ElizabethEsther.com

Love is a water heater (or how gratitude can enhance your love life)

Is it possible that practicing gratitude can increase feelings of love? Yes. My broken water heater proved it.

A couple of weeks ago, our water heater broke. My husband fixed it immediately because that's what he does. He fixes the broken stuff.

There was a time when this would not have excited me. Back then, I would have preferred a love sonnet.

When we were first married, my head was chock full of fanciful romantic notions. I had great expectations. They were mostly unfair expectations. I laid great emphasis on things like: cards, flowers, gifts, grand gestures of undying affection.

He showed his love by quietly providing for our needs. And fixing stuff that got broken.

It took me awhile, but eventually I started appreciating his expression of love. I began to realize what a gift it is that he's enabled me to stay home and raise our children--without EVER having to worry about paying the bills.

In fact, he was adamant: "No," he said. "Our children need their mother. I'll do whatever it takes so you can be with them."

And he has. Year after year he has worked hard and without complaint to insure that our family is fed, clothed and safe.

It's been a rare, remarkable gift--this gift of precious time with my children. It's a gift that took me far too long to appreciate.

Because, the truth is, for many years I held onto my stupid, foolish fantasies. I wasn't grateful for my husband--I compared him to other husbands, whined, nagged, manipulated.

Several years ago I stopped all that. I had a good man, a good husband. Sure, he wasn't perfect. But then again, neither was I. I decided to choose a new way.

I chose gratitude.

Now, fixing the broken water heater might not strike you as terribly romantic. But, dude. Something has changed inside of me. I was like: THAT WAS SO HOT! HEY KIDS, GO WATCH TV! MOMMY & DADDY NEED TO TAKE A "NAP"!

Yep. Never underestimate the power of gratitude.

p.s. don't forget to join me this Saturday for THE SATURDAY EVENING BLOG POST!

Doubting Santa

"But what about the sleigh bells? I heard them outside my window," Jude asked, fiddling with his slinky.

"What about them?" I replied.

"Well...was it Daddy ringing the bells?" 

"Hmm. What do you think?"

"Yes?"

"You're probably right," I said.

"And what about the letter from Santa last year? It said I had been a very good boy! Did you print that on the computer?"

I nodded.

Jude picked up a few Legos and fitted them together, quietly. He was lost in thought for a few moments. I rocked one of the twins, waiting.

"Is it just a big costume?" he asked, looking up at me.

Again, I nodded.

"But why does everybody say it? And why do all the songs say it?"

"It's just a fun, make-believe part of Christmas," I answered. "Don't you think Santa is fun?"

"Yes," he answered. "But who eats the cookies we leave out for Santa?"

"Guess."

"Daddy?"

I nodded, smiling. But Jude wasn't smiling back. To be honest, he looked a little downcast.

"Are you sad?" I asked.

"Just disappointed," he answered.

"Why?"

"Well, how am I going to get any presents this year if Santa doesn't bring them?"

Ah, yes. It's not really about Santa so much as it is presents.

"Honey, who do you think buys the presents, wraps the presents and puts them under the tree?" I asked, gently.

Jude gazed up at me, shrugged.

I smiled at him and winked. Revelation dawned on his face.

"You and Daddy?!"

"Yes!"

"Oh! So we're still getting presents!"

"Of course!"

"OH! Is THAT why you need us to write the letter to Santa? So YOU can see what we want?"

"Yep!"

"OK," he said. "I'm not disappointed anymore."

"Good."

There was a pause and then, sensing the opportunity, he looked up and asked: "So, um...can you get me that robot?"

Why "Twilight" is a misogynistic piece of hard-boiled crapola

I just finished the first Twilight book. I can't believe parents are letting their daughters read this stuff--unless it's to crack jokes at the hilariously chauvinistic dialogue.

You know, real gems like this one from lust-a-licious vampire Edward Cullen: "You are exactly my kind of heroin." (p.268)

Now that right there is one swoon-worthy compliment!

If only it weren't followed shortly after by this proclamation: "As if I needed another reason to kill you." (p.272)

Right, because nothing turns a girl on like a guy who is conflicted...ABOUT KILLING HER.

"I could reach out, meaning to touch your face, and crush your skull by mistake. You don't realize how incredibly breakable you are." (p.310)

O, Edward! Throw me over your shoulder and haul me downstairs to breakfast after a night of passionate, fully-clothed cuddling!

Yes, peeps, it's true. Edward Cullen and Bella Swan practice abstinence. Our chivalrous vampire doesn't want to fornicate with Bella. He just wants to kill her.

Darn those "confusing" murderous impulses!

But let's focus on the positive. A chaste vampire. Ah, yes. This is a vampire you can bring home to meet the folks.

And don't worry. If Edward ends up killing Bella, it will be her fault. That's because she should know to stand perfectly still when he kisses her. Otherwise vampire passions are aroused and, well, murder happens.

"Damn it, Bella!" he broke off, gasping. "You'll be the death of me, I swear you will." (p.363)

Romantic, right? He gets to die figuratively. She gets to die literally. Awesome.

You know, the only thing less funny than Twilight's cheesy one-liners is the fact that millions of young girls might actually believe its false portrayal of love. 

How many young women will now bypass good, decent (non-violent!) guys in favor of the "complex, confused" bad-boy? Parents should point out to their daughters that the romance in Twilight hinges upon nothing less than the entire subjugation of its female protagonist.

Subjugation is not love. Neither is obsession that leads to death. Didn't we learn that from Romeo & Juliet? Darn those pesky double-suicide endings!

Look, I get it. Back in the day, Heathcliff was my literary hero. Then I got married and had five kids. That cured me right quick.

Now I prefer a real man who provides, protects and replaces the busted water heater. He even takes out the diaper pail without being asked! Seriously, how hot is that?

Yeah, that's my kinda hero. And it's the kind of hero I'm going to help my daughters choose, too.

Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got a piece of crap book to throw in the trash.

Here I raise mine Ebenezer (a Thanksgiving story)

This year I skipped the cooking and ordered the whole shebang from the store. 

Let's be honest. Some of us can cook a pretty turkey and set a pretty table (my sister). Some of us can only do one of those things (me).

But our Thanksgiving meal is more than a merry feast. It's a sacred time of giving thanks to the Lord.

Like Samuel, we raise our monumental Ebenezer--our "stone of help"-- and remember "hitherto hath the Lord helped us."

To this end, I drew up a little Thanksgiving Day program and had each of the children participate.

Jude offered the opening prayer of thanks, James read our Ebenezer passage of Scripture (I Samuel 7:7-12), Jewel read our family's gratitude list, we sang "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," my Dad read President George Washington's original Thanksgiving Day proclamation and Matt gave the closing words and prayer.

Even the twins did their part: they were the official Ambassadors of Cuteness. I think they did a great job, don't you?

It was a lovely Southern California Thanksgiving Day. We even had to crank up the A/C because it was in the mid-80's! I hope everyone had a beautiful holiday and I want you to know how grateful I am that you visit here. I am thankful for YOU!

Many Happy Thanksgiving Day wishes from our family to yours!

Happy Thanksgiving! (a gratitude list)

1. My husband whose hard work, love and steadfast commitment to me and our family is my daily inspiration.

2. My five children who have flung wide open the floodgates of love in my heart.

3. A warm, safe home.

4. Hot water! (Our water heater broke last week. I'm thankful we had the means to replace it. I will never take hot water for granted again).

5. Health and strength to take care of my family.

6. The laughter of my children.

7. Good schools and a safe neighborhood.

8. Loving neighbors.

9. The love of my sister and parents.

10. The love of God and His mercies which are new every morning.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving Day (to my U.S. readers)!
I will be taking a brief blog sabbatical to spend time with my family.
I will be back on Friday.
Many blessings to you and yours.

Why confession is good for my soul

Confession helps me see myself properly. It is easy for me to see the faults and sins of others. But I have an uncanny ability to excuse and justify my own wrong-doing.

Without Confession, I am prone to lie to myself about my sin. The trouble is that belittling my sin also belittles the Cross.

Oswald Chambers wrote: "The only basis on which God can forgive us is the tremendous tragedy of the Cross of Christ...Forgiveness, which is so easy for us to accept, cost the agony at Calvary."

God's forgiveness of my sins enables me to forgive others. I love much because I have been forgiven much.

And yet, forgiveness does not preclude consequences. Doesn't a good conscience seek penance? I am grateful for penance because it provides a way for me to demonstrate contrition to God and reparation to those whom I have hurt.

Sometimes I am tempted to believe the lie that "as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else, it's OK." I would like to believe that I am an island, that my actions do not affect others. However, this kind of thinking ignores and belittles what my sin cost God.

There is no such thing as consequence-free sin. To sin with impunity is to trample the Cross.

This is why Confession--regular Confession--keeps me honest. It aids me in remembering that God's heart was broken in grief. For my sin.

Oswald Chambers notes that God's conscience was satisfied at the Cross. And I know that my conscience is satisfied at Confession.

Yes, Confession is humiliating--but only insofar as I am unwilling to admit wrongdoing. Am I so proud that I imagine myself as not needing the forgiveness of God? Am I the one human being who does not need to be restored to a right relationship with God?

And anyway, the necessary humiliation of Confession is nothing in comparison to the humiliation of the Cross.

When I see the sins of my spouse or children, I should not become surprised or angry. But perhaps only be surprised that I do not see my own failures as clearly. My very reluctance to confess ought to illuminate my hypocrisy.

God's forgiveness cost the agony of Calvary. Remembering that truth motivates me to keep short accounts with God.

It's the least I can do to repay the debt of love I owe Him.

Crying about Oprah

I had a dream about Oprah last night. She gave me a big hug and then asked me sit on her couch and talk about my book. In my dreams I burst into tears and was all: OH MY GOODNESS, I'M SITTING ON OPRAH'S COUCH AND CRYING! I AM SUCH A CLICHE!

And then I woke up and really started crying because her show is ending next year.

Oprah's show was one of the first shows I watched after leaving our strict, fundamentalist church. I grew up without a TV. Watching Oprah was my introduction to American TV.

At first, she irked me. I was distrustful of people who expressed their emotions so openly. I thought she was weak and vain. I judged her for not being able to control her weight.

But even so, Oprah mesmerized me. I loved the way she loved. I'd always wanted the freedom to feel and to express how I felt. Oprah felt with such ease. Slowly, I began to admire her.

When we got DVR, I recorded all her shows and even when I strongly disagreed with her--I kept watching.

I had been raised to stuff, mask or hide my feelings. After leaving the church, I had a difficult time untangling my feelings because I didn't even know what my feelings were. Therapy helped me identify the difference between guilt and shame, anger and regret.

Oprah helped me have the courage to love and to speak my story.

I began to realize that the harsh, critical mindset of the abusive, controlling church where I'd been raised had almost prevented me from being able to feel. Oprah was so human, so OK with feeling the normal, human feelings.

That's when I realized that allowing myself the freedom to feel takes courage. It's a risk.

In that regard, Oprah is one brave lady. Her ability to connect with so many different people from so many different walks of life is a remarkable gift--one that is strengthened through much practice.

Perhaps every writer harbors the secret hope of having Oprah pick their book for her book club. I never dared to hope that because I never thought I'd have the courage to write the book about my fundamentalist past.

But this year I started writing my book. It's been one of the most difficult tasks I've ever undertaken. It's 8 million times harder than writing this blog!

The Oprah show will be over before I finish writing this book, but I'll never forget how much she inspired me.

And, dude. I'm totally gonna miss her show!

OK, 'fess up. Do you like Oprah, too? Why or why not?

Doing hard things (or why Dads are very good things to have)

"I am grateful for my Dad," James recited, "because he encourages me to do hard things."

Who told him to write that into his speech? I wondered.

But I already knew. No-one. James thought of it himself because we're slogging through another school-year.

When James says he's doing hard things, James means one thing: school.

We go through it every year. The none too subtle suggestions that he's ADD. The soul-crushing busy-work. The endless flood of worksheets. The lame little "Great Job!" stickers that do absolutely nothing to motivate my boy.

The problem is not that my son has ADD. The problem is that my son is too smart for public education. If we had the money, I'd be sending him to a private school. And if I had the energy, I'd be homeschooling him.

As it is, he's in a top-notch school in a high-achieving GATE (Gifted And Talented Education) class. He's an advanced reader, understands concepts and aces his tests.

But he doesn't like to sit still. For my son, sitting still is hard work. He has to discipline himself not to tune out when the teacher is talking. He has to discipline himself to stay on task.

He has the brains, he just doesn't have the self-control.

This is where Daddy comes in. He has taken James under his wing to tutor him in the discipline of self-control. My husband is helping my son become a man. 

"Men have to work hard," Daddy tells him. "They don't take the easy way out."

So, Daddy devised a system of charts to help motivate James. Each day that James receives a good report from his teacher, he earns a mark on his chart. If he receives a bad report, no mark. If he receives a bad report two days in a row, he has to erase a mark. After months of earning marks, James cashes in his chart for a reward.

We also banned video games. Again. For some reason, video games are like drugs for James' brain.

I was pretty skeptical about this whole chart thing. But then again, I'm not really a chart person. I'm the girl who loved the "Great Job!" stickers.

To my great surprise, the chart worked. James' behavior at school turned around almost immediately. 

And this past week, James turned in his completed chart. He had earned his reward.

I agree with James.

I'm grateful for a Daddy who encourages his son to do hard things.

Typographer

You are draped in a festoon of years
            weighted with chronicles, tomes, indexes.

And I am the repository of your stories
            an empty cistern you fill up with all your fullness.

You spill children and I shed them
            tangles of words, yours and mine rearranged.

We are cocoon weavers, gossamer strand splitters
        molting fonts and glyphs; our very own typeface.

Did you ever imagine it would be
                      such exquisite agony?

EE, 11.20.09

Why I love liturgy

leaves + branches, Lincoln Park, IL.

It's pretty simple, really. I love liturgy because I'm human.

Which is to say, I'm not a disembodied spirit.

I breathe, I sweat, I touch, I smell, I hear, I laugh. I eat. I cry. I am a real person.

For many years, my faith practice was limited to verbal and internal expression. I practiced my faith as if I were a disembodied spirit.

As radical fundamentalists, we shunned anything that smacked of ceremony or ritual. Or at least, we tried.

Our meeting house was intentionally spare, unadorned. No candles, no stained glass windows, not even pews. We took simplicity to the extreme because we believed that anything that appealed to our physical senses was suspect. Pagan.

No incense. No ritual. No ceremony. No recited prayers.

Great emphasis was placed on extemporaneous expressions of faith. This was good in that it encouraged active participation. It was flawed in that it excluded people who, like myself, could never pray great, flowery public prayers.

In fact, I did not learn the Lord's Prayer until I was 27 and outside our fundamentalist church. My ignorance strikes me as hilarious since we believed in a literal interpretation of Scripture and yet, we ignored the actual prayer Jesus taught His disciples to pray.

For me, there was always something lacking in my childhood church. Try as I might, I was no spiritual transcendentalist. I had profound difficulty concentrating during public, spontaneous prayer. Spiritual spontaneity exhausted me.

Liturgy has aided me in knitting together my physical and spiritual selves.

I was led to liturgy through the gift of written prayer. You cannot imagine the sheer relief I experienced when, after having the twins, a kind crossing guard (yes! A crossing guard!) gave me a small book of written prayers.

It was a revelation. I was stunned to discover that I could commune with God in a lovely, beautiful way without having to invent the words myself.

I had been raised to believe that ritual, ceremony and "vain repetition" were dead, empty expressions of faith. However, it was also true that those spontaneous expressions of faith relied too heavily on individualism.

My spiritual health was often judged by my ability to produce original, authentic, divinely inspired, in-the-moment, Scripture-rich prayers. Honestly, I'm just not that original.

Thus, I often remained silent. My worship was mostly internal. But oh, how I longed for some external expression of my faith.

Liturgy has given that to me.

Better yet, liturgy is not personality-centric. It does not rely on the eloquent sermons of a gifted public speaker. It does not emphasize the words of a preacher. It emphasizes the Word.

One of my most jarring discoveries was that liturgical churches do more Scripture reading (in actual minutes) than most any other church I attended.

I had grown up believing that "faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God," but I always associated that with listening to preaching. For a Biblical literalist, it was something of a surprise to realize that my faith was growing as a simple result of listening to Scripture being read aloud. Period.

Liturgy is predictable and yet deeply profound.

It feels like home.