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The Little Woman

FullSizeRender-1This is soup. My awesome wife Dawn made some for supper tonight.

Author’s note: I did not force her to cook this meal in any patrician/male-dominating sort of way. I’m pretty sure she did not feel coerced to do it and it did not betray her femininity to take on such a traditional conservative role for women.

I also did not “man-splain” to her how it should be done. You see, she likes to cook. She also likes to be a mom and work at home. 

Additionally, I did not forbid her to attend the Women’s March on the Saturday after Trump’s inauguration. Funny thing about Dawn, she’s not that much into shouting, protesting or other “symbolic gestures”. She’s strangely focused on actually “doing things that help people”, like taking food to a sick friend or keeping someone’s kids in a pinch, even though she has 5 of her own.

Also, she heard that the Women’s March didn’t allow Pro-Life groups to march with them. Seems they only wanted one kind of women to attend, and my lovely wife didn’t quite fit their narrative. So instead, we all did something together that day as a family.

My wife is what some of you might refer to as a “Stepford Wife”. The Stepford Wives was a horror movie about men who had their wives replaced with subservient robots. These new wives looked just like the old ones, but never aged and never said no. The movie was a feminist shot against traditional views of marriage and family.  The idea was women were being forced against their wills into lives they didn’t want by men who wanted slaves more than wives.

Interestingly, I’m pretty sure my wife doesn’t feel boxed in by motherhood and domestic life. She’s taken outside jobs when she chose to. And she herself chose to focus on being a wife and mom, and thrives in it.  And I am incredibly blessed because of that.

You see, we have something called “a real life”. We don’t live for the latest protest, the trendiest self-righteous stand, or for what people think of us on Facebook. We take a stand where it matters: in our family and lives, and occasionally the voting booth. Beyond that, we find practical ways to change the world, one life at a time.

I know this sounds crazy but instead of just talking about what’s wrong, we actually try to do things that make the world better. We volunteer, we foster other people’s children, we adopt. That’s quite a contrast to people today who just speak loudly then do absolutely nothing that actually benefits others.

Sorry if that sounded self-righteous, but it’s just the truth.

Author’s next note: I did not demand that Dawn be a stay-at-home mom. She’s had a few jobs in the past, but always felt they kept her from her true calling: being a wife and mom.

And in case you didn’t know, that choice is a real sacrifice. I do not make much money as a pastor (at all), so her staying home means we don’t have the spare cash you probably do. We haven’t taken a real vacation in…oh…over 10 years. We go to see our relatives every few months and stay with them. That’s because we love them, but also because that’s all we can afford.

We’ve also made the sacrifice over the years to homeschool our kids at times. This wasn’t so we could brainwash them with some cultic philosophy, unless you call basic classical Christianity a cult. We didn’t keep them quarantined from all popular culture or make them wear clothes from Little House on the Prairie while taking classes in butter churning. We just wanted to protect them from some things the rest of the world allows in public school that we didn’t think were age-appropriate.

So back to this evening’s repast. It’s potato soup, with some bacon and parsley mixed. You may be wondering “What is the strategy behind her, a head-strong and fierce contemporary female, choosing to make soup tonight?”

Well, it’s a bit cold outside. So we’re gonna eat soup, and feel all warm inside. Brilliant.

In the process, we’ll laugh and smiled at each other across the table. I’ll probably thank her in front of the kids for taking the time to do it. Because, again, I don’t take it for granted and no one forces her.

You see, this is called being a traditional Christian family. No one’s being forced into any gender-specific something-or-other. No one’s personality is being squelched, or rights being infringed upon. We just think it’s the best way to be, and it has brought us incredible joy throughout the years. 

Author’s last note: ours is the life some of you make fun of as “backward” and unenlightened .  You might be surprised that we’re not stupid or sexually repressed, as some have implied in their protests and endless Facebook posts. We’re not hate-filled, nor fear-mongering. We don’t look down on others who do not share our values, though we do feel like they are missing out.

Perhaps the main difference between our family and yours is that we see simpler, more traditional things in life as being more valuable than you do. We want to hold onto those things, cherish them, and preserve them in the midst of a world bent on ridiculing and destroying everything pure and innocent.

Our lives are not that radical, when you think of it. We actually treasure some of the same basics – family, children, home, faith – that have been valued for thousands of years, regardless of culture or background.

I know, you’re too smart to hold onto those old, stale out-dated traditions. Surely, no (big word alert) sentient, educated person would want to hold onto the past with its rules and boundaries hindering society’s unbridled freedoms and sexual revolution?

Yet amazingly, backward yokels like my wife and I often have very informed opinions on issues. That is, if you bother to listen to us and stop arrogantly accusing us of prejudices and biases we do not possess. It may be surprising, but someone other than you, with a good heart and a sharp mind, actually sees a different solution to the same problems you see.

Honestly, I can even admit where some people’s love of traditional values has caused them not to embrace change in society as quickly as needed, especially when others were in need.

Can you do that? Can you admit where “your side” goes off the rails at times? Or will you arrogantly continue to condescend toward these others, and miss the joy of their company? 

Tell me, are you mature enough to be friends with people like us who disagree with your solutions, but still want to help?

Are you humble like Jesus, or arrogant like Judas?

Take a moment and answer that for yourself. Think about it, and I’ll eat another spoonful of soup.

If your answer is to stop the division and try to reach out instead of accusing each other, maybe then we can move forward. And in the meantime, maybe you can get a real life and stop wasting yours posting angry things on your Facebook and Twitter accounts, while you shout down people like us and deny us free speech.

Got all that? Good.

So where to start in bridging the gaps between us? 

Start with soup. Because regardless of people’s politics or religion, seriously, who doesn’t like soup? ;0)

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Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.

Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.