legalistic Panem

About two months ago I finished The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins, and it was such an interesting premise for a series, I continued to think about the characters and themes well after I returned the books to a friend.  ***spoiler alert***

One of Katniss Everdeen's most prominent inner struggles is her fear of indebtedness to others--Peeta for the bread which saved her and her family, Thresh for saving her life in the arena, Gale for providing in her absence, Peeta for loving her. Living under the authority of Panem and in the wake of her father's death (who died at the hand of Panem's poor working conditions), Katniss prizes self sufficiency and feels guilty when anyone shows her a measure of kindness she cannot repay. 

Katniss has a classic case of debtor's ethic, conditioned by the legalism Panem promotes by constantly reminding its citizens that they offended the law and must pay via sacrificing their children, their resources, and their happiness. It is a legalism Katniss cannot shake...until she experiences a faithful love.

Enter Peeta. He provides an enduring love for Katniss when she fakes her love for him, uses him for personal gain, and rejects him over and over. Though his character is obviously flawed (and he experiences turbid times under The Capitol's control), he grows into a Christ-like figure in the series as he sacrifices himself for his bride and loves her more than she deserves. 

Panem's legalism reflects the same lie Satan tells us: Christ's sacrifice is not enough. We need to do a little extra to help God along or put ourselves in his good favor; and since we can never repay him, Satan holds us hostage with our guilt and sense of indebtedness. 

It is no surprise Katniss grows to love Peeta again by the end of the third book because he never stops quietly caring for her. She experiences the promise of hope through his steadfast love--a hope legalism can never extend.

"and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."  -Romans 5:5 (ESV)

summer reflection

I fell off my writing routine this summer, desiccated and shriveled by the heat, my responsibilities, and another little one making his/her presence known a la nausea, exhaustion, etc. Now I'm back, and autumn's colors are a few short weeks from brown drab. Reflecting on summer is a reminder of the blessing of God's good gifts.

Here are a few summer highlights for your viewing:

We picked strawberries when we visited family this summer, lovely juicy strawberries. Large bags of them still greet me when I open the basement chest freezer to remind me the temperatures have probably cooled down enough to make that batch of strawberry jam. Smaller bags will enjoy a much less time-consuming end with pancakes, in smoothies, on ice cream.

 No summer is complete without a batch of pesto...or in my case, a few double batches. We ate some fresh with homemade bread, on sandwiches, with pasta, on grilled pizza, and plain by the spoonful. The other containers are ushered to the freezer to use later for any of the above purposes, or one of our favorites: pesto chicken pizza. A warm reminder in the colder months gardening season will return soon.

A friend gave me the idea for jalapeno poppers this spring, and we grew a jalapeno and an Anaheim pepper plant in our garden this summer. Both peppers were abundant, so we grilled a fair share of jalapeno and Anaheim poppers. Directions: cut pepper in half the long way and remove (or don't remove) seeds depending on your heat preference, fill the cavity with cream cheese, wrap with bacon and grill until done.

These little men keep growing. Per the picture, the older is a serious young man, 3 going on 33. Just this morning he packed a "lunch" (wooden pizza--yum!), put his shoes on and asked for the keys and money to drive to work. To his credit the money was change for washing the car. The younger is playful and independent, our silent little wanderer who still enjoys cuddle time, lots of hugs, and his thumb. (JN - 2, CA - 1)


The Accountant and I enjoyed date nights at home in the summer: put the boys to bed early, grill something delicious (steak is a usual suspect), prepare some greens from our garden, and sit on the deck watching the sunset. It's glorious, and if we ever move, I might stipulate we have a deck with a sunset view. On this particular occasion, we also dined on homemade French bread with a garlic and cracked pepper olive oil for dipping. And a glass of wine.

outsider art

Yesterday evening I enjoyed a conversation with my beloved which piqued some reflection about my identity. I've often considered myself a "jack of all trades but a master of none"; in essence, no one really knew what to do with me: the jocks received me as a left-side hitter and forward only, the intellectuals were suspicious of me until I sat next to them in literature and philosophy classes, and the artists tolerated my non-vibrato alto and amateur photography skills.

Even though I was welcomed into various circles, I quickly got the sense I didn't belong--and often not on account of its members. Belonging to a group often required an emphasis on certain characteristics and a subsequent reduction of others. At the door of acceptance, I flashed my credentials and with a nod was asked to abandon the undesirables to enter.

I've been contemplating the Creator-creation relationship in conjunction with my outsider status, and I realize that every group or human relationship I entrust my identity to will leave me marred because the holders don't truly know or love me in the way my Maker does. There is a special relationship between an artist and his work that cannot be replicated in even a marriage or close familial bond.

The Artist knows every detail, imperfection, and strength of his work, and the art he makes does not reflect its own glory or take pride in the reviews of critics. The art reflects the creativity, purpose, and love of its Creator; I take comfort in knowing I will never understand the mysteries of others, nor will they ever fully understand mine. They are reserved for the Artist.

"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well."

-Psalm 139: 13-14 (ESV)

social media alert

I must confess I don't often like how I feel after checking facebook, pinterest, or other social media; it's like awkward junior high, minus the raging hormones.

Right now I am going through Tim Keller's "Fruit of the Spirit" Bible study with several women; last week's lesson focused on walking by the spirit, looking at the following passage:

"If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another" (Galatians 5: 25-26).

As we were discussing, it occurred to me that much of social media plays on these two forms of conceit: provoking and envying.

Provoking scenario: I enjoy a good life with many blessings from the Lord, so I post about it to boost my pride (because clearly I helped God in providing them), show off my beautiful, happy-without-problems family, and often provoke others in the process.  I am amazing, mind you.

Envying scenario: I feel dissatisfied with my life and struggle with discontentment, so I read about the lives of others to escape and feel like mine isn't quite up to snuff; the posts (or pictures) feed my bitterness and sense of injustice that the Lord gave me a "bad lot in life." I am a victim.

I'm guilty as charged, multiple counts of both forms.

It's easier to associate conceit with provocation; the connection is much more blatant, and the offenders are easily identifiable; however, envy is a silent conceited killer. It lurks deep in the heart, cloaks itself as Humility, and leads to feeling beaten down, not good enough: Satan has his foothold.

Keeping in step with the Spirit should serve as a "heart check" button for Christians using social media. Christ's sacrifice humbles us to recognize our need and secures us in fulfilling our every need. Yeah, we have an app for that: the gospel.

garden ready

An early spring is a welcome blessing in my household. After months of noses pressed to glass panes, brown morphs to green. My soul lifts from winter's dank underbrush as I scoop and spread compost on the garden plot. I move with purpose when the earth warms, and I wonder how I frivolously spent winter hibernating.

It has been one of the warmest springs on record, the earliest I recall of my Midwest decades. Thanks to helping family hands, a third of the garden is planted, all seeds having sprung: peas, carrots, radishes, lettuces, spinach, broccoli. More seeds wait patiently on a shelf in the garage for their turn to be buried in the garden, once April is filed away. Still more seeds lie damp in egg carton bottoms next to a bedroom window, and I water and watch the dormant seeds daily, hoping for a fruitful experiment.

Easter Sunday would be an appropriate sighting of a first green shoot.

 Egg carton bottoms with four kinds of tomatoes, two types of peppers, rosemary, and basil.

A picture of the radishes from March 23; they were the first plants to greet us from our vegetable garden. Now they are three times as big and in desperate need of thinning.

ordinary day

As I age, birthdays are increasingly less glamorous. The days of popping a balloon with a pin taped to a pencil, landing the coveted first spot in the lunch line, and enjoying birthday wishes and treats all day are over.

Those were the good ol' days. Ah, birthday bliss.

These days I wake up forgetting it's a special day until the Accountant leans over my shoulder in bed, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, "Happy birthday." And just in case my memory lapses again, buried in my mothering duties and household tasks, I can count on a mid-morning reminder from my nieces and nephew, belting out their high-pitched "Happ-y birth-day, Tan-te Or-pah...." Or I click on an e-mail sipping my coffee, enjoy a phone call or maybe a card in the mail if the sender timed it right.

But generally speaking, my birthdays are pretty ordinary: normal routines, everyday responsibilities. Maybe it's a sign of aging, but I'm beginning to appreciate the ordinary. I'll take the mundane laundry, dirty diapers, and soapy hands plunged deep in the sink. There's something comforting about the ordinary.

stretch marks

This morning I baked a batch of wheat bread--nothing special, just the usual household restocking. When I glanced at the loaves before sliding them in freezer bags for the coming week, I noticed something on their surface I hadn't paid much attention to before: stretch marks.

The bread's scarring matches the way I've been feeling lately: stretched thin. Taken by the arm of a two-and-a-half-year-old, pulled by the leg of an army-crawling eight-month-old, and tugged on the heart by a servant-husband. The everyday pulls.

The everyday and the extra yanks leave me burning, burdened, burned out. I know my tasks are kingdom work--relentless work--, but it doesn't prevent me from wondering how much more elasticity I have in me before I break.
 

Like the bread on the counter, I wear the scars of a work-in-progress, uneven and battered. But those flaws give the bread its character, its beauty; they are marks of the Artist, re-purposing the brokenness for his glory.

A bed-headed boy wakes hungry from his nap. Points to the scarred bread. I cut two slices, slather on crunchy peanut butter and homemade blueberry jam, and we commune together, feasting on the broken bread in the quiet afternoon.

transparency

I've been reflecting on transparency lately in the context of Christian community: how I cloak my filth in righteous clothing, hide my shadows in the light.

If I acknowledge I am fallen, why is it painful when sin seeps through my facade? When others notice that sigh of impatience, the tinge of anger in my voice. I joke, justify, or smile jovially, hoping it will mask the dirt emerged.

What I really need is a good righteous soak--let the holy water wash over Self-Sufficiency's scrapes and Pride's open sores. Allow the see-through liquid to seep through callouses, steep in my soul, stirring up love.

I was reminded of God's righteous clothes for his children last week. The boys tucked away for naps, I slipped outside in winter boots and scraped metal across driveway gray, until my shovel parted the white sea. Snow covered dreary nakedness, billowed high on dead bushes, righting all sin's wrongs.

Isaiah 1:18 - "[T]hough your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow [...]"