There is a silent epidemic among the men we know and love. For every six men, one has been sexually abused.

Why read a book on men and sexual abuse?  To put it simply and confidentially, I know men who have been sexually abused. I want to understand them and love them better.

I’ve pored over Cecil Murphey‘s groundbreaker, When a Man You Love Was Abused: A Woman’s Guide to Helping Him Overcome Childhood Sexual Molestation, not for the faint-of-heart, it is difficult to read and even to write about here.

I put Murphey in a category with the prophets. He is calling us to notice an abiding sin in our own midst. One we’ve silenced too long.

One year later, I’ve finished.  I’ve cried through much of it, I’ve underlined something on nearly every page.

I’ve learned.

Murphey is the first that I’ve found to tackle the silent epidemic of boys who are molested. Epidemic? really?

The most conservative figures find at least one in six boys endure unwanted sexual contact (1in6.org). It’s probably worse than that. Why? Boys don’t talk about it as men.

When a Man You Love Was Abused is divided into two sections, the first deals with male sexual assault and its effects, the second with those who want to help survivors (brothers, sons, husbands, friends).

Murphey begins with his own story, unlocked from his memory by a strong adult aversion to raspberry jam. It baffled him to the point that he explored it.  Memories began slowly kicking in. Mr. Lee (not his real name) lured Murphey into his apartment with crackers covered in raspberry jam.

The Abused One . . . 

. . . endures more as a child than most of us can imagine. But Murphey gave me a good picture of how to relate to survivors of sexual assault.

Loneliness

Many boys stifle the pain of sexual abuse. It’s too difficult and too unbelievable. To face the psychological, physical and spiritual pain, too overwhelming. They often believe sexual abuse indicates they are homosexual, or that they are somehow to blame. Or worse or all, their story will never be believed. They suffer in silence and isolation.

Tip #1 – Should a man confide his sexual assault to you, NEVER say,  ”I’m sure that didn’t happen.” Instead offer steady support and a calm, listening ear.

Masculine Confusion

Men are expected to be in control, leaders, confident, aggressive and dominant.  Sexual abuse upends all of these.

When a father molests his son, the child learns a confused role for fathers.  Is his dad a father, a lover, a friend? Most boys cannot help but believe molestation is normal behavior of all fathers to all sons. Often the sexual assault is the first time their fathers have noticed them. But, when the father loses interest, the boy’s second abandonment is often worse than the sexual abuse.

When a mother molests her son, he learns to take the role of a husband in his mother’s life. I wasn’t surprised to learn that this robs him of his childhood.

Most men struggle with the lie that they should have been able to stop the abuse. Their weakness against an adult who was smarter and stronger than them continues to assault their masculinity. And if their abuser was a woman, or their mother, gender myths (e.g. Women never have sex with their sons, women are too naturally nurturing to be violent, mothers always have their son’s best interest at heart) shatter these young men’s ability to speak about the horrors they’ve endured.  One incest survivor saw his mother’s requests and his capitulation for sex as one of the dutiful ways he needed to take care of her. He couldn’t even call her behavior sexual abuse.

Tip #2 – Refuse to be shocked, regardless if he shares the abuse was perpetrated by a seemingly good person or even a woman.

It is probably best that you cannot read his bumper stickers.

When sexually molested boys grow up, many feel they must prove their machismo, and treat women as trophies.  They may constantly involve themselves in activities to prove to the world that they are manly.  Or they might be compensating to prove to themselves they were not used as sexual objects by men, or to prove they are not gay. As adults they may become addicted to sex with women to prove their masculinity.

This insight reminded me of several sexually over-the-top men I’ve encountered.  Men who could not help (it seemed) objectifying all women to their sexual organs. Men who we meet on off-roading trails whose Jeeps are littered with sexual innuendo bumper stickers.  Men who I now see with compassion. Such an exaggerated masculinity reveals more than they realize. I grow in compassion for men who follow Mark Driscoll and make a competitive, badgering masculinity a battle flag of the most important war for Christendom.

People-Pleasers

Molested children grow up believing all adults have the right to criticize, discipline or correct them. Therefore, abused kids become adults who don’t know how to disappoint adults.  They were likely once told, “This is what love is like” or “This is for your own good” and taught to ignore their internal signs of warning, fear, intuitive self-protection.   From a young age an adult sieged his control, his need for nurture, his memory.  Molested boys grow up into adults who struggle to make kind, firm boundaries.

Control

As Murphey put it, since control was ripped away from him as a boy, as an adult he must grab power and control over everything. It can be his only way of making sure the abuse never happens again.

Lies and Shame

When a man or woman molests a child, the child is unable to properly assign blame to the adult. Instead the child becomes injected with shame and guilt that properly belongs to the adult.  As an survivor of sexual abuse adult men will justify their victims with statements like,

“I didn’t stop it.”

“I wanted/needed too much attention.”

The web of deceit has so many connections that Murphey spends many chapters detaching the half truths from the lies.  For instance, abused boys believe things like “It wasn’t that bad” or “It was a terrible thing he did, but he loved me” or “God will deal with it, I need to leave it in God’s hands.”  Murphey offers ways to stop the inner abuser from perpetuating these lies, offering Scripture to restore truth. However, and this is an incredible benefit of his writing, he is never glib or simplistic about what Scripture can and cannot do.

With chapters like “The Loss of Childhood”, “Flasbacks and Dreams”, “False Memories”, “If His Abuser was a Woman”, “Facing His Abuser” and “Where was God?” Murphey pulls no punches. He’s honest both about the process, the pain and the time healing requires. This first section was his most clear and helpful for me.

This section has many lists, lists of long-term problems, of Scripture passages, of male self-image problems, exercises that he’s personally used to feel again, to develop boundaries, to learn to say no and to pay attention to his body. Since Murphey is a survivor who has found healing, I found myself ready to trust his suggestions.

Know someone who needs to know they’re not alone? Go to Cecil Murphey’s blog Men Shattering the Silence or Survivor Helps.

Part 2 – How You Can Help Him

The second section spoke directly to women, explaining what we can and cannot do for the men in our lives who are survivors of sexual abuse.  I found this section more staccato in style, some chapters could have benefitted from more organization. However, I found myself weeping more in this section.  So much work to be done.

Chapter Titles in Part 2

For a short version of what we can do, Murphey lists eight opportunities women have.

1. Be honest with feedback to him. Molested men have been lied to, he needs you in his life to support him with complete honesty.
2. Realize and accept you cannot say anything to make him feel better. (This is worth parking on for awhile).
3. He doesn’t need anger or horrified responses, he needs compassionate support. Refuse to be shocked, refuse to focus on your feelings. Listen.
4. Believe him.
5. Keep his story completely confidential
6. Show him that you believe he was a courageous person, “You survived that all on your own.”
7. If he struggles with addictions, remind him that he unconsciously chose this to self-medicate.
8. Pray for him on your own and out loud with him.

As a friend once told Murphey, “The only way out of the pain is to knock on the door of pain, go inside and feel the emotions. If he does that, the past will no longer hurt him.”  Men who do this need women by their sides cheering them on at their pace.  I want to be a woman who helps, a comfort in time of need, an ezer through the valley of the shadow.

God help us.

Now I know Jesus wasn’t a masochist, but when a childhood friend drops you like a hot potato, when she tries to hurt you and talks behind your back, when she makes your life miserable and you consider unfriending her on facebook (gasp!) when you want to move toIceland to get away, where does Jesus get the gall to say “blessed are you”?

This unfriended, discarded puddle is where I found myself after college.

Splashing and muddy, I hear Jesus murmer, Blessed are you.

What in tarnation is that supposed to mean? I reply indignant. What is blessed about this situation? Have you forgotten that blessed means in the Greek?  In case you forgot it means HAPPY.  (I get sort of snappy when I’m suffering).Blessed are you when people persecute you.

Really?

How is persecution happy?  I asked my good friend, Su, between hiccups and tears.

There is no happiness in being misunderstood. No zippy spring in my step.

Su wondered if the time hasn’t come yet. If this is a time for patience in what God is doing.  She knows waiting. We’ve walked alongside her and her family as life savings disappeared in the stock market.  She knows patience and its ploddy growth. Even patience grows slowly, like gamble oak. A centimeter every, say, ten years.

But the fruit of His Spirit is patience.

“And you might feel more peace as time moves you through this,” Su adds.

I sniffed a little, already wondering.

“Actually Su, I feel peace right now.”

That’s sort of weird. Peaceful, painful me.  That’s VERY weird as in supernaturally weird. My anxiety has fallen off like a sundress. And I’m bare, cold and still very peaceful. VERY weird.

The fruit of His Spirit is peace and joy.

I know people say joy is not a feeling. “Joy is based on reality not on happenings, like happiness.”

But Jesus said I would be happy. That’s what blessed means.

Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of Me. 

Who else got this bizarre painful happiness?

All those prophets that Jesus footnotes.  Isaiah, Hosea, Jonah.

Weren’t they the happy ones.

Then, there’s Mary, who was pregnant and unwed. And Ruth who had to propose to an older guy at night in his barn.  Sounds terrifying, mortifying, “asking for trouble” and so cheery.  They must have had all kinds of false things said about them, and all on account of God and his plans.

Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.
Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great; for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Okay, rewards. Let’s talk about that.
What kind of rewards are you taking about, Jesus?

Kingdom of heaven rewards, stuff that won’t need polishing or get moth holes.

Could you let me peek into the kind of kingdom life Hosea and Amos, Rahab and Mary are enjoying right now. Maybe a dream tonight? Maybe just a hope of what’s to come.

Faith, hope and love.

Splashing about in my suffering I wonder what kind of supernatural God could make me feel compassion for my persecutor. What kind of God could do that. In me.

My compassion child, Anita from Ecuador, draws me pictures in carefully shaded crayons on the backs of her letters. She is now a young teen and realizes I’ve been calling her a princess for the last decade.

She calls me Princess Jonalyn in her replies.

Anita sent me an installment during that time that included an embellished printing of 1 Corinthians 13:13  with pink scrolls at the corners, the verse written in nearly flawless English.

I re-read her crayoned lines.

Now abide. Faith, Hope, Love. But the greatest of these . . .

Love,

Princess Anita

Blessed.

first appeared in Breakfast Reading, where I post monthly with seven writers on what it means to follow Jesus in real life.

New Year’s Resolutions seem like a great way to get egg on your face, because who really keeps them the whole year?

Yet, with typical zeal and determination, I’ve joined the ranks of attempting to make a resolution.  I’m going to try to read about a book a week. “About” because some book are so long that they’ll naturally take more than a week, like the biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer I have on my coffee table.

Still, it’s January 6th and I actually finished my first book.  Okay, to be fair I started it in December, but still it’s worth noting with a mini review.

Ally and me snoeshowing (Finn's on my back) in White Woods - December 2010

Wesley Hill’s book, Washed and Waiting: Reflections on Christian Faithfulness and Homosexuality, came to my desk after Ally, wry and witty friend who is part peace corps worker, part incredible babysitter of Finn recommended. She met Wesley while working in Africa. Thank you, Ally!

The book is small, which makes you feel lithe, but honestly if you read it quickly you’re missing some wonderful thoughts.  Structured around three chapters of his story, Hill breaks between to introduce us to scouts, men of letters who successfully tackled the pain over what it means to be attracted to the same-sex. I was particularly struck by the shame, loneliness and honesty of each of them: Catholic writer, Henri Nouwen and Jesuit poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Prelude: Washed and Waiting

1. A Story-Shaped Life

Interlude: The Beautiful Incision

2. The End of Loneliness

Postlude: “Thou art Lightning and Love”

3. The Divine Accolade

As he put it, Washed and Waiting is about “how, practically, a nonpracticing but still-desiring homosexual Christian can “prove, live out, and celebrate” the grace of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit in homosexual terms” (16).  Will’s unflinching honestly provides an excellent picture of what Christians ask of homosexuals when we instruct them to be celibate.

My favorite parts were how he wrestled with the way our culture defines sex and sexual expression. He aptly describes sexual experience as the number one way people believe they are alive and most human. To deny a person sexual pleasure is tantamount to de-humanizing them.

Or is it?  This is Hill’s challenge as he wrestles to understand his humanity as having more to do with waiting well, with weeping well, with recognizing that all humans have unrequitted desires and the measure of our virtue has more to do with how we face and engage them.  He finds that true humanness is actual wedded to true holiness. He offers a higher example, one that I cannot help but admire.  He knows that humans are made to be the occasion of desire and yet he shows us another way (than sex and marriage) to receive that.  It lifted me beyond where I ended up at the conclusion of Ruby Slippers.

He comes to see his own desires for homo-erotic sex like “the craving for salt of a person dying of thirst” (Frederick Buechner).

I loved what he wrote about God taking sin seriously, respecting us enough to give us the full consequence (be it pain or pleasure) of our choices.  God takes all our desires most seriously.  I see that throughout Scripture, in all good literature. Hill’s use of Jayber Crow’s fidelity to Mattie is a wonderful case in point.

Hill wonders “about what it is to be human and hungry in a fallen world full of wonders” quoting Barbara Brown Taylor’s phrase. I get that wonder and I relate to his hunger from a heterosexual perspective. He learns to approach his homo-erotic desires as a place to be spiritually adventurous, pressing into knowing what the love of God means even as others, sometimes Christians, create feelings of isolation and shame in his life.  In the end Hill learns to wrestle in community. His book is a testimony to the many people who love Jesus and love him well.

By the end of his writing, I found I admired Hill as a man more courageous, more masculine and more godly than most men who call themselves Christians.

Only one critique, I did not care for the replacement theology of his writing. He tends to discount or even dismiss the role of the God of Israel with the Jewish people pre-Jesus. Except for a few examples he moves, as most reformed thinkers, from Creation and Fall to Jesus, skipping the Jewish story and purpose in the Old Testament. I think the waiting of the Jewish people could have been a good model for him.

Overall though, I’d highly recommend to anyone who is curious about what gay Christianity can look like and what loneliness often feels like.  Any single person will love it.  Most married people will relate to his emotions of hunger and longing, too.

Favorite quotes lifted from my facebook status:

Evening reading: “Bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness. They have lived a sheltered life by always giving in.” C.S. Lewis as quoted in Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting.

Evening reading: “All our lives we’re searching for someone to take us seriously. That’s what it means to be human.” Wesley Hil’sl “Washed and WaIting”

Evening quote: “A woman doesn’t learn she is beautiful by looking in a mirror. She learns it so that she actually knows it from men. The way they look at her makes a sort of glimmer she walks in.” Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry

Evening quote: “It’s no use trying to be more spiritual than God.” Washed and Waiting by Wesley Hill

Eve reading: “Thou art lighting and love, I found it, a winter and warm.” Gerald Manley Hopkins

Care to know what I’m reading next? At night I try to post pithy, moving, startling quotes on my facebook status.   We’ll see how many books get read this year!

I just sat down with a toasted everything bagel and raspberry hot tea. It’s my special morning time (happens only a few times a week) to write.

In the last post I promised to write about family and crisis, how the week before Thanksgiving I got a call from Dale that my dad’s ATV had flipped (yes, the 800 pound two-seater) back on top of him,

The two-seater ATV right before it flipped.

cracking his pelvis in five places, setting off an unexpected two week hospital bout including three airlifts (view Angel Flight here), Mom, Finn and Dale and I following in two vehicles both trailering all our ATVs, a very unusual Thanksgiving, a trip to Los Angeles (and Dale’s business trip to South Carolina during our LA stay). Read more about the accident from Dale’s blog -read days following, too.  See my mom’s blog with regular updates.  Read my dad’s perspective on the day of the accident here. Watch my dad try Hell’s Gate to the point of the tipping ATV here.

But I’m not sure I’m able to tackle this topic, yet.   In the aftermath of my dad’s injury, I’m annoyed, I’m tired and I’m snippy.

Overall, I’m annoyed that I’m so behind, not annoyed at my dad, but in true Jonalyn dysfunctionalism annoyed at myself.  It’s hard to leave the non-profit, Soulation, work, knowing that the emails are mounting up, and not feel I’ve dropped the ball.

I’m tired a lot, even during our time at Denver Health Medical Center Finn was a wonderful  napper, but not a great night sleeper.  I’m sure the new homes we slept in, the hospital visitation hours we kept, the multiple errands we ran didn’t help.  There I go again.

I’m not annoyed at Finn, I’m annoyed at myself, sure that I’m doing something wrong.  That a poor night’s rest is actually a low grade on my ingenuity, creativity and mothering skills.

Finn has not passed his sleeping test with flying colors, yet.  And last night was a particularly difficult one, waking every hour or two from 9 pm until 6:38am when I finally gave up and handed him to Dale.  I blame the spicy food last night as he was wailing in pain between exhausted cat naps.

Is it any wonder, then, that I’m snippy? And particularly at Dale.

And I hate being a snippy person. I don’t even like me when I’m like that.

In the aftermath of our family’s medical crisis, Dale and I keep plugging away, missing each other like ships in the night, still trying to get blogs and Soulation seasonal updates written, sacrificing sleep to make love, wishing it was more often, feeling guilty that it’s not. I snap at him for not putting his dirty clothes away or in exasperation shift his stack of bills off the table in hopes that my re-arrangement will push him to be more tidy (and in the process accidentally misplace important ones off the top, which in turn causes him to not notice and, yes you guessed it, incur a late fee).

Feeling overall too tired to connect, but trying to, anyways. Mostly feeling unsucessful, though when I look back realizing I’m doing pretty darn well.

During house church this last Sunday, Andrew asked about what I do when I feel under the weight of a blues week–as last week was–what comforts me?  I told him that I know I’m under Mighty Wings.  I’m covered, I’m protected and if I’m under God’s shadow then he must be near. Even when I don’t see him.

Thousands of years ago a Jewish musical artist and king wrote,

“How precious is your lovingkindness, O God!  And the children of men take refuge in the shadow of your wings” (Ps 36:7). (Thank you to Robin Cox for sharing this meaningful verse with me!)

I’ve meditated on that verse for months and months now. Lynn, a pastor’s wife in town, shared a quote about lovingkindness at Finn’s baby shower months ago.

Giving a child a piece of bread with butter is love; spreading jam on it is lovingkindness.

I saw God’s lovingkindness in small ways the last month.

- in the significant strength Dale had to lift the ATV off my dad and hold it up while Dad dragged his limp legs and body down the hill out of harm’s way.

- in the peaceful clarity of mind I felt as I watched over Finn and my mom as we received the news.  In the waiting, I never grew snippy or annoyed.

- in the willingness I felt to upset the little routines we had for Finn, to walk him to sleep in the baby carrier day after day in the hospital, to let him crawl on the hospital blankets, to let new nurses and doctors touch him (even though afterwards I swabbed him down with antibacterial foam).

Mom's mask to keep her flu contained, the first day we spent with Dad in Denver Hospital

- in the health for the whole Fincher Family for the entire time month.

- in the strong boundaries we held as a family three days before the accident when we canceled two speaking engagements to FULLY recover from a stomach flu, refusing to push it (thank you to our invitee, Melinda, who gave us encouragement in this!) and heal. This prepared us to face the stress of the next few weeks.

- in the nurses who just “happened” to be available to tend to my dad’s pain and needs when his assigned nurse was MIA.

- in the happily clear schedule for two weeks that allowed us to travel and stay in Denver and then Los Angeles to help my dad and mom transition home.

- in the softening of my father who despite drugs and pain said goodbye to me after the first visit and parting, “You’re welcome at my fire anytime.” (a great line from a Taylor family movie classic The Man from Snowy River)

- in the first physical therapist’s small silver cross dangling from her neck as she moved the trapeze (hand held) and asked my dad to begin pulling himself to sit up.

- in the gladness I felt when I spread a hospital sheet across a flat trashcan lid to have our Thanksgiving dinner (thank you, Whole Foods)

- in the remarkable willingness of my husband to be present, helpful, attentive to his father-in-law.

- in longtime girlfriends, like Erin (none other than Robin Cox’s mom!), who let us crash at her place, offered her food and warmth and a child-safe place to be at home while our stay in Denver extended, who also picked us up at Denver airport after the two weeks were complete and we flew home from Los Angeles.

- in the re-connection with my sister and brother in Los Angeles when we drove my dad’s vehicle and trailer/ATV back home.

- in the opportunity for my family to get to know Finn the nine month old.

- in friends like Susan’s emails who tell me to ditch the Christmas card this year in order to have joy and sanity for Christmas time.

Playing in the Sportsmobile - around mile 400

- in prayers for safety that made it possible for Dale to drive 18 hours from Denver to Los Angeles in one go, Finn and I playing in the back.

- in prayers for peace, a tangible serenity that kept me calm even with Dale gone for a business trip overnight to South Carolina (while I was in Los Angeles with Finn).

- in enough sleep, not a lot, but enough

Which brings me back to this coffee shop and my nearly finished tea. I’m tired, yes. But I did get enough sleep. Enough to drive here this morning and write, enough to order, to update Laurie the barrista on my dad’s progress and to pound out this post.

Why?  I believe it has less to do with my stick-to-it-ness and more to do with the wings I’m sheltered below.  Because, darn it all, I am wicked, wicked tired.

Tired Eyes - Driving from Denver to Los Angeles, the day after Thanksgiving

Wings

God’s wings are beautiful, they glimmer to me in ways that others might call serendipities. A friend who lost her daughter on the day she was born has been writing with me back and forth on the ways beauty restores us.  Small things, big things, beautiful things have power. The Medievals called this a trinity of virtues, beauty, truth and goodness, the God-given prophets in the human soul.

Last week the bluest, most downer of a day was made endurable by an email and link from Jeff Lefever. He directed me to this insightful slideshow on men and women. I didn’t have time to reflect on it, but just watching it helped.

Then, another fine artist friend, Adrienne, mailed me a copy of the Woman Painting Woman (view the blog:be sure to scroll down) art show.

Adrienne Stein's Universal Mother of Compassion - notices how she illustrates an alternative to the typical images of Medieval art of

Her work was featured and included on ArtSee’s cover.  Just looking at her work restored me.

Denver Hospital

The Hardest Part Perhaps the hardest thing about the last few weeks was the ugliness, not of my dad, but of his surroundings.  It began in small things, like the faded curtains in my dad’s hospital room, the puce of the walls. I felt the absence of bright, hopeful color, non-incandescent lighting, a hospital gown for him that wasn’t so unbelievably in appropriate (in pattern, in color, in size) , horribly processed stuff that was called food, the annoyance that no one had washed my father’s dirty knees, or shaved his three day scruff.

I know, I know, other needs were more pressing.

But this was the first thing I noticed when I walked into see him, after three days of chasing his airlifts from Moab, Utah, to Grand Junction, to Denver, Colorado.  I walked in and my mom (who was fighting a cold and couldn’t get too near for fear of infection) couldn’t touch him so had to sit down nearby.

I stood, Finn in the Beco carrier, and bent down to take his hand, swollen, terribly pale and just squeezed, holding his hand, noticing the dirt from his ATV adventure still beneath his nails.  He could barely talk, but when he did it was to ask for pain medication, for relief, for anything.

It tore my heart out to see him so unattended to, to hear him so confused.  Moments later he told us he had no idea where he was. We tried to give him a bearing of his location, the direction he faced, the brisk air outside, the time of day, the interesting people we kept passing outside.

His disorientation and pain pushed me to pull out every diplomatic, communication skill I knew. Where the hell were the doctors? Where was his nurse? How soon could we fix this? Would he be having surgery?  In this day in age, why was he still in so much pain? Oh, the glorious mess of health care.

One afternoon I decided to tidy my dad’s bedside tray, feeling self-conscious about my organizing skills and bustling around I sorted, threw away, piled up.  And since, as Dale has aptly noted, organizing is my version of crack, I got more and more into the process, I got carelessly swift in my movement. I tried to move one side of the tray and the other side collapsed at the same time sending my dad’s water jug crashing, shattering on the floor.

Not a beautiful sound or a beautiful mess.  Apologizing, picking it up, looking for a new one, I gave up trying to fix the environment. Forget trying to tidy and pick-up. The room couldn’t bear the extra noise and ugliness.

Glimmers of Loveliness

Dale and I usually made our daily run to a nearby Whole Foods.

Ready for Whole Foods - again

Not only was the food laid out like a decadent food boutique, even the people were beautiful. I would have been happy to park and people watch. The poise, the sheik shoes and efficient movements felt like another world from Denver Health.  It was such a pleasure to transport a tray of hand-crafted petit-fours to my dad’s hospital room, to pull them out like fine, edible jewels. They graced his room and in my mind, shed light and dignity on his suffering.

He couldn’t eat them, he could barely eat anything, but we enjoyed as best we could and described their hints of almond or raspberry to him.  Even my mom tucked in.

I don’t want to be too grim about the hospital because there were beautiful moments, too.

The first whiff of Starbucks - my dad's typical daily habit

Like when Dale brought my dad Starbucks, not to drink, but to smell.

Or the morning when in a moment of insane silliness Dale, Mom and me tried to walk from our car into the hospital without bending our knees. We exhausted ourselves (and warmed up) even more in the attempt, but our efforts blended rather than highlighted us with the unusual people walking around the grounds.

Dad is home now.  He chose to fly home the day after Thanksgiving (through a medical airlift company) and has been recovering locally until this last week.

He spends his convalescence managing pain, tackling his PT exercises, trying to envision anything that sounds good to eat, wheeling around in his wheelchair or hopping in his walker in short stints.  With his cracked tailbone his port-a-potty is a sight to behold. My mom designed him a 5 inch foam cushion to help with the pain.

When I skyped with them a few days ago my dad surprised me the most. He listened in a new way, asked questions and then listened, not for a few moments, but for a long while.  I can’t remember the last time my dad listened for a LONG time to me. I don’t think it was merely because he was tired, at least I hope not.

Thanksgiving Celebration

I’ll be looking back at this Thanksgiving as one of the most beautiful holidays of my life.  Because my parents, the capable, do-it-themselves-ers let Dale and I help them.  In their need, we were accepted as support.  And I got to show my dad, in particular, that he doesn’t have to be useful or strong for me to love him.

The most significant sign that I am covered in the shadow of His wings, the most clear indication that there is a God who  is near the broken, has been my father’s softening. He told me his hands had lost all his callouses, holding them up to the skyping computer camera for me to see. But I don’t mean softer in the doddering, losing his sharpness sense. I mean softer in the spiritual fruit sense; he is becoming more gentle.  And though my father might disagree, I think his gentleness proves his strength. He is flexing, rather than embittering himself under this accident’s tutelage.  It’s the Christian message, the paradox modeled at the death on Golgotha’s hill that when we are weak, then we are strong.*

Saying bye to Dad in Los Angeles hospital - you can see that even though he's the hurt one, he still working to support me as I bent down to capture this photo

And thereby, Dad is becoming more godly.  His relative helplessness compared with his relative needlessness before has made it possible to be closer to him.  Instead of solving my problems, he has problems of his own to share, ones that he shares more vulnerably so I can listen and piggyback with my own problems.

No one is leaping to solve anymore, we’re in the muck and blueness and healing together.  And when it all feels too heavy there are beautiful movies to watch with happy endings, there are bones that slowly re-seal, there is a wheelchair to take him into the sunshine in his green and warm backyard, there are daughters and sons and son-in-laws who love, and when we’re overcome with the burden of this awful, beautiful marbled goodness in all of us we can glance at that cushioned port-a-potty and laugh.

* From Paul’s letter to the Jesus followers in Corinth, “And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”  Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore, I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.” 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

The recent shooting at Fort Hood has left me sober, but also grateful. If you have not heard the story I recommend you read it here:”Hash Browns, Then 4 Minutes of Chaos.” Below is a significant section that I want to highlight this morning:

“Kimberly Munley, a 35-year-old police officer, happened to be nearby, waiting for her squad car to get a tune-up, when she heard the commotion. She raced to the scene . . . As she rounded a corner, she saw Maj. Hasan chasing a wounded soldier through an open courtyard. He looked as though he was trying to “finish off” the wounded soldier, Mr. Medley said.

“He looked extremely focused,” said Francisco De La Serna, a 23-year-old medic who had fled the building and was watching the same scene unfold from a hiding spot across the street.

Ms. Munley’s first shot missed Maj. Hasan. He spun to face her and began charging, Mr. Medley said.

The time was 1:27 p.m., just four minutes after the initial 911 call.

Authorities haven’t said precisely how many shots were fired during the running gun battle between Maj. Hasan and Ms. Munley. But one of her shots hit Mr. Hasan in the torso, knocking him to the ground. With that, officials say, she quite likely prevented more injuries or deaths on the base.

Ms. Munley took two bullets to her legs. Both entered her left thigh, ripped through the flesh and lodged in her right thigh. She also received a minor wound to the right wrist.

Specialist De La Serna, the medic hiding across the street, sprinted to the scene as the shooting stopped and put a tourniquet on Ms. Munley, who was fading in and out of consciousness, he said. Then he moved to Maj. Hasan, who had a gunshot wound through the chest.

Ms. Munley underwent surgery Thursday night to halt bleeding and faces at least two more operations to remove the bullets in her thigh.” quoted from The Wall Street Journal, to read more from this article or from another in the WSJ “Lethal Rampage at Fort Hood.”

In these pictures of Major Hasan and Ms. Munley, both man and woman involved in this gunfight look like kind people. And yet they each took their weapons out to kill one another. This forces me to note an unsettling and significant fact of our fallen world.

When Sergeant Kimberly Munley pulled out her handgun to shoot Maj. Malik Nadal Hasan, a man who had killed 13 and wounded 30, she put herself, a woman, against a man. Without her gun she could not have matched his strength, but with her sidearm she was capable of meeting his aggression.

Ms. Munley makes me think of the unnecessary losses when a man pits his strength against a woman’s vulnerability and dominates. Makes me think of the students at Virginia Tech. What if one female student at Virginia Tech, with the same tenacity to run after the assassin as Munley had been permitted to carry concealed weapons? Makes me think of my neighbor whose close friend was hunted down at her own home by a serial murderer and despite a long, physical struggle against him, eventually decapitated in her own home. What if she had had been carrying a concealed weapon and knew how to use it?

What if women were encouraged to know how to use guns, instead of our society relegating guns to violent, dangerous, testosterone-fueled obsessive types?

Munley laid her own life in harm’s way to protect those who could no longer protect themselves. She was equipped not only with a weapon but with the courage and skills to protect herself and others. She bent stereotypes and for that I am deeply grateful. I feel my heart quake in me when I think of her running toward Maj. Hasan, drawing his fire away from the wounded. I’m sure she knew she might not come through alive. Still, because she was armed, a woman’s strength was on equal ground with a violent man’s. It surprises me that there are not more feminist’s blogs commenting on the need for women to carry a concealed weapon.

Ms. Munley’s heroism and willingness to attack an aggressor, rather than run, speaks to the power a sidearm when held by a capable woman in battle. Because she was trained and armed she was a force powerful enough to stop Maj Hasan.

Upon moving to the woods, a remote region in the Rocky Mountains, Dale and I both filed for concealed carry licenses. We had to take a three hour safety class and then endure fingerprinting and knowing we’re under suspicion (you should hear some of our big-city friends when they find out) for the offense of wanting to exercise our Constitutional right (something I thought only fanatical, kooky people every wanted) of carrying our own guns.

Last month we took a handgun defensive training class, in Eastern Oregon at Thunder Ranch. Their goal, “Our primary concern is that people who come to Thunder Ranch® leave with a peace of mind in their heart and head. We strongly hope that they never have to use any of the skills or things learned here for the defense of themselves or their family, but if they do, we want this knowledge to be used confidently and with great vigor.“

Still, I was, frankly, afraid. I didn’t know my 40 caliber pistol all that well, I was nervous about making a mistake with so much risk at stake and the gun is just LOUD and forceful. Besides, I was 16 weeks pregnant. Was this a wise thing to do? My doctor, surprised at my request, said the baby would be fine and to be careful. If I learned anything at Thunder Ranch it was awe for the power of a gun. We NEVER allowed the gun to point at something we did not want to destroy. I’m more careful now than I was before, but I’m also a heck of a lot more accurate. Dale says he’s glad to have me at his side.

Our instruction, Clint Smith, marine corps veteran and police officer, nationally known for training SWAT teams in urban defense, and his wife and one other assistant, helped me and 11 others learn the importance of steady, careful gun drawing, shooting, re-loading, clearing jams and re-holstering. We fired over 800 rounds in 3 days. And I’ve never met a more conscientious, respectful group of strangers. None of them fit the stereotypes of gun-carrying fanatics. You can, by the way take classes like these all over the nation, but Clint’s record of safety (he’s had NO accidents and 19,000 clients) and professionalism motivated us to make the trip.

The cost of the class was severe, not only in dollars, but also in energy, strain and fatigue. By the end of each day my pregnant belly, around which I could barely squeeze my belt to hold my holster, were aching. While the class included several couples, I was the only pregnant woman. By the second day I had rubbed my fingers raw with clicking the safety on and off of my handgun. It was very cold most the time (watch the video below to see our breath in the air as we practice a leaning drill to know how to be off balance and shoot around corner). We could not wear gloves, so we would know how the gun felt without any protection. I felt every bump and button, I know how to load and ask for “Cover!” while I’m vulnerable. And Dale and I know how to work as a team. The ear protection helped, but the repetition of drawing, firing, belting out verbal commands to “Get Away” or “Stop” combined with the ceaseless vigilance, left me utterly exhausted at the end of each day. Then we had to pick up all our shells, carefully unload, clean our equipment, then finally off to find some dinner.

While men and their guns has grown into a stereotype mixed with red-necks and caricatures of violence, I know many gun-carrying men (many who attended the class at Thunder Ranch) and women who carry their weapons with humility, respect and utmost safety. I would trust them to defend me. I’m grateful for their willingness to carry a dangerous weapon so others might be safe. So as I move on to catch up with the rest of my life, as I read the week 24 update on my pregnancy, as I think of protecting the lives of those nearest to me, I’m grateful to have a husband who wanted to educate me about concealed carry.

And in light of the sobering murders committed at Fort Hood, I want to salute the women across the country today who bare the disapproval, misunderstanding and mockery of carrying a sidearm, not only for their own safety, but for the love of their fellow men and women.

To read more about the Biblical justification for carrying a handgun see this helpful blog: The Cornered Cat

The recent shooting at Fort Hood has left me sober, but also grateful. If you have not heard the story I recommend you read it here:”Hash Browns, Then 4 Minutes of Chaos.” Below is a significant section that I want to highlight this morning:

“Kimberly Munley, a 35-year-old police officer, happened to be nearby, waiting for her squad car to get a tune-up, when she heard the commotion. She raced to the scene . . . As she rounded a corner, she saw Maj. Hasan chasing a wounded soldier through an open courtyard. He looked as though he was trying to “finish off” the wounded soldier, Mr. Medley said.

“He looked extremely focused,” said Francisco De La Serna, a 23-year-old medic who had fled the building and was watching the same scene unfold from a hiding spot across the street.

Ms. Munley’s first shot missed Maj. Hasan. He spun to face her and began charging, Mr. Medley said.

The time was 1:27 p.m., just four minutes after the initial 911 call.

Authorities haven’t said precisely how many shots were fired during the running gun battle between Maj. Hasan and Ms. Munley. But one of her shots hit Mr. Hasan in the torso, knocking him to the ground. With that, officials say, she quite likely prevented more injuries or deaths on the base.

Ms. Munley took two bullets to her legs. Both entered her left thigh, ripped through the flesh and lodged in her right thigh. She also received a minor wound to the right wrist.

Specialist De La Serna, the medic hiding across the street, sprinted to the scene as the shooting stopped and put a tourniquet on Ms. Munley, who was fading in and out of consciousness, he said. Then he moved to Maj. Hasan, who had a gunshot wound through the chest.

Ms. Munley underwent surgery Thursday night to halt bleeding and faces at least two more operations to remove the bullets in her thigh.” quoted from The Wall Street Journal, to read more from this article or from another in the WSJ “Lethal Rampage at Fort Hood.”

In these pictures of Major Hasan and Ms. Munley, both man and woman involved in this gunfight look like kind people. And yet they each took their weapons out to kill one another. This forces me to note an unsettling and significant fact of our fallen world.

When Sergeant Kimberly Munley pulled out her handgun to shoot Maj. Malik Nadal Hasan, a man who had killed 13 and wounded 30, she put herself, a woman, against a man. Without her gun she could not have matched his strength, but with her sidearm she was capable of meeting his aggression.

Ms. Munley makes me think of the unnecessary losses when a man pits his strength against a woman’s vulnerability and dominates. Makes me think of the students at Virginia Tech. What if one female student at Virginia Tech, with the same tenacity to run after the assassin as Munley had been permitted to carry concealed weapons? Makes me think of my neighbor whose close friend was hunted down at her own home by a serial murderer and despite a long, physical struggle against him, eventually decapitated in her own home. What if she had had been carrying a concealed weapon and knew how to use it?

What if women were encouraged to know how to use guns, instead of our society relegating guns to violent, dangerous, testosterone-fueled obsessive types?

Munley laid her own life in harm’s way to protect those who could no longer protect themselves. She was equipped not only with a weapon but with the courage and skills to protect herself and others. She bent stereotypes and for that I am deeply grateful. I feel my heart quake in me when I think of her running toward Maj. Hasan, drawing his fire away from the wounded. I’m sure she knew she might not come through alive. Still, because she was armed, a woman’s strength was on equal ground with a violent man’s. It surprises me that there are not more feminist’s blogs commenting on the need for women to carry a concealed weapon.

Ms. Munley’s heroism and willingness to attack an aggressor, rather than run, speaks to the power a sidearm when held by a capable woman in battle. Because she was trained and armed she was a force powerful enough to stop Maj Hasan.

Upon moving to the woods, a remote region in the Rocky Mountains, Dale and I both filed for concealed carry licenses. We had to take a three hour safety class and then endure fingerprinting and knowing we’re under suspicion (you should hear some of our big-city friends when they find out) for the offense of wanting to exercise our Constitutional right (something I thought only fanatical, kooky people every wanted) of carrying our own guns.

Last month we took a handgun defensive training class, in Eastern Oregon at Thunder Ranch. Their goal, “Our primary concern is that people who come to Thunder Ranch® leave with a peace of mind in their heart and head. We strongly hope that they never have to use any of the skills or things learned here for the defense of themselves or their family, but if they do, we want this knowledge to be used confidently and with great vigor.“

Still, I was, frankly, afraid. I didn’t know my 40 caliber pistol all that well, I was nervous about making a mistake with so much risk at stake and the gun is just LOUD and forceful. Besides, I was 16 weeks pregnant. Was this a wise thing to do? My doctor, surprised at my request, said the baby would be fine and to be careful. If I learned anything at Thunder Ranch it was awe for the power of a gun. We NEVER allowed the gun to point at something we did not want to destroy. I’m more careful now than I was before, but I’m also a heck of a lot more accurate. Dale says he’s glad to have me at his side.

Our instruction, Clint Smith, marine corps veteran and police officer, nationally known for training SWAT teams in urban defense, and his wife and one other assistant, helped me and 11 others learn the importance of steady, careful gun drawing, shooting, re-loading, clearing jams and re-holstering. We fired over 800 rounds in 3 days. And I’ve never met a more conscientious, respectful group of strangers. None of them fit the stereotypes of gun-carrying fanatics. You can, by the way take classes like these all over the nation, but Clint’s record of safety (he’s had NO accidents and 19,000 clients) and professionalism motivated us to make the trip.

The cost of the class was severe, not only in dollars, but also in energy, strain and fatigue. By the end of each day my pregnant belly, around which I could barely squeeze my belt to hold my holster, were aching. While the class included several couples, I was the only pregnant woman. By the second day I had rubbed my fingers raw with clicking the safety on and off of my handgun. It was very cold most the time (watch the video below to see our breath in the air as we practice a leaning drill to know how to be off balance and shoot around corner). We could not wear gloves, so we would know how the gun felt without any protection. I felt every bump and button, I know how to load and ask for “Cover!” while I’m vulnerable. And Dale and I know how to work as a team. The ear protection helped, but the repetition of drawing, firing, belting out verbal commands to “Get Away” or “Stop” combined with the ceaseless vigilance, left me utterly exhausted at the end of each day. Then we had to pick up all our shells, carefully unload, clean our equipment, then finally off to find some dinner.

While men and their guns has grown into a stereotype mixed with red-necks and caricatures of violence, I know many gun-carrying men (many who attended the class at Thunder Ranch) and women who carry their weapons with humility, respect and utmost safety. I would trust them to defend me. I’m grateful for their willingness to carry a dangerous weapon so others might be safe. So as I move on to catch up with the rest of my life, as I read the week 24 update on my pregnancy, as I think of protecting the lives of those nearest to me, I’m grateful to have a husband who wanted to educate me about concealed carry.

And in light of the sobering murders committed at Fort Hood, I want to salute the women across the country today who bare the disapproval, misunderstanding and mockery of carrying a sidearm, not only for their own safety, but for the love of their fellow men and women.

To read more about the Biblical justification for carrying a handgun see this helpful blog: The Cornered Cat

Please be forewarned, this is a heavy one.

Last night I attended a Theater Dance Production where I saw much talent and a lot of skin.

Some dances were sensual, some merely sexual. One in particular stood out to me where a posse of women (teens?) danced around one man to the music of Timbaland and Ludacris. I believe the songs were “Bounce” and “The Potion”. At one part the women enacted a violent sexual act with the music sounding much like a woman gasping for breath as she was being choked again and again and again.

After the number I leaned over to my friend, Emily and told her I had three major issues with the whole thing.

1. Most of the moves were not interesting. I mean if you want to watch women and men bumpin’ and grindin’ just go to any club. The ones I’ve been to in my teen years gave me enough pelvic thrusting to leave me rather bored with the unoriginalness of it all. Isn’t dancing an art? Shouldn’t it be creative beyond club moves?
2. It was sexier than sex, which means it’s not real enough to be rooted in the ways of romance between a real man and woman, which means it’s a farce, a deception, a lie. And I have a problem with anything that smacks of lies because it finds it’s source in the Enemy of our Souls, the Father of all Lies. The reveling in this kind of dance is the kind of thinking that destroys marriages, prevents intimacy, keeps women invulnerable and men silent and stony. There’s no life here.
3. Women were re-enacting abuse with the man on the stage. They were charading being backhanded, sucked dry, flayed, suffocated, slapped and abused. If the dance was meant to show the pain of evil, it might have been redemptive because it accurately portrayed a reality in this world: woman are abused. But there was no mourning going on, more of a promotion of this kind of sexual/violent encounter. It looked almost cool. Every woman or teen in the production was dressed in a gangsta outfit, baggy pants, one leg up to below the knee, plenty of midriff, sidewayz baseball caps, that sneering, I don’t give a @%$*! attitude. They all looked tough, as if they still had control of their body and their heart, even while the guy slapped them around. There was a bit of glory in the manhandling of their bodies, and an attempt to sexify the physical abuse. I cannot enjoy seeing my gender abused and I cannot call that sexy.

So I went home last night rather discouraged that women would want to dance like that.

Today dawned rather solemnly as Dale and I had plans to attend a funeral of a young friend of ours, a twenty year old from our town named Stephen Thomas.

But everyone called him Chongo. Addicted, heartbroken, stony and guarded, Chongo was a guy we ran into regularly around town when we were out past 10 pm. I always felt sort of awkward around him, like he was too cool for me and that whatever I said was not clear enough or interesting enough. I didn’t know how best to love him.

We knew those who were mentoring him. We knew he had recently accepted Jesus. We also knew that sneer that often met us when we said hello. He was downright unkind and rude to Dale several times. And I’m fairly sure the reason he talked with me is because he found me mildly attractive.

Chongo overdosed last Saturday. His life snuffed out. His apprenticeship for electrician work, his recently gained GED, his sense of humor, even his sneer that masked his pain are gone from this earth. His funeral did not comfort me. The evangelistic message fell flat on my ears, except in one point.

Buck Chavarria, a jewel in our town, was one of the mentors in his life. He and his fantastically matter of fact wife, Tara, are good friends of ours. Together they run Christ for Life Sk8 Church, a local ministry that works with the kids most of us have given up on. He and Tara serve the kids on drugs, the high school drop outs, the runaways, the vagabonds, the true ragamuffins of our society. They feed them dinner every week, hang out with them at the skate park and help them know what love looks like.

Buck shared at Chongo’s funeral one line that has stuck with me this evening. Facing a crowd that spilled out into the foyer, Buck, his black hair greased back in his faintly punk/rockabilly style explained the ways things were, “Chongo didn’t know he was loved by you. He had a hard time believing people would love him. I think we all have a hard time believing all the people who love us.”

Those words echoed in my soul as I thought through my day. I had spent the last few hours picking up hot Starbucks coffee, coordinating soda and water bottles and driving them to the reception for after wards. I had lugged crates of coffee up stairs through doors, sweating with the effort. All the while I was thinking, what if I had spent this much effort trying to love Chongo when he was alive?

I know I listened to him and complimented him and tried to draw him out. But he was so closed, in so much deep pain. I remember a time when Dale and I were speaking for Sk8 church when Chongo was asking us questions. He was, for a moment, really relating to what we were saying. He asked us something and we tried to take him a step deeper, but he couldn’t follow us. I was frustrated with how he gave up. I was frustrated that we couldn’t explain the concept of Jesus and his love better. And since that day I would feel a sense of inadequacy around Chongo, hoping I could share anything, even listen, in a way that showed him I cared.

At the church I looked out on the audience of people who all claimed to love Chongo. I mean, that’s why we were here, right? Why didn’t Chongo feel loved? Why did he seek refuge in substances to alter his reality? Why couldn’t he break out of his addictions? Why couldn’t he take our love?

I felt the immense wound of this world so intensely.

If you could have met Chongo, you’d see a lack of willpower, a sense of frivolity and meaninglessness. But this was a mask. Every now and then you’d see the pain in his eyes. On the table at the church were many of Chongo’s childhood pictures. In a picture taken when he couldn’t have been more than 2, I saw something in his eyes. His eyes were dewy, I imagine he had been teary right before being plopped down for the photo shoot. But the expression in those eyes, open, wide open, they radiated such a heart wrenching sensitivity, one that, as I looked at pictures of him growing up, dulled into a sneer, a protective, hardened, even dazed look. The hope and sensitive spirit in him had been dying before he did.

Buck shared about Chongo’s kind side during the service. But it was a side Dale and I rarely got to see. As fellow friends, perhaps some who had hosted the party where Chongo had OD’ed filed out of the sanctuary, I was overwhelmed with their grief and hopelessness.

I came home, put on some soft music, lit as many candles as I could find and grabbed the biography of Rosa Parks I’ve been pouring through. I read two pages before I came upon a horrible lynching story of a young man, Emmett Till, when he was fourteen years old. His body was found in the Tallahachie River, his eye gouged out, his skull crushed, a bullet in his brain and a 75 pound cotton gin barb-wired to his neck. The lynchers were found not guilty.

I put the book down and marched over to my computer and began to write this.

Times have changed since then. In 1954, some white men were the perpetrators against some black men. Today, we don’t have to read about horrendous lynchings, but we are still hateful, cruel to some of the people closest to us. I don’t know the particulars in Chongo’s case, but I have read enough and spent enough time online chatting with teens during Soulation Ask LIVE and after speaking events to know that teens are being destroyed from the inside out. Smoking, using, cutting are only symptoms of their soul’s pain.

Often this is due to parents who will not face the truth, who live as people of the lie, who would rather sweep the painful picture of gouged eyes under the rug. It hurts too much to know what painful things we do to one another–often so unintentionally.

Soul pain is the most insidious method the evil one uses, for we cannot immediately see it, tend it, heal it, unless we study each other’s eyes. And even then, we know how to mask our pain.

Today we hear about young men and women destroying their souls. Their spirits so abused by others (mothers, fathers, siblings, friends, themselves) that they have no will to feel or live or know.

Today, teens are lynching themselves; the signs are rampant. They starve themselves, they cut themselves, they fall into abusive relationships where they have no will to break away, they grow passive in school, their eyes no longer carry any sparkle or sensitivity to give me hope, the women glory in their lithe, supple bodies, magnifying their sexual powers far too soon, captured by their own powers of captivation.

And these children and young adults are the walking dead among us. And they are very, very hard to love. Their lives are snuffed out as they continue, numbly, to exist. Mostly their choices are meaningless and their lives feel controlled by someone else. Most of the teen addicts are living in ways against their will, for their wills have been rendered useless against the power of the evil one. He bends his will to make the image bearers of God grow passive, listless and powerless to find the good stream of living water.

At the moment, I cannot bring myself to think of solutions, I can only meditate on Buck’s words that we are loved. We are loved, though few of us know it.