Walking by the Way

My husband is participating in this group at our church called The Round Table. One of the many tasks commended to the men involved in this group is the memorization of Scripture. My husband possesses about as much joy for memorization (of anything) as he does for having his teeth drilled without anesthetic; however, since the focus of the memory work is Scripture, and since my husband is a man of God who loves the Word of God, he willingly sets his mind and heart to work for this task every week.

One of the recent verses for memory was from Deuteronomy: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength. And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes."

One night he practiced this verse with me, and it led into a conversation about the loveliness of those words and about the beautiful, daunting task of raising our daughter right. What a huge task God has entrusted to us, this bringing up of an actual human being! Really, it staggers the mind: I can barely get through the first ten minutes of a day without inwardly cursing the advance of years upon my morning face, or without struggling to think of something other than myself for five straight seconds. As much as I love my husband, I have the faintest, sneaking suspicion that he also deals with (yes, it's true) sin. Yet God entrusts us with this actual little person, whom we are to teach and instruct, from the heart, about Himself, and whom we are to guide in the ways of rightness and justice.

Yikes!

I'm so afraid of failing.

Relief attends me when I remember that God is mindful I am but dust: He knows I won't perform this task perfectly; He is good enough to meet me where I am, to give me His perfect, precious Word, and to offer me wisdom when I ask for it in faith.

So we're walking by the way together, as a family, and it is a joy, I must confess. Before we eat, we give thanks for what God has given. During the day, we try to teach her about God's character: "We should be kind to others because God is kind to us." We try to read to her from His Word (sometimes this means reading from the "toddler version"), and we get to tell her how precious the Bible is: "It comes from God and tells us about who He is, about who we are, and about what Jesus has done for us." As we walk outside together, we ask her to name the different objects in nature, and we tell her of God's power and creativity, and how He also made us. And before Jerry puts her down to sleep each night, he prays with her. For her. We pray over her life.

It's a daunting, joyful task.

She's already changing so much, no longer a baby, but an official "little girl." The days pass so quickly, one upon the next, and the time is ours for the taking. It won't be given again -- we must use it wisely or waste it. And as we strive to use it wisely, as we seek to instruct our daughter in the things which will last, we get the reward of seeing the fruit of our work, even in the tiniest ways:

There was the time she bowed her head to give thanks for a meal, beating Jerry and I to the task! There was the time she opened her little Bible and found the page about the birth of Christ, pointing to the baby Jesus. There was the time when, of all the books to choose from, she wanted us to read from her bible storybook. And the time recently when, as I prayed aloud for Jerry one morning, she joined me, mumbling words only she and God knew with her little head bent to the ground.

Those moments are gold to me. They're so small in a way, but then, so is she. I don't expect her to recite the Nicene Creed, or to wax theological about the Pauline letters, or to offer me a description of the trinity of God (at least not until she's five). *smile* It's those tiny, little, adorable ways she shows -- God shows -- she's learning, in the most basic of ways, about Truth. What a gift that is!

Before God gave her to us, Jerry and I knew one thing: If we ever had a child, we would do our utmost, from the heart, to instruct him or her in the ways of God. We knew (and still know) we wouldn't do this perfectly. But we'd try. We determined that we'd entrust our child to God, as he entrusted that child to us.

We got the child. We needed a name for her. We couldn't agree on one. "The Kid" was sounding rather crude after having her for ten days, so one night we diligently poured over name lists for the umpteenth time.

And then there it was, that name I had always loved and had (for some reason) forgotten in the desperation to find options: Lilia. I said it aloud: Lilia. "That's pretty," Jerry replied. "I like that. What does it mean?"

"Lilia: To us, to God. Or, whatever is given to us is given to God."

Perfect.

We sense the honor given to us by God in raising Lilia to love Him. But we also sense the fear: What if she rejects Him? We can instruct her and teach her, sharing the treasures of God's Word with her and showing her (hopefully) what it means to follow Christ. But we can't make her love Him. Lilia must respond to God of her own will and of His grace.

Several weeks ago I started asking God to speak to Lilia, of Himself, in her dreams. I asked Him to be in her dreams, and I kept praying for that, day after day. About two weeks ago, as I got her out of her crib one morning, I asked, "Did you have sweet dreams?"

"Yes," she said.

"What did you dream about?" I asked.

"Gees-gees," she replied.

Translation: Jesus.

The Color Blue

I'm sitting here writing this at midnight, knowing full well I should be drifting happily into my second hour of sleep. I'll blame tonight's night-owlish behavior on the unique combination of the Coke I downed an hour ago and the irresistible urge to express overflowing emotion on the page (or, in this case, on the laptop). Undoubtedly I will regret this when my alarm beckons me to hygenic and motherly duty bright and early tomorrow morning. I suppose, though, that there are worse things: Fingernails scratching across a chalkboard, for instance, or reality TV shows.

I've spent some time tonight listening to a song by Shawn Colvin called "Never Saw Blue Like That." As it happens, this is the song my husband and I refer to as "our song." We didn't choose this song as "ours" during a moment of exuberant, blissful emotion, or even during a time of nostalgic reverie. We weren't dancing to it. We weren't even listening to it on the radio. Honestly, I think the scenario involved a conversation that went something like this:

Debbie: Hey, Mr. B., do you know that song called "Never Saw Blue Like That"?

Jerry: I don't think so.

Debbie: Oh. Well, you need to listen to it, because I think it should be our song.

Jerry: Uh. Okay. Sounds good to me.

And there you have it. Romantic, isn't it?

At any rate, it's our song. To be fair, even though the means by which it became our song is rather unorthodox, there was a reason I suggested it to him, a reason why I thought it would be a good song for "us." First, I liked the song. I thought it was a particularly lovely melody, and I found the lyrics sweetly vulnerable. Second, it wasn't cheesy. There was an earthiness to it, a real world reality in the emotions expressed, although poetic. Third, whenever I heard it, I would inevitably think of the day Jerry and I met "in person." We had experienced, I guess, some of the song on that day, even though it was never intended for us:

Today, we took a walk up the street, picked a flower, climbed a hill above the lake;
And secret thoughts were said aloud, we watched the faces in the clouds, until the clouds had blown away.
And were we ever somewhere else? You know, it's hard to say...

We walked up the streets in Hot Springs. There's a national forest there, right in the middle of town, and we climbed the hills via the walkways there amidst the pine trees, soaking in the warm spring sunshine. We shared thoughts two people share when they are falling in love, the silly and the serious. And then we sat on a bench and looked at the sky and the clouds, and Jerry told me about them -- not poetically -- but in true, meteorological terms.

He explained, also, why the sky was so blue that day. It had something to do with moisture in the air, I think, or the lack thereof. But as we gazed upward, he said something like, "That's why the sky is so blue."

... and I never saw blue like that before -- across the sky, around the world. You're giving me all you have and more. And no one else has ever shown me how to see the world the way I see it now. Oh, I never saw blue like that.

The song goes on to express the surprise of unexpected love, and I had thought many times, when listening to the song, of how that also paralleled our story. So it was perfect to choose that song for "us," and -- in the romantic sense -- it will always be our song.

But as I listen to the lyrics now, I hear more. I still hear, and more poignantly as our life together grows, the sweet love story in the song, the hopeful expectation. But I also hear now something that reminds me of our life as parents -- not just the story of "us" as a couple but "us" as a family, with a daughter. I don't mean, in any way, to negate the uniqueness of the romance in the song or to compromise the meaning it has to me in regard to Jerry alone. But there is something in the words that undeniably speaks to me also of our daughter:

I can't believe a month ago I was alone, I didn't know you, I hadn't seen you or heard your name.
And even now, I'm so amazed, it's like a dream, it's like a rainbow -- it's like the rain.
And some things are the way they are, and words just can't explain...

We sat there in the living room, and we held this little baby. She was so surprising -- we hadn't known her five days before, hadn't even known of her five days before! So amazing, such a dream... so full of color, of joy. It's just the way it was meant to be, and words couldn't express why or how or what it meant to us. And those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes of hers. So blue...

... and I never saw blue like that before -- across the sky, around the world. You're giving me all you have and more. And no one else has ever shown me how to see the world the way I see it now. Oh, I never saw blue like that.

Jerry is my love in a way that no one else ever can or will be. This is "our song."

But Lilia is a product of our love, not biologically, but in this way: Our love sought her out and our love took her in. And who she becomes will be the result of, in large part, how Jerry and I love each other. She is, in a sense, "our love."

It's true that I get extra sentimental when Jerry is away (he's in New Orleans this week) because I miss him terribly. The empty space in bed beside me, the lack of green-bean-length toes playing "footsy" with me as we read on the couch together... well, you know. It's just so alone without him.

But there's this little Peanut toddling around, with eyes as blue as a sapphire sky, and every time she says "mommy" and "daddy" my heart melts into oblivion. It strikes me how the present, the now, is such a gift. I want it to be this way always: Me and my love and the home we have made.

...and it feels like now, and it feels always, and it feels like coming home.
You're giving me all you have and more, Jerry. No one else has shown me how to see the world the way I've learned to see it from you. And you Lilia, with your little Peanut ways, always showing me life through your eyes. My dear ones.

I never saw blue like that.

Urge for Going

There's this great old song by Joni Mitchell called "Urge for Going." The tune is slow, thoughtful, and melancholy -- like most of Mitchell's songs, which is probably why she appeals to melancholy types like me. She sings about her sorrow at the coming of winter and her longing for summer to return:

I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town;
It hovered in a frozen sky, and it gobbled summer down.
When the sun turns traitor cold and all the trees are shivering in a naked row,
I get the urge for going, but I never seem to go.
I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
and summer time is falling down and winter is closing in.

There was a time, perhaps, when I would have sincerely hummed the words of this lovely song as a dirge at the closing of summer and the coming of winter. Winter has never been my favorite season. It's dark, cold, and dreary. The earth is still and silent. In years past, it has always been that season to trudge through perseveringly, while eagerly awaiting the advent of spring with its gentle warmth and newness.

This year is different, though. I suspect it has something to do with an exceptionally trying summer of extreme heat (which means very extreme heat in Oklahoma). I suspect is also has something to do with the fact that summer lasted this year until November. I also suspect it has something to do with the fact that this week the temperatures have reached heights that are typical for most places in May or June (today it's 74 degrees). I'm guessing, too, that living here for nearly six years has just taken a toll on this Pacific Northwesterner's heart. Whatever the reason, or reasons, I just feel the longing for winter this year in an especially deep way. I want to sing with Joni Mitchell, but I want to change the song to one of joy at the coming of cold. Maybe I would sing: I get the urge for staying when summer time is falling down and winter is closing in.

I've done my share of complaining about winter in the past, about gray clouds and rain, rain, rain that won't leave. And I still adore springtime -- oh how I love the fresh smell of earth and the hugging warmth of the sun after days of darkness. But I miss coolness. I miss gentle winds and gray days, days of fleece and gloves, of walking with my hands wrapped around a warm coffee cup. I miss the clean scent of fir trees in the cold, with moisture clinging to the air so thickly that you can almost taste it. I miss... being outside.

I miss the color green.

I'll ply the fire with kindling now, I'll pull the blankets up to my chin;
I'll lock the vagrant winter out, and I'll pull my wandering in.
I'd like to call back summer time and have her stay for just another month or so...

No, summer can postpone itself indefinitely. I want the cold, with the frost perched on the town like so many shimmering jewels, and with the naked trees standing like gray pillars of honor. Winter can come this year, and none too soon.

She can stay for awhile, too.

Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra

So, how was the quiz? Not quite on par with Biochemical Engineering, to be sure, but it does for Christmas. I am writing this wondering if I actually had any "takers," but regardless, I decided to post the answers for you today as it is close enough to Christmas to be revelatory, but not so close to Christmas as to be entirely overlooked. (And just in case you're mildly curious, the title to this blog is a quirky rendition of the chorus to "Deck the Halls" as seen and heard in the final, hilarious, Chinese restaurant scene from A Christmas Story).

Just for the sake of summary, remember that there are twenty total quotes from ten separate films. Drum roll, please....

1. Christmas Vacation

2. A Charlie Brown Christmas

3. The Nightmare Before Christmas

4. It's a Wonderful Life

5. A Christmas Story

6. Miracle on 34th Street

7. It's a Wonderful Life

8. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (animated television version)

9. A Christmas Carol (television version starring George C. Scott)

10. A Charlie Brown Christmas

11. White Christmas

12. The Nightmare Before Christmas

13. A Christmas Story

14. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (animated television version, starring Burl Ives as the narrating snowman and featuring the coolest character ever conceived for a made-for-TV special: Yukon Cornelius!)

15. White Christmas

16. A Charlie Brown Christmas

17. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (same as above)

18. A Christmas Story

19. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (same as above)

20. Christmas Vacation

I'd be curious to hear how you did, but I don't have prizes for the top achievers. Also, I'm not assigning grades (much like Evergreen University in my home-state, but that's beside the point).

Merry Christmas, dear friends. May it be blessed.