Some Thoughts on Love

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Sometimes, life seems completely out of balance, with an overload of one idea drowning out all others.

Like a plate piled high with thick and rick chocolate cake and only a sliver of vanilla ice cream.

Irritating, confusing, and sometimes tragic, this state of affairs is not a surprise to the observant Christian, yet even he is susceptible. He is in danger of letting his guard down and failing to recognizing the inconsistencies. He is in danger of swinging far out toward the other extremes, in an attempt to escape the world's. Yet, to my mind, the greatest danger he is in is that of simply accepting the world's view and trying to superimpose God on top.

And when I say "he", I really mean "she."

Why? Because Thursday was Valentine's Day (for those of you living in a windowless hut in the jungle with no calendar), and, as such, I had the opportunity to hear, read, and see the thoughts of many young ladies with regard to the day.

Usually, the February 14th sentiments, conversations, and writings of single young ladies seem to be penned by one of three different authoresses: the historian, the romantic, or the lonely. Which categorizations tend to hold true regardless of the spiritual climate of the writer. Yes, those who are saved may find a different angle by which to travel, a fresh "waiting for my valentine" -type saying to coin, a new discovery to share about what true love is - but the seed of their thoughts often reveals a sad state. The world has brainwashed us to worship romance for a day.

Dear ones, why is this? Why have we, as Christian maidens, bought into the mentality that, for 24 hours a year, suddenly romantic love is god, instead of what we proclaim the other 364 days - that God is love? Why should princesses - chosen by the Father, redeemed by Jesus, sanctified by the Spirit - suddenly have a day dedicated to sighs, moodiness, and fruitless daydreams in the middle of the second month of the year simply because the world has chosen to worship love between two flawed individuals as though it were perfect on that day?

In the introduction to his book, The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis observes:



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Idolatry both of erotic love and of "the domestic affections" was the great error of nineteenth-century literature. Browning, Kingsley, and Patmore sometimes talk as if they thought falling in love was the same thing as sanctification; the novelists habitually oppose the "the World" not the Kingdom of Heaven, but the home.... The human loves can be glorious images of the Divine love. No less than that: but also no more....


Sweet sisters, if one comes to February 14th each year thinking of roses and chocolates and candle-lit dinners, and then attempts to superimpose God on top of that mentality with "Jesus is my Valentine"-type sayings (which, while to a certain extent true, drastically trivialize the magnitude and depth of the Sacrifice by equating it with a pink, lacy card covered in hearts) is this revealing a Christian World View, or a Christianized Worldly View?

It would be silly and illogical to praise and hold as excellent a beginning violinist who can barely scratch out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in the presence of Itzhak Perlman. Certainly, one must acknowledge the Twinkler - encourage her, praise her, and admire her effort - but not to the snubbing or ignoring of the Maestro. Christ's love is a beautiful thing. Our love for each other - whether that of sibling, friend, spouse, mentor, or fiancee - is also beautiful. Who would contest these truths? Yet, to celebrate one to the nigh exclusion of the best is not a worthy action. Certainly to sigh over and wish for the lesser, ignoring the greater (except in an attempt to draw parallels between the two) is not worth our time.

Valentine's Day is a day celebrating love, the highest form of which an unsaved world knows being that of romance, but we have known a deeper, more beautiful, more praise-worthy kind. Should we not defer our raptures of greatest wonder and sighs of deepest amazement to this - Christ's love toward, in, and through us? When princesses of a Kingdom Not Seen choose for one day a year to sigh and fantasize for a prince they do not have, ignoring the love of a greater, deeper kind that they wholly possess, I see chocolate cake and wonder where the ice cream is.

Now, I am not calling for the abandonment of bon-bons, flowers, and romantic dinners on February 14th - dear me no! But to again quote the wise Lewis, "When first things are put first, second things are not suppressed, but increased."

Dressing Up

Hello, my friends! I apologize for not getting the video uploaded last Wednesday. Summer craziness, you know? Anyway, I hope to be returning to blogland soon, but in the meantime, here's a re-post from my old blog! :)

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 When I was a little girl, I loved – as most little girls do – to dress up. Each year on Easter Sunday, while slipping on the long-awaited, silky-new gloves, my little heart would beat contentedly, sure that there was nothing more beautiful or lady-like in all the world than those dainty-white hand coverings. Tea parties were my delight, transforming ordinary weekdays into extraordinary occasions by the donning of a favorite, frilly dress. And oh-the-joy of ballet recitals! Feeling like a fairy princess in a bright and lacy costume, my exhilaration knew no bounds when mama daintily brushed my eyelashes with mascara, patted my cheeks with blush, and painted my lips with her very own lipstick! I promised myself that, when I was older, I would defy all contemporary fashions and wear Victorian-style dresses and beautiful, formal makeup every single day.

As I grew older, however, I began to scorn the “dress-up-every-day” mentality, and - decidedly, intentionally - embraced the title of a “tomboy.” Yet, even as I took pride in playing army with the boys, building forts, and acquiring blackberry-bush battle scars that would eventually pin-striped my legs, I could never completely shake off the thrill that shivered up my spine upon receiving an invitation to a formal birthday party, bridal shower, or ladies event – though believe me, I tried. The day daddy took me aside and explained that he wanted me to wear skirts on school days caused, as they say in Narnia, “the sun to be darkened in my eyes.” I complied with the rule, of course - bragging to myself all the while about what a good attitude I was exhibiting toward mom and dad – but I’m sure my parents weren’t fooled. Every opportunity or excuse I could find to wear pants, I pounced upon. I complained to my skirt-less friends on a daily basis about the trials and disadvantages of dressing femininely. I compared myself and my “unfair” rule to everyone else around me, and, consequently, discontentment reigned supreme each and every day.

That any girl of eleven years, especially a princess of such an age, should spend weeks and months wallowing in rebellious discontentment is a tragedy to be sure – but the even greater tragedy was that, despite my constant harping, I remained completely oblivious to the sinfulness of my attitude. It was not until a few months after turning thirteen that I experienced a shocking, but rejuvenating, splash from the icy cold water of the Word.

That day I will never forget.

I was in Iowa, in the midst of my very first “all-by-myself” trip, visiting my aunt, uncle, and newborn baby cousin for a couple of weeks. Separated as I was from my family, and struggling with homesickness, I clung to my daily devotional time with a dedication to which I was unused and unpracticed. My minutes spent reading the Bible and praying comforted and consoled my loneliness, and even now I look upon those days as the point at which I really began to love God and desire His ways.

Bright, streaming light from a glorious sunrise gently nudged me awake. I pushed back my fluffy white comforter and slipped off the queen-sized bed, my bare feet chilling slightly as they came in contact with the dark wood floor. For a few minutes, I sat at the open window, drawing great breaths of the early morning air, marveling at the unequaled beauty of the beginning day, and softly singing any and every hymn of praise that came to mind. After a while, however, I was roused into action. Making my bed, getting dressed, tidying the room – the completion of these tasks found me settled down atop my bed, Bible before me as I began to read. I went slowly, stopping after each verse – and sometimes in the middle of verses – to consider what it said and what it meant. Even going thus, it did not take me long to reach the verse four, and I nearly choked as read the words aloud:

“Adulterers and adulteresses! Do you no know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Whoever therefore wants to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God.” (James 4:4)

In a heartbeat, the Holy Spirit overwhelmed me with conviction. I realized that my distaste for wearing skirts had originated and grown over the past two years to the point that I stood there, before God, confessing that I wanted to wear pants simply because “everyone else did.” Was this not seeking friendship with the world? I shuddered and cried at the ramifications of such a desire. If I wanted this acceptance, this “friendship,” I wanted to be an enemy of God! The verse I had just read labeled me – one who held such a desire – as an adulteress! Shocked and convicted, I knelt before my King and begged forgiveness for the rebellion and irritation I had harbored toward my parents: for placing a greater desire on the outward trends of the world than on the inward purity of my heart. I begged Him to teach me how to submit joyfully, to not only obey my parents’ wishes, but to make them my own – and He, in His amazing power, answered my prayer. About a week later I was home again, back to the daily “mandatory” skirt wearing (in Iowa I had worn pants because I was working on my aunt and uncle’s dairy), but I was both surprised and delighted at the anticipation, the excitement, and the hop-skippety thrill I felt as I pulled on a skirt with every passing day.

Over the next several years, I would develop, with the encouragement and input of my parents, more precise, Biblically-based standards and convictions for the way I was to dress. These convictions did not dictate that I wear only skirts, but I soon discovered that, more often than not, skirts and dresses better fit the standard of modesty and femininity than did the pants in which I used to delight. Once again, I dreamed of fancy Victorian outfits. Once again, I was ecstatic at the opportunity to wear beautiful, feminine clothes on a daily basis. And once again, I felt my heart flutter with excitement on those special occasions when extra frills were allowed. I had returned to the love of dress-up.

What is This?

Two Families.

Three Hours.

Nineteen Kids.

No Parents.

How could they possibly fill the time?

Check in Wednesday to find out!

There Once Was a Brave Little Princess...

...And one day, this little princess was about her royal duties - enjoying the sunshine and trees that her King-Papa had made - when she fell from a tree and - ouch! - broke both of her arm bones in two...

...but since she was a brave little princess, she only cried a very little bit right at the beginning...

...and when she was on the phone with her older sister-princess, she even went so far as to say "I'm having a great time!"...

...later, however, the truth came out, as she explained with furrowed brow to the same sister that "Having a broken arm isn't very fun. Especially with the X-rays. They twist it, and twist it..." her brave princess face echoing the pain it had felt an hour earlier...

...still, she did not whine, or fuss, or fidget, but sat patiently, watching a movie...

...until she fell asleep.

Such a brave wee sister I have! When you think of Maddy, please do pray that her arm heals quickly and well!