Forgive us as we forgive . . .

Wow. How often do we really think about that line in the Lord’s Prayer?

“Forgive us our debts (trespasses/sins) as we forgive our debtors (those who trespass/sin against us).”

Wait a minute. Did I just say that? Please forgive me as I forgive others? Really? Huh.

Let the scrambling commence: Oh he doesn’t mean it that way. He just means “Forgive me like you want me to forgive others.” Ok, so that response is our good days. On our usual days? “For give us our debts asweforgiveourdebtors LEAD us not into temptation, but . . .” What was that you said? Oh yeah, God please forgive us and don’t lead us into temptation, deliver us from evil.

Let’s try that again. Forgive us, as we forgive. My Bibleworks tells me the word translated “as” is an article of comparison, meaning as or like. What if we memorized it with the word “like”? “Forgive us our debts like we forgive our debtors.” The Greek in Matthew has the word also. The New American Standard translates it this way: “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.”

It’s getting harder to squirm out of here. Now, let’s turn to Luke and reflect for a while on why Luke’s version isn’t the one we go around reciting. Here’s what Luke 11:4 says (again, New American Standard):

“And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves also forgive everyone who is indebted to us.”

Umm. . . . Hm. . . .Huh. . . . Uhhh, is it getting hot in here?

Forgive us (imperative) for (since or even) we–you know, we–forgive (indicative present, i.e. a habitual state of being) everyone who is indebted to us. *gulp*

Now, granted, it doesn’t appear to be a conditional relationship between the two clauses here. However. This is Jesus talking. And he’s basically saying it’s a given that we–believers, that is–forgive one another. We are by our very nature to be forgivers. And we make that bold statement to God every time we pray the way Jesus told us to.

Awww, MAN! Sometimes I just plain don’t want to forgive. I just don’t. *kicks and pouts* But, apparently, that is not an option. Because according to Matthew and Luke, I’m either asking God to forgive me like I forgive others (oh please, not like that) or I am, as a matter of fact, one who forgives everyone.

I can’t pick. You decide.

I’ve spent the last couple of months, since June really, dealing with what I found to be a grave attack on my own personhood and that of my family. I have been hurt. Deeply. Devastatingly. I, who can generally sleep under any circumstances, have lost sleep over this one. I spent the first month after the offense just reeling, walking through a fog. I have spent the second month in denial. Last week I had to invite this person to my home. Open my door. Let her in. And I did not want to. I. did. not. want. to. And she arrived bearing both words and letter of apology, and expressing a desire for reconciliation. Both of which, I’m sure, were issued with all sincerity, but both fell far, far short of what I wanted to hear. Still I seethe. Still I rage. Still I stomp my feet.

Here’s where my constant theologizing comes up and bites me. Where my passion for Reformed theology, especially, gets put to the test. My faith is all about God’s grace. About God meeting us where we are and giving us the faith that leads to salvation. He hands it to us. There is nothing I can do to earn it or deserve it. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9)

And then there is this prayer. This “Forgive me, like I forgive others” or “Forgive me, since I forgive everyone indebted to me.” What am I supposed to do with all that?

I’m supposed to forgive. That’s what. I’m supposed to turn the clauses around and forgive as God has forgiven me. Freely. Out of grace. Because it’s Who he is.

Lord, give me your grace. To forgive as you have forgiven me. To be who you’ve called me to be. A person of grace. A person who forgives everyone who is indebted to her. Amen.

Different babies, different needs

Monumental day in our house a couple of weeks ago. For the first time in nearly four years, we don’t have a crib in our bedroom.

When we were expecting Isaac we put up his crib in our bedroom, at the foot of our bed. He was so sweet and so tiny sleeping there. Our bed is faux wrought iron, with simple vertical bars, so my husband and I could lie on our pillows, all snug and cuddly together, and watch our beautiful new bundle snooze away. Isaac began sleeping through the night, due to nothing we did, at the ripe old age of 10 weeks. So, by the time he was 4 months, we knew there was no real reason for him to still be in our room, as he never woke, we never had to tend to him, so we moved him into his own room.

When we were expecting Hannah, 2 1/2 year-old Isaac was still thoroughly in love with his crib, so we bought a new one (his was a hand-me-down, so this was our first crib purchase). We put it up in our bedroom, exactly where Isaac’s had been, planning on following the same pattern. When we found out Hannah was a girl, we set up a pretty girlie crib and eagerly awaited seeing her sleep there. Best laid plans . . .

Well, Hannah had other plans. Or, well, God made Hannah . . . Hannah. Different from her brother in many–if not all–ways, and with different needs. Hannah barely slept in that crib. And, ironically, 2 1/2 year old Isaac decided to climb out of his crib for the first time two weeks after Hannah was born. Within a week of that feat it became abundantly clear that it was time for his big boy bed. By the time Hannah turned a month, we had two empty cribs. Isaac’s, in his room, from which he had graduated, and Hannah’s, in our room, in which she just simply would not, could not sleep. She preferred the snugly confines of her bucket car seat. My dear, dear friend used to call it her Barcalounger. The child lived in that thing. We later learned she had reflux, but at the time, I was happy to let her be comfortable however she needed to be comfortable. Chalking it up to her snugly nature, Hannah slept in her bucket till she was 5 months old.

When Hannah turned 5 months old, she outgrew her bucket for sleeping. I still vividly remember the night she outgrew it. And it was just like that. One night she slept in her bucket, the next night she couldn’t. The night she couldn’t happened to be the night we were staying at a hotel after being evacuated from our home in the wee hours of the morning due to a flood in our neighborhood. In a room with two double beds, Ry was sleeping with Isaac who needed the comfort under the circumstances. Hannah was totally unsettled in her bucket, and there was no where else to put her so I just moved her in next to me. Ahhhh. Hannah found her heavenliest sleeping arrangement. As did I.

So, we discovered by chance that Hannah slept best next to me. Snuggled up, nursing at will. And I got to sleep through the whole thing. The magic of the mommy body. Shortly after that we found a purpose for Isaac’s old crib. We attached it to the side of our bed (found the how-to online) and created The Annex. It gave us more room for our Queen-sized bed as Hannah would sleep in her annex, scootch over to me to snuggle up and nurse. I’d go back to sleep and awaken later to find her off on her annex again. Blissful. For a while there we had the annex and Hannah’s original crib in our (big) bedroom. Her original crib was still a nice safe place to be when we weren’t in the room with her.

When Hannah was 8 months old we moved. The side-car annex went up in our new (small) bedroom and her original crib in her new bedroom next door. At this point I think she had spent maybe two nights in the thing. This went on for the next year. She never slept in it, but it was ever-so-pretty. When Hannah was 17 months old we moved her to a big-girl bed she actually enjoyed sleeping in. She never did sleep in that crib.

Then came Ruth. With Ruth, we had the The Annex from the get-go. We brought her home from the hospital and put her in there for night-time sleeping. And there she stayed. She never really came and snuggled up to me. Her best way to fall asleep was to be swaddled up tight in her yellow waffle-weave blankie and rock her head from side to side. When she awakened in the night, I’d sit up to nurse her, and lay her back in her annex. As she got older, she began to awaken more instead of less. A trip to my in-law’s when she was 9 months old told us she slept better in her own space, away from our bed. Go figure. So, up went the second crib in our (again, small) bedroom. And Ruth slept much, much better there for the next four months.

And then. Oh. My. And then, the child began to awaken every hour. Or less. Mama! MAAHma! MaMAH! MA-MA! Nurse, if you can call it that (really more open mouth and twitch, and then be surprised at the let-down that was significantly delayed by the utter lack of suction) for five minutes and back to bed. Till the next hour. A month or two or three of that (that’s when I started drinking coffee) and we decided something needed to change. Which brings us to the monumental change I started all this with.

We moved Isaac and Hannah up to our walk-up attic and moved Ruthie into Isaac’s old room. Ruthie moved out of our room. And lo and behold! she slept eleven hours straight, heaving a sigh of relief: “Finally, those people left me alone!”

And now. And now, my husband and I have only one sleeping container in our room. Our bed. For us. Just us. And it’s nice. And it’s sad. But mostly it’s nice.

However. Wonder-sleeper-Boy has grown frightened of his new bedroom. And shows up by our bed every night around 3AM. Petrified and begging to stay. Come on in, sweet boy. It’s safe here.

A boy and his ice cream.

On Tuesday and Wednesday this week, various members of our extended family, along with Isaac’s “girlfriend” Rebecca and the other nearby pastor’s family, received in the mail a card with the cartoon image of balloons (hanging upside down, due to some faulty printing. By me.) with the following emblazoned in fancy script in its center:

Ice Cream Yummy!

It’s an

Ice Cream Party!

Please join us for a yummy time

on Sunday, August 24th

at 2 o’clock in the afternoon

at Our House

Our Boy. The son of two major introverts. Loves parties. Loves hosting, loves going, loves imagining about, loves talking about, loves loves loves parties. And he decided he wanted to have one. And I went along with him. And it’s been a ball.

I took all three kids to the grocery store on Wednesday where Isaac picked out what flavors of ice cream he wanted (chocolate, vanilla, and–my favorite–mint chocolate chip) along with what sorts of toppings. I suggested brownies. And Redi-Whip. Though I nixed the Cool Whip. I just had to. Otherwise, though, he got to get what he wanted. I currently have sweet tea brewing, because he thought people might enjoy (his word, not mine) some sweet tea with their ice cream, instead of the unsweetened we’ll be making too. Makes my teeth hurt just thinking about it, but, sure, I’ll make some.

We went on Friday morning to pick out the decorations–birthday decorations from the Dollar Store–and then we talked through how he wanted to set up tables and chairs and how he envisioned this all going. Today we worked together on getting our house straightened up (You want your guests to be comfortable, I say. It wouldn’t be very comfortable for them, all cluttered up like this. Can’t we just stay outside? he responds. Mmm. No. Sorry. So he straightened with me.)

He’s excited as can be. His introverted parents who spent all day today with people and will spend all morning tomorrow with more people . . . we’re not so sure. I’m still not exactly clear on the details. I’m still not exactly sure just what an “Ice Cream Party” entails. But, apparently there will be ice cream there. And at the end of the day, isn’t that all that really matters? If I toss 3 gallons of assorted ice cream flavors on the table, accompanied by chocolate syrup and hot fudge and caramel and nuts and maraschino cherries, does anything else really matter? Does it matter where people will sit or what my house looks like or what the kids will do for fun? We’re giving out buckets of ice cream. Already it can’t get any better. Add a turned-inside-out-with-excitement Boy, and we have ourselves a party!

Sisters

This morning I was doing my online thing, checking in on my imaginary friends, sipping my cup of coffee (less chocolate more coffee now, purists will be happy to know). In one magic moment I looked up from my computer and saw a precious sight. Hannah and Ruthie were sharing their first mutual hug. They’ve had many encounters that involved Hannah groping, squeezing, squishing, knocking over Ruthie, but this was the first, two-way hug. I was too paralyzed by the cuteness to get a picture of it. Next time they do it, I’ll be ready. But my oh my. Oh they were so sweet. Little 3′ 2″ Hannah and 2′ 6″ Ruthie, locked in an embrace. Ruthie’s head resting on Hannah’s chest, her arms wrapped around her big sister, patting her back. Hannah rubbing Ruthie’s back and grinning with pride. It was wonderful. It went on for a good long while and I just sat and basked in the warm fuzzies.

During the first months of my pregnancy with Ruth, Ryan and I, along with most the rest of the family, were absolutely convinced we were having another boy. We even referred to the baby as Jack Jack (because, obviously, we already had the Super Hero dad and Violet and The Dash, and my arms are really long), and even though we admitted it was possible “Jack Jack” was a girl, we just knew he was a boy. His name was going to be Joel Henry.

Then we had an ultrasound around 19 weeks. And sure ’nuff, it looked like Jack Jack was a girl. We were surprised (who says finding out your baby’s gender via ultrasound ruins the surprise?) and, to be honest, it took me several weeks to adjust to the new vision of our beautiful little baby (and she was beautiful). There was one thought I kept going back to, over and over again. A sister. My sweet sweet Hannah Girlie would have a sister. My sweet sweet born-to-mother, care-giving Hannah Girlie would be a big sister. And I knew she would be as good a big sister as my own has been to me, especially since Hannah and Aunt Worry have so much in common. Hannah the big sister.

I knew that the little girl inside of me was going to be an amazing blessing to Hannah. And I knew that upon her birth she was going to receive an amazing blessing. A sister. Sisters. There is nothing on earth like it. I pray for my girls that they will grow to have as much love and care, concern and friendship for one another as I have had with my big sister. I hope and pray that this first hug I saw today will be one of countless. Even if there are a few bumps, bruises, and broken hearts along the way. I look forward to watching their sisterhood blossom.

More Pics from the Fair

This whole pic thing is new to me. So here’s another post with more Fair pics. Some more flattering ones of Isaac.

Riding the Roller Coaster with Uncle Bob

Riding in the Car with my sister

Not everyone had a total blast at the fair:

Poor Ruthie

Poor Ruthie spent the day in her stroller. Actually, she didn’t mind the stroller. She had a steady stream of Annie’s Whole Wheat Bunnies for munchy company. And she loved loved loved the Carousel. She could have spent all day on that. What she didn’t like, at. all., was when Mommy went on a ride or two with one of the other children and she was left alone with Auntie Marilyn and Uncle Bob. That was unacceptable to her. She did, however, thoroughly enjoy saying “Woof” at the sheep. And pigs. And chickens.

I love where I live

One of the amusing things about our VBS this year was its theme. “SonHarvest County Fair.” It was amusing not for the theme itself, but how the theme played out at our particular church. It was a county fair theme, with all of these ideas for making our church look “country.” Our usual decorating crew really struggled with the theme this year. Normally their wheels start whizzing away the moment they hear the theme, and I have been amazed at how they transform our church building, transporting the kids and all who attend VBS to a whole other space and time. Beautiful.

This year, however. This year was a real challenge. The challenge, of course, was that we were in reality already sitting in the country, all eagerly awaiting our own, actual County Fair, which indeed draws everyone’s attention and focus for a week. To decorate the church with a country theme was to make it look like the vast majority of our living rooms, and if not our own living rooms, that of our grandmother’s. We had stuffed animals–cows, chickens, horses–all over the place, when most of us have the real deal within a mile of our home if not in our own backyard.

There was no transportation this year. There was no fantasy. We live the County Fair every August. We prepare for the County Fair all spring and summer. The whole thing just made me laugh.

The perks of “staging” a County Fair 2 miles away from the real County Fair? Real animals. In our vestibule. Not many churches have that, I suspect. We had a new live animal brought in each night and two of the nights were rainy, so where else would we set up the goat and the chickens and ducks? In the vestibule. Right next to the rope for the bell tower. Doesn’t everyone?

So, three weeks after our VBS, the real County Fair took place. We took our city slicker friends to enjoy the festivities. We all had a ball. Rides to ride. Cows, pigs, horses, and sheep to pet. Sheep being shorn. Chickens and turkeys and peacocks to oggle. It was great. And I was amazed at how fascinated my children were with the chickens, given we have about three dozen next door to us, essentially in our backyard. I pondered how long it would be before my son realizes that cotton candy doesn’t have a hint of manure to its flavor as he generally gets some from the vendor right next to the animals.

It was great. Beautiful. Fun. All the gingham and stuffed animals in the world couldn’t recreate it. You could never capture the smell. Although the goat in the vestibule did help.

Hannah and the big white turkey

On the Ferris Wheel with Auntie Marilyn

Sheer joy and sheer terror

VBS . . . revisited

I realized upon further reflection I was too hard on VBS last week. Blame the July heat. Blame the sheer exhaustion from the late nights. Blame the eternal pessimist.

Truth be told, we all had a great time. And the days since have been filled with my Hannah-girlie singing all manner of made-up songs of praise to her Savior. And when we play the VBS DVD or CD Ruthie immediately begins to applaud and do her bouncy dance. And Isaac and his next-door-neighbor-grandson friend were taking turns playing their CD’s from their two different VBS’s at their respective churches. A beautiful sight: six- and eight-year-old boys dancing around the backyard with VBS music blaring. Nice. Very nice.

And in the spirit of this year’s VBS theme, may the Lord grow great fruit from the seeds planted in my children during VBS. May their hearts always be so filled with joy for their Savior. Amen.

I’ve been . . . tagged?

So one of my friends (who used to be imaginary, but now that I’ve seen her in person and know that she actually exists is now concrete) “tagged” me. Being new to the whole blogging scene, I wasn’t so sure what that meant. But I decided to go along with it anyway. Here are the rules:

1) Link to the person who tagged me.
2) Mention the rules.
3) Tell six quirky yet boring, unspectacular details about myself.
4) Tag 6 other blogger’s by linking to them.
5) Go to each person’s blog and leave a comment that lets them know they’ve been tagged.

Here is the problem: dogwoodmama, who tagged me, already tagged the only other bloggers I know and read. So, then whaddya do?

Well, I answer the question, link you back to dogwoodmama through whom you can link to the other fine ladies I know. OK?

6 quirky, boring facts about me.

I just peeked at nutmeggmama’s quirkiness to get some ideas and saw that she’s got pictures! Pictures! I don’t have pictures. Does that count as a quirk? hmmm.

Ok, so looking around my favorite blogs (those six) I see pictures. I need pictures. They will come. Tomorrow. For, after all, tomorrow is another day.

Which brings me to quirk one (I won’t count the pic thing). I love Gone With the Wind. Love it. Love love love it. Love the book. Love the movie. Love. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s been a while since I read the book or saw the movie. Need to do that soon. Every single time I re-watch or re-read it I spend the whole time thinking, convinced really, “This time, this time, Rhett will stay.” So far he hasn’t. Maybe this time.

Quirk number two. I like books as much for how they look and smell as for what’s inside them. I like just piles of books, any kind of book, just books. Paper and words and words and paper and ideas of any sort. Mostly I love old books. And I adore old books with handwritten inscriptions, even if it does detract from monetary value.

Quirk number three. I can’t do numbers. I just can’t. I can’t think them, remember them see them, work them, do them, conceptualize them. Nothing. If I have to describe something, quantifying it in some way, I have a few standard numbers: 8, 6, 4. Really huge: 80 million. Really small, like 4 inches. 8 thousand miles from here to New Jersey (bearing in mind I live in the US, so wherever I am, it’s probably not 8 thousand miles. Of course, it might be. I wouldn’t know. Cuz it involves numbers.) Chapter and verses of the Bible? Very few. They’re numbers. But hand me my beloved thinline blue Bible and I can tell you left or right-side page, which column, top, middle, or bottom of the page to find a particular passage. So I’m set as long as I always have that Bible.

Quirk three. Just kidding. Though I did genuinely write three before I realized I had already written three. No kidding. Try again.

Quirk four. I’m long winded. I just am. I like words. They’re fun.

Quirk five. I’m practically obsessed with the show “So You Think You Can Dance.” I’ve been taping every episode (they have the nerve to air them on Bible Study and choir nights), watching each dance, listening to the judges’ comments, then re-winding (yes, VHS. Another quirk, perhaps?) to watch the dance again in light of the judges’ comments. Next week is the finale and I think I might need grief counseling while I wait the 10 months till next season.

Quirk six. We are so very technologically behind. VHS. Though we do have a DVD player. Cable for our 10 year old TV, only the most basic of basic: the networks, PBS, CNN, FOXNews, some shopping channels and the all-important (hear sarcasm) Catholic station. No IPod or anything like it. No Wii or any other alternative gaming system. Not even an automatic icemaker. (though we do have two laptops and wireless internet, so I suppose we’re not totally out of it.)

Ok, that’s it. Seriously I have no one to tag. Poor me.