Madam President, Mama President

I stood.

So did several thousand others. The crowd was rather awkward - what do you do when a president is about to be introduced? There were nervous giggles when it was the Bishop from Liberia who approached the podium, and not the president herself. Herself.

The thick accent of the Bishop running through the list of the President's accomplishments left me antsy, as we all waited through the "opening band" for the "main act." And then she came.

I stood. Everybody applauded. Several female African delegates did celebratory trills and whoops which made the President smile. Her gold head scarf and dress shone under the lights, and a patterned black wrap draped over one shoulder. Several times it slid, and she smoothly continued her speech and attempted to adjust it. A couple of times a female aide came up quietly behind her to secure it. It's never easy being a head of state. Especially when your accessories act up.

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, President of Liberia, has the posture of Maya Angelou - straight, confident - the comfortable familiarity of Ronald Reagan - want a cookie? - and the tenacity of Winston Churchill. She's also a grandma.

Her speech was well-crafted, statements both reporting on her country and challenging listeners for the present and the future. I don't remember all of it, just a few chance phrases here and there. I do know she beat Charles Taylor, ushering out the tumultous days of uprising and rebellion. I know that children used to run in fear from her motorcade - a habit from former days - and now they clamor and approach when it comes, yelling for her to descend and greet them. I know that she fled for refuge to the U.S. when the political scene got bad some years back. She has a Harvard education, a light accent tinged with British tones, and a great deal of self-respect individually and nationally. And that is what she is helping to bestow on her country: self-respect. They're addressing an unemployment rate that was estimated at around 85%, after conducting the first census in over twenty years. They're building schools and training teachers (many of whom had only high school level education themselves). They're building self-respect, as individuals, and as a nation.

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is the first female leader of an African nation (well, unless you go back to the times of Cleopatra). This mention got rousing applause, the crowd stood. I stood. This woman had begun life in Liberia as a student of a United Methodist school. Bishop Innis, who introduced her, emphasized this fact: Methodist missionaries were in Liberia before it was even established as such. And Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, he said, is a daughter of Methodism.

Women, men - support your missionaries.

After her formal speech ended, she quipped, "and now I will go down into the crowd, like a good politician." She did, and there was singing, and after she climbed the steps back to the platform, the bishops began to line up. It took at least another ten minutes for all of them to file past, greeting her, one eliciting laugher after he stood back and took a photo of her with his cellphone.

White men were lined up to meet a black woman.

Men were lined up to show respect to a woman.

Elderly white men who looked a lot like the men who tried to crowd out my minister mom from pastoral service stood in line to meet a woman. They waited in line to pay respects.

And afterwards, when I saw a friend outside the convention center standing in the sun, we chatted briefly about the address. "You have to understand," my eyes pushing back tears, "how personal this was for me." The truth was, I still had pink bunny kleenex wadded in my hand from the hour before, when I was trying desperately to keep tears in my eyes and not ruining my mascara. I kept sniffing. And the cold I was developing was not the cause.

I had WITNESSED A WOMAN PRESIDENT. It reminded me of the time when I was little and I was taken to see Margaret Thatcher. I didn't get, at the time, just who she was or why it was important.

I got it this time.

I had WITNESSED A WOMAN RECEIVING HONOR, from some powerful men.

And it's very plain that SHE DESERVED IT.

I hadn't realized how it still hurt, the memories of struggles Mom had had just to be considered an equal. I knew I was defensive for her, on her behalf. I always knew she was a good, competent pastor. I knew that some would never see past her chromosomes. And an ache grew, deep inside.
Yesterday, a bit of that ache healed. It began to heal a moment or two after I stood - for a woman who had entered the room.

At that moment, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf was sharing honor with all women who have been mistreated, maligned, ignored, disrespected, and dishonored.

Honor is healing. Honor your mothers, sisters, daughters. Honor the President of Liberia. Be honored. Be healed.

Niner Niner

[static]
Reporting in from Ft. Worth. The periscope is emerging briefly before sinking back down under conference waters.
SATURDAY:
Two examples of why church politics matter: (I know, I know, some of you want to worship God without politics - and yet, the church exists on earth as an imperfect body susceptible to flaws and weaknesses just like anything else).

Becqui Blanco. She's a cool 20-something who teaches second graders. She and a friend noticed a gaping hole in curriculum: discipleship materials for young women - junior highers, teenagers, college freshmen. So they started Bible studies, and this led to some small conferences popping up across southern Texas. Young girls hearing about how to be a woman, with topics like eating disorders addressed in a way that acknowledges a woman as a whole being - something vital to young girls still forming their identities.

But then the Women's Division found out. They accused Becqui of being a puppet of renewal groups. "As if we couldn't have thought of this ourselves," she noted wryly. Because "Women of Valor, Rise Up" is not distributed top down, but rather sprung up from the grassroots level to meet a need. The Women's Division wanted them to use "approved" curriculum - as if they're a polygamous sect instead of women encouraging young girls to develop identities wrapped around Christ. "These girls don't care about mercury poisoning. That's the kind of thing their curriculum covers," Becqui lamented.

And then there's the cell phones. Who at General Conference arrives for two weeks without a cell phone? Many international delegates, that's who. Either they come from countries where cell phone usage isn't prevalent among the general population, or they arrive exhausted after three days of travel with little energy to track down a prepaid phone.

So a bunch of groups got together to provide cell phones, so that people like Mwenze could keep in contact with other delegates, with friends in the U.S., and with family, while he's here for two weeks.

And then this story was published: http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={18E4
642B-276E-43D3-A28D-CCBF89

5121F5}&notoc=1

And then this one:
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=2639513&ct=5
291765

So now it's racist to make sure the international delegates have cell phones just like everybody else? And what, African or Asian delegates can have their votes bought with a measly phone? Yeah, cause it's not racist to suggest that.

American delegates wouldn't dream of going to a conference for two weeks without their cell phones.

Something about blatant inconsistency annoys me.

Maybe I'll just put these chronic complainers' staplers in Jell-O. Or throw their cell phones in the ceiling.

Rockin' Robin.

MONDAY:
So plenary sessions begin today - that means a full house is meeting now that legislative committees has sifted through all the petitions and resolutions.
And I had a smoothie for breakfast. It was strawberry banana, but I think I'll now call strawberry banana smoothies plenary smoothies. Plenary sounds like a fruit, right?

The Big Stuff today is, of course, moving to plenary sessions, but also Judicial Council elections this morning. The Judicial Council is the Supreme Court of the United Methodist Church, and they've been becoming more and more prominent the last few years as they've had to deal with challenges to Conference decisions.

Our work room looks like the workspace of a presidential candidate. Cords, coffee cups, highlighted paper, flash drives, bananas and mini candy bars, cardboard boxes, multiple printers all running out of ink and toner at the same time, and giant post-its on a wall that we haven't used since last Wednesday because the roller coaster hasn't stopped since. Technically, the work room is for Good News work, but a lot of Renewal/Reform Coalition people are in and out, which basically makes it Times Square. Times Square with people needing you to print things from your laptop frequently.

So, there've been a lot of lunches lately. Today's is the Lifewatch lunch - the lady speaking is really cool. Carol Everett used to run several Dallas abortion clinics, but somehow switched positions and now speaks and works on behalf of life.
Tomorrow, my new roommate (the final of three) will speak on persecution and human rights issues of Christians around the world. Faith McDonnell works on behalf of human rights for the Institute on Religion and Democracy.

Well, the air conditioning is on again and freezing me into the Arctic, so I'm off to grab a jacket and walk over to the Convention Center to see what's happenin'.

MONDAY, LATE:
"Former Abortion Clinic Owner Share Story with Delegates"
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={2E02A187-AB9B-47FC-AC7C-59A1597C8C40}&notoc=1

Africa Lunch

Delegates and visitors from around the continent of Africa as well as the United States attended the Africa lunch the other day. Many Africans speak French, so the proceedings were translated into French. The ladies' flowing, colorful dresses and elegant head scarves and wraps make a striking picture walking down the street or along conference corridors. Texan hospitality bags welcomed delegates with a taste of the South along with a few snacks. Many international delegates are still adjusting to the time difference, and the jetlag in addition to late nights and early mornings have suffused faces with fatigue. The Rev. Jerry Kulah, a District Superintendent from Liberia, spoke to his fellow Africans. Before the United Methodist General Conference, he led a day of prayer in his country attended by President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, a fellow United Methodist. She will address delegates this Tuesday. PBS has produced a documentary on this first female president of an African country and her cabinet called "Iron Ladies of Liberia."

General Pandemonium I Mean Conference

Entries from the past few days...
WEDNESDAY:
Hey ladies 'n gents! Good News is down here in Ft. Worth - with a lot of other people - for the United Methodist General Conference. So far we've seen propaganda fliers, a large star made of cowboy hats, a lot of international delegates, and the presidential suite JFK stayed in the night before he was assassinated. Tonight is the "opening ceremony" - no Olympic torch included - and tomorrow the hoopla begins for real. Delegates are sitting around highlighting portions of the gazillion petitions and proposals, getting registered, and trying to navigate the housing mess.A few hundred miles away kids from that weird sect are being placed in temporary custody. No protesters yet.

THURSDAY:
8 Bazillion international delegates came to an Africa Lunch held today, as well as the crack of dawn 7 a.m. Good News briefing breakfast. It's extremely cool to a) be in the minority somewhere, and b) see amazing national dress of the Central Conference delegates.

FRIDAY:
On the quaint streets of downtown Ft. Worth, bustling people with large nametags hanging around their necks scurry in huddles, floating words like "clergy" and "petition" and, in some cases of international delegates, "ah, no...only leetle English," so then I smile and bob my head.

But there are two people from the masses that I'd like to sketch for you - Trista and Mwenze.

Trista will be blurbing at today's luncheon on sexuality. I only knew that she was one of the women who'd be in and out rooming with me. She has an Australian accent. But she's from Ohio. Trista has MS, and the accent that comes and goes is a symptom that accompanies her clenched muscles. She also has been in and out of same sex relationships. A very bright, intense person with a shock of short red hair and a confident demeanor, she is working on a PhD in counseling at Regent University. She will tell you that she isn't healed. She still struggles with same sex attraction. But she believes, she knows, she says, that her orthodoxy - her God - expresses a plan for creation that doesn't include same sex relationships.

Mwenze's skin is the color of deep, rich chocolate syrup. I met him when complimentary cell phones were being distributed to Central Conference delegates - Central Conferences include most the world United Methodists outside the U.S. He asked, in limited English, how much time he had to talk on it, and how long it needed to be charged. I bustled to find the answers to these questions and attempted to communicate the information.

And then I found out he was congressman. A congressman from the Democratic Republic of Congo. And he wanted to know my name. I told him I was honored to meet him. He seemed surprised. Later he saw me again, repeated my name, and handed me a business card. His name is Mwenze.

Mwenze and Trista are both traveling some arduous journeys, in different ways. One's accent denotes a ravaging disease, one's accent marks his sincere efforts to communicate hospitality by learning a new language.

Yesterday, I was profoundly blessed by both. I hope someday you get a chance to meet them.

SATURDAY:
Two examples of why church politics matter: (I know, I know, some of you want to worship God without politics - and yet, the church exists on earth as an imperfect body susceptible to flaws and weaknesses just like anything else).

Becqui Blanco. She's a cool 20-something who teaches second graders. She and a friend noticed a gaping hole in curriculum: discipleship materials for young women - junior highers, teenagers, college freshmen. So they started Bible studies, and this led to some small conferences popping up across southern Texas. Young girls hearing about how to be a woman, with topics like eating disorders addressed in a way that acknowledges a woman as a whole being - something vital to young girls still forming their identities.

But then the Women's Division found out. They accused Becqui of being a puppet of renewal groups. "As if we couldn't have thought of this ourselves," she noted wryly. Because "Women of Valor, Rise Up" is not distributed top down, but rather sprung up from the grassroots level to meet a need. The Women's Division wanted them to use "approved" curriculum - as if they're a polygamous sect instead of women encouraging young girls to develop identities wrapped around Christ. "These girls don't care about mercury poisoning. That's the kind of thing their curriculum covers," Becqui lamented.

And then there's the cell phones. Who at General Conference arrives for two weeks without a cell phone? Many international delegates, that's who. Either they come from countries where cell phone usage isn't prevalent among the general population, or they arrive exhausted after three days of travel with little energy to track down a prepaid phone.

So a bunch of groups got together to provide cell phones, so that people like Mwenze could keep in contact with other delegates, with friends in the U.S., and with family, while he's here for two weeks.

And then this story was published: http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={18E4
642B-276E-43D3-A28D-CCBF89

5121F5}&notoc=1

And then this one:
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=2639513&ct=5
291765

So now it's racist to make sure the international delegates have cell phones just like everybody else? And what, African or Asian delegates can have their votes bought with a measly phone? Yeah, cause it's not racist to suggest that.

American delegates wouldn't dream of going to a conference for two weeks without their cell phones.

Something about blatant inconsistency annoys me.

Maybe I'll just put these chronic complainers' staplers in Jell-O. Or throw their cell phones in the ceiling.

Rockin' Robin.

Man's Best...Charlie, Put That Down!

Off to Ft. Worth today. But thought you'd like to see the pooches. Because yes, I finally found my camera charger.
The dogs love to wrestle,play, and romp. Or do they "rassle"?



















Charlie gets a belly rub.



















I decided to make dog treats. But I didn't have a round cookie cutter, and it was doughy, and the ducky cutter wasn't working. So I used this glass.










































Charlie wanted to know if they were done yet. I said "not yet, but soon."



















NOW they're done!

Gender Identity and General Conference

Soo, pack your travel-sized toothpaste, General Conference begins next week! Why is the United Methodist General Conference important?

1) Because "mainline" denominations like UM affect the tide of smaller denominations

2) Because it's a family reunion - kind of. Complete with weird uncles and cousins you've never met. But you can guarantee there'll be family fights. And the relatives from far away always come (global representation).

3) Because BIG decisions are made. They're important decisions done in a long, grueling, sometimes boring process, like root canals. You have to have root canals sometimes, and they are very important, but it leaves you easily disgruntled and with a weird taste in your mouth.

4) Let's admit it - it's also a circus. The weird Kansas Baptist guy comes (you know, he protests military funerals because supposedly soldiers' deaths in Iraq are due to America's support of gays...), but gay rights groups also come, so the activists all stand outside and shout at each other.

If you want some GREAT short little summaries of important issues of THIS year's General Conference, check out Riley Case's blurbs. Here's one that's a great example, on gender identity:http://www.umdecision2008.org/commentary/case-gender%20identity.htm

During the whole shabang, we'll post updates on that website, plus I'll be sure to keep you informed of vital info, like A) what everybody's wearing, B) the best volunteer-made cookies served at break, and C) any celebrity contact I have, like with Bill Gates' dad or the president of Liberia (a woman!), both of whom are slated to attend. I'm tempted to dress up like a character and pretend that I think it's Comic Con, but I won't.

Unless I just crack.

Springy Taste of Love and Sunshine

I am forced. There's no turning back.

You have to try these cookies.

See, next week, I head off on my first ever business trip. It's actually the United Methodist General Conference. But for me, it's business. And I read a headline yesterday about how hundreds of women in central Texas are baking 100,000 cookies for Conference. And that made me want to bake cookies. So I made peanut butter cookies last night, and John smacked his lips and smiled, because I'm continually discovering that steering towards butter and meat and cheddar and away from olives and fresh dill and goat cheese is the way to his digestive heart.

But here are the cookies I really want to make. Actually, I'm making them tonight. And you should too.

Martha Stewart's Grapefruit Cookies
Grated zest of 1 Ruby Red grapefruit, plus 1/4 cup freshly squeezed juice
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for work surface
3/4 cup cake flour (not self-rising) (if you don't have cake flour...shhh...just use all-purpose)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
2 large egg yolks

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper; set aside. In a small bowl, combine zest with 1 tablespoon sugar; set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk together both flours, baking powder, and salt; set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and remaining sugar on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down sides of bowl as needed. (If you don't have a Kitchen Aid like I just received as a wedding gift, use a hand mixer. But put out a jar to collect change in to get a Kitchen Aid mixer. It will transform you baking life.)Add egg yolks, and beat until combined, scraping down sides of bowl as needed. Beat in reserved zest-sugar mixture. Add flour mixture in two batches, alternating with the juice, and beat to combine.

Turn out dough onto a piece of plastic wrap, and shape into a 1-inch-thick disk. Wrap in plastic, and refrigerate until firm, about 30 minutes.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out disk to 1/8 inch thick using a lightly floured rolling pin. Using a lightly floured 2-inch round cookie cutter, cut out rounds and place about 1 inch apart on prepared sheet. Bake, rotating sheet halfway through, until edges are golden, 18 to 20 minutes. Transfer sheet to a wire rack to cool 5 minutes. Transfer parchment paper and cookies to rack to cool completely.

Using an offset spatula, spread 1 tablespoon filling onto flat sides of half the cookies. Sandwich with remaining cookies, keeping flat sides down. Once filled, cookies can be kept in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Pink Grapefruit Cream Filling
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
2 cups confectioners' sugar
1 tablespoon honey
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed Ruby Red grapefruit juice

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Beat in honey. Add juice, 1 tablespoon at a time, until filling holds together and is smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl, cover, and set aside until ready to use.

Now, the only drawback to this recipe is that it only produces about fifteen cookies, because they're sandwich cookies. So think about doubling the recipe, because you will want more.

So, go buy: a grapefruit or two. confectioner's sugar. honey. cake flour if you're a stickler. And smile smugly when everybody wants the recipe. (p.s. - serve, then say what it is. people always balk at the words "grapefruit" and "cookie" in the same sentence. ha! tricks on them!)

Clothesline Gossip

Before everyone got carpel tunnel syndrome from sitting transfixed in front of computer screens for hours, information was passed just as quickly across backyard fences: women hanging laundry on the line or taking it down could learn, not necessarily the GNP of Guatemala, but at least who may or may not be pregnant down the street, and the sale price of peaches at the local grocer's.

In addition to internet access, we have Our New Neighbor. Frankly, I don't even know her name - inexcusable, given that she comes over nearly every day.

"I moved the wires to your new invisible fence back where they were after I mowed. I just wanted to tell your husband that I moved them back. Oh, there's your dogs. Hi there. Hi honeys." ["Daisy, get back. Stay. Stay."]

"Just wanted to remind you that the mail truck comes between 11-2 and she won't deliver if a car is parked on the side of the street opposite the mailboxes. She won't do it. She'll just back up and turn around." (At which point, one might ask, where is one supposed to park when a 14 foot moving truck is in the driveway?)

And this, my, er, favorite, on a Friday evening, while we were watching a movie, regarding neighbors who just had a new baby:

"Would you like me to call Hal? The people on the other side of you have parked their car on their lawn, and Hal is very particular about his lawns. Do you want me to call him and tell him about it? We're not supposed to park vehicles on lawns."
John: "Oh, well, ah, I feel that's probably between them and Hal."
Neighbor: "No. No, it's not, it's between you and them, because they're over a little bit on your lawn." (ed. note: maybe six inches)
John:"Well, ah, we'd probably rather not be in the middle of this, I mean, it's the first time I've seen it, so if it was on a regular basis maybe I'd be more concerned, but not this time. But hey, thanks for offering..."

John had a surprisingly stern note in his voice, friendly, but sheathing a rather authoritative tone - a particularly Southern talent, I think.

I don't recall our doorbell ringing since.

Not to worry. I'm sure it will.

Cardboard Kingdom

I feel I should share some vignettes from the past week. If my language is more formal, it's simply because I feel like a cartoon character with a balloon over its head that says "#$*&$!", and I'm overcompensating.

Last weekend - or what seems like decades ago - we finished loading up the contents of our old apartment into a U-Haul truck in the rain. We'd "moved" into a cottage on a horse farm that was full of pricey antique furniture, so most our stuff actually wasn't "moved" in. But since the cottage wasn't working out, on Wednesday we loaded plates, mugs, pots, pans and suitcases in the truck, too. We loaded toiletries and overnight supplies. We loaded dogs. Then husband and brother set off in the truck, and I prepared to follow them to the new duplex abode.

But wait!

Jezebel was in the shop! My keys were in Jezebel! John had the Taurus keys! I was supposed to drive the Taurus! And he had driven off into the blazing sunset ahghghghghghgh.

Jezebel is my '89 Buick Century. The mechanic knows her by name. She is a bit of a tart.

By the way, by this point, my mental health was waning.

I had to call husband and brother, and demand they return instantly and provide me with keys to the car and temporary sanity. But John's cell had accidentally gone through the wash, and I don't have my brother's number memorized. And I couldn't get hold of mom, and I didn't have anyone else's number memorized. And terror began trickling along the horizon.

Just about the time I started to yearn for the comfort and stylings of a straight jacket, I decided to Hail Mary a phone number in Ethan's direction.

It worked. By golly, it worked. They whipped the 14-foot U-Haul around like a bucking stallion and brought me the car keys, and with them, fifteen more minutes of dementia-free retirement.

I followed. We unloaded the trusty U-Haul in the dark, unpacked a few boxes, and fell asleep on the couch. The next two days will always be a blur in my mind, probably akin to future childbirth - vague impressions of grief, moaning, and intermittant agony. There's a lot of driving - errands run, backyard fence options compared, boxes unloaded, random belongings found that I'd forgotten existed, and 7,000 loads of laundry to be done. On Thursday, we loaded the portable dishwasher, desk, and computer into the back of the truck and took them "home." Funny how the dogs adjusted so quickly. I think they knew things were settling down. They've been better the past week than they have since we got them. Or maybe they just sensed the impending mental breakdown. Either way, on Friday, we drove back to the cottage to clean, clear up last belongings, and load dozens of trash bags into the emptied U-Haul.

We hadn't had trash pick-up in the country. We had to find a dump. By the end of the day, my hair smelled like garbage. But I was so tired, I didn't care. Loading month old trash bags in wind and rain through mud may not be everyone's idea of a picnic, I realize. To us, it was the misery that was begetting closure. I in the care, husband in the truck, we drove over to town to find the dump and drop off the truck that had now become like large, metal, orange and white family.

The dump was closed.
OF COURSE it was closed. Why load rubbish for half an hour in the rain and then have the dump open? John and I exchanged glances: what do we do now? We have to rid ourselves of a) garbage and b) the truck. But not at the same time, or in the same place.

"Should we sneak it into some dumpsters?" I suggested warily.
He looked hesitant, then bold. "You lead," with a Pilate-washing-his-hands-if-we-get-caught expression. I led. Or, as he later put it, I drove like I was trying to evade an FBI tail.

The problem is that many businesses are near main roads, and we didn't want to dump our garbage too explicitly - after all, traffic was getting heavy.

The first place we went, we lugged bags from the truck to a dumpster until a car drove past nearby. "Quick - finish this load and move! DUMP AND RUN!" That was my frantic squeak.

We sped off, and I lurched along the road like a half-blind driver, slowing to scan for dumpsters, speeding up when it wasn't a good setting. At one point we drove through a gas station, but the employee happened out by the dumpster just as I was eyeing it greedily. We kept on, then got stuck behind a stalled vehicle. The cop car made me feel like I had several hundred pounds of crack in the moving truck instead of rinds, paper towls, and tuna cans. Traffic was waved around the stalled vehicle and a sigh of relief escaped me.

I was headed to the other end of town: the strip mall.
AKA Paradise.
Behind Kroger and it's neighbors were almost a dozen deserted dumpsters, with no one in sight. I scanned the rooftop for security cameras, didn't see any, and excitedly ran to the back of the truck.
"THAT'S THE LAST TIME I TELL YOU TO LEAD." John had apparently not been amused by my slowly putt-putting past businesses, my weaves into, and out of, turn lanes, and my occasional gas station detours.
"I FOUND SOME, DIDN'T I? By the way, I don't see any cameras, but all the same, let's hustle."
"Yeah, I didn't see any either."

We dropped off the truck - garbage free - and drove home, smelling of dirt, old lettuce, and relief.

And that doesn't even cover the new neighbor.

Paradise Lost, Pilgrim's Progress Found: coworkers in arms

It's a good feeling to develop relationships that return good things to you when you need it - though not necessarily when you expect it.

It's been a rough week.

We lost paradise. Actually, we said no to paradise. Or, as one family member put it, "why is there always a snake in the Garden of Eden?"

The cottage in the country is going the way of eight-tracks and Atari. Which in some ways is good. Eight tracks were never that practical, and this wouldn't have been, either. But oh, how I shall miss the stone fences and gurgling creek. This is what happened: the woman who owns the property has never been a landlord. That's the basic information you need to know. The fact that she doesn't return calls or e-mails, we could have lived with. The fact that she has three jobs and squeezed this in, we could have lived with. The fact that she'd never written a lease and drafted something more brutal than Mein Kampf worried us. The fact that she contradicted what had been communicated in prior emails worried us. The fact that she couldn't remember prior communications really worried us.

We were worried. Have I mentioned that? But what of the nodding daffodils, the stray cows, the belligerent mooing, the dew-laden blades of grass?

Perhaps later in life. We were heartbroken. But we were also living out of suitcases for a month because the valuable antique furniture still hadn't been moved out of the house. Having been married only a whopping three months (happy anniversary to us), living like nomads for a full third of that has been stressful.

We looked up new rental opportunities: landlords, calls, pet policies (two dogs, thank you very much), facing the frustration that renting is a necessary evil that we hope to put past us at some point. We found a duplex that allows dogs. Two bedrooms. No stone fences. But no antique furniture in the living room, either. And a landlord who embodies Andy Griffith and has been doing this as long as I've been alive.

Paradise Lost seems to be part of Pilgrim's Progress. We are Pilgrim, laboring in our journey. But we look forward to our journey always ending at the same place every day: home. A shadow of eternal home.

We hope that those of you who have expressed interest in visiting will still do so: we managed to extricate ourselves from what would've been a Bad Situation with enough grace that we have been able to preserve a good relationship with the Farm Folk - and I'm not sure that would've been possible had we stayed.

But where has help come from? Not the hills, but the Lord. And how has the Lord (who made heaven, earth, the creek, and the dogs) helped? Through an unexpected source: not via home, but via the workplace.

I have coworkers in arms.

One offered to help with the move. Another, upon seeing my weary face, promptly loaded me up in a mini Cooper and took me to Starbucks, the equivelent of sticking a bottle in a wailing baby's mouth. (Their new Pike's Place blend is quite good! No over-roasted.) Others regularly inquire on the progress of the situation. My boss has, as ever, lent generous flexibility to late arrivals and early departures (did I mention my car broke down this week, while the mechanic is uncharacteristically busy?)

Pilgrims we are. But we don't travel alone.

Beyond the Theological Locker Room

I don't want to distract you all from my fascinating post about poop, but you have to read this article. You just have to. No two ways about it, nope, nosirree. Because it's the best summary I’ve read of the issues and dynamics at stake.Ever browsed through the “mens” and “womens” section of a Christian book store? It’s depressing.

I was one woman in a class of about twelve people studying historical theology in one of Steve O’Malley’s classes at the seminary. The girls always headed to counseling, MDIVs, or intercultural ministries degrees. I can count on one hand the names of women I shared theology/history classes with at ATS, a woman-affirming environment, by and large. It was everybody’s husbands who were in those classes with me – theology of Aquinas, history of the sacraments, Christology, etc. And this is an excellent analysis about why that was the case and why it shouldn't be.

Beyond the Theological Locker Room
By Zoe Sandvig
Nurturing the Life of the Mind
When a former seminary professor told Christian author and speaker Carolyn Custis James that he had never heard of any great women theologians, she set out to prove him wrong. Through her research, she discovered that history is sprinkled with a few prominent female theologians, like Argula von Grumbach and Katharina Zell, sixteenth-century writers who defended the Protestant Reformation. But most of the female theologians James stumbled across did not wield the public pen or preach weighty sermons. Instead, as James explains in her book When Life and Beliefs Collide, most were ordinary women who lived lives of extraordinary significance because they knew their God well.
The modern-day Christian woman sits at the foot of this robust legacy. What is she doing with it? Is she sitting passively by, entrusting the study of God to her husband or pastor? Or is she gripping the handles of this powerful legacy of theology, as she travels along life’s bumpy roads?
Sadly, many women, and many men for that matter, ignore the call to know God with their minds, as well as with their hearts and souls. They have traded in serious pursuit of the knowledge of God for a purely devotional spiritual experience. But life is too arduous a thing to tackle without a firm theological framework. Attempting to live the Christian life without deep theology is like trying to run a marathon without a training regimen.
SITTING ON THE SIDELINESJames says that the reasons many women steer clear of theological study are diverse, but all of them are based on a fundamental misunderstanding of every Christian’s calling to know God both accurately and deeply.
A woman who avoids serious theological pursuit may do so because she sees it as a spectator sport. James explains that some godly women dismiss theology as an activity for the proverbial men’s “locker room,” like boxing, auto mechanics, or chewing tobacco.
She mentions a young woman she knew who sought theological titles at a Christian bookstore. When the woman asked the clerk where she could find the books, he responded, “We have books for men.”
Other women assume that accumulating too much theological head knowledge is a turnoff to possible marriage partners or a threat to the male leaders of her church. These women may worry that their theological interests will brand them as “feminists,” and therefore not respectful or submissive. Amy Lauger, a graduate of Reformed Theological Seminary, said she once had a well-respected female speaker tell her that when women learn theology, they often become hostile toward their husbands and children.
As James has observed, some women nurse their bruises on the sidelines while their husbands’ intense, usually obsessive, theological study robs them of their husbands’ time and attention. In fact, James said, some women see theology as a mistress to their husbands’ affections. Their husbands’ over-indulgence in theological study has alienated these women.
Even more, women want nothing to do with theology because they have seen churches fragment as a result of hairsplitting over minute, perhaps inconsequential, aspects of theology.
“This attitude adds to women not wanting to have anything to do with ‘theology’ due to the arrogance, bickering, and conflict,” said Joan Sato, a church-trained theologian from Indiana.
But most women do not avoid, fear, or despise theological study. They simply do not think they have the time. Women who are in the midst of giving 110 percent to raising children, encouraging their husbands, working outside the home, caring for aging parents, or serving in the church, barely have time to read a book for fun, much less Calvin’s Institutes.THE INEVITABLE IDENTITYHere is the catch: Theology eventually finds each of us, whether we go searching for it or not. Theology found Eve in the garden, with juice-stained hands and a guilt-streaked conscience. It was her poor theology that misidentified the wisdom that undergirded God’s command. She justified her disobedience with twisted theology and rejected the truth about God, while accepting the ultimate lie—that He did not know what He was talking about.
And that is where theology takes the field: in the reasons that govern why we do or do not choose to eat the fruit—and in the framework that dictates whether we believe in a little God who is withholding something good from us, or in a big God who says, “Don’t touch,” because of His sovereignty, love, and mercy.
Every woman (and every man for that matter) is a theologian, whether she wants to be one or not. The only question is whether she is a good one or a poor one.
James explains:
The whole issue comes into focus when we remember that theology is knowing God. This is not a gender issue. It is not a matter of aptitude, instinct, or intelligence. It is about what it means to be a Christian.
Theology is not just about squeezing in time to read Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica. Rather, it is about on-the-ground training for the inevitable battle.
SUITING UPBut a woman will not have strong theology to instruct and support her unless she dedicates herself to it. If the only books she reads are unsubstantial and theologically feel-good, she will not have much to undergird her when life pummels her. If, however, she has strengthened herself with transcendent truths through disciplined study, she will have a compass to guide her through the inevitable storms. This can be acquired many ways. It can come together through official seminary education, or theologically rich Bible studies, or challenging conversations with others who take the study of God seriously.
Melissa Kurtz, Tonya Riggle, and Cheryl Fletcher are three women who have discovered unique ways to run hard after sound theology through their separate circumstances, challenges, and callings.
“[Earning] my seminary degree is the best thing I ever did,” said Melissa Kurtz, a neonatal intensive care nurse in Orlando, Florida. Although, as a woman, she was minority in most of her classes at Reformed Theological Seminary, Kurtz did not let that intimidate her from taking courses that caught her interest, like Philosophy of Science. While working through her Master in Biblical Studies, she was also working part-time as a nurse, preparing for her career. For her, seminary was not a step toward a future in “full-time ministry”—it was spiritual fortification for her work in medicine.
Now out of seminary and working full-time as a nurse, she sees her theology play out in the neonatal unit. Recently, when she was caring for a severely ill child, she remembered a course she took on the Gospels. Specifically, she recalled a class discussion about Mary during Christ’s crucifixion. As she cared for the child, she began comparing his parents to Mary and took extra care to treat their child with tenderness.
“Sometimes there is a misconception that women who study theology are only intellectual and don’t care about emotional issues,” Kurtz said. “There are ways to bridge that gap.”
Tonya Riggle, wife, mother, and theologian from Texas, has bridged that gap naturally: Motherhood and friendship have been points of contact between her theological head-knowledge and life-application. She reads N. T. Wright as she guides and disciplines her teenage son. She teaches Bible classes for high-schoolers and young married couples, while comforting a close friend through a time of suffering.
Good theology has also helped her work through her own painful memories: “Through the woundedness of my childhood, the questions of life swirled through my head. It was a relationship, but it was also theology. I had to grasp onto truth in a way that I could assimilate it and hang on to it.”
Unlike Kurtz and Riggle, Cheryl Fletcher has applied her theology toward a professional career in ministry. After obtaining degrees from Dallas and Fuller Theological Seminaries, she joined Young Life staff. During this time, she led Bible studies for college women with a curriculum that included Wayne Grudem’s Systematic Theology, in an attempt to sway popular thinking that “theology is for men, and women just like to be devotional.”
Now on staff at a large church outside of Los Angeles, Fletcher admits that her doctrinal beliefs have changed over the years, but she remains committed both to serious theological study and a vibrant devotional life. In fact, she says she cannot have one without the other.
“I think theology can be tremendously devotional,” says Fletcher. “I don’t think we ever separate our heart from our mind.”
James writes:
Knowing God is a woman’s highest calling and her most pressing need. What we know of Him, whether it is a little or a lot, is all we have to hang on to when the storm hits and we are being pulled into the downward spiral of worthlessness, despair, and defeat. It is also what energizes and guides us as we tackle the task before us—as mothers, daughters, wives, and friends.
It is what upholds a woman when a marriage engagement comes crashing down around her. It is what teaches her humility when she receives an unexpected promotion. It is what sustains her when she receives a grim medical diagnosis. It is what points her to gratitude when she watches her child succeed. It is what meets her in her deepest ache and her greatest hour. And it is what tells her who she is, in Him.
Zoe Sandvig is a staff writer with PFM, featured regularly in Inside Out and Jubilee magazines, and is a regular contributor to The Point blog.

Warning: This Post Is About Poop. Holy Cow!

Welcome, one and all. Thank you for commenting. This meeting shall now come to order. Don't make me - John, don't make me use my gavel. There. There. Now I had to use it. Please, everyone, keep your pocket-sized Robert's Rules of Order at hand.

Now, today's subject is poop.

Yes, poop is raining from the ceiling. Poop. (quote from Angela, "The Office," when a bat is caught in the ceiling after finding droppings on the floor.)

First of all, our two new dogs have taken a while to house train. One gets the gist of why we go "outside" to "potty." The other understands that going outside to "potty" means peeing. But he has a phobia of pooping in front of us. He just won't do it. He'll wait until we get back inside, are in another room, and then will poop on the floor.

We were both feeling surrounded by lots and lots of poop. Until the cows came.

Let me explain. Our house and yard are surrounded by stone fences. On the other side of these stone fences are cow pastures. In the past, the cows have stayed in those pastures.

In the past.

Until the other day, when John called me at work. "The cows are out." "What??" "The cows. They're out. They're down by the stream, and the horse barn. We have to close the gates."

There is one gate up by our house, and another about a quarter mile down the drive by the mailbox.

When I got home, cows were everywhere. Okay not everywhere. But they were by the creek, they were by the horse barn, and they were even in the pasture where the stallion is usually kept. And they were all mooing so loudly it sounded like they were on strike. On strike from being cows. They mooed so loundly that it woke me up during the night. There's an unsettled feeling hearing disgruntled cows bellowing their discontent at 2 a.m. It's discordant, it's belligerant, and it makes one feel that if the cows decide to stampede one's house, there will be nothing to do to stop it.

So, the cows had been by the creek, by the horse barn, and in the stallion pasture. We finally got word why: the calves had been separated out from the herd, and the cows were Not Taking This Lying Down. They had been jumping the fences. JUMPING THE FENCES. Suddenly the phrase, "the cow jumped over the moon" floated through my mind, and It Made SENSE. Thus far, the hills had been echoing cow bellows through our windows, but no cows had actually been in our yard.

Until last night. I was suspicious yesterday morning, wondering how a large pile of cow poop had landed in our driveway. After John's Intramural Ultimate Frisbee game last night - which they won, 10-4 - we drove home, shut the first gate behind us, drove up the drive, and I hopped out to shut the second gate behind us. As I was wrestling with the wooden bar to fasten the two doors of the gate together, John warned in a high, tense voice, "LOOK behind you." I turned. I yelled. A large, black cow had come around the side of the small barn-future garage, and it was walking PURPOSEFULLY towards me. I turned and rapidly finished fastening the gate so it wouldn't escape. "BULL!" I yelled, plunging towards John and the house. Then I saw it's empty-looking udder hiding behind the stomach. I relaxed. "Oh, it's just a girl cow. She's okay." We stood, transfixed, watching the cow go around by the stone wall. "DON'T TRAMPLE THE DAFFODILS!" I yelled, feeling like I was in the scene out of "Anne of Avonlea." John and I stared at each other in amazement until the cow came around the other side of the barn, stood on the gravel, and lifted her tail. "OH, NOT THERE," I lamented. Then she sauntered over to my car. MY CAR. My car has never looked small until Suzie P. Cow went over and nosed it. "John, what if she sits on my car? Can you IMAGINE the insurance report? 'Cow Sat On Car?'" It's an old car, but still, I called out the car's name as the cow approached it: "JEZEBEL!" The cow decided not to render automotive damage and instead walked up to the house and past it into the back yard.

John and I suddenly realized that the world was quickly becoming a sea of poop. Dog poop seemed infinitesemal compared to large, size of Jupiter's moon cow patties.

So today, the weather report is warning citizens of flooding, and rivers of water seem the least worry: we feel, rather, the paranoia of becoming flooded in poop.

Today is supposed to be the last day we have to open, drive through, close the gate, open, drive through, close the gate. What amount of poop we have to wade through remains to be seen.

Newspaper Hat

I emerged from the fort today, newspaper hat in place, scanning the vast jungle with my cardboard paper towl tube-telescope.

Turns out this whirling, blinking gizmo "blogger" was set to let in comments from google members only. I turned the crank, pushed some large, red, important looking buttons, and *presto* now comments may flood like the Nile.

It's been a long,long day, wearying to the mind and spirit, so I am gathering my belongings in a red and white handkerchief tied onto the end of a stick, making a peanut butter sandwich, and preparing for the long, arduous journey back into the fort.

That's It. I Am Laying Down on the Floor and Screaming.

I'm sorry it has to come to this. This hurts me more than it hurts you.

BUT I REFUSE TO WRITE ANY MORE UNTIL PEOPLE COMMENT ON SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN.

Do you know what it's like, to sit at a computer, tired, unperked as yet by coffee, and see that no one has responded (except your dad)? Is it THAT BORING? Does it put you to sleep THAT QUICKLY? Is it really THAT MUCH TRIPE? Is it THAT UNINTERESTING?

I am getting my blankie and I am going on strike. You can find me on the floor with milk and cookies and a scowling face.

You can find me in my fort.