreciating Dylan’s unique style would have to wait until I was older, but Simon and Garfunkel were a good start.

…still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest…

Some of my clearest memories of childhood and beyond center around concerts. I still remember a school night in first grade, getting dressed in my 1980’s fruit print shorts and shirt with matching pineapple earrings, rocking with my dad and brother under the speakers at a super-loud John Cougar Mellencamp concert, coming home way past my bedtime only to be thrown into the tub while my mom scrubbed off that sweet-smelling smoke. I wonder what would have happened if I had gone to my small town elementary school smelling like pot the next day?

...Oh, but ain't that America, for you and me. Ain't that America, somethin' to see baby…

Not to be undone, my brother also worked his magic on my musical tastes, making sure I learned to enjoy Prince and Duran Duran. I think I still have a few of those singles (in record form, mind you) stored at my mother’s house.

But somewhere along the way, I became a preteen girl, with preteen girl friends and terrible musical taste. Oh, how I wish I could leave this part out, but it is part of my story. It started out innocently enough, Michael Jackson and “Thriller” were all the rage. Prince was still in style, and I had their posters on my bedroom wall. But then THEY came along. If you were raised in the late 80’s and early 90’s, you know about whom I am speaking. New Kids On The Block. Yep, I loved them. I collected trading cards, went to concerts, stalked them in their hotel, and got a picture of Joey, my crush. Perhaps this awkward, cringing feeling that I have as I write that confession is appropriate. After all, this was the defining music of my preteen years, a time we almost all look back on and cringe as we think of the poor, awkward people that we were. Thankfully, this is not the end of my life in music. Keep “hangin’ tough,” and we’ll get to the good parts. Somewhere along the way, I realized that my parents and their music were much better to listen to than my friends.

O, Death, Where is Your Victory?

I know I semi-resigned from NaBloPoMo, but this week's Hmm topic made me want to write. I may have another post in me tomorrow, may not. But I did have something to say today. We are supposed to be writing about loss in light of the recent devastation in California, where so many have lost everything they own. I have never been in a fire or other natural disaster. I have never lost anything of great material value. I don’t know what it would mean to be homeless or without possessions. But I will write about the loss that I do know, that of my father.

I will not forget the day that my Daddy called to tell me that he had cancer. It was July of 2003. I was in grad school in Illinois, farther away from my home than I had ever lived in my life. My husband and I had been married only a year. I remember that it was dark. I remember that I was so thankful for my husband’s arms holding me. I remember that one of my high school friends and one of the most amazing Christian women I know called me immediately after receiving my e-mail to pray with me. I remember immediately going online to find out all I could about multiple myeloma. I remember not sleeping much. And I remember more than anything not wanting to lose my Daddy.

My Dad was a doctor, a fantastic doctor, who never missed work for illness. He was so fit and chiseled that, in his late forties, he still put fear in the hearts of all of my guy friends in high school. But he was nothing to be afraid of, really. My Dad was a quiet man because he was shy, not because he wanted to be intimidating. My girl friends in high school knew this, and many of them called him “Dad” because they loved him so much. He was a good man, not perfect, but good. And I was his girl. We were (still are) two of a kind.

My Daddy’s battle with cancer lasted for a little over three years, and I think the loss and grief came slowly for all of us over the course of those years. When he died last September, however, it was rather sudden. He had been relatively healthy for the months before that, and the doctors were optimistic about an experimental drug that he had just started. We went home for Labor Day weekend, and I could tell something was wrong. His normally sharp mind was lapsing. He forgot that he had watched the football game with me that weekend. And he slowly became more and more delirious. Anyone who has been near someone dying of cancer knows that it is not pretty. That was the most difficult week of my life, and I don’t want to chronicle it here. I can relive it in bits and pieces, but not all at once.

Instead of focusing on the loss of my Daddy, which has been the hardest loss of my life. I want to write about what I have gained from his illness and death. The most tangible and beautiful things that our family gained from my Daddy’s illness are three beautiful children. My niece was born in May of 2004, and Calvin followed in August. Hobbes was born a year and a half later. I’m pretty sure that my brother and I would not have talked our spouses into trying for children that soon if not for my dad’s illness. I treasure the memories of my Dad being PopPop to my boys. Having grandchildren opened him up so much and made him smile more than I had seen him smile in my whole life before that. He taught Calvin one of his first words, “golf.” And Calvin still loves to watch and play golf to this day. I think he has his PopPop’s skill at the game. While I would love to have my Daddy back, I am so thankful for the light that my niece and sons bring to our family.

I gained less tangible gifts from my Dad’s death, too. During the three years that my father battled cancer, the thing that I dreaded most was his death. I was sure I could not face it, that I could not be there when it happened, that I could not see my strong, capable, intelligent Daddy slowly decline. I’m not saying that being there was easy, but it was a sacred time, a time when the veil between the temporal and the eternal was removed. As my Dad’s mind and body, the things that he had relied on to succeed in life, began to fail, his soul began to shine through. I could see him the way his Father saw him, flaws and raw beauty and all, the things that are now perfected in the Father’s presence.

As I have processed my Daddy’s death and grieved my loss, the Holy Spirit has granted me the most amazing assurance of eternity. I thought that the days and weeks and months after my Dad’s death would be ones of darkness and depression. I sink so easily into that state. But they were not. Instead of drowning in sadness, I found myself experiencing peace and joy, not happiness, really, but joy in the assurance of the truth. This past Easter was one of the greatest of my life. The realities of the resurrection, of Christ’s trampling down of death, and of His coming again to establish his new creation were so vivid. I will see my Daddy again. We will walk in our mountains again. He will play golf with Calvin and football with Hobbes. I cannot explain the difference except to say that I once knew about eternity and now I know of it. That is a gift that infuses all of my life.

This gift of eternal perspective spills over into the lives of my children. My children can learn now not to be afraid of death, to be sad, yes, but not afraid. Calvin often comments that he can’t wait for Jesus to come back and bring PopPop. He talks about Jesus and PopPop playing golf in heaven. I can tell Hobbes stories about a man he won’t remember but who is every bit as alive to us now as he was when he was with us on earth. My children will not grow up without one grandfather. They will grow up with the realization that their PopPop is more alive than even they are, just far away for now.

It is true, what the apostle Paul says:

Death is swallowed up in victory.
Oh, Death, where is your victory?
Oh, Death, where is your sting?
1 Corinthians 15:54-55

Go read the whole chapter. It’s a good one!