I've done it again, friends: I've shamelessly humiliated myself over at The Little League Coach with my latest post. It once again addresses the topic of athletic cups, and specifically, the placement of said cups.
For the rest of the hilarious story, you'll have to go and visit Rick and read It's Official: I Am An Idiot.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Capital Punishment and the New Covenant
In light of the Supreme Court's recent ruling upholding the constitutionality of lethal injection as a method of capital punishment, I thought I'd reprint here an essay I wrote ages ago for our church newsletter:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also..You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” Matthew 5:38-39;43-44
Murderers deserve to die. So do adulterers, liars, gossips, thieves, selfish people, parents who yell at their children, inconsiderate drivers, and everyone else who breaks God’s law.
So that’s not the issue. The question is who gets to decide when somebody dies. The answer is God alone.
Throughout the pages of the New Testament, foreshadowed in the Old, the Bible turns our hearts toward redemption and reconciliation—and allows opportunity for rehabilitation. The first person to receive mercy instead of death for a capital crime was Cain: the Lord put a protective mark on him so that he would not be put to death (Genesis 4:15).
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus turned civil and personal ethics on its head. When the Author of life talks about the sanctity of life, we all stand convicted.
The Sermon—and, by extension, all of Jesus’s teaching—“raises the ante by radicalizing the demands of the Law” (R. Hayes, The Moral Vision of the New Testament, 1996). We are called to a counter-intuitive and paradoxical lifestyle of meekness, mercy, peacemaking, and non-retaliation.
Not only his words, but also Jesus’ example of non-violence and mercy preclude capital punishment. Jesus didn’t call for the execution of his own executioners, but instead called out for his heavenly Father to forgive them.(Luke 23:34) He did not condone armed resistance at his own arrest, but told his disciple, “Put your sword back into its place; for all those who take up the sword shall perish by the sword” (Matt. 26:52).
Consider Jesus’ response to the woman caught in adultery, which was a stonable offense back in the day (John 8). First, He reminds the self-righteous tattletales of their own hypocrisy: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. And instead of calling for the Old Covenant penalty, Jesus demonstrated a dramatically different New Covenant response. He told her “Go, and sin no more.”
Paul reiterates the radical instruction to forsake self-protection in Romans: “Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”(Romans 12:19-21)
Abandoning violence and retaliation on both personal and civic levels does not mean abandoning all forms of societal justice, punishment, and restitution—just the violent ones.
Why is it better to kill murderers than to imprison them for life? Incarceration provides an appropriate and just punishment for capital offenders. (As Christians concerned with justice, we still have to deal with the fact that human justice systems are skewed by politics, race, and economics. It’s not possible in a fallible human government to execute justice perfectly. But in the absence of capital punishment, if we make a mistake, it’s reversible. It’s better to let 10 murderers go free than to execute one innocent man.)
Ultimately, we are to be lovers of people, letting God use us as messengers of redemption and reconciliation. Killing someone, even a confessed serial murderer, is not compatible with loving him. When we allow the state to execute him, we cut off the possibility that he will find peace with God.
And only God has the right to say “time’s up.”
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also..You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” Matthew 5:38-39;43-44
Murderers deserve to die. So do adulterers, liars, gossips, thieves, selfish people, parents who yell at their children, inconsiderate drivers, and everyone else who breaks God’s law.
So that’s not the issue. The question is who gets to decide when somebody dies. The answer is God alone.
Throughout the pages of the New Testament, foreshadowed in the Old, the Bible turns our hearts toward redemption and reconciliation—and allows opportunity for rehabilitation. The first person to receive mercy instead of death for a capital crime was Cain: the Lord put a protective mark on him so that he would not be put to death (Genesis 4:15).
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus turned civil and personal ethics on its head. When the Author of life talks about the sanctity of life, we all stand convicted.
The Sermon—and, by extension, all of Jesus’s teaching—“raises the ante by radicalizing the demands of the Law” (R. Hayes, The Moral Vision of the New Testament, 1996). We are called to a counter-intuitive and paradoxical lifestyle of meekness, mercy, peacemaking, and non-retaliation.
Not only his words, but also Jesus’ example of non-violence and mercy preclude capital punishment. Jesus didn’t call for the execution of his own executioners, but instead called out for his heavenly Father to forgive them.(Luke 23:34) He did not condone armed resistance at his own arrest, but told his disciple, “Put your sword back into its place; for all those who take up the sword shall perish by the sword” (Matt. 26:52).
Consider Jesus’ response to the woman caught in adultery, which was a stonable offense back in the day (John 8). First, He reminds the self-righteous tattletales of their own hypocrisy: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. And instead of calling for the Old Covenant penalty, Jesus demonstrated a dramatically different New Covenant response. He told her “Go, and sin no more.”
Paul reiterates the radical instruction to forsake self-protection in Romans: “Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”(Romans 12:19-21)
Abandoning violence and retaliation on both personal and civic levels does not mean abandoning all forms of societal justice, punishment, and restitution—just the violent ones.
Why is it better to kill murderers than to imprison them for life? Incarceration provides an appropriate and just punishment for capital offenders. (As Christians concerned with justice, we still have to deal with the fact that human justice systems are skewed by politics, race, and economics. It’s not possible in a fallible human government to execute justice perfectly. But in the absence of capital punishment, if we make a mistake, it’s reversible. It’s better to let 10 murderers go free than to execute one innocent man.)
Ultimately, we are to be lovers of people, letting God use us as messengers of redemption and reconciliation. Killing someone, even a confessed serial murderer, is not compatible with loving him. When we allow the state to execute him, we cut off the possibility that he will find peace with God.
And only God has the right to say “time’s up.”
Monday, April 28, 2008
Home Invasion, Part I
A crazy long time ago, Mr. Peevie and I lived sweetly together in brick Georgian on a tree-lined street in the Windy City. Our time and our money were our own; we didn't have any children yet, and we were enjoying our lives and each other.
And then, one day, a stranger entered our home, and our peaceful lives were interrupted, changed forever.
I know what you're thinking. A baby. But you would be wrong. Can I finish telling my story, now?
We had gone away for the weekend--which used to be uncomplicated, relaxing, enjoyable, and affordable. We came home late on a Sunday evening. As we carried our weekend bags into the living room, and walked through to the dining room, Mr. Peevie and I both started getting a creepy feeling. Things were a little off.
There were smears of dirt on the window sills, for example, that weren't there before. And the lid had been removed from the box of chocolates in the middle of the dining room table, a couple of chocolates were partially eaten, and the remains scattered around the table.
"Somebody's been here," Mr. Peevie said nervously.
"Somebody might still be here," I replied. We both froze, looked around, and listened for the footsteps of an axe-murderer. Either he was very, very quiet, or he'd already left the premises.
We called the police, and five minutes later about six huge cops were stomping through the house, checking the doors and windows, shining flashlights into closets, and examining the smears on the window sill.
"Do you have a dog?" one officer asked.
"Nope."
"Do you have a friend with a dog, who might have come over while you were gone?" he pursued. "It looks to me like someone came over with an animal." We were pretty sure this was not the case.
"Well, then," the cops agreed, "it looks like an animal got in somehow." They suggested that we check the chimney in the morning, because sometimes animals got in that way.
We climbed upstairs to our bedroom, feeling tired but safe, happily reassured that we wouldn't be bludgeoned in our sleep by a stealthy serial killer.
I threw my PJs on and stretched out on the bed, while Mr. Peevie started to unpack his bag. I got into my comfort zone, lying supine and curling my arms under my pillow for head support--my favorite, non-approved sleep position. My hands encountered something unexpected, and I lifted my pillow to check it out.
"Eww! Mr. Peevie, look!" I yawped. "I think a squirrel made a nest under my pillow, for crap's sake!" A nesty-looking circle of dustbunnie-gray fur circumstantially testified against the formerly white sheet. "That's so disgusting!"
Mr. Peevie agreed, and suggested that I change the sheets so that we wouldn't have to sleep in squirrel grit. Meanwhile, he slid open the mirror-covered sliding door on the wall-to-wall closet--the glory of our bedroom!--and reached up to put a sweater on the shelf.
Suddenly, a ball of gray fur shot off the shelf, right toward Mr. Peevie, who screamed like a pack of little girls and leaped like an Olympic gymnast up and back away from the closet. The furball flew over his right shoulder, landed on the floor, and rocketed right out the open door, with Mr. Peevie yelling for his momma the whole time.
I hadn't moved from the bed; I sat, stunned, not so much by the appearance of a squirrel in my boudoir, but by the dramatic display of athleticism and phobic mania from Mr. Peevie. I had never seen that man move so quickly or leap so powerfully. Nor had I any idea, after 10 years of marriage, that he was deathly afraid of tiny rodents with fluffy tails.
This story is not over. You'll have to tune in tomorrow for the big finish.
And then, one day, a stranger entered our home, and our peaceful lives were interrupted, changed forever.
I know what you're thinking. A baby. But you would be wrong. Can I finish telling my story, now?
We had gone away for the weekend--which used to be uncomplicated, relaxing, enjoyable, and affordable. We came home late on a Sunday evening. As we carried our weekend bags into the living room, and walked through to the dining room, Mr. Peevie and I both started getting a creepy feeling. Things were a little off.
There were smears of dirt on the window sills, for example, that weren't there before. And the lid had been removed from the box of chocolates in the middle of the dining room table, a couple of chocolates were partially eaten, and the remains scattered around the table.
"Somebody's been here," Mr. Peevie said nervously.
"Somebody might still be here," I replied. We both froze, looked around, and listened for the footsteps of an axe-murderer. Either he was very, very quiet, or he'd already left the premises.
We called the police, and five minutes later about six huge cops were stomping through the house, checking the doors and windows, shining flashlights into closets, and examining the smears on the window sill.
"Do you have a dog?" one officer asked.
"Nope."
"Do you have a friend with a dog, who might have come over while you were gone?" he pursued. "It looks to me like someone came over with an animal." We were pretty sure this was not the case.
"Well, then," the cops agreed, "it looks like an animal got in somehow." They suggested that we check the chimney in the morning, because sometimes animals got in that way.
We climbed upstairs to our bedroom, feeling tired but safe, happily reassured that we wouldn't be bludgeoned in our sleep by a stealthy serial killer.
I threw my PJs on and stretched out on the bed, while Mr. Peevie started to unpack his bag. I got into my comfort zone, lying supine and curling my arms under my pillow for head support--my favorite, non-approved sleep position. My hands encountered something unexpected, and I lifted my pillow to check it out.
"Eww! Mr. Peevie, look!" I yawped. "I think a squirrel made a nest under my pillow, for crap's sake!" A nesty-looking circle of dustbunnie-gray fur circumstantially testified against the formerly white sheet. "That's so disgusting!"
Mr. Peevie agreed, and suggested that I change the sheets so that we wouldn't have to sleep in squirrel grit. Meanwhile, he slid open the mirror-covered sliding door on the wall-to-wall closet--the glory of our bedroom!--and reached up to put a sweater on the shelf.
Suddenly, a ball of gray fur shot off the shelf, right toward Mr. Peevie, who screamed like a pack of little girls and leaped like an Olympic gymnast up and back away from the closet. The furball flew over his right shoulder, landed on the floor, and rocketed right out the open door, with Mr. Peevie yelling for his momma the whole time.
I hadn't moved from the bed; I sat, stunned, not so much by the appearance of a squirrel in my boudoir, but by the dramatic display of athleticism and phobic mania from Mr. Peevie. I had never seen that man move so quickly or leap so powerfully. Nor had I any idea, after 10 years of marriage, that he was deathly afraid of tiny rodents with fluffy tails.
This story is not over. You'll have to tune in tomorrow for the big finish.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Squirrels and the Bees
"Mommy, Mommy!" M. Peevie called to me from two rooms away, as per usual. "Two squirrels are fighting!" She was watching out the picture window as the drama unfolded on the neighbor's front yard.
"They're probably mating," I said. Urban squirrels are fluffy-tailed rodents the color of dustbunnies. There are so many of them living in the tree in our front yard that I assume they reproduce constantly.
"But they look like they're wrestling," she said. "Why are they rolling around like that?"
"It's probably part of the mating process," said Mr. Peevie jealously.
"How do they mate, Mommy?" asked M. Peevie.
"Well, it looks to me like the male squirrel gets on the back of the female squirrel," I said.
"Why does he get on her back instead of on her front?" she persisted. I really don't know why she would ask that question. I kind of don't want to know.
"That's how mating works for squirrels," Mr. Peevie said. "Different animals have different ways of mating."
"But what happens when he gets on her back? Why is getting on her back called mating?" said M. Peevie, who might be aiming for a career at the Kinsey Institute.
Are seven-year-olds too young for discussions of animal reproductive behaviors? Kids on farms are conversant with this sort of stuff--so why not our city kids, too? I had a conversation about the anatomical differences between bulls and cows once with a five-year-old who lived on a dairy farm in Oklahoma. So I plunged ahead.
"Well." I took a deep breath. "The male squirrel has a penis"--I was leveraging two years of high school biology here, and nothing more; I could be totally wrong about squirrel anatomy--"and he puts it in the female. That's called mating." Phew. Done. Can we stop now?
Of course we can't. The girl does not quit. "But why are they mating now?" she asked.
"It's that time of year," I told her. "Time for them to make some baby squirrels." Then I made a strategic move. "Do you ever see baby squirrels running around outside?" I decided I was done with the s*x talk.
"I don't know," M. said. "How big is a baby squirrel? This big?" She held up two chubby fingers.
"I really don't know how big a squirrel is when it's born, M.," I confessed.
"Well, how big is a teenage squirrel?" She made the chubby finger gap wider. "This big?"
"M. Peevie, I really don't know," I said. "Can you please go and play now?" If you let her, this tiny interrogator will ask more questions than a prosecutor. It can be quite exhausting, and I think my brain was starting to bleed.
I'd love to hear your stories about conversations with your kids about the birds, or squirrels, or bulls, and the bees.
"They're probably mating," I said. Urban squirrels are fluffy-tailed rodents the color of dustbunnies. There are so many of them living in the tree in our front yard that I assume they reproduce constantly.
"But they look like they're wrestling," she said. "Why are they rolling around like that?"
"It's probably part of the mating process," said Mr. Peevie jealously.
"How do they mate, Mommy?" asked M. Peevie.
"Well, it looks to me like the male squirrel gets on the back of the female squirrel," I said.
"Why does he get on her back instead of on her front?" she persisted. I really don't know why she would ask that question. I kind of don't want to know.
"That's how mating works for squirrels," Mr. Peevie said. "Different animals have different ways of mating."
"But what happens when he gets on her back? Why is getting on her back called mating?" said M. Peevie, who might be aiming for a career at the Kinsey Institute.
Are seven-year-olds too young for discussions of animal reproductive behaviors? Kids on farms are conversant with this sort of stuff--so why not our city kids, too? I had a conversation about the anatomical differences between bulls and cows once with a five-year-old who lived on a dairy farm in Oklahoma. So I plunged ahead.
"Well." I took a deep breath. "The male squirrel has a penis"--I was leveraging two years of high school biology here, and nothing more; I could be totally wrong about squirrel anatomy--"and he puts it in the female. That's called mating." Phew. Done. Can we stop now?
Of course we can't. The girl does not quit. "But why are they mating now?" she asked.
"It's that time of year," I told her. "Time for them to make some baby squirrels." Then I made a strategic move. "Do you ever see baby squirrels running around outside?" I decided I was done with the s*x talk.
"I don't know," M. said. "How big is a baby squirrel? This big?" She held up two chubby fingers.
"I really don't know how big a squirrel is when it's born, M.," I confessed.
"Well, how big is a teenage squirrel?" She made the chubby finger gap wider. "This big?"
"M. Peevie, I really don't know," I said. "Can you please go and play now?" If you let her, this tiny interrogator will ask more questions than a prosecutor. It can be quite exhausting, and I think my brain was starting to bleed.
I'd love to hear your stories about conversations with your kids about the birds, or squirrels, or bulls, and the bees.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Little League Mom Humiliates Self Again
I forgot to mention that I have a new post on The Little League Coach.
This post is a continuation of my series of posts about cup-related humiliation. Check out Cup Stories: The 40-Year-Old Cup Virgin when you have a chance. Leave a comment so that Rick McBride gets an idea about how powerful and influential I am.
This post is a continuation of my series of posts about cup-related humiliation. Check out Cup Stories: The 40-Year-Old Cup Virgin when you have a chance. Leave a comment so that Rick McBride gets an idea about how powerful and influential I am.
Weird Things Moms Save
Moms save weird stuff. Some of the cherished items that my mom-friends have saved as mementos of their offspring's sweet-smelling, cooing, portable baby days include the following:
1. Teeth. Moms have baby teeth stashed in sock drawers and shoe boxes, double wrapped in Kleenex® and zipped into sandwich bags. What are they going to do with them? Did they wash the dried blood off first? One mom told me she once admired the tiny pearls in another woman's brooch, and then learned it was made entirely of her children's baby teeth. Doesn't that remind you a tiny bit of Silence of the Lambs?
2. Hair. OK, maybe it's not weird to save a curl from baby's first haircut. (My kids were so bald that they were practically in sixth grade before their hair was long enough to cut.) But it is kind of weird to save the trimmings from your son's first haircut, and then to give them to his daughter 40 years later. This actually happened.
3. Hospital cap. Come on. This is weird because it's so generic--every baby in every hospital gets the same cap! It's different than saving the tiny, adorable, monogrammed blue-and-pink hat that your Great Aunt Blanche crocheted with her own blue-veined hands.
4. Baby ID label from the hospital. You know--the one that they tape to the plastic bin-on-wheels that they cart your baby around in, that says "Baby Girl Jolie-Pitt" or "Baby Boy Lopez-Anthony." Actually, come to to think of it, maybe it's not so weird. If your baby grows up to be the next George Clooney or Venus Williams, you could maybe sell that ID label on E-Bay for a chunk of change, and finance your retirement.
5. Umbilical cords. I am not even kidding you. My friend admitted that she still had her child's umbilical cord. This does not have any potential future medical benefit, like cord blood; it's just a nasty, dried-up piece of rotting flesh. With sentimental value.
6. The plastic ring from the circumcision. Go ahead. I dare you to make jewelry out of THAT. Stick a diamond on it, maybe, and give it to your son when he's ready to get engaged to a girl who's not good enough for him. Tell him you had it made especially for this day, and you'd be so proud if he'd give it to his best girl. Then later, you can tell her where the band came from. Hee.
7. The positive pregnancy test. OK, people, this is going too far. This is a stick with pee on it. What exactly do you plan on doing with a urine-soaked popsicle stick? Who are you saving it for? I am all in favor of sentimentality--even though I rarely indulge in it myself--but seriously.
What do you think? Is it just me, or are these things weird?
What have you saved that I neglected to mention here? Do you have a zip-lock bag filled with your child's scabs or toenail clippings? Have you hoarded ancient, moldy bath toys to someday bequeath to your hypothetical grandchildren? 'Fess up.
1. Teeth. Moms have baby teeth stashed in sock drawers and shoe boxes, double wrapped in Kleenex® and zipped into sandwich bags. What are they going to do with them? Did they wash the dried blood off first? One mom told me she once admired the tiny pearls in another woman's brooch, and then learned it was made entirely of her children's baby teeth. Doesn't that remind you a tiny bit of Silence of the Lambs?
2. Hair. OK, maybe it's not weird to save a curl from baby's first haircut. (My kids were so bald that they were practically in sixth grade before their hair was long enough to cut.) But it is kind of weird to save the trimmings from your son's first haircut, and then to give them to his daughter 40 years later. This actually happened.
3. Hospital cap. Come on. This is weird because it's so generic--every baby in every hospital gets the same cap! It's different than saving the tiny, adorable, monogrammed blue-and-pink hat that your Great Aunt Blanche crocheted with her own blue-veined hands.
4. Baby ID label from the hospital. You know--the one that they tape to the plastic bin-on-wheels that they cart your baby around in, that says "Baby Girl Jolie-Pitt" or "Baby Boy Lopez-Anthony." Actually, come to to think of it, maybe it's not so weird. If your baby grows up to be the next George Clooney or Venus Williams, you could maybe sell that ID label on E-Bay for a chunk of change, and finance your retirement.
5. Umbilical cords. I am not even kidding you. My friend admitted that she still had her child's umbilical cord. This does not have any potential future medical benefit, like cord blood; it's just a nasty, dried-up piece of rotting flesh. With sentimental value.
6. The plastic ring from the circumcision. Go ahead. I dare you to make jewelry out of THAT. Stick a diamond on it, maybe, and give it to your son when he's ready to get engaged to a girl who's not good enough for him. Tell him you had it made especially for this day, and you'd be so proud if he'd give it to his best girl. Then later, you can tell her where the band came from. Hee.
7. The positive pregnancy test. OK, people, this is going too far. This is a stick with pee on it. What exactly do you plan on doing with a urine-soaked popsicle stick? Who are you saving it for? I am all in favor of sentimentality--even though I rarely indulge in it myself--but seriously.
What do you think? Is it just me, or are these things weird?
What have you saved that I neglected to mention here? Do you have a zip-lock bag filled with your child's scabs or toenail clippings? Have you hoarded ancient, moldy bath toys to someday bequeath to your hypothetical grandchildren? 'Fess up.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
My Latest Addiction
I have a new addiction: Pandora radio. OMG. This site is so fun and addictive. If you like music, and if you spend any time at all in front of your computer, check out Pandora. She will play the music you want, when you want it.
I spent two hours yesterday creating my very own personalized radio stations:
- Hymns Radio plays traditional church hymns, plus a few select contemporary hymns and worship songs. (I’m not really a fan of contemporary Christian music, so when one of those songs pops up, I click the “I don’t like this song” button, and Pandora apologizes and promises never to play it again. Pandora is very polite.)
- When I’m in the mood for some folksy rock tunes, I switch over to E. Peevie Radio. It’s generated from a Jack Johnson starting point, and includes songs like “Hey There, Delilah” by the Plain White T’s, classic tunes from Simon and Garfunkle and Fleetwood Mac, and of course "American Pie" and other favorites from Don McLean. Awesome.
- And then there’s Dee Dee Radio, in honor of my big brother who is a sentimental softie with a preference for the music of his lost youth. It plays classic popular tunes from the 50s, 60s, and a few 70s, featuring bands like The Dave Clark Five, The Spinners, and Franki Valli.
- I love musical theater, so one of my stations is Sound of Music Radio. I can sing along to "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story; "Seventy-Six Trombones" from Music Man; and "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" from Oklahoma.
- Most of my life I have despised and disparaged country music. But now I find myself creating Willie Nelson Radio, a station that plays classic country hits like "Folsom Prison Blues" by Merle Haggard, "Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash, and even some not-so-classic-and-a-tiny-bit-queer-but-I-like-it-so-there John Denver songs.
- Oh, and I almost forgot: Water Music Radio brings me compositions like Handel's "Water Music Suite No. 2", "Sonata in D Major" by Telemann, and of course, the ubiquitous Pachelbel's "Canon in D".
Just what I needed: another time sink. My life is one time-sink addiction after another.
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