the human condition – Rachel Allord

Vertigo

Two weeks ago, I was in Switzerland, gifted (literally) with a retreat for the women in our organization. Even as a writer, it’s hard to find words to sum up the time. Stunning comes the closest to describe the experience on all fronts: physically, relationally, spiritually.

One morning I walked to Burgruine Unspunen, old castle ruins from 1232 situated not far from our accommodation:

I was there alone and gleefully poked around the various ‘rooms’, all the while marveling at the surrounding alps, the gentle jangle of the cowbells ringing out over all. And then I saw this:

A well, I assume. Such a foreboding sight in an otherwise uplifting setting. Imagine ending up there, I thought, peering down so long I creeped myself out. That shot of the well is the one un-pretty picture I took from my jaunt in Switzerland.

I came home late Friday night, eager to show my family the other photos, the aqua blue glacier fed lakes, the grassy green foothills, the snow-capped alps.

But the next morning I felt as If I had fallen – no, I felt as if I was falling into that well, never to be caught. The dizziness didn’t end. The nausea didn’t cease. It went on and on and on and on and on…

Vertigo, is what it’s been labeled after visiting two GP visits and one Chiropractor. (whether it’s the standard ‘ear crystal’ type or due to fluids/blockage in my ears I don’t know. I’m improving slowly. Slooooowly.)

Whatever it is and whatever is causing it, I have never experienced anything like it before. Unless I was lying down, I was falling, or so it seemed, careening off those gorgeous mountains I had just experienced into a dark, hard, and frightening place.

You can do a lot of thinking and praying and writing in your head lying flat on your back. Over the past 13 days, I spoke certain words and phrases into my phone, or scratched them in my journal, and eventually cobbled this poem.

I’m sharing it because although circumstances differ, I know I’m surrounded by others who are experiencing their own sense of vertigo, whether it be physical, relational, spiritual, or emotional. Who hasn’t been jarred, exasperated, perhaps exhausted by life’s highs and lows?

Jesus has known the highest high and the lowest low; he empathizes like no other. God is with us in both.

And while nobody welcomes it, falling causes us to instinctively reach out and grab something – or rather someone – who is constant and certain, faithful and true.

Vertigo

You lift me high,

so high.

Up to the peaks in a Swiss alp sky,

where fear gets a thrashing and anxiety dies,

grace rolls like green hills and hope multiplies

as what lay buried stands up alive.

You bring me low,

So low.

Down to the end of myself I go,

to the grave of my doing,

past the tantrum of my soul

where pride lays in pieces and my mind seeks to know

your heart so wounded,

your death crushed soul.

From heaven you came to the belly of the low

To be raised on a tree, to the grave to go.

Death sneered for two nights

to be trampled on the third,

my God did not forsake you

my God so loved the world.

You’re in the sunshine

you’re in shade.

You bring the stillness

you bring the waves

that crash me to your shelter and pin me to your side,

Shepherd of the struck-down low

High King of the skies.

Brilliance in Neutrals

One of the perks of living in Europe is that it’s so very close to… well, Europe. Hence, we’ve seen a lot of cathedrals. London alone has dozens, and while I would never argue that if you’ve seen one cathedral, you’ve seen them all, European cathedrals and chapels do offer a predictable checklist of characteristics: vaulted ceilings. Intricate artistry. Stained glass windows as colorful as Jolly Ranchers. Perhaps that’s why, on our recent day trip to Oxford, the stained-glass west window of Magdalen College Chapel stood out.

It wasn’t colorful.

No showstopping scarlet and jade tones, only gentle neutrals. Subdued browns and greys depicting a sobering scene of the Final Judgement. Only pops of blue sky poked through areas of transparent glass.

The west window wasn’t flashy, but it was captivating.

This Friday, many of us will enter a church or a chapel or a cathedral to contemplate the death of Christ, the man who was God who didn’t strut through our world with pomp and pageantry but “had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” (Isaiah 53:2)

Even so, he captivated multitudes. Still does.

There is nothing glamourous about death, least of all his brutal one. A painter wouldn’t need to stray far from a sepia palette to capture the Judean landscape, the nails and the hammer. The crown of thorns. The crosses. The tomb. The stone.

Lots of browns, lots of dirt and earth, lots of people – some jeering, some weeping – and yes, lots of blood red.

A bleak moment in history that beckons even now. A gritty scene that draws us in. For some, draws us to our knees.

The friendly green palm fronds, that was last week.

The other-worldly dazzling white clothes of Christ’s ascension, that comes later.

But this moment stunk of death. A dark day that got darker and darker until the light in every sense went out altogether.

Jesus the baby entered quietly, he died as a man brutally, he rose as Lord victoriously, to save ordinary people: those with addictions and boring jobs. Dashed dreams and fractured families. He gave up his brilliant splendor to save our dusty, dingy souls.

That is the glory, the beauty, of the old, rugged cross.

+ + +

I’m in my happy place when I’m wandering a new city and rambling about it in writing afterwards extends my stay. So ‘cheers’ if you’ve stuck with me thus far. (Penned this after our afternoon in Oxford.)

Wanderlust

Backpack on my shoulder

new ground to explore

thru gardens sweet and scattered streets I’ve never walked

before

me have trod many

before me lays the world

and in this space of breath and grace

the dead speak again once more.

(some interesting history on the Magdalen College Chapel window)

https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/the-resurrection-at-magdalen-college-1279624.html

Give Weeds a Chance

My garden weeds were actually flowers. I just didn’t know it a few months back. I almost pulled those gangly eyesores. But the pink roses that bloomed unexpectedly in my own back garden, without any help from me, prompted me to take a wait and see approach. After all, I had limited horticultural knowledge in the States; I was even more clueless here in the strange and bipolar climate that is London. So I left those weeds alone, let them get good and ugly.

Then a peculiar thing began to happen. They bloomed. They turned into this:

And this:

Even the vine arching our front door produced these masterpieces, as intricate as spiders, but the kind of spiders you want hanging from your front door.

What loveliness to burst forth from such perceived ugliness! And to think I could have missed it. With the best of intentions, I could have destroyed my beautiful back garden with my own two hands. My impulse to yank and uproot was only to make things better. Deal with the problem. Take care of the mess. A natural response, similar to the impulse to jump in and eradicate any messy, any painful, any unpleasant thing that crops up in life.

Sometimes this is right. There are weeds in this world (both literally and figuratively) that won’t bloom into flowers. They’ll take over. Your garden. Your life. Weeds like greed and lust, bitterness and pride. Small weeds like: just a quick peek at that site. Just a little fudging of the numbers. Just a dinner with that person who isn’t my spouse. Sin doesn’t deserve a wait and see approach. Pluck that sucker out before it’s too late.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about another variety of weeds, the agitations that creep up not because of our sin and poor choices, but simply because we walk the earth. Difficult circumstances, or relationships, or inadequacies – ours and others – that frighten, exhaust, or grieve us. Common weeds – like sickness, suffering, loss, and disillusionment – that interfere with our vision of how we think life ought to look. Or hidden weeds like loneliness, anxiety and regret.

What, besides tears and frustrated sighs, could come from such yuck? Why would we ever take a wait and see approach and be okay with those weeds? Why shouldn’t we confront that contentious co-worker face to face? Punish that unruly child? End the crumbling marriage? Why would we take a wait and see approach with our feelings of disappointment, depression or humiliation?

We want those weeds out. We want out.

But the truth is, God gives the weeds.

When times are good, be happy; but when times are bad, consider this: God has made the one as well as the other. (Ecclesiastes 7:14)

And the other truth is, the bad times might bear good.

You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. – Joseph (Gen. 50:20)

And draw us closer to the Lord Almighty.

The Lord is near to those who are discouraged; he saves those who have lost all hope. (Psalm 34:18)

Equip us to help others.

…so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Cor. 1:4)

Wake us up spiritually.

It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn your decrees. (Ps. 119:17)

Grow our character.

…we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. (Rom. 5:3-4)

Bring us to the end of ourselves so we can find our joy in him.

…do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. (1 Peter 4:12-13

I didn’t recognize the plants in my garden so had no way of knowing what, if anything, would bloom. We don’t always comprehend the hard things in our lives, but if God can make dry bones come alive, (Ezekiel 37) he can bring good from my dark times and yours.

This isn’t about denial, ignoring the problem with a delusional “All will be fine!” Waiting and seeing what the Lord may do is recognizing we’re not fully aware of what goes on under the surface.

So we wait

and pray

and watch

and grow.

Give the weeds a chance to produce something good. Maybe not easy, maybe not even nice, but good. Perseverance. Empathy. Perspective. Contentment.

A blossom that takes you by surprise.

An outcome you never would have expected.

Wait and see.

What Remains

IMG_E9516 — *Notre Dame de Paris • 13 April, 2019*

If you would have told the me in this picture, the me of 4 days ago, that Notre Dame would go up in flames, I wouldn’t have believed you. Having walked the city for thirteen miles the previous day, we were tired, on the last leg of our 36-hour jaunt in the city before returning to our friends’ house on the outskirts of Paris. “You at least have to see Notre Dame,” I told my fourteen-year-old. “You can’t go to Paris and not see Notre Dame.”

Three days later, back in London, watching the cathedral engulfed in flame on BBC News, I wondered if this statement would be tragically and irrevocably altered: Would anything of Notre Dame remain to be seen? It’s a tragic blow to the heart of a passionate city. A huge loss.

Nothing lasts. What was considered fixed, sure, unmovable, no longer is. It’s not the first time we’ve been shocked by such unexpected and sudden destruction: Twin Towers. Grenfell Tower. Countless buildings, homes, historical artifacts lost to wars all over the world. Sadly, it won’t be the last.

Last.

Nothing lasts.

Well, not nothing. Almost nothing.

Two things. That’s it. Two earthly things will remain: the Word of God, and people.

Last night, as we watched Notre Dame burn, we received news that friends of friends were killed in a car accident while on holiday.

Last night, as we watched Notre Dame burn, we heard from friends whose child is suffering severely yet doctors can give no answers, no relief.

These tragedies, this kind of human suffering, and countless others, force us to prioritize the loss of Notre Dame. Not erase the loss, not let it go un-mourned, prioritize it. God did not become flesh, die, and rise again to save buildings or animals or nature or the planet; he came to save people. We are the prize of his creation, we are imprinted with his image. Human loss is a tragedy. like no other. Jesus wept at the death of Lazarus, he wept moments before he raised him back to life.

We humans are born rebels, beloved, and in his image. We are granted the freedom and ability to do awful things and beautiful things. We are implored to seek the Lord while he may be found and call on him while he is near. We are able to imagine and create things like great cathedrals that point to someone higher, someone greater, someone who always was and will always be.

I am the Alpha and the Omega—the beginning and the end,” says the Lord God. “I am the one who is, who always was, and who is still to come—the Almighty One. (Revelation 1:8)

But the Word of the Lord remains forever. (1 Peter 1:25)

The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever. (1 John 2:17)

And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous will go into eternal life. (Matthew 25:46)

…dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. (Ecclesiastes 12:7)

Seek the LORD while he may be found; call on him while he is near. (Isaiah 55:6)

Lights Please

For some of us, March madness has little to do with basketball and more to do with a mild and (hopefully) temporary insanity due to lack of sunlight. One grey day rolls into another. For weeks—or months—on end. Our souls grow grey while our skin grows paler. Where are you, O Sun? We need you. If we think hard enough, we remember you.

Ever read Bradbury’s All Summer in a Day? I did in seventh grade English class and it’s haunted me ever since. It’s about a girl—Margot—who once lived on earth but now lives on another planet. She vaguely but longingly remembers this blazing sphere called the sun and tells her schoolmates all about its warmth and awesomeness. But they don’t believe her and/or are jealous. All they’ve know is grey. Margot’s insistent so they lock her in a closet. And just as predicted, the sun appears for one hour every hundred years and all the children, except for poor Margot, marvel at it, tip their faces toward it, until greyness returns and they remember Margot, locked and crying in the closet, and they let her out. But of course it’s too late. She’s missed it. It’s an awful, awful story which means Bradbury did something right. I’ve never managed to shake the narrative nor the sense of injustice it provoked.

It doesn’t happen every year, but this year Doug and I had the chance, the gift, of soaking up some sun. I know the longing that ensues when viewing pictures of friends in the sun when you so desperately want to be there yourself, that strange duality of living vicariously through Facebook posts and hating them.

So I’m sorry, for real, if you did not get a break from Wisconsin or Minnesota or whatever grey state you live in but… the sun. I could not get enough of it. Even when my arms were tight from burn and my nose hopelessly red, I couldn’t deny the sun. I had to walk, sit, lay under it. I seriously forgot how glorious it is. I forgot how a direct shot of vitamin D is so infinitely better than the gummy kind we pop in our mouth from October to May. We literally could not stop talking about the sun. We talked about it every day. We marveled at it like the school children living on a foreign planet and we tipped our faces to it and thrust out our limbs and drank sunlight into every pore.

Keep the faith, my friends. The sun will return to us, even here in Wisconsin. These grey skies will be wonderfully interrupted by light.

The only thing that conquerors darkness is light. Darkness fighting darkness only adds to the darkness. The sunrise, the oil lamp, the struck match, these are what pierce darkness. The kind word, the hidden act of service, the gentle truth, streaks of direct light in a dark world.

I, like you, can forget to fight darkness with light. My human impulse is to fight darkness with…. well darkness of another kind. Maybe a lighter shade of grey but darkness nonetheless. But we don’t need any more darkness; we were called to be light. And we desperately need more light. More praying than complaining, more encouraging than gossiping, more listening than speaking, more humility than pride. We need lots and lots more light.

As a student recently reminded me, it’s usually better to be kind than right. A yelling match can go on and on until the Spirit whispers for us to shut up already. Be the light.

Light is glorious. Light beckons, draws, entices.

Listen:

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. (Isaiah 9:2)

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)

Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12)

There are those who rebel against the light, who do not know its ways or stay in its paths. (Job 24: 13)

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matt. 5: 14-16)

To be the light we must drink in the light. And when the sun appears, tip your face heavenward. Drink that in too.

Transformation

It’s here. Finally. Snow. We’ve been waiting for it, expecting it, watching the skies and the weather reports—this is Wisconsin after all—and it’s come.

It came in the night and transformed our yards, covered up any leftover leaf piles and our oddly green grass. All is changed. All looks new. All is covered over, fresh with promise.

Transformation is beautiful.

The snow is beautiful, at this moment, early in the morning, as I lounge on my couch and write. I love the snow, from inside. I love the idea of snow. But later, when I step outside to shovel or scrap off the car, or when the kids and the dog tramp back into the house after rolling around in it and leave puddles and salt and chaos, I’ll remember I don’t like snow. It’s messy and it leads to more messes.

Transformation is beautiful and messy.

A few months ago, we hosted three caterpillars that my daughter named, doted on, and supplied with fresh milkweed. In time, they transformed into chrysalis. And then we waited for the big moment. Waited and waited. Nothing happened, except the chrysalises shriveled up and turned grey. One almost made it, almost transformed. Through the transparent skin of the cocoon we could see the orange wings. When we dissected it for science, we uncovered a perfectly formed, perfectly beautiful set of wings. So why couldn’t it fly?

Transformation is beautiful and messy and unpredictable.

Christmas is over and we’ve powered through the rest of our cookies last night. The tree is looking bleak and I have to return one of the presents we bought the kids. The rush and hype and hurry is over and this is the part where I’m supposed to quip that the spirit of Christmas lives on, that we can keep the truth of Christmas in our hearts all year long. This is true, but I’m just not feeling it. Maybe you’re not feeling it either.

So here’s where I’m landing, where I’m planting my feet in this slippery time between Christmas and the New Year: the hope of transformation yet to come.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. (Romans 8: 22-25)

The Good Towels

Life has felt all churned up lately and I haven’t blogged all summer and every time I think about sitting down to work on something new my mind circles a seemingly random, humble subject: my bathroom towels. The good towels. As in don’t use those towels to wipe the floor or dry off the dog and don’t take them camping.

Except they’re not so good anymore, these towels. They’re tattered, tired, fuzz-less towels that—get this—will be twenty years old come next Wednesday. They were a wedding gift back in the day when every wedding showcased maroon, forest green, and/or navy. (Can I get an amen from the mid-nineties brides?) Anyway, I’ve bought other towels over the years but for some reason my brain can’t let go of the notion that these maroon ones are the good ones even though they’re shredding and need to be relegated to the basement or the dog crate.

That’s what happens to things over time. They fall into ruin. Disrepair. De-volve. Houses. Gardens. People. Relationships. No newsflash here… left on their own, things fall apart.

After twenty years of living with these towels, and my husband, I hardly feel like a marriage expert. Neither does he. But we do know this: If ignored, marriage goes south. With attention and care, marriage endures. Even flourishes. It can, even after twenty years, take you by surprise… in good ways. Of course it takes work. Or prayer. Both, really.

This past week, we, our family, watched our dear, dear friends drive off in their U-Haul to some (practically) foreign land. I could go on and on about the significance of this friendship but I’ll summarize it like this: our friendship is older than my good towels and just as comfortingly familiar.

And this sweet friendship, although filled with laughter and trips and great talks and memories, required work, communication, careful times of unraveling hurt feelings and working through misunderstandings. Long-lasting friendships aren’t easy-peasy, but they are worth it.

Things fall apart but they can be mended. The old and broken-down will one day be made new. Goodbyes are unavoidable but they’re not eternal, and missing your friends so much it aches is a gift, proof of the love that held you together.

Enough platitudes. This post is probably more therapy than anything, which is probably where all writing starts, so thank you, Dear Reader, for sticking with me this far.

Guess I’ve got some towels to pitch. Old towels can be tossed and replaced. Old friends, never.

The Biting Truth About Transitions

When I was in labor, fourteen years ago, I almost bit my husband’s neck. We were trying that “dancing” technique that sounds so sweet in Lamaze class—my arms around his shoulders, his arms around my giant waist, rocking back and forth. But I involuntarily added another move: my teeth were bared and slowly sinking into his neck. He still thanks me for not actually biting down, but I was this close. I was in transition—that in between time when you go from pain to HELLO PAIN!

Transition. Such a nice word to describe agony.

Life is full of transitions—moving, changing jobs, going from unmarried to married, married to single, kids in the nest to kids out of the nest—lots of transitions. Some big. Some small. Some that seem insurmountable.

So this past week I was kind of cranky. I’m trying to finish my latest novel manuscript and as much as I love writing, writing is work. My husband mentioned I hadn’t blogged in awhile. I should blog, he said. I didn’t respond very nicely, but I didn’t bite his neck either. He kept bugging me to turn over my manuscript so he can read it. I know this is all good, his being supportive and kind of wonderful actually, but this encouraging from the sidelines reminded me of being in labor. The other day I blurted out, “I’m the one who’s doing the work! You’re not the one doing the work so just be quiet and let me do the work!”

And then it hit me. I’m in transition. With my story. It’s almost done, but not quite. Symbolism is surfacing, slowly, but… not quite. I feel like all my energy is focused on finishing and I can’t get my head out of the story. I sleep fitfully and wake up realizing that saunter on page 167 should be meander. And even though I’m nearing the finish line (I think. At least the first finish line…) the whole thing suddenly seems impossible and self-doubt is thick and pervasive and poised to sabotage.

Ah, transition.

Maybe you’re smack dab in the middle of your own life change or overwhelming project. Maybe you’re thinking what in the world have I gotten myself into? Maybe it’s just (ha ha “just”…) transition.

To quote from Frozen, hang in there, Joan. Or whatever your name may be. Persevere. Push through. And try not to bite the necks of those you love.

The Design of Things

Remember “double rainbow man”? The guy who glimpsed a double rainbow, captured it on film, and shared it with the world on youtube? His video went viral due to his unbridled euphoria. He even wept at one point. He’s garnered his share of ridicule and prompted a lot of people to say “What is wrong with him?” I confess. I rolled my eyes the first time I watched his barrage of emotion.

And then he got me thinking. What if?

What if the world is standing on its head? Why is screaming and jumping over a football game or a U2 concert accepted yet this guy’s genuine reaction to nature is not?

I don’t know double rainbow man, don’t know what he believes about anything, but here’s a break down of the scene:

Man sees double rainbow. Man is moved. Man utters Oh my God multiple times. Man weeps. Man asks, what does this mean? several times. Creation prompts man to consider that there’s more to life than himself. There’s more.

Beauty does that. Creationist or evolutionist, we’ve all been swept away by something in nature—the ocean, the stars, the thunder—and had similar thoughts as Double rainbow man. Maybe we were just a tad less vocal about it. The world is full of artistry. Chock full and running over and all the scientific debate in the world can’t smother out the design of things all around us.

Here are a few of my favorites.

Snowflakes. Yeah, I’m sick of them too and I’m so glad they’re finally disappearing. But pretend you’ve never seen them before, at least not this close up, and look:

No one has ever assumed that the artwork in my house, whether it’s the kids’ stuff on the fridge or the Pissaro over the piano, just came about. Over time. So how could a snowflake, a microscopic sculpture devoid of intelligence and consciousness? How could it possibly create itself in such perfect way? And why don’t they fall as little, random blobs? What purpose does their beauty serve? What purpose does beauty ever serve?

The giraffe. Once I understood this it kind of blew me away. The giraffe has a big heart and a little pea head. Which means that when he bends to drink he should pass out due to the lack of blood flow from heart to head. Really, he should be passing out all the time, or his brain should explode from the pressure. But ta da! He has these one of a kind, one way valves in his neck that enable the blood to travel from his heart to head. Could this have evolved? Not likely because while waiting for these intricate valves to develop the poor creature would have expired from dehydration or, yeah, his head would have exploded.

The Human Eye. More complex than the telescope, our little peepers are wonders all in themselves. A scientist once said, “To suppose that the eye with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest sense.” That was Charles Darwin, by the way in his book The Origin of the Species (1859, p. 170).

Another evolutionist, Robert Jastrow, wrote: “The eye is a marvelous instrument, resembling a telescope of the highest quality, with a lens, an adjustable focus, a variable diaphragm for controlling the amount of light, and optical corrections for spherical and chromatic aberration. The eye appears to have been designed; no designer of telescopes could have done better. How could this marvelous instrument have evolved by chance, through a succession of random events?”

How indeed? But, I guess for consistency’s sake, we should teach the children that all the telescopes in the world simply came to be all on their own. Over a long period of time, under the right conditions.

Survival of the fittest/natural selection. Stay with me. If we go with the natural selection/survival of the fittest: (not to be confused with speciation) Things develop and change to get what they need to survive. (Strange they never mutate.. but we’ll press on.) Certain species survive and thrive while others die out and it’s all part of nature’s course. So then why do we interfere? Why do we try to save the Red Panda or starving children for that matter? I suppose you could argue that it’s because we humans have polluted the world and really messed things up so in many ways it’s our fault. But in terms of survival of the fittest, we’re at the top. Why do we care about anything else? Rainforests? Endangered animals? Human rights? Why not let the people in parts of the world that don’t have enough food, starve? Isn’t that letting nature take it’s course, survival of the fittest?

Because we were designed with a soul, a conscience, a that’s not right trigger.

Believe or not, I’m not against evolution being presented in school, as a theory. Problem is, it’s typically not presented as a theory. Just yesterday I came across this from livescience.com: “The scientific evidence is clear: The Earth is about 4.5 billion years old, and all life evolved from primitive, single-celled organisms.”

Close your minds folks, no need to investigate any further. Don’t argue, don’t think, just swallow. Never mind that evolutionists such Darwin and Jastrow themselves recognized gaping holes and unanswerable questions or that there is no scientific way to prove the above statement.

Renowned British physicist Lord Kelvin once wrote: “Overwhelming strong proofs of intelligent and benevolent design lie around us … The atheistic idea is so nonsensical that I cannot put it into words.”

So why does evolution hog the spotlight in public shool and college textbooks while intelligent design hardly gets mentioned? (but does get an eye roll) The answer is pretty simple, and certainly not new with me:

It’s easier.

Or at least it appears to be.

The very thought of intelligent design naturally leads to more questions. Weighty, rock-your-world questions like: who is this designer and what does he want? In a way, it’s just easier to remain unaccountable and smother the bigger questions and keep your mind off snowflakes and stars and ocean tides and how the hummingbird can fly and why the the sun is positioned just so.

Grappling with the design of things is just the beginning, a prologue to a much bigger story. But this post has grown long-winded so I’ll pick up where I’ve left off for next time. The sun is melting millions of those beautiful little sculptures that have covered my yard for too long and right now I want to bask in that.

Screen Door

Remember when a screen was just a screen? A cluster of grey mesh squares that let the breeze in and kept the bugs out? Did your house have a screen door you’d let slam? Did fresh air sweep in through the screens of your windows while you slept? Bees brushed up against it in daytime and crickets sang through it at night and the wind flowed in and out, as did friends.

Remember that screen? That uncomplicated, no-need-to-monitor screen? Maybe I’m merely pining for summer, but I miss (sort of) when that defined screen.

We have many screens in our house, many different sizes and brands. I’m staring at one right now, watching my words pass from my fingertips to the screen, and it’s truly amazing… I can’t fathom even how that works. So I can’t say I am anti- screen. Because I have them and use them and appreciate them and can’t imagine life without them.

But they sure do require a lot of effort and self-control. Sure, they make life easier (I guess. Sort of. In a way…) but the other screen, the one with the tiny holes, doesn’t need as much monitoring. You don’t have to wonder how much is too much, (That’s enough fresh air for you Johnny. Close the screen!) or convince your whatever-year-old they don’t need that particular one yet. You don’t have to change the channel, employ net nanny, worry about auto correct turning your pick up the kids into pickle the kids. You don’t have to guard that screen door quite as diligently; when you’re done for the night, you shut the door and lock it. That’s that. You don’t have to worry so much about who might be lurking, trying to “connect” with your kids.

It seems that everyone, (over the age of twenty-one) including myself, has developed a love/hate relationship with screens. The love part: Convenience. Safety. Being able to get a hold of your spouse/kids. Preserving sanity on long trips. What would life be without email or allrecipies or Hotwire or Pandora or Amazon…. ? Hard to imagine.

But.

Sometimes.

(and now I feel older than my years)

Screens just seem to suck the life right out of you.

Now I’m staring at my other screen, the mesh one on my front window, wishing I could take off the storm and feel a life-giving breath of fresh air.

It’s probably just January talking. Probably just the cold and grey and snow, but I kind of miss when a screen was just a screen. One that keeps bugs out, one that lets the people you want in.