The subdued lighting in the quiet room belied the explosions of joy and rush of wind going on behind his calm eyes. He had to stay calm. And soothing. But here was this life. Loud and wet and new. In every way nothing like what he expected. “This is not like the movies,” repeated itself on the ticker of his racing mind. None of the mess mattered; it was all beauty. Immortality showed its head, and seemed somehow to know him, to recognize his eyes. Who are these people for whom this is another day at the office? Do they know what just took place? He kissed her tenderly who bore the life, and loved as he had never thought possible. With that he welcomed his eighth child into his rough arms like a stunned man, begging God to help him know the way.
It’s My Vote
This poem is by a friend of mine, Brian Fraser. He is a friend of mine from law school, and now he’s on the road to the big time. I enjoyed this tremendously for all it captures, and I hope you do, too. Thanks, Brian, for giving voice to a sentiment many of us share.
It’s mine, and yet you presume it,
But your shallow convictions will not do….
I, who despise the Other choice.
But maybe I despise something more -
Your frolicking whims, your wavering voice.
But why exchange illusions, even if I could,
Why should I elevate you undeservingly?
The standard is not set by you and your peers.
I want you to be honorable, serve
The law, and protects us, not your career.
But perhaps we have all that we deserve.
Perhaps compromise and complicity
Isn’t something you yearned to achieve.
Maybe you think it will lead you to win.
Maybe that’s something you learned from me.
But not this time. It’s MY vote.
And I will not suffer another boor.
So if you care, which you probably don’t,
Take note: For my vote, you need to be something more.
Romney, Rosen and Badinter: The Mommy Wars
Some mean Democrat woman insulted Ann Romney last week by saying she (Mrs. Romney) had never worked a day in her life. The barb was intended to rain down contempt upon the policies of Mitt Romney. The sinning Romney had earlier said that he consulted his beloved on issues of importance to women, and gained insight for his policy positions from her counsel. You see, Mrs. Romney has not attained the required pedigree for appeasing the feminist elite, and so her counsel is, to them, not really representative of a real woman.
As Larry Munson would say, “Get the picture”: A feminist is criticizing a prominent politician because he listened to his wife’s counsel. Sip and ponder.
This is one more rumble along one of the deeper cultural fault lines. Gender role issues are not the exclusive province of the political right or left, because almost all segments of our society have adopted the feminist proposition as true, to varying degrees. As with so many other cultural issues, those who identify themselves as “conservative” are really just slower in their adoption of the left’s positions.
The nineteenth century Southern Presbyterian theologian, Robert Lewis Dabney, prophetically wrote:
It may be inferred again that the present movement for women’s rights will certainly prevail from the history of its only opponent: Northern conservatism. This is a party which never conserves anything. Its history has been that it demurs to each aggression of the progressive party, and aims to save its credit by a respectable amount of growling, but always acquiesces at last in the innovation. What was the resisted novelty of yesterday is today one of the accepted principles of conservatism; it is now conservative only in affecting to resist the next innovation, which will tomorrow be forced upon its timidity and will be succeeded by some third revolution; to be denounced and then adopted in its turn. American conservatism is merely the shadow that follows Radicalism as it moves forward towards perdition. It remains behind it, but never retards it, and always advances near its leader. This pretended salt bath utterly lost its savor: wherewith shall it be salted? Its impotency is not hard, indeed, to explain. It is worthless because it is the conservatism of expediency only, and not of sturdy principle. It intends to risk nothing serious for the sake of the truth, and has no idea of being guilty of the folly of martyrdom. It always, when about to enter a protest, very blandly informs the wild beast whose path it essays to stop, that its “bark is worse than its bite,” and that it only means to save its manners by enacting its decent role of resistance: The only practical purpose which it now serves in American politics is to give enough exercise to Radicalism to keep it “in wind,” and to prevent its becoming pursy and lazy, from having nothing to whip. No doubt, after a few years, when women’s suffrage shall have become an accomplished fact, conservatism will tacitly admit it into its creed, and thenceforward plume itself upon its wise firmness in opposing with similar weapons the extreme of baby suffrage; and when that, too, shall have been won, it will be heard declaring that the integrity of the American Constitution requires at least the refusal of suffrage to asses. There it will assume, with great dignity, its final position.
from “Women’s Rights” Discussions, vol. 4. My emphases.
(Where have all the good theologians gone?)
Witness: the candidacy of Mitt Romney. That’s another story.
A recent New York Times blog post about motherhood took up this issue when the blog author, KJ Dell’Antonia, reviewed the book, The Conflict, by Elizabeth Badinter. Dell’Antonia wrote in the context of the insult to Mrs. Romney. The subtitle to the book is, “How Modern Motherhood Undermines the Status of Women.” I have not read the book, so my information depends on Dell’Antonia’s account of it.
Dell’Antonia herself does not seem sold on the book’s main points, and even questions whether Badinter is not belittling the women for whose liberation she allegedly labors. She does, however, think that the book is worthwhile enough to discuss whether mothers should do something to counteract the awful influence that being a mother might have on our daughters. It might make them want to do things like…be mothers. And (aaaagh! NO!) wives! In fairness, her blog does treat the book even-handedly to an extent, though without questioning the basic feminist presuppositions.
In the book itself, Badinter argues that mothers who stay at home have been deceived by the “natural parenting movement” to live up to its ideal for motherhood. The result of this deception is that women are eschewing their place of power in the workforce and returning to the dismal shackles of family and home. They think they are making their own choice, but really infants and men are forcing them into submission all over again.
This is particularly disheartening to Badinter, because Western women were just on the verge of throwing off their Masters (husbands and fathers), and finally gaining in the public sphere their rightful place. But now their own children are dragging them back to the dreaded yoke of home and family.
The “natural parenting movement” is a reaction against the harsh industrialized, assembly-line model of child-rearing which told mothers that formula in a bottle was better than the God-given product of their own bodies, and various other nonsense. The movement, in my opinion, tends to the extreme in its sort of “do whatever baby wants” vibe. Overall, however, the move to a more natural (as determined by readily observable behavior patterns and biological design) is, I think, a positive thing.
Of course, the industrialized, assembly-line model is a very male-dominated approach to mothering, based ostensibly on “Science.” Mmmmm. Taste the irony? Badinter prefers that boneheaded male notion to what all mothers know is really best for their children. I am sure that Ms. Badinter did not slam natural parenting because of the sizable portion of her fortune closely tied to Nestle, the world’s largest formula producer. It is pure disinterested principle, I am sure.
For Badinter, “best for their children” implies voluntary servitude, and that is a bad thing. Badinter’s highest ideal is for Mama to think about Mama first and foremost, to the detriment of, yes, her own children. She wants to influence (I would say “deceive”) women to think that it is their highest ideal, too. But, she doesn’t want women to be influenced by foolish movements, like ones that tell them to act like loving mothers and enjoy doing it.
That cooing baby doesn’t yet realize that it is merely one more means to Mama’s happiness, and that it must balance its needs with Mama’s desire for satisfaction in a career. Mama likes the way it feels to be able to slap backs with the big boys, and have important letters behind her name. Baby must be taught that Mama has a committee meeting to get to and an election campaign to run, and adjust its expectations accordingly. The political left and right are not too different in this belief.
The baby must balance its needs with Mama’s needs, because we all now live in the United World of Egalitaria, where we are all the same, but for the unfortunate circumstance of genitalia, which can also be changed if whim so dictates.
In the U.W.E., newborn babes are tyrants to be resisted much as the bloodthirsty kings (and queens) of yore once were. Now, we house the old kind of tyrant in a white palace in New York City and give them armies of baby blue helmets. But, I digress. “Children = Chains” might be a political slogan in the U.W.E., because children are, as we know, selfish, meaning they have an irritating tendency to need things they can’t get on their own, and tyrannically expect their mothers to provide.
Mothering a child, as all mothers know the child needs to be mothered, amounts to oppression of Mama in Badinter’s universe, and accordingly must be resisted. Never mind that Mama had more to do with the existence of child than child did…
Mama must be in the workplace or “public arena” or else risk relegation to the dungeon of hearth and home, forever relinquishing the “power” she craves. Such is the force of argument propounded in The Conflict.
The problem is that Mama isn’t what Billionaire Badinter thinks she is. Of the many frauds perpetrated on human society by the patently wicked, the feminist lie is one of the most destructive of women. We were all made to serve our fellow human beings. Voluntary servitude is a path to happiness for us all, men and women. Why? Because for that we were made. All of us. Roles differ, but service to one another, particularly when done with the knowledge that the subjects of our service are image-bearers of our Creator and Savior rather than accidental grandchildren of the baboon, is what satisfies our souls’ deepest longings, next to relationship with the Creator Himself.
The feminist has a hard time fighting against design, and convincing the water to burn like fire instead of quenching and cleansing. Incidentally, this is one of my main problems with objectivist/libertarian thought, aside from its atheistic tendencies. I watched “Atlas Shrugged” last night with my wife. But, that’s another story, too.
Granted, there is no human institution or relationship beyond the reach of human sin. Civil government, church, family, workplace, friendships, marriages; they are all tainted, and they are all subject to the abuse and perversion of sinful human hearts. But the problem is sin, not the existence of those various institutions.
That feminism has gained ascendancy is proof that men have sinfully failed in their duties towards the women and children in their lives. We have allowed the serpent to deceive, rather than whacking its bloody head off, like we should have. We men have had that problem for a while, now.
The fact that men sin in their God-given role as the heads of their homes does not mean that the family institution should be eliminated, or turned upside down, as is the unequivocal feminist goal. Rather, continued reformation is the right response.
Abuses of relationships, and abuses of authority, in particularly, are especially heinous. But the culprit is not the existence of authority itself. Authority and submission exist even within the Trinity, where each person is absolutely co-equal in power, substance and glory with the others.
I pray that someday I can be half the husband to my wife that she deserves. She is my hero for a catalog of reasons. None have to do with career–and she has talent and smarts enough to write her ticket anywhere she chooses in the “workforce.” Her chosen field, thank God, is our family and home, where the real, lasting power she wields in the lives of 5 other souls will never be matched by anything any woman does in the “workforce” or public arena.
That she does so in the face of widespread cultural contempt and pathetic insults from weak and insecure women like Rosen and Badinter only elevates her status. To suggest that her service has no significant effect on the outcome of world history is pure blindness.
She laughs at the puerile playground taunts of deluded women like Rosen and Badinter, and feels bad for the empty lives they must lead.
Then she gets back to work rocking cradles and ruling a world gone mad.
For my part, I dream of a world filled with homes lovingly tended to by the wisdom and skill that can only come from such powerful women.
I Think (I Think)
Blue-orange glow below my lip,
Smoking breath gives thoughts the slip
Mangled musings I know I think
Yet more grow bright then vanish dim
Racing in slow motion to the outer rim
Ideas blink and stink, but I need a drink,
I think.
Black Bubbles
Blood Bath
Blood in the bath water yawned and stretched in probing eddies around his fat body. He stared in confusion until the swirl sucked the fear from deep within his soul. He hadn’t felt a thing. The intense red rapidly pinkified with dilution. Life wept steadily from his unseen wound. His children’s faces rapidly flashed in repeating sequence as his mind raced to identify an enemy. Had he dozed? No sound. No struggle. No pain. Just the monstrous sight of a stained swirl of soap and claret. The vital mixture overwhelmed him as he succumbed, catching a glimpse of his razor on the edge of the tub. Was the fatal offense his own? His memory fled in the horror. No sound. No more visions of anything but a carmine blackness. The end was not supposed to be like this. Nor the beginning, for that matter. No time to repent. Still the faucet flowed.
Laughing at the Future
“She is clothed with strength and dignitiy; she can laugh at the days to come.” Proverbs 31:25
Heaven blessed the wearied head
Who from that source instead
Earned nothing like the light and life
That showered sweet with such a wife!
Sea of Sumac
Freedoms: God Gives Them; Guns (and other things) Protect Them
In our perpetual struggle against the slavery of sin, our own and that imposed by others, a tinny din of what passes for patriotism threatens to sink our nation further into servitude as a necessary condition for enjoying a shrinking ration of “freedoms.” Considering only freedoms of a political or legal nature for now, these good intentions are slicker’n snot, as they say. They also say something about perdition’s path and the means of its pavement.
A good friend recently forwarded me an email rightly honoring the sacrifice and bravery of members of the armed forces. Contained within the email was the following poem:
It’s the Soldier, not the reporter
who has given us the freedom of the press.
It’s the Soldier, not the poet,
who has given us the freedom of speech.
It’s the Soldier, not the politicians
that ensures our right to Life,Libertyand the Pursuit of Happiness.
It’s the Soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves beneath the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag.
I’m sure you’ve heard this, too. Probably cut and pasted onto your Facebook status once or twice. I thank God for brave and skilled soldiers fighting to protect our freedoms, sometimes to the death. But they didn’t give it to us, and good intentions notwithstanding, it is a dangerous mistake to make. Soldiers protect freedoms; they don’t give them.
The error may be subtle, but to quote the great Richard Weaver, “Ideas Have Consequences.” If the benevolence of the soldier is the source of the rights, he may withhold them without fault. To him we owe allegiance. If the soldier gives the rights, then man (particularly Military Man) decides what is right and wrong, and therefore military success is the measure of morality.
If, however, the soldier is viewed as one among many means given by God to ensure that men exercise their God-given freedoms responsibly without unlawful infringement, then I believe the truer perspective is maintained. If you think about it, the press, the poet, and the statesman really have contributed a lot to the preservation of these freedoms (or rights), and when they do so, they ought to receive accolades alongside the soldier who does so.
But (and that’s a big “but”), just as the press, poet, and politician can serve to abuse or diminish those freedoms, so can the soldier; and when they do, they ought to be deplored. In other words, I think the subtle message is “Don’t question what the soldier does, because if it weren’t for him you wouldn’t have the right to do anything but cower before his gun.” I can’t bring myself to agree with this line of thinking.
Even if his gun is at my temple, and he says “Don’t talk,” I still have a right of free speech, but he has now become an abuser or usurper of that right. But God has still given it to me, not him, and it is not his to take away, either.
There are several implications, but one important one is that if we all have the right or freedom directly from God, then we also all have the responsibility directly, under God, to exercise it appropriately, and to protect the rights and freedoms of others to whom God has given it, even those who may be otherwise our enemies.
Soldier on, freedom-lovers!
The Gulf of St. Joseph County
Drifting strands of gold rebelled against the bonnet’s restraint, shielding her eyes from view. The moisture in my own eyes clouded my vision, too. Gusting wind through the window punished my gaze. Nature seemed at war with my official visit to this quiet farmhouse. I should have taken an antihistamine. I have allergies.
The imprimatur of the State of Indiana rested on me like a mantle, yet I felt insignificant in the room with that simple waif. Somehow the safety of my pinstripe pantsuit couldn’t prevent me from feeling exposed. It usually made me feel important, but here I was at least as awkward as the eleven year old girl I was supposed to be saving. Saving. That’s what I do. I save children. Rebekkah Beachey needed me that day, whether she looked like it or not.
My office is just two counties to the west, in La Port County, but in her repressive world, I was a distant stranger. Despite nature’s best efforts to veil those soul’s windows of her’s, I knew she had green eyes from the description on the case form. As I think back now, though, she may as well be one of those faceless dolls interrogating me from the corners where they had been left by their owner’s to later enjoy the delight of rediscovery. Obviously frightened of retribution by an abusive parent, she lied in response to my probing questions about her home life. “Uncomfortable around other adults” I scribbled in my notes. I knew the facts. I’d seen this a thousand times. I don’t even know why they make us ask questions anymore.
The only wrinkle in the smock covering her gray dress came when Rebekkah recoiled as I pulled out my Blackberry and laid it on the plank table. The plastic and the cartoonish icons clashed with the ubiquitous oak of the room. Like so much flotsam on a sea of tranquility that intruder bobbed unnaturally in the sunlight streaming in along with the wind. Progress abandoned its efforts here long ago.
I wondered at the deceptively calming cuts and colors of her attire and almost admired them. “Weird,” I thought, reminding myself of the world cloaked by her simple clothes. The evidence was convincing, so I marched on with my questions. Her evasions solidified my conclusions, compelling me to pursue this benighted girl’s rescue from her bird-cage world.
Rebekkah pressed on with her never-ending ironing of the family’s laundry while I pressed her for the truth I already knew. The heat in the kitchen from the iron and the fireplace stifled me, as I grew impatient with her defense of her oppressors. Her denials of my probes were textbook. The wind that filled her with innocent beauty irritated the crap out of my eyes, and the nearby blaze struck its own blow.
She had been savagely beaten by her father for drinking a pop given to her by a strange boy on a trip into Goshen with her family. Ms. Cathy Stownum-Hall, a local school administrator well-acquainted with abusive parents, witnessed the incident while sitting in her car at a stoplight. She didn’t actually see it all, but she heard well enough and saw her father hastily pull her away from the boy. The thumping sounds and crying she heard coming from the direction of the family wagon could only mean one thing. My visit here was practically unnecessary.
I remember the waves as I led her out of danger. The tearful waves of her parents and siblings, pretending to care. The good-bye waves of the whole community as I put her in the deputy’s car. Her pitiful waves to the sad life from which I was saving her. The waves of miles and miles of corn between there and reality–the world I live in. They all looked at me like I was making her walk the plank or something, instead of rescuing her. We got in and the car steered west towards St. Joseph County, away from that God-forsaken place.
I placed little Rebekkah in one of my area’s best foster families. Ben and Wanda Hoemaker have taken in so many abused girls between the ages of 10 and 17 they deserve a reward for the service they have rendered to our state. Looking back, I am proud of another successful rescue of an endangered child. It was hard, but in her best interest. Of that, I am certain.
Anyway, I can’t believe it’s been five years since I’ve worn this pantsuit. It used to be one of my favorites. I love these pinstripes. I don’t recall ever seeing Rebekkah’s eyes the last time I wore it, hidden as they were by those blazing strands of gold blowing in the autumn wind, her head bent towards her ironing. But when my own iron ran over the wad of paper in the pocket just now, my thoughts drifted back across those forgotten waves of grain outside the Beachey’s farm house.
I recall snatching the note out of her father’s hand as he tried to sneak it to Rebekkah before she got in the car. In the heat of the moment, I forgot to read it. I indignantly crumpled his last attempt at coercion, and drowned its twisted sentiments into the oblivion of my pants pocket.
“Dearest Becky,” the scrawl begins, “You are the light of my life and I thank God for you. I have done my utmost to love and protect you and your mother and brothers and sisters. Wherever this good lady takes you, don’t be afraid. I will be praying for God’s protection and safe return home. Your Ever Loving, Father.”
Rebekkah must be so thankful I saved her from that master manipulator. If it weren’t for me, she probably would have run away and ended up like that tramp I saw cowering on the street last week in the bad part of Chicago–with a black eye and a pimp for a “father.” She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
She pierced me with the most haunting green eyes I’ve ever seen.


