When Jesus Compared a Woman to a Dog

Women don't seem to matter much in the Old Testament, at least for the most part.  And when they appear on its pages, too often they end up in books like Liz Curtis Higgs' Bad Girls of the Bible series.

Eve, Potiphar’s wife, Delilah, Bathsheba, Jezebel, Job's wife--even a society not well-versed in the Scriptures likely recognizes these names.  These women, their stories, and their sin stick with us and find themselves repeated in popular novels and movies.

Sure, there are the Ruths and Esthers who blow us away with positive lessons about faith in God, but for the most part, Biblical women get a bad rap.

What has always intrigued me, though, is how society can remember the bad women of the Bible but not (for the most part) the bad men.

Let's see....there's Jeroboam, King Herod, Pharaoh, and Judas.  That's four.

How many evil, sinful kings were there in the Old Testament?  Can you name them all, the ones who sacrificed their children, who murdered their way to the top, who slayed prophets who spoke against them, who God repeatedly said were "worse than their fathers before them?"  I sure can't.

But the women?  Yep.  Even I can name them all.

Julie Zine Coleman's Unexpected Love: God's Heart Revealed in Jesus' Conversations with Women offers a different look at Biblical women in the New Testament.   Specifically, she delves into nine interactions Jesus had with women.

Each chapter serves to confirm her primary argument that our Savior had quite a tender heart for women, that every woman (including the sinful woman caught in adultery) was important to Him and to the kingdom of God. 

Coleman begins her nine vignettes with a "how-it-might-have-happened" narrative, transforming the sparseness of Scripture's into a three dimensional work of art.  Then, she begins to dissect the interaction, asking questions, providing historical and cultural background needed to understand what was really going on, and drawing conclusions as to why He said the words He did (such as when he compared the Syrophoenician woman to a dog under the table) before concluding each chapter with a real life application for today's woman and journal / small group questions for discussion.

The text is conversational and analytical at the same time without being filled with a theological vocabulary one would need to go to seminary to fully understand.  Personally, I found myself challenged with information I had not before considered but never felt the book's meaning was beyond my grasp.

Throughout the text, Jesus' interactions serve to show how He was intentionally seeking a relationship with these women.  In several instances, that meant initiating a relationship with a woman caught up in the throws of sin.

Still, He met them where they were, but He didn't leave them there. Instead, He called them to repentance, to deeper faith, to a knowledge that they truly mattered to Him.

In a world of Twitter, Face book, the Internet, and various other social media outlets, where everybody has a cellphone and a camera to capture a person's solitary sin and then plaster it across the world in seconds where it will remain there for a lifetime...

In a world where one person can be then defined by that single sin despite a lifetime of pure actions, Coleman's book shows a Savior who values women (even fallen women) and who still says, "Repent. Come back to Me.  You matter."

As the author concludes,  "He will never fail to meet you where you are when you come to him."


**I have received no compensation from Thomas Nelson for my review of this book, good or bad.

A Different Kind of Anniversary

As the sun set on Valentines Day, I left my husband and children to gather with another adopted family, the kind I imagine joining with in heaven's throne room.

Every tribe, tongue, and nation raises voices together to sing two verses of Amazing Grace.  In reality, it's only twelve countries gathered round pressboard tables rather than brilliant sapphire and radiant rainbow of holy glory, but still, to this sun-kissed white girl who grew up in an all-white neighborhood, went to an all-white church, and went to a school with only two skin colors, the rainbow before me is just as beautiful.

As they enter the room, they hug, kiss, even smile differently than the vanilla world I live in.  Several of my students from Africa--now they know how to smile.  It's contagious, those smiles, an impossible joy based on their histories, their present circumstances, their poverty and loneliness, separated from our country by a language barrier thicker and more impenetrable than most concrete.

I know the long hours these refugees work, the low salary they make, the menial jobs far beneath their intelligence that they take simply because they're what is available, meaning no one else wants them.  They mop floors, clean hotel rooms, hand wash cars, wash dishes in restaurants, and sanitize public schools after hours. 

One twenty-something man only two-weeks here from Malaysia tells me he used to farm rice, then worked the last three years of his life as a cook.  Pizza and pasta.  Do we eat Italian here in Louisiana?

Another young lady, alone in this new land with a four-year-old daughter--she speaks maybe two sentences week after week until last night when she bubbles forth unstoppable broken paragraphs of excitement.  Some gracious soul had taken the time to write a short email praising the cleanliness of his hotel room.  The ten minutes it took for him to express gratitude resulted in her being named "Employee of the Month," her salary bumped from $8 to $9 an hour, and managements' good favor.

The former truck driver cleans the casino but never stops smiling and laughing as we struggle to overcome each other's language barrier.

Kih-mee-KAA , they teach me last night.  Scorpion.

I continue to be amazed at the great God I serve who sent the world to my doorstep so I could have the opportunity to fulfill the Great Commission even though I lacked freedom and funds to go in obedience.

February 14, 2013, marked the one-year anniversary of our group's first English as a Second Language (ESL) meeting.  In His perfect timing, God-ordained that on the day our nation celebrates love, He allowed us to begin a ministry to show true agape love to all the nations in our community...

opening up our church doors, our homes, our pocketbooks, our minds, our families, and our very hearts to them.

And just like what normally happens, the more love we've given and the more of ourselves we've invested in those who come to learn from us, the more love we have received--exceedingly, abundantly, far beyond any love we have demonstrated.


That is a love to celebrate.

A Mother's Gift of Love

It only happened four times in all my years, four Christmases where I padded downstairs in slippered feet, rubbed the crust from the corners of my eyes, and found true love beneath the tree.

Each Christmas morning, my brother and I were blessed with several store-bought presents from our parents.  There was always a game for us to share, a book, and usually some aromatic Strawberry Shortcake toy I had longed for.

Yet, on those four occasions, my mother wrapped something more precious for us--handmade dolls she had stitched with care while we slept or were away at school.

Juliana was the first.  She came dressed in a red and white Swiss dot dress I wore as an infant and a real diaper with plastic pants.  Only when I untied her matching bonnet did I learn she had two faces, one asleep and one awake.  What amazed me most was knowing there was a golf ball in her neck that allowed her head to unnaturally rotate the full 360 degrees.

Then came Annie, a doll as tall as I was at that time.  With loopy orange hair, long lanky legs, and satin stitched eyes, she was beautiful.  I still remember wondering what was in that extra-long, limp package, then catching my first glimpse of her crimson red and white belted dress just like Daddy Warbucks bought little orphan Annie in the popular musical movie of the day.  On her feet were a pair of black felt shoes with their black buttons, shoes that have long ago been lost to the hands of time.

Somewhere along the way came Allison Rose, dressed in another of my toddler dresses, this one pale darling pink with a calico-like pattern of tiny roses and short banded sleeves.  Cabbage patch dolls were all the rage, and I wanted one, too.  Although I don't remember ever asking, my mother must have known, as mothers usually do.

Unlike the others she had made, this doll had well-defined, chubby cheeks along with firm, chunky arms and legs, each limb jointed so the doll could sit in my childhood rocking chair or stand alone, her feet dressed in my old pink-embroidered, frilly church socks and first white-patent, hard-soled walking shoes no longer seen on children today.  Atop her head were two brown-yard pigtails pulled to each side and held in place with fuzzy red ribbons.

As my brother and I grew older, I guess we kept mother too busy.  There were no more dolls until the last one she made for me when I was in high school.  This doll's face was cross stitched on the tiniest canvas I had ever seen.  This obviously wasn't a doll to play with or her face would get permanently stained with drops of chocolate like Allison Rose.

Her dress was of blue silk with a white smocked pinafore.  Around her neck was a childhood heart locket I hadn't worn in years, and on her feet were black suede shoes as soft as deerskin.  The most amazing thing, though, was her hair.  The usual Red Heart Super Saver yellow, orange, or brown yarn didn't cover her scalp, but rather a real doll wig with permanent brunette ringlets that fell down her back.

 I never named her.  Maybe it's because I always assumed the doll was me. 

Growing up, I appreciated these gifts, but not nearly as much as I appreciate them today.  The gift wasn't the doll, itself.  The gift was my mother's time.  The most precious thing she could give me was a gift of herself when she took her own two hands and fashioned love out of fabric and yarn.

As a mother, myself, now, I know that showing extraordinary love to my family isn't always the easiest thing to do.  Mothers are called upon to show their children love as a daily practice.

The most precious thing I can give them is a gift of my time, whether that's reading an extra book, playing another round of Clue Junior, or listening to them retell me the Easter story.

Tomorrow, my little ones will awaken to a small gift of love from me, a gift of my time...nothing as extravagant as my mother's gifts, although maybe one day, she'll pass on her learning to me.

Each shy octopus (or monster-pus, if you're Wyatt) was made out of scrap leftover yarn from other love-projects in years gone by.  They wouldn't sell for much if bought on Etsy, and my children's friends might think they're pretty dopey as gifts go.

But despite their lack, I know one day, these gifts will be worth more to them than any casually-bought item from the store, for each crocheted tentacle is proof of a mother's love, of a mother sacrificing her own personal interests to give her time to them.

Such is a gift of true love.

I should know.  I learned from the best.

Helping a Kindergartner Choose a Wife

It started out as a discussion of the word mine. 

Wasn't a mine a place for gold?  If so, why was I saying "That's mine," meaning something belonged to me.  These are the annoying dinner topics I expect, those intended to serve as delay tactics when what's on the menu isn't what my children would choose if they ruled the world.

Realizing mommy was growing irritated with his feigned ignorance, Wyatt turned the dinner conversation to a more serious topic: "What's a wedding ring for?"

This was another feeble attempt to delay eating the meal before him. Even his younger sister, Amelia, could explain how that small circle of gold meant mommy belonged to daddy and that daddy belonged to her.  As her daddy had taught her before she was two years old, the ring meant "I choose that one."

Mine.

Last year, it became no longer acceptable for her to hold my right hand.  Only the left hand with such a precious ring adorning it would do.  Many times while walking down the long gravel drive to Oma's house or while training for our marathon, she would realize her mistake and suddenly duck behind me to grab the proper hand. 

One afternoon, she and Emerson actually got into a heated argument over who should hold what hand, never mind that both bore beautiful gifts from their daddy.

Wedding rings, the forever commitment between a husband and wife, this promise of love for better or for worse--these are topics much discussed in our household.    In a society where divorce is present even in the church family, husband and I have already found it necessary to explain God's design for marriage.  We have needed to explain that not everyone chooses to honor their forever promise to their spouse.  We have also needed to reassure our children that even when we argue, husband and I promise to love each other forever, "and a promise is a promise."

These are not the conversations I expected to have with a six-year-old.  I thought surely I'd have a few more years before I had to address the serious topics, but here I was again with a captive audience of three children watching me, waiting for my answer.

The wedding ring. 

God must have directed my lips, because the words that came forth from my mouth weren't part of the typical pat answer. 

"When a man feels in his heart that he has found the woman God has for him to marry, that man gives her a wedding ring and asks her to marry him.  If she feels in her heart that this is the man God wants her to marry, she says 'yes.'  If she doesn't feel in her heart that God wants her to marry that man, she says 'no.'"

This was new information--the idea that you didn't have to marry someone just because they asked you.  All three began talking at once before Wyatt yelled over the twins, "But there are SO many girls that I like.  How will I know which one to choose!?"

The comment seemed ludicrous; yet, the look on his face showed such serious concern that my heart went out to him.

"Oh honey," I said softly, "When you get older, your heart won't love all the girls around you." 

I pointed to the weed flowers Amelia had placed in the makeshift bamboo vases just that afternoon.  "You will be like a bee who passes up all the other flowers because he sees just the one flower he wants, just the one flower God has told his heart to land on."

With that, I let my finger touch the single yellow strawberry flower in a sea of clover and purple before looking across the gathering table to see if he understood.

Wyatt's smile was anxiety-free.   For now at least, he understood God would help him choose a mate.

"Yes," he said with sudden authority.  "Daddy was a good choice.  He loves me and gives me piggy back rides and takes me to Chick Fil A and...."

To my kindergartner, these are the qualities that show I made the right choice when picking my husband from a sea of flowers.

It's at moments like these I wish I could push the pause button and erupt in laughter.  Instead, I am like Mary, tucking away all these precious nuggets in my heart.

Kicked Out of the Feminist Camp: Defining 'Head of Household'

"We'll have to see what your father says."

It's a great line for all mothers, one I rely on quite a lot when I don't want to commit to something before asking husband's opinion, when I want to pass the buck and have husband make the decision instead of me, or when I want a get-out-of-jail-free card to not ever give an answer, hedging my bets my children will just forget about it before husband comes through the door at day's end.

Lately, though, my six-year-old has been questioning the statement.  Why should we ask daddy.  Can't I just make a decision on my own?  I am the mommy, you know.  A grown up who is no longer told what to do (in his eyes, anyway).

"Well, he's the boss," I say, struggling to put my anti-feminist convictions in a kindergartner's vocabulary.  "The Bible says he's the head of our household."

Wyatt's face lights up.  "Oh.  Cool!  I want to be the boss, too." 

That look on my son's face makes it obvious he equates being the boss with stomping around with his plastic sword like an arrogant tyrant whom everyone obeys without question.  For a split second, I catch a glimpse of my future daughter in law hating me.  (Sigh.)

"Being a boss isn't all that fun," I begin, deepening my voice in an attempt to sound somber, serious."  To be the head of his household, a man has to do certain things.  The Bible says that a man must be willing to give his life for his family.  That means daddy must be willing to die for you and me.  He must provide for his family, which is why daddy works so hard.  He also has the job of leading his family to know about God.  That's why daddy takes us to church."

The face that has been listening so seriously to my soliloquy suddenly brightens again.  "Oh!  That's why daddy prays with us every night and not you!"

I smile.  He and I go back and forth for a few minutes, discussing the role he will play one day as head of his own house. 

Across the table, Emerson pipes up, "Me, too!  I'll have a house."  Yes.  Two future heads of their families.

I tell them when there's a hard decision to make, if mommy and daddy don't know what to do, daddy ultimately has to make the decision.

"And what if he doesn't know the answer?"  Wyatt asks.

"He asks God," Emerson responds matter-of-factly.

Through a too-large bite of spaghetti, Wyatt finally concludes, "Wow.  Being a boss is hard work."

And with that, the conversation turns to how hot the spaghetti is, what's for dessert, and how much water we need to drink to get rid of any "bugs" in us.

I know well this is not the popular way to raise boys.  Some might even say I'm turning back time and creating two little cavemen who think women are worthless.  But nothing could be farther from the truth.

At four and six, my boys already know to open/hold the door for a lady (although they haven't learned not to knock said lady down in an attempt to get there first).  They know to offer a lady help if she is carrying a heavy load.  They are learning mommy needs help picking up the house, setting the table, and separating the lights and darks before helping me shove heaping loads into the washer and dryer.

Women are to be respected, loved, treated more delicately with kindness.

What many people don't understand is there is a difference between submitting to one's husband as the head of your family and being a wall flower.

I grew up in a family of strong women.  I still live in a family of strong women.  There are definitely no shrinking (or quiet) violets here.  We study our Bibles and have lively, educated discussions about Scripture with our men.  We actively pursue our individual ministries within our churches and within our communities.  Many of us work both within and outside of the home.

When I was in high school, I clearly remember my father's family labeling my mother a feminist.  At the time, she and I didn't think that was such a bad thing.  Of course I was a feminist.  I equated the term with women's basic human rights, equal treatment, and equal opportunities.  Honestly?  When I consider how women are severely abused by their husbands in parts of Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, how many rights these non-American women don't have around the world, that's still the kind of feminism I want to be a part of.

Granted, ours was a family where women were expected to be educated, where women were encouraged to speak up and participate in the dialogue of a family, where gender roles were undefined when it came to things like washing clothes, cooking supper, or mowing the lawn.  Yet, there was still the knowledge that the buck stopped with my daddy.  He was the spiritual head of our home.

When my children were born, I sadly came to the realization that feminism had changed from what I once believed it to be.  Overnight, I found myself booted out of the feminist camp because I believed in a baby's right to life over a woman's right to her body, because I believed the Bible when it said my husband should be the head of our household as Christ is the head of the church.

Submissiveness is not on the feminist agenda, nor is it popular.  But it is part of what the modern family needs.  Families need women who not doormats but who are submissive to their husbands.  Families also need men who love their wives so completely that they are willing to daily give their very lives for them.

Whichever role you play in your family, as my son said, "It's hard work."


Image: My son, Wyatt, helps refill the cat food container, his contribution to "housework."

The Great Valentine Exchange

My son's teacher sent home the note a few weeks in advance, giving parents plenty of time to help their darlings choose, address, and sign twenty-four Valentines for their other classmates.

Maybe it was the cute "I Luv U" heart graphic at the top of her note or the list of names on the back.  Whatever the case, Wyatt was thrilled with the thought of being able to give something to his peers.

It didn't matter that mommy had to leave in an hour to go teach ESL.  Such an important project immediately skyrocketed to the top of his list, beating out Scooby Doo reruns, the half-finished magnetic mosaic on the dining room table, and the joy (and naughtiness) found in the great outdoors.

This was an exercise in penmanship and phonetic pronunciation of names, all disguised in the garments of fun. And that clever disguise had worked...too well, making this also a now exercise.

I pulled apart the lenticular cards, slumped in the chair beside him, and watched him spread them face-up before him in lines of five.  Taking mommy's special blue pen, he carefully chose a name and checked it off before copying it.

The list of names was a mixture of the very familiar with faces and personalities and those too rarely mentioned for me to remember.  There was the little girl he'd love to marry (or at least call his "girlfriend") if this mother would let him, the boy who was always in trouble or doing something mean/naughty, the girls who scream louder than a tornado, the boys who threw rocks at him on the play ground.

I wondered which name belonged to the new kid but didn't have a chance to ask before Wyatt started into a monologue about each name as he copied it.

"I'll do her next.  She has a short name."
"He likes green, so he can have this one."
"He's kinda a friend, so I'll give him Lightening McQueen."

The more I listened, the more he shared details about his classmates...and the more I had to stifle the ball of laughter growing inside me.

"She's as sweet as fireflies."
"He's my favorite."
"He fusses at me all the time."

"She never talks to me."
"She's the one who always wants to be my girlfriend but I said no."
"He's always so shocked with _____ says a bad word.  He acts like (insert shocked face and spread arms)."

"She's cute."

When there were only three girl's names left, Wyatt panicked--which cars would girls like best?  All the purple girly ones were long gone.  I looked over the choices--a grouchy looking green car, an equally unpleasant looking orange car, a smiling blue stripe, and the traditional candy apple red of Lightening McQueen (the only name I knew in the whole set).

I suggested reds and blues.  Then, he looked at the names again and frowned.

"She's kinda bossy," he said, putting down the blue card and picking up the green one.

"Yeah," I giggled.  "Give her the grouchy green one."


I honestly expected him to balk at giving a card to the classmate he claimed had "punched" (read: poked) him in the stomach that day, but he didn't. 

It's a silly childhood rite of passage.  Yet, it was a positive way to reinforce what husband and I try to teach around here--that God calls us to show everyone mercy, grace, and love, even those who mistreat and persecute you.

It's not that they have done something to be worthy or deserving of our love or even that they'll appreciate or reciprocate it.  They may have nothing to offer us in return.

But when that happens and we love the unlovely, the unlovable?

Then, we know that we were loving as Jesus loved--not out of self interest but out of selflessness.  And that's a kind of love that just might bless the one who gives more than the one who receives.

Writing New Lyrics to an Old Song

Today found me on bruised knees, digging out the roots from long Alicia Bermuda runners that have spent the winter slowly creeping across the hay field and wrapping themselves around the trunk of my blueberry bushes.

The weather was beautiful, as it has been for the past two weeks--in the 70s with a breeze strong enough to cause my daughter to yell out loud, "Thank you God for the breeze!"

Yet, in the midst of this beauty, I was grumbling in my spirit, frustrated as I hacked at the tenacious roots with an instrument referred to by my children as "the bull thistle puller."  Two years, and I was still failing to push back the hay field, to establish a proper yard with neat, hay-free flower beds and well-defined edges.

As I trudged through this silent chore, up and over the house's rooftop suddenly drifted the sound of vocals loud enough to have come from a radio being switched on.  I couldn't help but smile, knowing what had happened.

Deep in the backyard, my daughter knelt alone in the grass and picked another hand full of  weed-flowers that cover our hay fields with a purple haze in early spring.  Little in life makes Amelia happier than when there is a field of flowers ripe for the plucking.  And in the security of that solitude, her heart burst forth in a song of pure, unabashed praise.

Yes, even with Valentines Day approaching, she belted out her version of last Christmas' favorite-- Hark the Herald Angels Sing.  Three-fourths of the lyrics were replaced with ideas nowhere near what the original author intended.  Some verses were even filled with nonsensical words that merely imitated the sounds she heard but couldn't make fit with her four-year-old understanding and vocabulary.

I've heard this version many times over.  So has my kindergartner son Wyatt, who, having just this December learned the correct words, himself, can no longer stand to hear her mangle the original.

To him, right is right and wrong is wrong, which is why just last week, my car was filled with him loudly chastising her from the backseat. "No, no, NO! Amelia.  That's not how it goes.  Listen to ME...."  The more he criticized, the louder she sang.

If she could have vocalized her thoughts instead of trying to drown him out, I'm sure they would have sounded something like, "No, YOU don't get it.  Praise is praise.  And that's always right."

Yet now in her back yard retreat, no one would criticize her word choices, her simple sounds.  She could sing anything her heart desired.

"Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king
Peace on earth and mercy wild, God has sent a bless-ed child..."

The first time she sang the verse, I thought I had misheard her, but each time, I listened closely and it was the same word.

Wild.

It's wrong, of course.  But in so many ways, it's so right.  I can't sing the song anymore without thinking of God this way, as a God not with "mercy mild" but with "mercy wild."

His love for us, in sending down a Savior to die for our sin--that is some wild mercy.

When her song ended, the air was silent again.  A few minutes later, she appeared, rounding the corner of the house to find her mother in the dirt.  There she was--my happy, carefree daughter with disheveled hair swinging in the breeze, arms full of wild flowers, and heart bursting with even wilder love.

And what's more? All that wildness was just for me.

Yes.  We live in a world with mercy wild.