Lift Up Your Hearts!

I've mentioned before that Jonathan is highly verbal, especially for a two year old boy. I hate stereotypes and the judgement of individuals by the average characteristics of a class they happen to belong to, but people will insist that boys aren't verbal creatures, so I like to mention the obvious counterexamples.

In Jonathan's case there are clearly both environmental and genetic factors. His parents have always spoken to him pretty much as they would to anyone, no baby talk allowed. Sometimes you think he couldn't have a clue what they are talking about, but it's amazing what he picks up, and his vocabulary has always been extraordinary.

As for genetics—let's just say he reminds me a LOT of his Aunt Janet. His play is often accompanied by a long, running monologue about what the characters are doing, be they people, animals, vehicles, or Power Rangers.

[An aside on the last. Jonathan has no Power Rangers of his own. I couldn't tell you what they are, other than they clearly relate to some TV show or other, and I'm not about to try to win favor in his eyes by buying him anything of the sort, for which Heather is grateful. But a good friend of his is lending him two Power Rangers and two motorcycles while the friend is out of town—that's a pretty amazing friend—and Jonathan is enthralled. They are the toys of the moment, whether he is making them ride around on the coffee table, or dropping them on me to wake me up when I pretend to nap, or bending their limbs into impossible poses. (Whatever the Power Rangers actually do as superheroes, they really should have gone into ballet.) I wonder if part of boys' reputed preference for sound effects over words is due to the nature of their toys. Each of these characters "speaks" when you push a button on its belt, but only one of the utterances is speech—"Let's go, Rangers"—the others are just noises.]

Another way in which Jonathan is like Aunt Janet is in his incredible memory for detail in a story. For example, the other day I asked where he got his cool Spider Man hat. (A red knit cap that actually has nothing to do with Spider Man, but it does to him—he pulls it down over his face as a mask. When he's older and knows about the Swallows and Amazons it could easily be Nancy's or Peggy's cap.) Heather mentioned the names of the people who had given it to him, and Jonathan piped up with "We went to their house, and they gave us this, and that, and made us dinner, and...." (He actually named what they gave him, but my memory is not as good as his, apparently.) This was not a recent event, but probably half a year ago. He can go into great detail when telling a story, although that detail might not be what adults would consider the important parts. He treated me to a lovely, and for the most part quite accurate, description of what happens when they go sailing: the details (which I can't remember now) of backing the trailer into the water, and getting the boat ready, and parking the car afterwards, and landing at the dock and getting the boat out of the water, and back on the trailer, and driving away. This is what he described when I asked him to tell me about sailing. Of the actual sail on the water I heard not a word.

While doing a Google search for a friend's blog, I came upon this exchange on someone else's blog. To be fair, I know nothing about the blogger, and haven't yet taken the time to read her other posts. My reaction is based solely on her post and the subsequent comments. But it shocked me so (and the comments even more than the original post) that I'm inviting comment here—by anyone at all, but especially by those who think they know what to expect from someone calling herself, "Little Miss Reformed."

In short, while she was working in someone else's church, she came upon a plaque that offended her. Wanting to copy down the words, she took it home, at the urging of a friend, who said no one would notice. Once finished, she decided against returning the plaque to the church, on the grounds that it was "bad theology" and could endanger the soul of whoever might read it.

Eventually she said she would take the plaque back, though I don't know if she has yet nor what the consequences might have been. I'm concerned that I saw no remorse, no repentance, nothing but trying in one place to make light of her actions, and in another to paint the situation as so serious as to justify breaking the laws of God and man. One person tried to call her on that, and was promptly denounced by other commenters for being "unloving."

It would be easy for one who doesn't care about theology, or believes theologies cannot be labelled bad or good, right or wrong, to mock or denounce Little Miss Reformed. I'm not interested in that kind of comment. But I do want to know if I'm crazy, or if the world has changed so much that someone from a branch of Christianity that pales at the thought of Postmodernism or Relativism can still have so much difficulty distinguishing right from wrong.

I freely admit that not all issues are black and white, that shades of grey are important, that legalism is dangerous, and even that there are times when we "must obey God rather than man." But this one seems glaringly clear to me: Little Miss Reformed was a guest who took away, without permission, something that belonged to her hosts. Theft, plain and simple. A violation of "Thou shalt not steal" that could land her in jail if the church wanted to press charges. Not to mention unmannerly. Nor do I think much of her reasoning that she was committing the act to save someone's immortal soul, since that kind of logic is exactly what led to the tortures of the Inquisition.

Don't get me wrong. I do believe theology can be both bad and dangerous, and that words themselves (though not the particular words that bothered her) can do great harm. But this essay, and most of the comments that followed, struck me as the work of people without a moral compass, or at least one that has been badly skewed, despite their protestations to the contrary.

What do you think? Has anyone else run into this kind of fuzzy reasoning?

When Larry Summers, then President of Harvard, dared suggest that genetic differences between men and women might, in general, predispose them to greater abilities in different fields, I had no problem with that. When he was pilloried and forced to resign, I was appalled (though not surprised) at the continuing evidence that liberals aren't necessarily liberal, those who call loudest for tolerance aren't tolerant, and "academic freedom" is an oxymoron. If the presence of a Y chromosome instead of an X can make differences that are visible and obvious, to insist that it can't possibly make more subtle differences, and to forbid inquiry into the matter, is as bad as the Catholic Church in Medieval times. Worse, because I don't think the Church ever claimed to be open-minded.

Yet as fast as Harvard tried to distance itself from Summers' heresy, there are more serious worms in its own apple.

Ben Barres is an M.D./Ph.D. professor of neurobiology at Stanford University. What makes his comments on sexual discrimination in science and academia especially insightful is that until 10 years ago, he was Barbara Barres. As a man, he suddenly found himself receiving much more respect than he had as a woman, at least among people who don't know his history. Even in such a hotbed of liberalism as Cambridge, Massachusetts, both MIT and Harvard failed the test. When Barbara was the only person in a class full of men to solve a difficult math problem, her professor suggested that her boyfriend had solved it for her. At Harvard the situation was even more interesting, because Barbara became Ben in the middle of her/his graduate studies. One faculty member (who apparently knew neither Barbara nor Ben very well) remarked, "Ben Barres gave such a great seminar today, but then his work is much better than his sister's.

It matters not a bit to me if there are differences between groups of people considered en masse, because everyone deserves to be treated as an individual. Insurance companies have some justification for considering a person in terms of his inclusion in broad classes (male, Asian, non-smoker, overweight, etc.) because that is what makes insurance work. The rest of us have no excuse, and the educational system especially; from preschool to Harvard, should be looking at individuals, not stereotypes.

The Visitation, by Frank Peretti (W Publishing Group, Nashville, Tennessee, 2003)

I believe it was Samuel Goldwyn who said, "If you want to send a message, use Western Union." He had a point. Great writers manage to convey many messages through their works, but people who start writing with a message in mind tend to write mediocre novels.

I find Frank Peretti's stories entertaining, and better than much so-called Christian fiction; certainly worlds better than the popular LaHaye/Jenkins Left Behind series. There's no doubt that his writing style and technique have improved considerably over the years, too. But Peretti always seems to have a particular axe to grind. One of his best books, Monster, still has specific points about evolution/creation and the perils of genetic engineering which he makes rather heavy-handedly. The Visitation suffers from the same problem, and more.

I believe it was C. S. Lewis who noted that most authors' evil characters seem real enough, but they cannot portray goodness well at all. (An excellent example would be the Lord of the Rings movies, which unlike the books apparently tried to convey goodness by making the characters look stoned.) He was writing about Scottish author George MacDonald, whom he said had the opposite defect: he made goodness believable and desirable, but his villains tended to be cardboard, stock characters.

Peretti has a hard time with both kinds of characters. In his more recent books his good characters have begun to take shape, however, which I see as a hopeful sign. But his evil characters are still entirely too weird, or at best one-dimensional. In this one, the Antichrist character, Brandon Nichols, was too much like the Antichrist character, Nicholas Carpathia, in the Left Behind books, which is a compliment to neither the character nor the author. (Neither author could avoid the "Nick" reference, it seems. But LaHaye/Jenkins were there first.)

Peretti's prejudices show through too much for me, mainly I suppose because they are not my prejudices. In the consortium of pastors in this book, the good guys are the Pentecostal and Baptist ones—the Episcopalian, Lutheran, Presbyterian, etc. are either bad or at best wishy-washy. The Methodist one comes out okay, but only after realizing she isn't really a Christian.... It's true he attacks some Pentecostal practices and beliefs, and one of the worst characters is a Pentecostal pastor, but once again I get the feeling he is pointed commentary. Mind you, I'm not saying there aren't Methodist, Episcopalian, Lutheran, and Presbyterian pastors who are just as bad as the ones he portrays, but you get the feeling Peretti is condemning whole denominations, not just particular characters.

The Visitation started out very well, with Peretti developing the main character well and with reasonable complexity. He begins by asking some critical questions that are usually ignored, such as Why doesn't Jesus seem to be in the direct healing business anymore? and How would the world respond if he were? and What does God's presence in the world, and in our lives, look like? and How do we deal with people who respond to our problems with, "You just need to trust God more"?

I was looking forward greatly to how Peretti would deal with these questions, but it seems he couldn't sustain the effort. Suddenly the protagonist's crisis of faith is resolved (for no apparent reason), prayer becomes a magic bullet, demons are revealed, and the whole story is wrapped up with a pat answer, stock formula solution.

Disappointing—though still entertaining.

From what I read, people are getting tired of hearing about the benefits of human milk for human babies. Let's stop making mothers who "must" feed their children artificial milk feel bad, they say. Just tell people "breast is best" if you can do it, but let it go at that, and support them in whatever decision they make.

Not an unreasonable attitude; I hate having the government or anyone else harangue me about about very personal choices. But we're missing an important point.

When we overemphasize the exceptions, we lose track of the normal, and engender dangerous attitudes. Try to view abortion as a private, agonizing decision to be left up to families faced with devastating circumstances, and suddenly you find yourself surrounded by people who want to make a horrific procedure into a good thing. Believe strongly that people with homosexual desires deserve as much respect, love, and protection of the law as anyone else, and you are pressed to agree that any sexual practice is a good and proper expression of love. Acknowledge that sometimes it is necessary for children to be cared for by people other than their own families, and soon you find that considered the norm, with researchers trying to prove it is actually better for babies to be away from their mothers.

No matter how many times we mouth "breastfeeding is best," if we continue to add, "but here's what you do if it doesn't work out," we set ouselves—and mothers—up for failure. It's not really the mothers we need to convince. What any nursing mother needs most of all is a supportive environment. When everyone's mother and sister and friends breastfed their children, nursing really could come "naturally." Now, however, with fewer role models, fewer people to say, "this is a minor glitch, you will get through it as I did," mothers are quick to believe they don't "have what it takes" to feed their babies as women have for millenia.

It's not primarily the women we need to educate. It's doctors who have no more breastfeeding experience than their patients and would rather offer the quick fix of formula feeding rather than help mothers find other solutions. It's fathers who have totally lost sight of the true purpose of human breasts (as someone put it, "Hello! We're mammals!") and view their wives'/girlfriends' breasts as merely decorative, or worse, their own possession (like the man—and I use the term loosely—who insisted his girlfriend feed their son artificially because, "No one touches your breasts but me!"). It's restaurants/churches/businesses that from some misplaced sense of propriety want to remove nursing babies from view. (Would you like to eat your meal in the bathroom?) It's everyone who will concede that breastfeeding is best for a brief time, but that a nursing toddler is somehow a perversion—as if bottles, cow's milk, and "pacifier face" were the more normal human condition.

I agree; let's not hound the mothers. Let's educate their support systems. We will never convince anyone of the value of breast milk and the nursing relationship as long as we continue to act as if breastfeeding were a difficult, arcane, and antiquated practice.

The sad thing is, I'm not surprised.

During the 18 months we lived near Boston we heard a lot about the Big Dig, experienced plenty of inconvenience thanks to the Big Dig, and heard much political grumbling about cost overruns, delays, and incompetence. We didn't actually see much work being done on the project, however, and it was hard not to wonder if there was some politcal/union stranglehold on the project. Accustomed as we were to Florida roads projects, in which a "crew working" sign is usually followed by a crew working—day, night, weekends, holidays, whatever it takes to get the job done—it was shocking to see the massive construction project lying fallow so much of the time. But apparently such lack of haste did not reflect a commitment to doing the job right.

Will yesterday's partial collapse, in which a concrete slab fell from a tunnel roof onto a hapless motorist, finally cause someone to examine the entire political system that bred such tragedy? It's only the latest in a decades-long series of problems, so I doubt it.

Which is too bad. I fell in love with Boston, and Massachusetts in general, during our stay. There is much about that part of the country that I miss terribly. But the Big Debacle seems only to be a sign, not an abberation. The rest of the country—Massachusetts included—mocks Florida's politics and its voting problems, but as one who has lived and voted in both places, I can say without a doubt that democracy is alive and well in Florida, while the political process in Massachusetts sometimes felt like a tunnel with a crumbling roof.

The State of Florida has seized a woman's assets and imprisoned her because they think they can make better decisions for her than she can herself.

Lore Farrell's story should frighten us all.
Why should an 85-year-old woman be able to be forced out of her home, be forbidden to make her own legal and medical decisions, and even told what kind of shoes she can and cannot wear, just because living on her own his riskier? The Orlando Sentinel article calls hers a "sad story with no villains," but I see plenty of villainy in the attitude that gives the State such power over a person who has committed no crime. If Lore Farrell thinks the risk of bleeding to death on the floor of her own home is preferable to the living death she feels at an assistive living facility, that choice should be hers, not some bureaucrat's, well-intentioned or not.

A 62-year-old British woman is being called selfish, ridiculous, irresponsible, and unnatural because of the recent birth of her son, who was conceived through in vitro fertilization with a her husband's sperm and a donated egg. I have serious problems with the extremes to which many people are resorting to combat infertility, but age has nothing to do with it. A post-menopausal woman who uses unnatural means to conceive a child is no more absurd than an older man with a Viagra prescription.

"Babymoon" is a term that didn't exist when I was having babies. I'm not too clear on the definition even now. To some it means taking your baby with you on vacation, which to me falls into the category of "well, duh!" but apparently it's now considered a big deal.

To other folks it means a period of seclusion following the birth of a baby, during which friends and family are encouraged to stay away for two weeks or even a month.

The definition that fits best in this household is a period of time in which the new parents are relieved of some of some of their normal responsibilities in order to rest, recover, and bond together as a family. In particular, the new mother is provided sufficient help so that she can concentrate on meeting the needs of the new baby (and any other children she might have) and on her own recovery.

I wasn't sure what to think of this at first. In my day we were rebelling against the medical profession, which treated childbirth as an illness, and kept women pretty much confined to their beds for several days after birth. Inspired by the example of primitive women, who would give birth in the morning and be back working in the fields in the afternoon, we superwomen thought we could do it all ourselves.

By the time our first child was born, my own mother was dead and my mother-in-law was out of the country. Even had it been possible for someone to come stay with me for a while, however, I don't think I would have encouraged it. Having a baby was a perfectly normal event; why should I need pampering? Don't get me wrong: I greatly appreciated the days Porter took off from work to help out, and meals brought by friends were a wonderful blessing (especially since I gained some new recipes in the process). But on the whole, I was doing the whole homemaker routine on my own: cooking and cleaning as well as breastfeeding and changing diapers. That was my job and it never occurred to me to expect help. I liked it that way.

I was nuts.

I'm glad Heather and Jon have welcomed us into their home before and after Noah's birth. I'm happy to play with Jonathan while Heather and Noah nap, to take my turn holding Noah while she plays with Jonathan, to wash diapers and dishes, to make trips to the store, to fix meals. Not that I've done much of the latter yet, as their many friends have kept us well supplied with food, and Jon is a good cook as well. Okay, so I'm also exhausted, and have gained a new appreciation of why 54-year-olds are generally past the childbearing years, but I'm happy.

As a result, Heather is much more rested than I was after each of our children was born. She's sure that is speeding her healing, and I'm convinced it's keeping the dreaded postpartum depression away. Say what you want about hormones, I'd venture to guess 90% of postpartum depression is related to sleep deprivation. A happy, well-rested mother makes a huge difference to the household, and no doubt contributes greatly to a happy, contented baby.

(Far from being in seclusion for two weeks to a month, Heather and Jon have welcomed visitors from the beginning. Those who asked if they could bring meals were invited to bring enough so they could stay and join us, and some have done just that. You can tell this is a household of extroverts!)

At his one-week appointment today, Noah weighed in at 10 pounds 15 ounces! That's a 12-ounce gain from birth. Jonathan had gained 11 ounces by his one-week appointment, so it's not that surprising, although the doctor was astonished. What it does show for sure is that Noah is not being deprived by tandem nursing with Jonathan. :)

Congratulations, Discovery! A shuttle launch is my favorite kind of fireworks, and makes a great Independence Day show as far as I'm concerned. I only regret we couldn't see this one from our front porch—but grandchildren have higher priority!

Another of our favorite Independence Day events that had to go on without us is marching with the fabulous Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band. We miss you guys! We hope you had a wonderful parade and didn't suffer too much from lack of in-your-face hydration and nearly inaudible percussion.

Most of the news we hear about people with severe brain injuries (such as Terri Schiavo) is from a negative perspective: How long can we afford (emotionally, finanacially, and in terms of prioritizing the use of resources) to keep an unresponsive, totally dependent person alive? Would a person in such a state want to be kept alive? What does the term "quality of life" really mean, and should it be the determining factor in critical medical decisions? To whom to such decisions belong—the person (through a "living will"), the family, the doctors, the government?

Organizations that focus on the possibility of recovery from severe brain injuries through coma arousal efforts and other stimulation programs, such as the Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential and the Family Hope Center, are derisively labelled as "alternative medicine" if not as outright quackery. In light of recent discoveries, however, perhaps it's time to rethink our attitude.

After 19 years in a "minimally conscious state" after an accident, Terry Wallis is making significant progress towards recovery, with proven evidence of brain healing and regrowth. Now that there is clear evidence that healing of brain injuries is possible, there is no excuse for reflexively dismissing the work of those who have been saying so for years. If Terry's brain could heal itself, slowly, with minimal outside stimulation, it is inexcusable not to consider the possibility of speeding up the process.

Things just began to settle down a bit after Noah's birth when we had computer problems to deal with, but it's now a quiet Sunday afternoon and the computers are back in busisness, so I'll try to catch up.

For the full story of Noah's birth, read Heather's post entitled Noah's Birth Story. I'll add some grandmotherly commentary.

Once again our family participated in the game of predicting date and time of birth, along with sex, weight, and length. I succeeded in getting the sex wrong for the third time in a row, as well as being wrong on everything else. Heather was the winner, being closest on the date and weight, and tying with Jon, Porter, and BL. for length. ABL, PL, SL, BL, TL, CD, DL and Jon guessed the sex correctly. I claim victory for the time, being off by only seven minutes, but there are purists who say the time doesn't count if you don't get the date right as well.

And there are others who claim parents, especially mothers, should not be allowed to participate, or at least not counted in the standings. Below is one particularly convincing (or at least amusing) protest:

[Moms] have too much control—I am sure Heather could have gone into labor but waited until she could win. Based on non-moms, I am claiming victory as having the closest date, the right sex, and I want to check the date of the guesses just to make sure Jon didn't "Price Is Right" me to get the height and weight since he was only one ounce and half an inch over me. I made my guesses not knowing everyone else's....I think if you averaged all categories, with some sort of scoring for how far off you were in each category, but most of the weight on having the date right, excluded Mom, and made a few other adjustments, it could happen that I would win and collect the big prize.

I'm beginning to understand why one would want to be a midwife. (There must be powerful incentives that make them to be willing to endure the difficulties and even persecutions that come with the job.) Being present at an all-natural, healthy birth is one of the highest privileges I can think of; being able to help make such a birth possible must be even higher.

When it's your own grandchild being born, the anxieties and the joys go off the scale. This time the only worrisome moment—when Noah's head was completely out (Heather looked like some strange being, with a head at each end) and the midwife was working to deliver his huge shoulders—was so intense there was no time to be aware of any fear.

Experiencing Jonathan's birth was one of the high points of my life so far, and I feel incomparably blessed to be present at Noah's as well. This time I was prepared not to witness the moment of birth, because my primary role was to be Jonathan's special friend, to be with him at the birth or not, according to his desires. But—blessing on blessing—Dad-o and Grammy were able to be there as well, so Jonathan could alternate being in with us and playing outside of the room with them.

I thought my own births were "natural," and they certainly were, if compared with why my mother went through, and with what most women are offered today. "Natural" in my day meant avoiding delivery rooms, the dreaded shaving, stirrups, and above all drugs. I still had to deal with episiotomies, a hospital setting, not being allowed to eat or drink during labor, and having my baby taken from me for unnecessary procedures.

Noah's birth was what childbirth should be. Surrounded by family, in a quiet place, eating and drinking at will, free to walk around, rest in a tub of warm water, and labor in virtually any position. Gently attended throughout by an experienced midwife who knows how to guide the process, and how to ease the delivery of a huge pair of shoulders. No episiotomy, no drugs, no wristband ID's, no eye drops, no shots, no circumcision. Dad cutting the cord. Immediate and uninterrupted bonding. Going home no sooner and no later than you want to. Okay, I'll stop now. But it was so lovely!

One thing that was totally amazing and awesome to watch was how quickly an unearthly looking, squashed, purple mass became a filled-out, pink, clearly defined head. That view was from my privileged position alone, because by the time Noah was in Heather's arms (only a few seconds later), most of the change had already taken place. I guess she'll have to wait for her own grandchildren to see that.

I'll admit I'm pretty tired. Jonathan can exhaust me all by himself. But Noah has been doing very well, and friends have been bringing dinners, so I don't think I'm any worse off than I was a week ago. :)

Speaking of exhaustion, this post has taken all day to write, so I'm just going to stop for now and go to bed.

Okay, so the wider dissemination of lesser-known comic strips is not the greatest use of the Internet, but it's fun. I've featured Baldo before, but now they have an official Baldo website to include, and today's strip is worth broadcasting.

In case you want to see the newest of the World's Most Adorable Grandchildren before I get around to updating my own image collection, you can find pictures of Noah here.