You may have noticed a lapse in content around these parts.

Well, it's because we're working on something new. A new site, to be exact. The one we told you about last year, and are just now finishing up.

We're excited. It's going to be good. The best part is we won't have to put up with our currently awful backend. Oh, we can't wait.

Anyway, there are a few points I'd like to make.

1) There's still plenty of content over at the Burnside Blog. You can read that for the time being.

2) Or you can peruse our archives here!

3) If you have submitted an article and have not heard back, please hang onto your piece. Our new site will have a streamlined submissions process. Really streamlined. You will like it. The point is, hold onto your piece until the new site is launched and the new submissions process has been laid out. If you haven't heard from us, it's not that we didn't like something...honest!...it's just that our current format for accepting new submissions is deeply flawed.

Right now, I cannot give an exact date for the change over, but we fully expect it to be ready by the end of summer. Probably before.

Thank you for your readership. You will like what we have in store.

Sincerely,
Jordan Green
Editor-in-Chief

A few years ago I finally arrived at an age in which I could somewhat objectively reflect upon a fairly unconventional childhood. It may not have been incredibly different from yours - many of the elements of a "normal" American upbringing are there. As per the status quo, I had a mother and a father, two younger sisters, a rotating menagerie of pets, an insatiable curiosity and friends of both the real and imaginary variety.

We moved around a bit when I was younger, leaving the home I'd known as an infant and young child near Houston, Texas for San Antonio when I was five; leaving San Antonio for Dallas when I was seven; and finally leaving Dallas for Austin just before the start of my fifth grade year. My father was a youth minister in the Baptist church for over 35 years, and the moves were always an amalgamated necessity - church politics and more intimate reasons, some of which have only recently manifested as family secrets. As I'm sure many of you know, the life of a minister, the church behind the stained glass windows and plastic smiles, can be just as ugly as you may imagine the lives and scenes behind the doors of any prominent government office or corporate boardroom to be. I was aware of this gross ecclesiastical malady from an early age - I watched from the nursery hall; I listened to the adults talk in hushed voices after I had been tucked into bed at night.

I was aware of other things too - my mother's escalating descent into the basement of loneliness and depression, her diminishing respect and love for my father, my father's own skewed, albeit well meaning, priorities to the students in his church and anybody else who didn't quite fall under the rubric of immediate family. I've now come to believe that we - his family, were never consciously shelved (I know that we were never ignored) - but that in becoming an extension of his self and his life, we also became victim to his self-sacrificial predilection.

The move to Austin the summer following my tenth birthday seems to be a key moment in my life for a multitude of reasons, only a few of which are remotely relevant here. I'm convinced that my mental adolescence began long before the age of twelve or thirteen. At eight and nine, my cynicism and rollercoaster confidences were already bright and glowing with the emotional sweat that only a mind experiencing the loss of childhood notion and the gain of adult self-consciousness can ooze.

So, another relocation at age ten from a place I loved to a place I didn't know only precipitated this feeling of life-dread. In time, though, I came to love our new church home in Austin - it was different and exciting and much bigger than any community we had been a part of. The message was primarily of Grace, of Forgiveness, of Love. I can see now with the move and new church community, God was preparing my family for something of which these messages were most important in the healing.

The relationship between my parents grew worse than ever before. My mother moved out of their bedroom and into the guest room adjacent to mine in the fall of my sixth grade year. A few months later, sometime after Christmas, she moved out of the house entirely and out of town to her sister's in San Antonio. Divorce inevitably followed. This thrust my family into new territory - my dad into a new role as a single father and primary care-taker of three girls 11, 8, and 7, my mom as a still-young woman at 31 without her children, and us as the children of divorce struggling with a clueless dad and a mommy who became just a mother who felt thousands of miles away.

A million dinner disasters and frustrations and sad moments characterize the first few years of adjustment in a home that had housed five...and then only four. My mother soon remarried and started a new family, changing cities every couple of years like a pair of sneakers and, despite the fact that she has always emphasized how much she loves my sisters and me, our relationship flows a bit shallower today as a result. Truthfully, she is a very different woman than the mom I grew up with (she's even recently changed her first name), and sometimes it's hard to even remember my mother as I knew her in those new and naive days before my world began to cave.

My dad and I have only grown closer. During the separation and divorce and in the years to follow, he claims that my sisters and I taught him as much, if not more than he taught us. That's partly his intrinsic humility talking, but completely truth. I think that's the remarkable thing - for as my sisters and I were growing physically and intellectually, he was growing as well. We matured together in faith and wisdom, though his capacity for such strongly exceeds ours. He has always emphasized the importance of discernment, grace, mercy and compassion. Nothing was forced upon us, choice and autonomy prized, and though there have been some stumbles, even plummets, along the way, I have emerged from childhood relatively healthy and joyful and my relationship with the Lord remarkably intact despite so many witnessed horrors and manipulations even within my own church home - the one espousing Grace and Forgiveness and Love. My earthly dad has only served as a beautiful and challenging human model of my Heavenly Father.

My dad is one of my most favorite people. How many can say that? But I can read the enormity of the impact of the divorce in his tired eyes; I see how it has affected his health. He has not yet remarried and that predilection for self-sacrifice still remains strong, though he is now the sole victim. He has struggled to maintain balance between an emotionally demanding job as a minister and an emotionally demanding job as a single father. He encourages me to write, but does not allow himself the time to pen the thousands of books in his head and in his heart. My sisters and I are now out of the house and living in three very different parts of the country, but he's still working 60 hours a week ministering, comforting, counseling others.

I can't imagine growing up without his quiet influence everyday and while I am still very saddened by the circumstance, I no longer look back upon my life and long for something different to have happened to my family so many years ago. We are doubtlessly shaped by the events in our lives and our responses to them, as well as the response of others close to us. I like who I am. It's been a far from perfect twenty-four years, but I have realized that I would be a markedly different person if certain events hadn't evolved into a seemingly brokenfamilybeast of a thing, and I thank God everyday for helping us to tame this leviathan of modern American family life - let's just pray this creature doesn't become the household pet of the status quo.

Notwithstanding, the number of single fathers with primary custody of their kids is on the rise. As a culture and community of believers, I think we should offer these men just as much praise and recognition as single-mothers - my dad has been both mother and father to me for 13 years now and as I continue to evolve as an independent adult, I still seek his guidance and opinion. Thanks, Dad.

Sadly, this economization of sex is not just a flippant portrayal of modern conceptions of human relations - putting a price tag on sex is a sobering reality. Recently, an article in a major publication stated that a young lady was selling her virginity for $3.8 million. The twenty-two year old girl is simply going to sell her virginity to the highest bidder. The integrity of this 'gift' is based on her honest word that the highest bidder would actually be her first. Now, the fact that she is selling sex and that there are ample men lining up is not exactly inconceivable news. After all, prostitution is said to be the oldest profession and it is only becoming more professional.

The real kicker comes when the young lady explains her rationale for selling her virginity. She states that it all comes down to a moral and religious issue and it is neither against her morals nor her religion. Essentially, the young damsel in financial distress is saying: "you've got your religion that you live by and I've got mine - so don't tread on me." Like it or not, this is a brilliant public relations move. Playing the modern day trump card of religion, nobody in good post-modern conscience can tell her that selling virginity is wrong.

Religion is the crux of her argument. This recently tepid word has become a veritable get-out-of jail-free card. Anyone can say that their religion permits an action and you are being intolerant by suggesting that they are wrong. This gives Christianity no traction whatsoever to contest immoral behavior, allowing people to write anything off simply as a person's private conception of morality. The word "immoral" has been struck from the books to be replaced by open-mindedness; to many people, saying that an action is contrary to Biblical teaching now has absolutely no efficacy.

No longer can one say, "I am monogamous because of my religion." Anyone can simply counter with, "I am promiscuous because of my religion." Using religion leads to a stalemate where each side simply agrees to disagree. What, then, is a Christian to do with this quandary? The answer is unnerving to some Christians - if society has gutted the term "religion," natural reason still has clout.

In society's breast, reason forever beats. As a culture, we have decided it is reasonable to be tolerant, concerned, and humane. It is reasonable to base knowledge in experience and science. It is reasonable to test all beliefs. In view of this, suppose one could counter this young lady's argument on the basis of reason. In other words, her so-called religion has failed to change her mind, so why not try plain reason?

Could she be persuaded by psychology and its suggestions that she is running towards an identity crisis and ruined psychosocial growth? Could she be persuaded by medicine and its suggestions that she is at risk for AIDS and a whole slew of other sexually transmitted diseases? Or, perhaps the economists could persuade her by explaining the law of diminishing returns and how her 'product' is ever decreasing in value. The fact of the matter is, I really don't know what would persuade her. Still, I do know that if the word "religion" does not work, Christians must find something that does. It seems reasonable to me that if the Creator of reason is good, reason itself must be good.

My father was a Baptist minister and my mother was a homemaker and they had a special language for talking about sex. To hear it from them, babies were gifts from God dropped from heaven into the arms of happily married couples who had a special way of loving each other.

I never heard my parents say the word "sex" until I was almost finished with high school. The reality of sex was shrouded in euphemism and hyper religious lingo.

Thanks to my curious and scientifically-oriented mind, I figured out sex for myself when I was thirteen years old. I had been babysitting two children for the summer, and I noted the difference in female and male anatomy when I changed their diapers.

In the tradition of being vague and euphemistic, I'll just say that the boy had a round peg and the girl had a round hole, and it seemed to me that if all men had pegs and all women had holes, these were most likely puzzle pieces that were meant to fit together. And then I thought I must be crazy because how could you ever, ever, ever let a boy's peg anywhere near your hole.

That was ridiculous. Wasn't it?

My curiosity finally overcame my embarrassment, and I decided to research my theory. One evening while my parents were out and my younger siblings were asleep, I took the "R" encyclopedia off the bookcase in the living room and retreated to my room. I sat on the floor, knees tucked to my chest, serving as a makeshift table top for the encyclopedia that lay open before me. Looking back, I realize I should have taken the "S" encyclopedia to look up "Sex," but at the time I didn't even know what it was called. The only word I knew that pertained to the topic was "Reproduction," which I must have picked up in biology class at some point.

So I looked up the "Reproduction" entry in the encyclopedia and began to read. I was at once gratified and horrified to find out that my theory was true. Male and female anatomy were puzzle pieces that fit together in an act that the encyclopedia called "intercourse."

I was right! I thought triumphantly.

And then, Oh my gosh, my parents don't do that. Do they?

And after the gratification and horror came a deep sense of betrayal. Why didn't anyone ever tell me this? I wondered.

By the time my mother got around to giving me the sex talk, I had gleaned all the information I needed from our encyclopedia set.

One night she sat down on my bed and said, "Do you know what sex is?"

I nodded.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked me.

I shook my head. I thought, I've done so much reading, I probably know more than you do, but I didn't say that out loud.

I let her kiss my forehead, turn out the lights, and retreat down the stairs. And that was the end of the sex talk.

About a year later, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday. My parents gave me a purity ring to mark the occasion. We had a little ceremony at the dining room table where I put the ring on my left ring finger and promised my parents I was going to "save myself for marriage." But even then, there was no mention of the word "sex." There was purity, abstinence, waiting, saving yourself, the special relationship between a husband and a wife, all these terms and more. But there was no "sex."

Because my parents seemed hesitant to discuss the details of sex, I decided not to bring it up. Instead of thinking about boys, I immersed myself in science class and research projects. Instead of dating, I got involved in church and choir and drama.

I almost forgot about sex. Until I got to anatomy class in college. Thankfully, by this time Al Gore had invented the Internet, which came in handy for looking up answers to questions I was too embarrassed to ask out loud.

There were some questions to which I found no answers. Like who first referred to sex as "the birds and the bees." All I could imagine when I heard this phrase was a canary trying to mount a bumblebee. Wasn't that the equivalent of a man trying to hump a horse? Wasn't sex between different species considered bestiality?

And why did people always use the verb "have" when referring to sex. Everybody "has" sex, but how is it possible to have something you can't keep? Why didn't anyone refer to "doing sex" or "practicing sex"?

Other questions that arose had more concrete answers.

In a lecture on human sexuality, I learned about different sex acts, including something called a blow job. For a few weeks, I mulled this phrase over in my mind. A blow job? What exactly was that? How did blowing on a man's penis get him aroused?

I couldn't figure it out, and I didn't know who to ask, so I turned to Google, where I found a graphic description of fellatio. Again, I felt betrayed. Not because no one had told me about this before, but because the act had been so misnamed.
There was no blowing involved as far as I could tell.

*

It turns out, my younger sister was as naïve as I was. Except she wasn't as curious as I was, so she never turned to the encyclopedia set or the Internet to figure out the mystery of sex.

She lived in blissful ignorance until, at age 15, my mother hauled her to the ob/gyn's office because she was having irregular periods.

When my sister checked in, the nurse gave her a specimen cup and pointed her to the bathroom adjacent to the waiting room to give a urine sample. "There are instructions on a poster in the bathroom," the nurse explained.

My sister went into the bathroom, locked the door, and read the poster. Then she read it again. And again. She understood that you were supposed to wipe something before you peed into the cup, but she didn't understand what or where that something was. So she opened the bathroom door and yelled to my mom in the waiting room, "Hey, mom! What's a vagina?"

When my mom called me later that evening to tell me what had happened, I scolded her. "You mean she's fifteen and you haven't had the sex talk with her yet?" I asked.

"Oh, no, we've had the sex talk," my mom assured me.

"Well, maybe you should've told her what the parts were called." Then I said, "Put Hannah on the phone."

My little sister sheepishly said hello. I got straight to the point. "Okay, Hannah, here we go," I said. "You have ovaries and a vagina. Boys have testicles and a penis. Sex happens when a boy puts his penis into your vagina."

There was silence on the end of the phone.

"Oh, and sex is how babies are made."

More silence.

"That's all for now."

Without saying anything, she handed the phone back to my mom.

*

By the time I finished college and headed to grad school to earn a master's degree in medical science, I was pretty pleased with myself. I deemed myself worldly wise, well versed in human anatomy and sexuality. I thought I had discovered all the hidden passageways and fallen through all the trap doors there were in the exploration of human sexuality.

And then we began the physical exam labs, where we learned how to perform exams on people who were paid a small sum in exchange for letting medical students practice on them.

For the male genitourinary exam, our class of about 40 students carpooled from Yale School of Medicine to the University of Connecticut medical campus. The coordinator split us into groups of five, and my classmates and I, wearing our short white lab coats, paraded into exam rooms where our professional patients were waiting.

My group entered our assigned exam room to find a sixty-something-year-old man with white receding hair and a short cropped white beard standing in front of the exam table in a button down long-sleeved shirt and cowboy boots - and nothing else. He was naked from his waist to just below his knees, where the boots began.

He greeted us warmly, and invited us all to gather 'round as he held his genitals in his hand and pointed out various anatomical landmarks and told us what these various topographies were called.

He gave us a play-by-play guide to the male exam, beginning with squeezing on the head of the penis to see if you can express any discharge to the hernia exam, which involved jamming a finger through the scrotum into each inguinal area and asking that the patient to turn his head and cough.

"Do you know why you ask a man to turn his head when he coughs?" he asked.

We shook our heads.

"It's simple, really," he said, leaning back against the table comfortably, as if he were a tenured professor explaining English literature. As if he were not standing in an exam room naked from the waist down, with five grad students staring at his genitals. "If he didn't turn his head, he'd cough right in your face."

It was a joke. A male GU exam joke. He grinned, pleased with himself, and the smile lasted for half an hour as each of us awkwardly attempted to perform a GU exam on him. After I'd taken my turn, I peeled off my gloves and breathed a sigh of relief. Now we could leave this room, leave this crazy man and his exhibitionism, get in the car, and drive home.

But just as we were ready to leave, he turned towards the table, lowered his elbows onto it and put all of his weight on his arms, arching his wrinkled buttocks toward us.
"And now for the prostate exam," he said.

*

A few weeks later, our class walked over to Yale's School of Nursing building where nurse practitioner students volunteered to teach medical students the female genitourinary exam.

This was much less intimidating to me, for the obvious reason that I was a female. I knew what the parts looked like and what they were called, and I had had a pelvic exam before. Literally a pelvic exam, just one, a month before I started grad school. But still. It was more than I could say for the prostate exam.

I had run into some of the nurse midwifery students in the medical school library. I knew them to be earthy, strong, liberal women who advocated home births and rhythm method birth control and sexual freedom. Earth was their Mother, and from this Earth they had sprung as fellow goddesses - or so the bumper stickers on their dilapidated Volvo station wagons proclaimed.

My classmates and I took our seats in a classroom where one of the nurse practitioner students showed us simple, graphic charts of female anatomy. She then brought out a tray of instruments - a speculum, forceps, a vaginal ultrasound probe, and a cervical brush - a miniature plastic-bristled broom used to collect cervical cell samples for Pap smears.

She explained the logistics of a pelvic exam, and then we were divided into groups of three and we walked into the next room, where there were a dozen pelvic exam beds and two NP students per bed. One NP student was lying on her back with her feet in stirrups, naked from the waist down. The other NP student was standing next to the table, fully clothed. We learned that they were "pelvic teams," and they alternated between examiner and examinee every time they taught this class. We were also informed that they occasionally took an extra turn if their partner was on her period. (I'm still not sure why we needed to know this.)

Our NP instructor wanted to talk to our group before we began practicing the exam, which made me uncomfortable because all I could think was this other poor NP student was lying on her back, half naked, and I would be much, much more comfortable if she could put her clothes back on. Or if we could at least put a sheet over her wide-open legs.

But the examinee was much more comfortable than I was. She seemed content to lie there indefinitely while the instructor talked to us, and she even occasionally raised her head up from the table and contributed to the conversation.

Our instructor began her talk by forming a "V" with her index and middle fingers. "V is for Vagina," she said in a whisper, as if there really were a goddess lurking somewhere nearby and we were approaching her throne. Or, perhaps, her pelvis.

"V is for Vulva," she said next. I wondered if this was going to turn into some kind of crazy alliteration exercise. V is for Vagina. V is for Vulva. V is for Vasectomy. V is for Very, Very uncomfortable right now.

Then she stopped and looked at her fingers and said, "Do you know what else this stands for?"

All I could think of was Richard Nixon getting on a plane, flipping off all of Asia with this gesture. But I didn't say that out loud.

"This is the symbol for peace," she said. "Let this be a reminder to you that when you come to the vagina, you come in peace."

She turned to the genitalia of the NP patient, and she put her ungloved, V-shaped fingers against the other woman's labia. "Peace to your perineum," she said. She turned back to us. "Say it with me," she whispered. "Peace to the perineum. Peace to the perineum."

As we were chanting, one of the male students in my group got sweaty and pale, and began to lose his balance. I helped him stagger outside into the cool night air, where he sat on the curb with his head between his knees and we talked about baseball until his dizziness subsided.

*

After I graduated and began my full-time career in medicine, my encounters with sex accelerated at a surprising rate of speed.

I performed dozens of prenatal ultrasounds, and delivered three babies.

I performed hundreds of pelvic exams, breast exams and Pap smears.

I told hundreds of men to turn their heads and cough.

I took care of a prostitute who had been raped by a client the week before. He forced himself on her before donning the mandatory condom, and it took her a week to overcome her shame and come to the clinic to report the event. After I finished collecting evidence for the rape kit, I took her urine to the lab and performed the pregnancy test myself. I squeezed three drops of urine onto a cartridge and prayed silently while the urine seeped across the paper. Please be negative. Please be negative. Please be negative, I prayed. Then I watched with horror as a faint pink line formed next to the blue line. She was pregnant. I swore out loud.

I removed objects from men's rectums, including zucchinis, bananas, batteries and one small rubber duck.

I took care of a young woman whose boyfriend "did her" with a frying pan handle and perforated her uterus.

I distributed condoms, IUD's, birth control pills, and fertility charts.

I diagnosed patients with Chlamydia, gonorrhea, HIV, syphilis, herpes, and genital warts.

I counseled married couples on how to have more sex, and counseled teenagers on how to have less.

I know more than the average person about human reproduction and sexuality. I can tell you anything you want to know about sex.

Except why I turned thirty without having it.

Sarah Thebarge studied medicine at Yale and journalism at Columbia. She moved to the Portland area where she practices medicine in an insane emergency department. She edits book projects with Randy Alcorn on the side. Her secret ambition is to drink an espresso at every coffee shop in the Pacific Northwest. She is single, and has no pets. (She doesn't even have a plant.)

I was in my early 40's when I found out my husband was dying. I didn't start living like I was dying. Instead, I went into survival mode, where only the Lord can lead one who needs to survive. I have two girls, a great life, great friends, and my Lord and Savior. But, let me tell you, that song has a meaning all its own for me. Living, more like surviving, became enough. I wanted to make sure the stuff that really counted got done, including making it through the day and being there for my girls. The song also reminded me that I only have the time I have and to not put off what I want to accomplish.

Since the fateful day we found out my husband was sick, I have tried not to sweat small stuff - so cliche, but I've learned what is important in my girls' and my life. We have always prayed together, but I make a point to pray aloud, asking God not just to deliver us, but see us through whatever challenge we are facing. I remind us that we can make it if we hold fast to him. I make sure my girls hear me thank God too, for all of the blessings he has given us. When they come to me with troubles on their heart, I stop everything, write down what is bothering them, and then we pray.

They are a new kind of needy. They lost their dad, one half of their foundation. The "Go To Guy" has now become the neighbor, their uncle, their cousin, their dad's son, and their girlfriends' dads. If something were to happen to me, what would they do? Who would make them feel better? Who, in their lives, would be able to tuck them in and replace the only parent they have left on earth?

I don't know if they can even utter the thought. It must go through their minds. In any case, it comes out in the form of concern. It is important for them to know their mom, me, is O.K. They are protective..."Mom, it's really slick here." "Mom, are you O.K.?" When they hear me yell. "Mom, I love you more..." "Mom, I'm sorry I yelled at you." "Mom, can you...?" "It's O.K. Mom, if you can't I understand." "Mom, if you're going to cry, warn me so I'm prepared." "Mom, Dad would be appalled at the shape of his garage." When really, they just wish that the garage was in order, as Dad would have kept it.

There's more stuff I do sweat. I make sure my girls are safe. They need to check in when they go out. I call to make sure there is an adult at home or expecting them at their friends' house. I try to make sure they know where I am. I try to give them the feeling of security by being up and having my coffee in hand before they come downstairs. I try to make good meals often, and sit at the table as a family to eat. We use a lot of our vacation time to visit relatives and we call our family often. I insist they speak respectfully to me and are kind and respectful to others. The thing is, one learns what they live, and I'm their number one point of reference.

All of these things were routine before my husband died. But, when he died, our family felt so broken. All of the routine became extraordinarily difficult to maintain. Everything seemed like gargantuan stuff. I gained 20 pounds between the time I found out he was sick through the six months after he died. Before he died, our bedroom and bathrooms were always clean and orderly. Our bed was made 99% of the time.

Especially the first few months after he died, my bedroom was rarely orderly and our, now my bed was hardly ever made. The kitchen counters didn't get cleaned. There were usually piles of laundry and stuff on the furniture. I didn't wear make-up regularly as I didn't feel like putting it on. I didn't cook often. If it weren't for bean and cheese burritos, maybe some milk and carrots, my girls would have been physically hungry. As it is, today they'd rather stay home and eat left overs than go out. They've sworn off fast food.

I came to dread bedtime. After brushing teeth, I'd often go tuck the girls into bed. We'd say prayers, (which we still do, even at 11 and 14 they like me to say prayers with them). Then, if they weren't sleeping in the same bedroom, I'd be asked to "sleep with me for a while." In the safety of private time and the dark, the tears would come from each of them. "How are we going to get through this?" "When will it stop hurting?" "I'm ready for Dad to come home." Those were the conversation starters they'd use.

I found that if I cried, they were less likely to open up because they didn't want me to feel sad. So, I'd hold them and hold my tears and not talk too much.

I would go downstairs and fall asleep on the couch. I'd be found out in the morning (which was a sign to them, that all was not normal) and so I faced the inevitable. At night, I'd crawl into an empty bed. I started sleeping on my husband's side of the bed because then I didn't feel so alone. I moved my bedroom furniture around so there would only be one night stand by the bed. Some nights I'd hug myself to sleep, and still do. It's better now. It's been 14 months since he died. I look forward to sleep, as I'm better at taking care of business. I also have a dog that needs walking daily so I'm physically tired.

I usually don't find living so overwhelming anymore. I have days where I have trouble functioning and am weepy, but it's not debilitating anymore. Cleaning out his closet doesn't send me into a tailspin where I cry for hours. In the several months after he died, I'd have to call my sister to come and rescue me from the tears. I'd be wiped out for the entire day following my meltdowns. That isn't the case anymore.

I usually have the energy to get showered and put together, write bills, pick up the breakfast dishes and plan dinner. I have my lists of things to do and people to contact. I've got my grocery lists and my car maintenance, financial, and counseling appointments. I stop often, and thank God for the blessings of my home, my family, and the resources to stay home and not need to find a paying job.

People tell me they are amazed at my strength. I tell them I couldn't have gone on without the Lord above. I tell them about the people who pray for us. And the verses from Job chapters 39 - 41 where God challenges Job and asks him a few questions such as "Were you there when I mapped out the coordinates of the universe? Were you there when I told the water where to stop on the shore? Were you where when I hung the stars?" These references assure me that God is at the helm of my life and has a plan.

I recite people Jeremiah 29:11 which says, "For I know the plans I have for you saith the Lord, plans not to harm you, but to give you a future and a hope." I tell people how the girls and I have banked on this promise to see us through and continue to sustain us as we go forward.

I wonder what people are thinking when they say I'm strong. What am I going to do? Close the blinds and hide from the sunshine and my friends? Then I realized if I didn't have the love and support of Jesus, my friends, and family, I might have done just that. I instead, I hear the words of my Uncle Jim, whose own wife of forty years, is in a close battle with cancer. He always ends his letters, "And so we go on."

Of course, then there are mornings like today where "going on" is a challenge. Mornings like today I wake up and wonder, "Was it real?" The life with the man I spent fifteen years...married, making a home, a family, a life together. Was it real? Do I even remember his voice, his touch, his smell, his presence? Would I, if he came up behind me, know it was him?

And then I say to myself, "Oh hell. I'm tired of missing him and trying to remember what it was like to have him here and to not be the only adult in the house? I am sick and tired of the loneliness." I keep it to myself though, I don't want to upset the girls before they leave for school.

Then though, my youngest comes downstairs. She's not quite right. I ask her what's up. She sits down on my lap and says she misses Dad. She's ready for school to be out, but mostly, she misses Daddy. We sit down in a more comfortable chair. I call the school. I'm not going to make my volunteer gig at the crossing zone today. I rock-a-bye with my 11 year-old daughter. She doesn't fit in my lap, but she needs to rock-a-bye like she did when she'd skin her knee as a three year-old. Her heart is hurting more than her knee ever did. I can't fix it. So, we take a minute or ten and sit in the quiet. Soon though, it's time for school and the day must go on and lunch needs to be made and the dog pees on the rug and her sweatshirt is in the dryer and today's the fitness test which she likes better than the Mile Run because she "rocks" at sit-ups and push-ups. We make it to school on time.

Then my girlfriend calls me, as she often does when I'm not guarding the crossing zone. She asks me if all is O.K. I say yes at first but she can tell that everything isn't O.K. I surprise myself with the tears in my voice as I recount the morning. She validates my feelings and my weariness of this whole grief process. She asks me if she can pray with me. She tells me to go ahead and cry. I think to myself how I'm so not going to cry. Immediately when she begins to pray, tears start coursing down my cheeks and I can't make any noise and I'm so thankful she called.

I'm so tired of grief. I want to be done with it and to not feel so sad or lonely. I don't feel sad everyday. It just catches me so off guard. One who hasn't lost may not understand the loneliness to which I refer. I think I can safely say that if a couple is married and shares the birth of children, and love and respect for the other that grows during fifteen years of marriage, there is a level of commitment and comfort that becomes second nature. It was second nature for me.

While my husband was sick and whacked and hallucinating because of the medications and toxins in his brain, he was afraid and insecure and belligerent. He was childlike. Sometimes I was more his parent than his wife. But when it the time came, and we both knew he wouldn't live, we cried together because we loved each other on multiple levels. We were friends, walking buddies, each others' cheerleader, parents, partners, lovers, companions. The list could go on for pages. We trusted each other to tell the truth, even when the truth question "do these pants make me look fat?" was launched. We prayed and worshiped and laughed together. We forgave each other. Again, the list could go on for pages. And, "at the end of the day," as he would often say, I loved him so much, I didn't want him to suffer. I told him if it hurt too much, the girls and I would be O.K. and he should go see Jesus. I told him I loved him, and within a day, he died.

And there I was, except I wasn't alone, I was blessed with our two girls. We have come forward with his spirit in the girls and me. We do not have his physical scent, his voice or touch. We remember his kindness and gentleness, his patience and humor, temper and annoying habits. But it's one thing to remember, it's another to have and to hold. We miss him.

I miss him physically, practically, and mentally. I miss him when the furnace filters need changing or I can't get the lid off the pickle jar or the grill needs to be lit or the vacation needs to be planned or the bills need to be written or the lawn mower needs fixing or, I've spent all day cleaning the house and no one notices.

I feel alone when the girls are fighting or don't listen or need to be two places at once or have bad dreams or are crying out in their sleep or really want what they want and the answer is still no.

I feel cheated when the girls come home excited because they've made Honor Choir or the Mediating Team or National Honor Society or high jumped 4'4" or have tried out for the Volleyball Team or graduated from their counselors. I feel cheated that I can't share the excitement together with him. I can't share my anger or sorrow or joy, knowing that he would understand, like no one else in the world, what it means to each child. I feel cheated when I think how each child is going to miss getting that nod of approval from their dad. I feel cheated when I think of all the events where he should be sitting by me, watching our girls grow up.

So, I woke up this morning, tired of missing him and even wondering if he was real. He was real. I've got pictures and children and lessons learned and a home and a life built with him. I just don't have him.

But, as my uncle says, "And so we go on." By God's grace, we go on.

"Beware of the person who can't be bothered by details." - John Wooden

Mighty words are formed by the Greek alphabet, words consistently recognized on a college or university campus. "Alpha" and "Beta" immediately come to mind. "Theta" and "Kappa" are noteworthy too; however, one is unlikely to see the word "Iota" etched into a fraternity or sorority building. A quick glance into the dictionary reveals "bit" and "particle" are good synonyms. I rarely hear this word used in daily conversation, but when it is uttered I take note. This word is unique, and in this context one understands a burgeoning website.

I suppose the full disclosure of life started with MySpace (a place for friends). Registered users can post photos, videos, a weblog (BLOG), educational history and unique factoids. Facebook, a MySpace competitor, is similar in purpose. The Google toolbar reveals identical page ranks (9 out of 10), but it is obvious people prefer one over the other. Furthermore, the sites are now used in conversation as a verb: "I will MySpace you" or "I will Facebook you." Teenagers fully grasp this jargon. But oddly enough, adults are taking notice too, creating profiles to locate and connect with friends anew. Popularity for these two sites is holding, but another player is rising in visibility: Twitter.

Twitter exists to keep family, friends and colleagues connected (note this word once more) through information exchange, an exchange guided by one question: "What are you doing?" A simple concept, this site is blooming quickly; a review by Newsweek is a fitting synopsis: "Suddenly, it seems as though all the world's a-twitter." The Washington Post reported today "Twitter" is now the term searched most on the web (according to Google Trends). The word is looked up more than "Britney" or "Obama." Incidentally, the President can be followed on Twitter.

Since I know numerous people are still unsure of this platform, here's a brief outline. Registered users can post updates (called "tweets") up to 140 characters through the website or a mobile phone on their current whereabouts. A friend I know who uses the site recently posted this update: "I need a ride to the airport Thursday morning." Updates can be mundane or profound. Registered users also have followers, people who subscribe to receive updates on their day. According to Twitterholic, the top five users based on followers are CNN Breaking News, Britney Spears, Ashton Kutcher, The Ellen Show and Twitter (the site too is sporadically updated). The idea is visionary, but I wish to meditate on the ramifications for a moment.

I can understand the desire for people to receive updates on news. In fact, the CNN feed on Twitter truly underscores the reality global events can and are updated in real time. Delays in updating the public are a rare occurrence now. But I wonder why 873,333 followers (the latest figure) wish to receive updates on Britney Spears. Consider this recent entry: "Had a great dinner with all the dancers last night!" This "tweet" takes me back to the thought I explored earlier: the iota. "Zero" is not a synonym for "iota," but I think it may fit from time to time. The aforementioned statement by Britney adds an iota of value to my life. Zero is more appropriate though. Jimmy Fallon and Ellen DeGeneres update on their show and guests, but why would I wish to know this? Why would I wish to know some girl knocked on John Mayer's car window at a red light? Think minutiae. Is this Twitter? Or is it more? Ponder the way people connect with others and the means (e-mail, phone, text, face to face) by which connection is facilitated. Ponder the difficulty involved in relationship maintenance. Intention and initiation are paired together. When I wish to share a meal with my sister, desire rises first. Accordingly, I call her and set it up. And since I have one more sister, a brother and parents, discipline is necessary, a discipline to continually strengthen the bond I share with each one.

I remember a conversation a friend and I shared once on relationships. He ruminated on the reasons why friends on MySpace (or Facebook) are not friends in the truest sense of the word. I'm inclined to agree when I look over the list in my Facebook account (which I rarely visit). Excluding family members, I notice five friends I call on a consistent basis. I wonder if this is why the T Mobile "Fave 5" marketing push is successful. The website claims 2/3 of outgoing calls are made to the five people in this plan. The guy I mentioned in the first sentence? He is one of the five. I know the other "friends" in my Facebook account, but I cannot begin to grasp the complexity (or real impossibility) of making time in life to strengthen these relationships. Do I wish to? Without question. Strong intention exists, as does the reality of initiation: I have their e-mail address and/or phone number. But balancing even a small number of relationships is difficult. Case in point. Another friend (also in the five) became a father for the first time yesterday. I called him after work and shared in his happiness. Moments ago, I received a picture from my mother and brother holding his new son. Notice the two unique touch points in these relationships: a call made to my friend, a photo message in the phone from my mother and brother. Three other friends in my "Fave 5" are due a call soon. Why? Connection. Do I need to? No. Do I wish to? Yes.

In short, this is why I believe Twitter exists: to bridge connections. Twitter is a window into the life of another. Facebook, too. The constant updates on Twitter provide real time insight; the brief blurbs consistently revised by friends on Facebook are identical in intention. Why is this unending data stream intriguing though? Twitter co-founder Biz Stone may know the reason: "When people hear about Twitter, their immediate reaction is that it's the simplest and stupidest idea in the world. They do not want to know that their brother is eating a hot dog right now. But then they discover that their friends are on it. And so are the L.A. Fire Department, NASA and JetBlue. Then they get it." I suppose it is the power of numbers, joining for one reason: because others are. And is it also fueled by one's willingness to be public, to reveal life's small details to all web users? I may be shunned by all who know me for making this revelation, but I will go for it nonetheless. I have updated my status on Facebook twice since I opened an account. Twice. I love technology, but I crumble in amazement when I consider the information within reach on the web. A quote by comedian Jon Stewart is appropriate: "The Internet is just a world passing notes around in a classroom."

Writing for ZDNet, Matthew Miller makes a fascinating confession: "I admit that I have been hooked on Twitter the last month or so and am wasting way too much time checking my mobile device every time a message ("tweet") hits it." Social sites are good for establishing new and existing relationships, but is a point reached in which addiction grips the mind, the spirit? I remember the opening scene from The Matrix (1999). Thomas Anderson (Neo) meets a friend at the door to exchange software for cash. He starts to ruminate on the vexing behavior of his computer occurring only moments ago, but decides to pose a question: "You ever have that feeling where you're not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?" His friend comments on the way a drug induces this reality, but nudges him to simply "unplug," step into rest, relaxation. Might Twitter or Facebook be a unique "drug" type? I cherish all the relationships I have with family, friends and colleagues, but my intrigue with their thoughts on sleep deprivation, homework, spaghetti, the state of Ohio, potting soil and birthday cakes is zero, zilch. Consider the second quote by John Wooden in this meditation. I do enjoy the nuances life holds, but I choose to converse on them personally with good food, not a "tweet" or status update. A phone will suffice too. Noted earlier, the Twitter requirement on updates is this: messages must be under 140 characters. Since I'm choosing not to open an account, this is the only "tweet" I will ever post..."Connect to me through austin.bonds@yahoo.com. Ask for a phone number. Will lunch or dinner work?"

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Notes:

Schonfeld, Erick. "It's Official: Twitter is More Popular than Britney." The Washington Post. 4.14.09. 4.14.09
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/04/14/AR2009041402020.html

Graham, Jefferson. "Twitter Took Off From Simple to 'Tweet' Success." USA Today. 7.21.08. 4.15.09
http://www.usatoday.com/tech/products/2008-07-20-twitter-tweet-social-network_N.htm

Miller, Matthew. "Is Twitter Popular Because No One Has 'Real' Friends Who Text Message?" ZDNet. 3.15.07. 4.15.09
http://blogs.zdnet.com/mobile-gadgeteer/?p=31

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Dr. William Hurlbut presented an impassioned lecture on the "poignant dilemma" of embryonic stem-cell research at Socrates in the City (SIC) on Wednesday, March 25. Though carefully balanced in discussing the issues involved in stem-cell research, the talk was nevertheless persuasive in explaining the need for an alternative method of research that will satisfy both factions of thought on the controversial subject. Hurlbut described a well-researched plan that would potentially solve the debate on how to move forward in a manner that is both scientific and moral.

"A lot of Socrates in the City speakers put 'Dr.' in front of their names," joked Eric Metaxas, founder of Socrates in the City, a New York City-based organization that promotes dialogue on "Life, God, and other small topics," by hosting forums featuring today's notable thinkers. Metaxas, himself a New York Times best-selling author, explained that Hurlbut is "an actual physician." It was evident that when Metaxas said, "He's not afraid to get his hands dirty," as he ribbed that Hurlbut would "not be afraid to look at your rashes," there was some philosophical truth to the statement.

After all, Hurlbut seems to gravitate toward the challenging concerns of life. "His primary areas of interest involve the ethical issues associated with advancing biomedical technology, the biological basis of moral awareness, and studies in the integration of theology and philosophy of biology," according to the press release put out by SIC. Among Hurbut's impressive roles are acting as consulting professor at the Neuroscience Institute, being a member of the Chemical and Biological Warfare working group at the Center for International Security and Cooperation, and serving on the President's Council on Bioethics, where he has advised both Presidents George W. Bush and Barak Obama on matters concerning embryonic stem-cell research.

Given his teaching and advising experience, Hurlbut knows how to make a complex scientific topic approachable and interesting to the layman. At his SIC talk at Manhattan's prestigious University Club, Hurlbut injected warmth into the rather clinical topic of stem-cell research through the use of personal anecdotes from his experience working in science labs and speaking with presidents. Much the way SIC is founded upon the Greek philosopher Socrates' statement that "the unexamined life is not worth living," Hurlbut began his talk by reminding everyone of another famous quote: "Those who choose the beginnings of a road also choose its destination." In other words, the decisions we make today about stem-cell research will determine our future.

On March 3 of this year, President Obama spoke on the topic of stem-cell research saying, "As a person of faith I believe we are called to care for each other and work to ease human suffering." It is a popular opinion that embryonic stem-cell research is a necessary means to finding cures for degenerative diseases and solutions to devastating bodily maladies. However, Hurlbut, also a person of faith, questioned, "Would God deny us the possibility of good?" He argued that we shouldn't have to turn to the destruction of embryos in order to further another life, a different life.

With the idea that some people have abortions "for no reason" other than to terminate an unwanted or risky pregnancy, the concept of having an abortion for "a good reason," that is, to save or improve the life of another, may sound comforting or convincing. Abortions are, after all, legal at twenty-four weeks into a pregnancy. However, by that time, Hurlbut notes, the fetus has already developed specialized movement: it is not careful when placing its hand by its mouth, but when its hands are near its eyes, its movements are more controlled and sensitive.

Hurlbut mentioned couples who had frozen embryos and then, after they divorced, were faced with bitter battles over who owned the embryos and what should be done with them. Although Hurlbut did not explicitly state so, one could foresee stem-cell research leading to married couples arguing over whether to purposely create and destroy a new life to save the life of a child they have already given birth to.

Hurlbut warns not just of these sorts of social predicaments, but also of the political issues that would come up if we continue to conduct embryonic stem-cell research. Noting that different countries have different legislation regarding both abortion and stem-cell research, he foreshadows medical tourism and "commercial motivations for outsourcing morally questionable" things. Without going into any detail, he spoke of parthenogenesis (being able to reproduce on one's own) and animal hybrids. He also alluded to how Hitler subjected his victims to science experiments.

Convincingly insisting that embryonic stem-cell research is taking us on a dangerous path, Hurlbut offers a slight but meaningful alteration to this type of research. He says all that needs to be done to appease everyone's morality is to knock out a factor in the egg. An organism is organized but scientists can get advanced tissue even from disorganized cells. Hurlbut says that research has found that this works in both mice and monkeys. However, he has not been able to obtain government support to continue his research. "There's a bigger agenda," Hurlbut fears, "to use embryos for a lot more things."

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You can purchase recordings of past SIC events here: http://socrates.gammastream.com/soc/store.php

Penny Carothers sat down with Susan (though they were in different cities at the time, and might've sat down at different times to ask or answer questions) to to to her about the book:

BWC: Susan, you write in your book that around the time you turned forty, your life went up in flames. Everything fell apart. Meanwhile, it seemed that everyone around you had success after success. ACWG is essentially about your life coming apart at the seams, and your anger at God for allowing it to happen, especially because it seemed like he rubbing your nose in it. How did expressing that anger help you to come to know God, not as the deadbeat husband you describe at the beginning of the book, but as the Lover of Your Soul you have come to know, no matter what the circumstances?

Susan Isaacs: It was a long process. I went to see a Christian therapist (who used to be a pastor!) and vented my anger, heartbreak, and embarrassment -- after all, mine were only "middle class white girl tragedies." It was healing to vent it, and have someone listen but not call me a freak.

Next, I had to vocalize the God in my head. When I heard audibly what I thought silently, it was ugly: that god [in my head] wasn't "good." He didn't line up with Scripture. I had to eject that false god in my head, but it didn't go quietly! It's much easier to disregard God if he's a jerk, or manipulate Jesus if he's a wimp. But what if God is good and crap still happens? Then I couldn't force God to make my life go well. I'd have to accept God on God's terms.

That's what real love is, for better or worse. I realized I 'married God for his money.' I was the deadbeat. In fact, I was a gold digger. So I had to love God for himself, regardless of what he gave me.

BWC: That's the real trouble, isn't it? We must accept God on God's terms, and that means we first have to understand who He is. In a way, that's what your story is, it seems. Throughout ACWG we see God in many guises: gentle yet passive, stern and authoritarian, and in the beginning of your story, a snarky, sarcastic, and almost cruel God. It seems that God, in your mind's eye, comes through your journey with you, being transformed as you are transformed.

SI: That's true, because God had to change from the diseased god in my head to the true, loving God. God changed as I got healthy.

BWC: To the extent that it's possible, you must have learned to distance your own view of who God is from who He just is. Do you think that's true?

SI: Yes, very true. At first it was terrifying to consider that I what I believed might not actually be true! I knew Christianity was true, but maybe what "I believed" wasn't true. I once saw a bumper sticker that read, "Don't believe everything you think."

BWC: That's a real tough one. How did you do it?

SI: I sure didn't volunteer for it. I had to hit bottom and get desperate before I was willing to do what I was told. My 12-step sponsor made me write a gratitude list every day. I had to learn to look for beauty and love and creativity in my life, even if I never made a living in my field or got married. God had to destroy my fake life in order to rebuild me a real one. It's amazing that he stuck with me and did it. He could have blown me off long ago.

BWC: Thank goodness He didn't! Do you think you relate differently to God because of all that happened?

SI: Mostly I feel love and gratitude toward God. He's much closer to the Real Thing. And yet I still know God is incomprehensibly holier, lovelier, and more dangerous than I can even fathom.

BWC: The Real Thing. That is not the kind of God who would deliver "the life that you specify," which was the expectation at the heart of your "spiritual rock bottom." How did you learn to let go of control without letting go of your dreams? How have you learned to be content with the life that you live now, even when it really hurts or disappoints you?

SI: Do it "For fun and for free." Even if I couldn't make a living doing acting or writing, I could still do it for fun and for free -- because I loved it and couldn't NOT do it. In a sinless world we'd get our dreams, and our dreams would be good ones. But this world is fallen. It is an ongoing discipline to accept life as it is. The other day I told my husband that I was tired of looking at Craigslist and Goodwill for furniture. Just once

I'd like to afford a living room by IKEA. But you know what's cool about that last sentence? I HAVE A HUSBAND!!! I found the love of my life after forty. How amazing is that? How gracious is God to me for that?!?!

BWC: That strikes me as very similar to the struggles that a lot of twenty-somethings experience. We want everything to come together, we want God to give us 'the desires of our hearts,' and we want it on our timetable. Your experience was similar to that, but you also had a different challenge. Several times throughout your professional life you passed up opportunities because you felt that you needed to "seek God first" rather than go "the way of the world." Later, you realized this was just really bad advice and a mask for your own cowardice. How would you counsel younger people who desire to live by the words, "seek God first," while still pursuing their dreams?

SI: I would encourage younger people to pursue their dreams, but don't hyper spiritualize your desires and expect God to the work. Yes God may have given you the gifts and the longing to be a novelist. But that doesn't mean he is going to make you a masterful, successful novelist. You have to work hard at it. God doesn't exempt you from hard work, hardship, or disappointment just because you are his.

BWC: That reminds me of the "self-improvement" churches you kept attending and leaving. ACWG is among, other things, a story of disillusionment and failure on the part of the church - a story that a lot of people can relate to. But for many, the story ends much differently, it ends with them leaving the church behind. How were you able to hold onto that church, that whore who is your mother as St. Augustine says, when so many people just gave up?

SI: I worked at that church office for a while. I thought the pastor was a bloviator, and when I told him so he laughed. He had loads of problems, but he was also talented and passionate and kind to me. I think God taught me an important lesson. The pastor was "just a guy." He was human. The people at that office loved me for who I was, my whole beautiful messed up self. And that helped me to accept the church for what it is: just "a bunch of guys." Beautiful messed up people who are trying to follow Christ.

The church's failings aren't unique to the church. The desire for a formula, a way to get God to give us what we want...that's human nature. Look at the popularity of "The Secret," "The Power Of Now," The Prayer of Jabez. Feng shui? We want formulas. But God won't adhere to our formula.

BWC: Towards the end of the book, Rudy, your therapist, says, "[Jesus] didn't come to sell stuff. The church sold you stuff, Susan. You got robbed." How did you forgive the church of its failings?

SI: Years ago I'd cling to scriptures like, "The Lord will restore the years that the locusts have eaten." We sin and think God will clear it up later. Or the church leads us astray and we pray that God will 'redeem the time.' Like a great cosmic do-over. Sometimes God does deliver and redeem. But we can never get the time back. That was a huge loss. I had to grieve over it. Grief honors the truth about the event. And then I had to move on.

My therapist told me that lots of people were leaving church, disillusioned and disenfranchised and disinterested. He felt the American church had turned Jesus into a Yuppie Life Coach, when the gospel was a lot richer and harder life. I'd been robbed, he said. I left his office feeling a horrible sense of relief. Relieved I wasn't crazy. Horrible, that it was true. There were no easy answers ahead.

I avoid churches or programs or books that focus on self-improvement. Of course God wants us to improve spiritually! But I will never eradicate sin. My husband and I go to a liturgical church, whose centerpiece is the Eucharist -- communion with God, through the body and blood of Christ. The sacrifice that paid the debt I will never, EVER repay, no matter how much micro-evolution I make toward spiritual self improvement. I think I improve spiritually as I get my mind off of self and self-improvement. Being mindful is one thing; being preoccupied is another

BWC: Thank you so much, Susan, for taking the time to answer our questions. I laughed out loud so many times, and thoroughly enjoyed this book. I hope it was a similar experience in writing it. What was the best part of writing it?

SI: Thank you. It's been great to hear everyone's response to the book. As for the best part of writing it: In "Chariots of fire," Eric Liddel says, "God made me to run fast, and when I run I feel his pleasure." I felt that way when I wrote the book. I felt God's pleasure because I felt so alive writing it. I was giving my testimony to God's goodness, and doing it in a way that was so rewarding and fun for me.

BWC: And what do you hope that your readers will take away?

SI: One: I hope readers will be encouraged to get honest with God; he already knows what's really in our hearts anyway. And Two: I hope readers can dethrone their false gods and allow the real God to step in. I pray readers allow God to rip unhappiness from their hands.

BWC: Great. Thank you so much for sharing your insight with us!

SI: My pleasure!

Angry Conversations with God is available all over the place, at book stores and such, but we recommend you buy it from the good folks at Powell's, because we love them.

So what exactly is ADHD and how is it identified in children? The description below is likely to send an overwrought parent running for the medicine cabinet:

"He entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and [he] pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new reprimand from his teacher. [His] whole class [was] of a pattern -- restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came to recite their lessons, the latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide. Not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along."

Who is this frightening example of ADHD? Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer; the most well-loved example of precocious boyhood behavior in American literature. Nowadays you can be sure that Tom would be put on Ritalin and all that naturally impulsive inquisitiveness that made Aunt Polly throw up her hands in despair would be destroyed. Or, perhaps Tom would be prescribed a newer drug such as Strattera, which comes with a seemingly endless list of side-effects (as they all do), such as suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, aggressiveness, mania, liver damage, and impotence. Incredibly, according to Strattera's own label, the drug company Eli Lilly received FDA approval after submitting a mere six clinical trials on 759 children and 536 adults for six to nine weeks.

"Patients" like Tom Sawyer are being told ADHD is a "disease" and they are being coerced to take medication. If they don't, Social Services have the power to remove them from their families and put them in foster care or mental institutions.

These toxic pills have the effect of chemically straight-jacketing children, just as kids like Andrea and Tommy have described. Where did the idea of the straightjacket originate? Because I would like to humbly point out that, as a parent, I believe my children's brains are important enough for me to want to know the history of how this mental straight-jacketing came into being.

Straightjackets were first introduced at the turn of the century, along with electric shock, hosing down, shackles, lobotomy and holes being drilled into brains to relieve "brain pressure." German physicians gave birth to the idea of mental diseases of the brain, lending credence to the idea of treating it in the same way one might treat a physical disease. Psychiatry and the German State worked together to institutionalize those with "damaged minds," which is really a form of the elite engineering eugenics on an unsuspecting public. As Dr. Szasz says, "The evil genius of psychiatry... continues to lie in its ability to convince itself, the legal system, and the public that...there is no conflict between the legitimate interests of the individual and the legitimate interests of the political class in charge of the state."

Carl Wernicke (1848-1905), a prominent nineteenth-century German neuropsychiatrist observed, "The medical treatment of [mental] patients began with the infringement of their personal freedom." This started with the abuses described above, as well as other "benevolent tortures," such as frightening patients by throwing them into snake pits, the origin of the term "snake pit" for insane asylum. These horrific restraints were precursors to the current drugs.

The methods of restraint are now so much more humane than in the past: little pills. But what are in these pills? The only major difference between giving a child illegal cocaine or legal Ritalin is that you have to give the child a greater dose of cocaine than Ritalin to achieve the same result. Certainly, the child appears quieter and sits still in a chair for hours on end - something that our school system demands. But I ask you, what child in his or her right mind should want to, or should be forced to, sit for hours every day in a chair doing sheet after sheet of boring, rote paperwork and being given countless "standardized tests" to evaluate "success or failure?" Children who rebel against sitting like this (often the brightest and most individual thinkers) but nevertheless are forced to, due to a chemical straightjacket, are not attentive - they are zoned out, their developing brains bombarded by drugs that even the psychiatrists admit they don't understand.

It was in 1973 that the US Department of Health, Education and Welfare, which includes the National Institute of Mental Health, created the Special Education Program for children with "learning disabilities." This gave birth to a whole new army of experts who had to be trained and employed and as such, had to justify their employment by identifying a certain number of Special Needs students in each school - because for every Special Needs child, the government provides extra funding. In 1991, teachers were mandated to "actively seek to identify ADHD children."

Surely, one would think that with this epidemic hitting American children, science has a stringent objective test to clearly identify the ADHD child. This is absolutely not the case. Here is an example of how ridiculous the identifying methods are. Fidgetiness, such as that expressed by Tom Sawyer and his mates, seems to be of special interest to modern psychiatrists as a means of identifying those with ADHD. University of Utah Psychiatrist Paul Wender, known as the Dean of ADHD, suggests that an excellent way for laymen, such as teachers and co-workers, to make a diagnosis of ADHD is to check for fidgetiness---and a perfect way to test for this is to observe whether or not the subject has "restless feet." He states:

"Since restless feet are readily observed - in cafeterias, waiting rooms and group meetings - the diagnostic sensitivity and specificity (of hyperactivity)...could be rapidly tested in such areas by inquiry about individual and family history of, say, alcoholism, academic achievement, and imprisonment in a random sample of those with jiggling and stationary feet." (http://www.sntp.net/ritalin/ritalin_myth.html)

After offering this ridiculously subjective diagnostic method, this same learned Dean of ADHD states in the July 1,1996, Psychiatric Times that , "We cannot meaningfully determine how sensitive and specific our criteria for ADHD are because we do not have any means of determining whether an individual patient 'really' has the disorder." (Emphasis mine.)

Incredibly, he goes on to conclude this contradictory discourse by saying: "ADHD is a common, genetically transmitted disorder. It is usually undiagnosed but fairly easily diagnosed."

Do not imagine that just because this man uses impressive sounding words and he has a bunch of letters after his name he is making any sense. What he is saying makes no sense at all. Yet he is revered as an expert and heaven help the ignorant parent who dares to question his authority. Well, I have jiggling feet (in fact, they are jiggling right now as I write), my brother, a philosophy professor, has jiggling feet, my son Max has jiggling feet. Clearly, we should be concerned about our ability to function in society and our propensity towards alcoholism and imprisonment. Max, who is somewhat of a kidder, when reprimanded in school to stop jiggling his feet, told his teacher that he had "restless leg syndrome" and had "forgotten to take his medication." This was not considered funny by his teacher - which is one of the many reasons why he is no longer in public school. Fortunately, his teacher in his charter school has a much better sense of humor.

I was blessed to grow up in a family where reason was extolled by my parents and there was never an excuse for bad behavior. It was accepted that children would do wrong. The important thing was to take responsibility, learn from the experience and do better next time. My dad is a Christian writer, and as a child we traveled the world so he could gain inspiration for his books.

For a time, we lived in a small village in Switzerland and our parents made us attend the village school, an experience that we kids strongly objected to but that they, in their wisdom, knew would be good for us. That school bore a striking similarity to the school described by Mark Twain in Tom Sawyer. My teacher, Madame Petriquin, was an elderly woman who seriously looked like a conglomeration of all Disney's ugliest witches rolled into one. Her favorite forms of discipline were vicious kicks and ear twists. All of the kids were boisterous and regularly misbehaved. But when Madame yelled - and I mean yelled - quiet descended, except for two boys who, no matter what, continued their bad behavior. My sister and I even nicknamed one of them Tom Sawyer and the other Huck Finn. At recess, the teachers (there were only two of them) locked themselves in their rooms for a much-needed break, while the kids ran wild outside - and I mean wild. They were impulsive, mischievous and down-right wicked. I learned quickly not to stand at the top of the stairs or I would get pushed down. One small kid named Jean Pierre liked to jump on my back and pull my hair so hard I was sure he would pull it all out. No one would help me. They all just stood around enjoying my humiliation. I hated that little kid and I dreaded him. I did not know why he had singled me out for punishment or how to make him stop.

One day, I was drawing with some colored pencils my mom had given me when Jean Pierre sidled up. I tensed, prepared to defend myself. But he sat down beside me and reached out politely, asking, I assumed, if he could draw too. We proceeded to sit together in perfect harmony, drawing. I then did something that I would have not thought possible before that moment. I gave him the pencils to keep. His impish face lit up with happiness and after that day, I never had another problem with Jean Pierre. We became fast friends. A little experimentation in the art of negotiation, a little attempt at communication and understanding went a long way towards bridging what had seemed to be an impassable gulf. I had assumed that Jean Pierre was insane - that they were all insane. But they weren't. They were normal kids who were running wilder than I was used to. I have no doubt that they all grew up and became at least somewhat more sedate, having learned the important lessons they were supposed to learn on the playground.

Putting children on medication deprives them of the vital experience of learning how to face challenges and overcome them. I have talked to young people in their twenties who were on medication as children and express exactly this sentiment - that they never felt like they grew up, they never felt like they learned how to be strong inside themselves and face challenges on their own.

The American public has been coerced into accepting as normal the experimentation on and the mental straight-jacketing of their children with mind-altering drugs. Psychiatry, supported by the government and the pharmaceutical companies, has managed to do this by leading the public to believe that mental illness is a disease like any other, making imprisoning children through a mental straightjacket acceptable. This is a lie.

Since speaking with Andrea last week she has again attempted suicide and has been institutionalized. It might seem like strong language but I totally agree with Dr. Szazs when he says, "Coerced drugging is a form of 'therapeutic' rape."

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Some quotes by Thomas Szasz at www.szasz.com:

"Although we may not know it, we have, in our day,
witnessed the birth of the Therapeutic State."
--Law, Liberty, and Psychiatry: An Inquiry Into the Social Uses of Mental Health Practices, by Thomas Szasz, (New York: Macmillan, 1963, p. 212; Chapter 18, title: "Toward the Therapeutic State.").

"If you talk to God, you are praying;
If God talks to you, you have schizophrenia."
--The Second Sin, by Thomas Szasz, (Anchor/Doubleday, Garden City, NY. 1973, Page 113.)

A good read: "Shyness: How Normal Behavior Became a Sickness," by Christopher Lane, professor of English at Northwestern University.

Sites to look at and used for this essay: National Alliance Against Mandated Mental Health; Project Censored; StoptheDrugWar.com; Coalition Against Institutionalized Child Abuse (this site lists the children that have died as a result of abuse I residential treatment facilities); sntp.net (Say NO to Psychiatry); "The Myth of Attention Deficit Disorder" by Dr. Mark Barber; July 1996 Psychiatric Times, Vol. 13, No. 7;

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Karen Hunt is the author of nineteen children's books including the recently published "The Rumpoles & The Barleys" series. She is the co-founder of InsideOUT Writers and founder of Wordpower. Currently, she is writing "Turning," the first book in the "Night Angels" series, published with Townsend Press. You can find out more at: www.karenalainehunt.com.

Not too long ago, I was driving my sixteen year old son, Harry, and his best friend, Tommy, home from school, Tommy reminiscing on his short-lived encounter with Ritalin. He was twelve years old when he was prescribed Ritalin for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or ADHD.

"It was creepy," he said. "I could totally just sit in my chair and stare at the teacher for hours and I could hear every single word, like in slow motion. That's how it is - you can concentrate on stupid tasks but you're not really there inside yourself. It's as if something else is controlling you. It was horrible. I started pretending to take my pills but wouldn't. Eventually I told my mom I didn't want to do it anymore and she stopped it."

Harry said, "Didn't those doctors think about what would happen when they dumped a ton of drugs on us? Are they really so stupid to think we'll just 'follow orders?' Mostly everyone I know pretends to take their pills but sells them. It's crazy."

The "War on Drugs" is alive and well in LA suburbia - but not in the way most people think. The real war is being waged by mega-drug companies, each vying to make the biggest profit in an industry worth billions with no concern for the long-term consequences on the human guinea pigs - our children. Academics determine through research funded by the drug companies that the public is suffering from these terrible mental diseases and psychiatrists, in turn, prescribe the medications developed by the drug companies. A tidy circle of profit ensues. Marcia Angell, a senior lecturer at the division of medical ethics at Harvard School of Medicine and former editor-in-chief of The New England Journal of Medicine states that "...there is fairly good evidence that the research has been tainted because of the financial relationships between academic researchers and drug companies."

Powerful, highly addictive drugs are now being marketed directly to families through Stepford Wives-like TV and magazine ads, showing smiling, sedated children and their equally smiling and sedated parents happily ingesting their "medication."

I remember overhearing one girl telling another, "I don't wanna be an 'ad kid.'"

I asked what she meant.

"Oh, you know, those kids who go around campus saying 'I'm on Zoloft, I'm so happy...I'm on Zoloft, I'm so happy.' I don't wanna be an ad for a drug company."

Another girl responded, "Oh yeah, I tried Zoloft. It turned everything gray. The world went gray. I was sick for two days, puking."

Any day of the week, I can overhear jokes and comments like that. The other morning I was sitting with my fourteen year-old son, Max, and two girls, eighteen year old Kashmir and fifteen year-old Andrea. The topic turned to drugs. As I stated in my first essay, I am not interested in listing impersonal government statistics, I am writing about what really happens in my neighborhood. I am writing about the honest, straightforward perceptions of our youth and the ways in which they figure out their world.

I asked these kids what they thought was the biggest difference between the drug situation in Calabasas and South Central - where is it worse?

They immediately said Calabasas.

Kashmir, "You can get anything here. Everybody's dad or mom is a doctor or a lawyer or a psychiatrist and they all have money. Prescription drugs, being mentally sick, going to therapy, it's the new fad. So everybody's either taking pills, selling or both. The 'experts' think we're idiots. But we know how to get information on every subject on earth - we Google it. We know which drugs are used for which effect and what the active ingredients are."

She took a drag off her legal drug of choice - a cigarette (we weren't in Calabasas, by the way, we were sitting outside a Starbucks in Woodland Hills where it's still okay to pollute the air with tobacco) and pointed her cigarette at me sagely. "You know what scares me? Twelve year olds, they're the scariest people on earth. I'd rather meet a Crip in Compton than a twelve year old in Calabasas. They're so shady, little corporate monsters in the making. Oh, the "just say no" campaign? They test the potheads and expel them - in the meantime, all the nerds are zoned out of their minds - but hey, it's okay, because it's legal drugs."

"So what's going on?" I asked. "Do you think everyone needs these drugs?"

Max, "It's a scam. They're turning kids into zombies."

I thought about that for a minute and I had to agree. We are taking away moral responsibility and telling children they can't help their behavior because they have a mental disease. An important part of growing up is learning, often most painfully, to make moral choices. Puberty is an agonizing time with hormones constantly triggering confusing reversals in emotions. I remember falling in and out of love, wanting to die one day and feeling euphoric the next. I fainted if the doctor gave me a shot. If I heard about a disease, I thought I had it. When the dentist told me that my bottom jaw was growing too fast and I needed braces, I couldn't sleep at night because I literally believed that I'd wake up in the morning and find my jaw sticking out across the room. I had to learn how to control my wild emotions, as well as my over-active imagination, not give up on even trying. The whole concept of Free Will and Moral Choice is being thrown out the window and replaced by a mind-numbing passivity. Pain, sadness, anger, resentment, jealousy, these are all normal emotions that teenagers - and adults - should expect to feel. We don't need to be "happy" all the time.

The image of Jesus, if he were walking amongst us today, exhorting the parents of ill-behaved, depressed or over-active children to medicate them into submission is absurd. Rather he would be railing against the greed and dishonesty of the psychiatrists and the drug companies and blasting indulgent and uninvolved parents for making excuses and not setting an example that kids can respect and follow.

Kashmir, "Like, this is what you do. You go to your therapist and fake something (because everyone who's rich has a therapist, right?). Like Brandon, he's a fake. He got grounded for two months. His parents were gonna send him away, have someone come in the night and drag him out and put him in one of those Nazi concentration camps in the middle of Utah or somewhere where they can do whatever they want to you without any regulations. So, Brandon said he was hearing voices telling him to kill people. That got his parents attention. They sent him to a psychologist. He told the doc, I got something against the number 3. The doc said, what do you mean? He said, well, see that filing cabinet there? I've been looking at it for the past twenty minutes and it has three folders in it. It's making me nervous. End result - Brandon got put on medication and he's been selling it ever since."

Andrea, "I don't fake my problems. I take Wellbutrin for depression and Trazodone for anxiety and anger. I've been hospitalized twice - once I tried to commit suicide. I saved up and took 23 pills at once. They said when they got to me that I was two minutes away from being dead."

As I write this essay, I just looked up the official Wellbutrin site on the internet and it warns that it is "approved only for adults 18 years and over. In some children, teens, and young adults, antidepressants increase suicidal thoughts or actions." Andrea, as I said, is fifteen.

"So what do you think of the meds?" I asked.

"I hate it. I feel like a rat in a cage, an experiment. They put me on something and then, if it doesn't work, they put me on something else. They don't know what they're doing. I feel like other people are controlling me and I can never learn to control myself. My adoptive mom had her leg amputated last year and my dad has hepatitis C, so you can't say I don't have issues. You can see I'm overweight - hello! I get made fun of. Kids throw food at me; I can't describe how bad every day of my life is at school. I got anger issues - I don't need to be an expert to figure that out. But nobody helps me deal with it. They just put me on meds."

I couldn't help but contrast Andrea's mental illness with her father's physical one. Objective criteria were used to determine that he had Hepatitis C and a drug prescribed to ease the condition. However, there are no objective criteria determining whether or not Andrea has a mental illness. I quote Thomas Szazs here, as I am unabashedly a big fan of his, "it is not reasonable to ask whether an antipsychotic drug, say Zyprexa, is effective against schizophrenia, because there are no objective criteria to determine whether a person has or does not have this alleged disorder. This is why it is futile to debate whether one or another psychotropic drug 'works.'"

What are all these medications that are being given to our children and what are the behaviors indicating that a child needs them? A November 16, 2008 article in the Los Angeles Times by Christopher Lane titled "Wrangling Over Psychiatry's Bible," talks about the unchecked power of the American Psychiatric Association to secretly convene without any oversight and create new mental illnesses, which people can then be told are valid diseases that they are suffering from, requiring medication. Some of the new ones up for inclusion in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders are "Apathy Disorder," "Parental Alienation Syndrome," "Compulsive Buying Disorder," "Internet Addiction," and "Relational Disorder." Where is the end of this?

Mostly, our children are being diagnosed with ADHD. I will interject two statistics here, because they are so telling: The number of children, in America (because this disease has yet to hit it big in other countries) ages 15 to 19 taking medication for ADHD has increased by 311 percent over 15 years. The use of medication to treat children between the ages of 5 and 14 also increased by approximately 170 percent. (www.education-world.com)

So really, what is ADHD? In the second part of this essay, I will explore the history of how this form of "mental straight jacketing" came about and give you a classic description of an ADHD boy. Just reading it is enough to send shivers of dread down any parent's spine and send them running for the medicine cabinet...

To be continued...

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Karen Hunt is the author of nineteen children's books including the recently published "The Rumpoles & The Barleys" series. She is the co-founder of InsideOUT Writers and founder of Wordpower. Currently, she is writing "Turning," the first book in the "Night Angels" series, published with Townsend Press. You can find out more at: www.karenalainehunt.com.

I wish I could remember what I gave up that first year or even every other year. I cannot remember. What I can remember, however, is how I have come to love this season in the Christian calendar.

The first Lent I recollect is 1996. I was 22 and it was my first year as a missionary in Philadelphia. I had recently discovered the joy and addiction of coffee and that same year I gave up coffee. Oh the headaches! My suffering was real and I often thought of Christ. Every single time I craved a cup of coffee I decided to pray. I have never prayed so much in my young life as I did during those 40 days. Let me say that again: I gave up coffee and found a way to understand the suffering of my Savior. And Easter morning was welcomed with a large pot of deliciously brewed relief. It was a true celebration unlike I had ever known and not because I was drinking coffee once again (and all was right with the world), but because I spent 40 days getting ready.

Unfortunately there was an unexpected side effect to giving up coffee. I started to drink Mountain Dew. Normally I do not drink soda but caffeine had written its name on my life. Although I felt great about not drinking hot coffee from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday a part of me felt like a failure because I was unable to free myself from the grip of caffeine.

The following year I gave up liquid caffeine, wrongly assuming this would keep me from my addiction. It was then that I discovered chocolate. The next year I gave up caffeine in all forms possible and my struggle was complete. Over the last 16 years I have given up TV, coffee, meat, coffee, snacks and coffee. There were years when I tried to add something new to my life but it seems easier to fast. I have learned that I will always be addicted to coffee and no longer attempt to cease its consumption during Lent.

The year that I gave up meat proved to be terribly insightful. About three weeks into Lent I realized my skin was clear. I had not suffered an eczema outbreak since Fat Tuesday. I started to research food allergies and eczema and realized that I may, in fact, be allergic to meat. Shortly after Easter I used the scientific method to determine that I really am allergic to meat and within the year I went to a food allergist and confirmed my findings. It is because of Lent that I am now a vegetarian and am almost completely eczema free.

In the past, I have often found that Christmas and Easter have come, passed, and left me feeling empty. Christmas still feels this way to me. Easter does not. Lent for me is a deeply spiritual practice and not just about giving up My Precious. It is the only time of the year that I am diligent about reading my Bible and praying. It helps to ground me in the season leading up to the suffering and death of Jesus Christ. My experiences help me appreciate just a smidge more of how much my Savior loves me and what he was willing to do for me. The practice of giving up something I love daily reminds me to turn to Christ in a way that I seem unable to do during the rest of the year. Lent gives me purpose and focus. By the time Holy Week arrives I am passionately in love with Jesus again. I have spent more than seven weeks waiting in anticipation to see the events of this week unfold. I am on the edge of my seat. This is the story we have been waiting for.

Good Friday comes. I have worked myself into a state of sadness. I am overwhelmed by my emotions as I process the events of this day. I watch The Passion of the Christ on Good Friday and I sob. I want it all to stop. I cannot bear to see him suffer at my expense. My silly expense. Why does my sin have to cover him? Why does he love even me? And then I go to church that night and we sit in the dark and read passages from the Gospels. My heart is heavy with the weight and knowledge of his death. I apologize on Good Friday. I apologize for being selfish, lazy and impatient. I apologize for my lack of understanding and pray for forgiveness.

Sunday comes. Easter Sunday dawns cold here in Michigan but the air feels alive. I feel the pulse of the earth. The last forty days have helped me to tap into the quietness of nature. I believe the whole of nature waits anxiously for Easter Sunday. How do the birds and the trees know that their Creator conquered death on this day? I often ponder Luke 19:40 on my drive to church, "If [they] are silent, the rocks will cry out..." I believe nature does not wait for us to worship its Creator. I can feel the earth tremble with excitement. I nearly speed to church on Easter morning. Church fills with people and soon the room fills with singing. I weep. Lent has ended, Christ has risen and the Gospel story is complete. I have found no better way to prepare for this event than to practice Lent.

What started out as skepticism for this man-made tradition has become a spiritual practice that I look forward to even before the Christmas season is underway. Two years ago, however, I was in the middle of a Joy Void which lasted about 14 months. I gave up shopping for a year, I gave up TV for Lent, and I was undergoing a very tough year at work. A friend pulled me aside and said, "Maybe next year for Lent you need to give up Lent." All my fasting left me feeling separated from God. So last year I gave up nothing and much to my chagrin the Easter season passed by virtually un-noticed. I had not fully realized how affected I was by the act of "giving up" and was thankful for this new understanding.

I think my sister still gives up chocolate milk for Lent. One year my mom gave up cheese which is hard for a Dutch woman. I am back on track now and no longer in the midst of a Joy Void. I have already decided what I will give up this year: high fructose corn syrup and tomato-based products. My reasons are many and varied. I anticipate a good daily struggle.

Madonna and child in a minivan. Mom was driving, thankfully, and talking on her cell phone while waving her arms in the air like some crazed conductor. That was the movement that caught my eyes. The child, a little boy, was sitting in the passenger seat, head turned away from her and her opus, looking out the window, silently, quietly.

Seconds earlier I had been listening to Yo-Yo Ma suck the marrow out of some song via his Domenico Montagnana 1733 cello. Ma has nicknamed it Petunia. Aspen and Oak along the street were dropping their skirts of gold and red; they stood naked but unashamed. A dog was walking his man down the sidewalk. The man breathed in and out and I could see his effort, such was the temperature. They were seconds of being painfully aware of beauty, of life itself all around, of the world being shot straight through with the grandeur of God.

And then a red light and I stopped and saw them, harried Madonna and child.

Do you ever have that feeling where you just know what's going on? Not details, mind you, but a pretty good sense of the general state of affairs?

Yo-Yo Ma lovingly drew his bow across Petunia's belly as the last note raged against the dying of the light.

I was suddenly so goddamned mad. I don't use the word in that last sentence lightly. I believe if there's anything, anything at all, that God will damn us for one of these days then it will be our stiff-necked refusal to recognize the gifts he's given, some of them sitting in the passenger seat beside us looking out the window, silently, quietly. We pray and ask and do not receive because we ask amiss. We'd be better off shutting up and shutting it down, whatever it may be, and glancing over just to the right at the handiwork of God looking longingly out the window.

We'd pay good money and give our eye teeth to actually be touched by an angel when there's one in the backyard swinging who's been created just a little lower than God himself, in the truest translation of that verse, and she's flying higher and higher, all angel-like, and smiling and laughing and we, no I, refuse to hear the amazing grace how sweet the sound that drops from her blessed lips, distracted by the ten thousand things we, no I, just know are necessary for the world to keep a'spinnin', turnin'. Merci. Merci, please on us, no me. No, us.

Back in the day, we'd eek through yellow lights, throwing pause to the wind. Now, such is our progress, we are not fazed by yellow at all, caution-blind. We run, yes run, through red lights with millstones 'round our necks declaring the world must wait while we transgress, putting ourselves and others in danger, the least of which are those sitting in the passenger seats.

Green light. Petunia began to weep the theme from Once Upon A Time in the West. The dog and man were no more to be seen. My breathing slowed. And I, too, wept with Petunia. I wept for distracted Madonna and the little girl she used to be and the moments when she sat in the passenger seat, silently, quietly. I wept for the little boy not two feet from her, all buckled up and safe, yet quite possibly full of a fear that only a mother's words could calm. I wept for me and for all the moments I miss, moments when there are angels in my backyard or sitting on my lap and I'm off conducting my own goddamned private symphony. And I wept for us, for all of us, as we're barreling toward Babylon at the speed of distraction while Aspens drop their skirts and men obediently follow dogs and little boys dream of small talk with their mothers.

Merci.

In several Scottish Enlightenment tracts, light imagery is used. Darkness stood for ignorance and the condemnation of ideas, and light signaled individual improvement - moral and intellectual - leading to collective growth. My professor, who holds the chair in moral philosophy at the University of Glasgow, told me he didn't suppose the first Scottish Enlightenment had ever ended - the pattern of independent thought and tolerance persists in today's society. I quite agreed with him.

But in my mind, the spiritual enlightenment has not yet occurred - at least not in recent times. Scotland is in desperate need of revival, as is the west in general. Every day, walking to and from class, I pass a beautiful church - dating from the 19th century - that has been converted into a bar. The sight sickens me. But on the other hand, a couple of strip clubs in the city centre have been transformed into houses of worship. There is definitely hope for this lost place, this lost generation - but it is hard to recognize sometimes. The city of Glasgow is vibrant enough but, ironically, the life it possesses has no true value. Only the life the Father gives is worth living. All else is "rubbish," to use a British word.

Everywhere I go, people walk under canopies of darkness, with sources of light flickering all around, yet going unperceived by their unaccustomed eyes.

I pray a spiritual enlightenment would strike into this place like the beat of a drum, resounding in the streets, setting the foundations of achievement trembling. Knowledge and even morality is nothing but an empty space without the grace of God through His plan of redemption. Several figures of the Enlightenment emphasized moral virtue in link with progress; this involved a constantly changing network of clubs and societies devoted to the improvement of economic efficiency, manners, and learning and letters.
Enlightenment "morality" centered on the individual, whereas moral convictions for the believer are founded upon the desire to obey the One who saves. He sets everything in motion with His love. And without the Holy Spirit in our lives, even at the best, we are little better than Tennyson's Maud:

"Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null/ Dead perfection and no more."

The pursuit of knowledge, accompanied by the sharpening of intellect, is a joy when the Father instills that yearning. God does not give one a passion for no reason, and if that desire is for knowledge, He will be glorified in that endeavor. The process enables one to sift out good philosophy from bad. To discern Truth in the midst of illusions and to apply that Truth is the ultimate goal.

Burnside Writers Collective: Describe "The Cross and the Sword" sermon series.

Greg Boyd: I had a conviction about the distinctness of the Kingdom of God and how important it is to keep it from getting mixed up with anything in the world - the kingdom of the world - even good stuff in the kingdom of the world. It just stands by itself: the Kingdom of God. But over the years, it became more and more of an intense passion. Before the 2004 election, I was, like most mega-church pastors in America, getting a lot of, a lot more than usual, requests to, or calls even, from people in my congregation and from elsewhere to really "steer the flock" on their responsibility as Christians to vote and vote in a particular way. I saw this as a good teaching opportunity to say "Why?"

And so I preached a series in April of 2004. I called it "The Cross and the Sword." The Kingdom of the Sword, which is about having power over people, passing laws and legislation and controlling society and stuff. And the Kingdom of the Cross, which is about having power under people. It's the power of humble, self-sacrificial love. It's being Jesus to people.

I just explained that we are called to be ambassadors of the Kingdom of the Cross, not to see ourselves as sort of the wise and Caesar advisors of the Kingdom of the Sword. I explained why we don't have a flag in our church, and why you're not going to have us endorsing or supporting the military, and why we are not going to get on any political platform and things of that sort. Trying to show how politics is almost always ambiguous, and [how] good and decent and Bible-believing people can disagree about that. And that's fine, but what we rally around is not a political position and it's not a nation; it's not a military, it's nothing of the sort. What we rally around is Jesus Christ and committing to follow His example and serving the world and proclaiming the Good News.

And there were just some people who were very, very offended by that. Some people loved it. I had people coming up with tears in their eyes thanking me for preaching a Gospel where they felt welcomed, because they often felt unwelcomed in Evangelical churches. We estimate about 1,000 folks ended up leaving as a result of [the sermon series].

BWC: What do you see 25 or 50 years from now in terms of American Christians approaching politics - different from the way we do it now?

Boyd: I can't answer that descriptively. And so I can't describe in fact how it's going to be. I can only answer that prescriptively: how I hope it will be. I hope that American Christians will embrace the idea that you lead by example--by humble example--and you transform people by humble example, by being the Church. Live a life that looks like Jesus: caring for the outcast, feeding the poor, proclaiming the Good News.

But even more, proclaiming with your life. Living the life that is freed from the idols of the culture, and you lead by the beauty of that example. And you influence people by the beauty of that example. A community that illustrates what it is to care for the poor. A community that illustrates an effective way of getting people off of drugs and out of their bondage. And if we do that, then government, which has a hard time making anything work, they'll be looking to you for answers. Because they'll say, "How do you do it?" And now you can proclaim the Good News.

That is how I think we're supposed to transform society, and my hope is that the Church of the future realizes that we - Kingdom people - have the power to transform the world. But not by passing the right laws, and by thinking that we're wiser than other people on what government should do, because Jesus never did that. Our job is to follow Jesus. Rather, we have a power to transform society by being faithful to our King. And so I'm hoping that Christians of the future won't be fighting over what Caesar should do.

What we have now is a profoundly broken Church trying to fix Caesar. I hope we fix the Church, and Caesar will take care of itself. That's my hope. But I don't know if that's going to happen. I don't have any prophetic insight on that.

BWC: Do you think the mega-church model of pastor as CEO is going by the wayside?

Boyd: I suspect so. I think we're going to have apostles and prophets and evangelists and teachers and pastors. The churches that have that [the pastor as CEO model] are usually because you have a superstar, with a great personality and a great gift and who can build a superstar team. But there are a lot of drawbacks to that model.

We're wrestling with that here at Woodland Hills Church. It's really based on a consumer, CEO model. And so you want to attract as many people. The trouble with the attractional model is that you set up a paradigm where people think the job of a person is to attract, instead of the job of Christians being a mission. When a better model comes along, then the consumers go over there. It really kind of creates a shallow sort of Christianity.

In fact, at Willow Creek they have kind of been reassessing what they do on this basis. The goal is not to get people to come to church. The goal is not even to make them believers. I really think that's missing the mark. But that's kind of been our paradigm. How many decisions have you made? How are your numbers doing? I think those are exactly the wrong questions. The question is: Are you making disciples? People who really get inside of them the radical call to live a beautiful countercultural kingdom. That, I think, is the bull's eye. And that is much more rare than believers.

To get people convinced of the Gospel, that's good, you need that. You can't be in the Kingdom without that. But the attractional model tends to leave them there. If I've learned anything in my years here at Woodland Hills Church is that you can be downloading great information to people, but it doesn't mean that they do anything with it.

For that to happen, they've got to be in a community where they learn by practicing it. I'm not saying God is not there. God uses it, and we still see good things coming of it, but something else has to happen for them to really start changing their lifestyles and asking questions like, "Is this where we're supposed to be living?" "Is this how we're supposed to be living?" "Is the money going to the right areas?" "How much Jesus Kingdom is there in us?" "And how much American kingdom is there in us?" Information doesn't necessarily confront our American idolatry and stuff.

And so that's why we're putting all of our eggs in the basket of small groups as Kingdom units. And that is the church. The church is the Kingdom unit of small groups who are living in a missional mindset to their neighbors. And we get together, and we still celebrate and proclaim the truth and the Kingdom once a week as a big event. We don't call that church anymore; that's just an event. Come to the event, if it feeds you. But church is what you do from Sunday to Sunday out in your neighborhood, with your small group, with your tribe of people.

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Scott D. Noble is a freelance writer living in St. Paul, MN. You can visit his website at www.noblecreative.com.

"Sarah can't wait till the weekend!"

On and on and on.

Why does the Facebook status update seem so compelling to fill with our ordinary details? Who cares anyway? Peanut butter or grilled cheese; does anyone care what Rebecca had for lunch?

Never in the history of modern communication has something connected us, and simultaneously disconnected us as a people, than the Internet. We are thirsty for community, yet we have thousands of groups and networks to join. We do so many things online, that we know people for which we know no other voice than the written word.

For those not familiar with what a status update is, it is found at the top of one's Facebook profile as blank box that you can fill in beginning with your name and the word "is". For example "John is ____________". It's an exercise in "fill in the blank", and it can be updated several times a day, or once a week or never. Once you click enter, this status update is disseminated to all of those you are connected to as "friends" on Facebook.

There are many weighing in on the positives and negatives of online social networking and what its effects are on our culture. My focus is not broad, not looking at a whole spectrum of issues pertaining to online community or lack there of, but to focus in on this little phenom of the "status update" similar to "twitter".

If it is details that we disseminate in this way, then it seems to fit that we would need to examine why we are wanting others to know these personal details or vague references to them. Are we hungry to be known? I think so. Life is lived out in the details, and it is a significant thing to discover another friend delights in the same moments we do.

A conversation between friends can erupt online out of what one may deem shallow, but in our American empires of space not always shared and sporadic community, these exchanges seem to be a connection between our world and the others. The quiet moments of making sandwiches and cups of tea and of packing to go on vacation...feel less alone when shared with even a few others who might be online.

I can see status updates becoming a great tool for narcissists: as if every detail is riveting to the world. The other problem that can easily occur is one (perhaps belonging to the formerly mentioned personality) becomes so obsessed with updating this status they forget to actually live in the midst of their life. Perhaps this might be true for some, but for many others who live in separated moments and relationships Facebook has offered a connectivity lacking since the advent of the internet.

Facebook markets itself differently than MySpace.com does. It claims to be an extension of your "real world" community. I think this subtle reminder in some of their online copy is an encouragement toward remaining connected in tangible relationships

Whether you buy into this online network or not, young and old are joining and uploading pictures. I'm friends with our 73-year-old receptionist at church as well as my friend's 12 year old daughter. Facebook no longer belongs solely to the 20something crowd. Could Facebook and the status update cause a necessary link between generations previously separated by technology?

The ordinary details tell the richest part of the story of our lives. They fill in the blanks that exist between us. If we don't know the details, then do we really know each other? If someone doesn't care about your details, do you feel known? It's interesting most people consider small talk to be shallow. I suppose it can be. However, if "small talk" is really filled with the "small" things, then it is bigger than we think. It is "big talk" full of generalities about jobs and places you live that bore me at a party much faster than discussing someone's unique details and affinities.

To look at the ordinary things in our lives is to conclude and discover the essence of who a person is. If you know I like vanilla tea on a cold day, and take delight in making dinner for a good friend, then you know something of me. There are a lot of details to know, but each one is important. It follows that in a world where we forced to be increasingly intentional to have real, personal, interactions with the world around us; we have found a bridge on Facebook to link these worlds together by addressing the details going on in our moments.

The Facebook status update, as a practical part of our life, says more about us than we think. We are longing to be known by those already in our lives and to be connected in a way that goes deeper than the separations our new digital culture has offered us. The next time someone asks you to be their "friend" on Facebook, consider that it might just be that they want to know a little more about you, or they might want you to know a little about them.

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Kristie Vosper is the Director of Children's and Family Ministries at Malibu Presbyterian Church in Malibu, CA. Kristie has written for Group Publishing, Presbyterians Today, Presbyterian Disaster Assistance, and the Malibu Surfside News. She is known for her honest representations of faith and life found on her blog: Honestly Speaking.