Love Never Ends

     I've had reason to think about relationships of late, with both family and friends, and it reminded me of a dream I had shortly after my father died. It was a strange but hopeful dream. 
     When he was in the hospital with his final illness, I worried about his destination. We had talked a bit about Christian faith, and I was not sure he accepted the gospel truth that we're saved through faith in Christ. I wrote to the chaplain at the hospital and told him. The chaplain talked to him and wrote back, saying that he "would have no problem admitting him to Communion." Relief. 
     The chaplain was Lutheran. I met him at the hospital later, and he asked what church I went to. PCA, I said, Presbyterian Church in America. He laughed. "I know the PCA," he said. "I thought from the way your father talked that it was one of the way-out Pentecostal groups." Well, the straight-up plan of salvation does sound pretty wild when you're not used to it. 
     Anyway, after my father died, I dreamed of his funeral. He was in his coffin, dressed in ranch clothes-- jeans and new flannel shirt that he never got to wear around his Montana property. (That part is real.) He was dead. Everyone knew he was dead. But he looked up at me and gave me a conspiratorial wink. I knew he was telling me that death is not for real or forever when you trust Christ. 
     This week, I thought about friendship, how it can be precarious because of anger or misunderstanding or argument. Sometimes it can be smoothed or retrieved, sometimes not. But for Christians, this bit of earthly life is not all we get. We look forward to eternity, first in Heaven, then on the new earth that God promises to clean up and restore. Unbroken friendships will continue even better. Broken friendships will pick up where they left off, rifts forgotten. Even the beautiful, beloved son who won't speak to me, who may never in this life, will greet me with a smile, and I will run to embrace him. May it be soon, Lord Jesus, may it be soon. 

Better, thanks.

     Tonight I said to my husband, “I feel happy.” What with a lot of family turmoil of late, it’s been a while since I felt that way, and it took me by surprise. It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and we had pizza night early so college sophomore son could indulge before heading back to school Sunday afternoon. Amateur pastry chef son-in-law made dough for several pizzas, and darling daughter did most of the assembly. We baked the concoctions in the gas grill on our fabulously remodeled porch, and three young guy friends came by to help with the eating.

     A tablecloth and a jug of flowers remained on the teak table from Thanksgiving dinner. The kids ate snacks and played “Settlers of Catan” there all afternoon. I think I am slow to remove the last signs of the Thanksgiving feast, because it was so good. We had three tables on the porch to seat 20 people, both relatives and friends. Brother-in-law smoked a turkey. Darling daughter roasted sweet potatoes. We heated up a spiral-sliced ham and mashed stacks of russet potatoes. Husband mixed up world’s best stuffing. We had chocolate pecan and mincemeat pies and apple galettes. (Layer apples with spices and butter on a pastry crust, fold the edges in and bake.) I made basil-infused lemonade because a niece requested it. When the pitcher got low, she joked she would take bids on the last glassful.

     Two years ago, Thanksgiving dinner included me, husband and one son. This year, we had college son; darling daughter, her husband and two-year-old; oldest son and his four children; bro-in-law, his wife and two daughters, a friend of one of theirs; mother-in-law; and another family of four, good friends from church. The grown cousins enjoyed catching up. Two-year-old grandson gave six-year-old twin girl cousins fist bumps, and they pretended to be knocked over backwards. He giggled.

     The weather was perfect for sitting on the porch. The homemade cranberry sauce turned out nice. We had good wines. But in the end, the best thing I could think of to say about the day was that it was… normal. I know “normal” can be pretty bad at holidays, with anger and old grudges, so I guess what I mean is that this is the way it ought to be. No single thing made the day so fine, but we were all together, and a lot of unpleasantness was ignored or left behind or just overshadowed by kindness and sharing and love. I’m thankful for that.

How Do I Love Thee?

     Flying into Detroit, I fancied that there would be an all-Motown radio station to listen to in the rental car on the way to parents’ weekend at Hillsdale College. I kept pressing “SEEK,” but got no “I Second That Emotion” or “Baby Love.” Instead, I heard a lyric so vile I wish I could scrub it from my brain. I won’t quote it.

     The girl singer seemed to be competing with another for the man of her dreams. Her enticement was that she was willing to debase herself more than the other girl. Aside from the question of why she would do such a thing anyway—in a public place, no less—I ask why a self-respecting female would want the approval of a man who evaluates women on the level of their debauchery. Of course, the answer lies in that old-fashioned phrase, “self-respecting.”

     Counter-intuitive as it may seem, I think this abysmal lack of self respect—no, it goes beyond that: cataclysmic anti-respect—has its roots in feminism. The ‘60s feminists asked some important questions and came up with all the wrong answers. Their theorizing jumped from “Men and women are of equal value” to “There is no difference whatever between men and women.” While they might have imitated the noblest of men and emphasized courage, loyalty, adherence to principle and self-control, instead they adopted the worst. Marriage was slavery; sex was to be engaged in with no restrictions; pregnancy was a disease. Women became as “free” of chastity, monogamy, moral principle and self-control as they believed men were, or wished to be. There was no reason to guard one’s sexuality, and with all that constricting morality out of the picture, no way to protect one’s sexuality, never mind one’s soul. Why not, then, use sex to keep a man’s attention?

     Yeah, yeah, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle… but most of us still want one. The problem is that what we really want is the unconditional love, the lifetime commitment, but you can only get that from a man who is courageous, loyal, principled and self-controlled, or at least trying to be. If you have nothing in the way of character, principle or self-control to offer him, well, why would he want you?

     Have you seen the TLC program “Big Sexy,” in which a group of extra-large girlfriends look for career success and lasting love in the big city? They all seem to be looking for Mr. Right, only they look for him in bars where dancers pull patrons onto the stage and bump and grind against them in a manner that had me clutching my pearls. All but one of the girls has had sexual relations with a number of men. One took up with a married man and was crushed when he went back to his wife. My heart ached for all of them, because, despite their appeal as human beings, they seem to be on the same wavelength as the girl in the song. Listen, girls: “giving yourself” is exactly what you do, and every liaison keeps a piece of your soul. If promiscuity (and degradation) is your search engine, by the time Mr. Right appears, there may be nothing left of you. Cheap things are used a few times and thrown out. Want a man to treasure you? Then be a treasure.

Sew?

I like to sew. This surprises people, I suppose  because I come across as intellectual for the most part, and most folks don't connect that with cutting and stitching. But here I am, making bibs in unusual fabrics for my little grandson. Sometimes I giggle a bit over such projects and hug them. Is that weird? I love picking the fabrics and patterns and putting things together  to give to people I love. Since my oldest son was born 36 years ago, I've made vast numbers of overalls and jammies and Easter dresses. I've made pillows in the shape of letters of the alphabet and pink fleece bears and baby comforters. When I see someone wearing or using something I made with my own hands, I'm proud and happy. It seems to me an important part of being human to design and produce something real. 

 An old-fashioned fireman print with wavy red stripes made a nifty comforter for the new son of a young lady I've known since she was a girl. She seemed to appreciate having something made by hand.