Tiger Woods-- a murderer?

I heard on the news last night that the now infamous golfer is taking an indefinite furlough from his sport. I heard that his mistresses are coming out of the woodwork at an alarming rate. I also heard that there has been confirmation that he is not actually human, but was sent here as a wee little alien from a distant planet to redeem the sport of golf for his native home and deflower all the young virgins.

Actually, I didn't hear that part. I made that up.

Anyway, it would seem that Tiger Woods is a great big douche-bag, after all. All of America started at this news-- so shocked that an All-American hero--their golden boy and idol-- could be capable of such atrocities. As his sponsors scurried to distance themselves, one question sizzled across the air-waves: How could he do this vile thing?!

I think a more appropriate question is: Why haven't I done this vile thing? Why haven't you? Why haven't I stolen that which I coveted? Why haven't I beaten my children? I mean, when we get right down to it, why haven't I whipped out my .45 and gone on a crazed killing spree at the market?

Grace. Beautiful, undeserved grace.

Our media scorns that which they also glorify... in their movies, their magazines, their advertisements, they celebrate the lust and sensuality which has been the undoing of this sports legend. Observing this duplicity, I feel oddly compelled to examine my own. I have never cheated on my husband... But I have murdered him.

You see, Christ abolished the distinction between the seed of sin, my thoughts--and their fulfillment, my actions.
"You have heard that it was said, 'Do not commit adultery.' But I tell you that anyone who looks at a [man] lustfully has already committed adultery with [him] in [her] heart."
and,
"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.'I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement."

By the Savior's definition, I fit those titles. Textbook example.

Tiger Woods, an adulterer? Not just an adulterer, but a murderer, a thief, a liar, a blasphemer... a sinner. Tiger Woods is a wicked, wretched worm of a man.

And I am a wicked, wretched worm of a woman. In fact, I am the worst sinner I know. By far.

But because these charges were leveled at Another, I go free. I am pardoned while the Son of Man bears the shame of my adultery, my fornication, my lust, my murderous thoughts. This grace is a profound mystery to me-- that the King should wear my scarlet letter while I am declared clean. A mystery, indeed.

Put a Sling on It...

Seriously wish I had come up with this.

Hibernation

And so begins my season of hibernation.

Until about January 6, I have no plans of leaving the house. I will mail-order my toilet paper and milk, walk outside to my chicken coop to get some eggs, curl up with my babies and watch Frosty the Snowman on the couch.

But I am not leaving.

I will not be fighting with the large lady with the cane and motorized scooter at Walmart over the last package of canned pumpkin. I will not be standing in line at Target for four hours to buy Evie a Zhuzhu hamster, orwhatevertheheckthey'recalled.

I will not be joining my crazy, over-the-top, chicken-farming husband at 4 am on Black Friday. $10 off a circular saw just isn't worth battling an angry, sweaty, greedy mob of Christmas cheer.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. But running with these bargain-crazy, credit-card toting, New-Jersey-driving (sorry) in a sweaty, over-crowded mall where "Feliz Navidad" is playing on repeat at eardrum-bursting levels--- just makes me want to come home, curl up on my changing table and go to sleep. Like this girl:

Didn't know how much I'd need You...

Five years ago, in a small Outer Banks ceremony, I became Chris Strayer's wife. Well, to be technical-- it was five years and 1 week ago (but we won't mention how I forgot our anniversary [and Chris didn't], 'cause it's just not relative to the story). The point is-- I was young, in love with Jesus, in love with a boy from Pennsylvania-- in my mind, there was no way that this wouldn't work. We were in love and we were Christians, so it had to work. It had to be easy.

I am at my Mom's house this week, visiting with my sister and her family who are on furlough from Haiti. In a desperate quest to find something to read after everyone else had gone to sleep, I stumbled across a binder of stuff from my wedding. And on a crumbled sheet of computer paper, I re-read vows I made to Chris five years ago. And I realized-- wow, I can't keep these promises:

"Chris, it is with great joy and anticipation that I enter into this new life with you. I am so excited that you have chosen me to belong to you, and I promise to be a wife worthy of your confidence and trust. Because I have known the example of Christ's unconditional love for me, I promise to love you regardless of our circumstances: whether well-fed or hungry, whether in plenty or in want. I pledge my time, my attention, my affection and my faithfulness to you. I promise to listen to you, pray with you, care for you, and spur you on toward love and good deeds. Recognizing that God has given you authority over me, I vow to honor, obey, respect and submit to you. I promise to be a Godly mother to our future babies, and I promise to be your best friend. It is my earnest prayer that as your wife, I would always encourage you to seek and to love the Lord above all else. Forgetting what is behind and straining toward all that Jesus has for our future, I promise to be by your side for as long as the Lord grants me breath. Chris, I know that I am unable to keep these promises in my own strength, but because Christ has promised that His grace is sufficient even in our weaknesses, I vow to be to you a loving and faithful wife. May God deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death ever separates you and me."

In reading this, I was immediately floored by the magnitude of my failures, the depth of my depravity... the myriad of times I have chosen to love myself instead of Chris, to follow a fashion instead of the Savior. But I was also struck by the depth of mercy of my God. I can get so consumed with the day-to-day, the diapers, the electric bills, the house, all these lilliputians of life that sneak in to destroy my joy--- that I forget that my marriage is not about me. It's not about my husband. It is about Christ. He cares about my marriage more than I care about my marriage. Yes, this union was designed by God for my enjoyment and refinement; but more, it was designed to show me (and the WORLD), the heart of God towards His bride. This is the Gospel-- the goal that Christ be glorified, not that I be comfortable. I thought, despite what I had heard, that it would be easy. That it would come naturally. Instead, it has thrown me to the foot of the Cross at every turn, casting my only hope on Jesus; I didn't know how much I'd need Him.

What would my vows have looked like if I had written them after being married for five years? Probably something like, "I promise that (I'll try) not to kill you." :) My failings are abundant each day, His mercies are new every morning. My righteousness is dirty rags, His grace is sufficient. Great is Your faitfulness, oh Lord. Great is Your faithfulness.

Missing joy...

She slipped out unnoticed one day when I forgot to latch the door.

And so I rise each day and nurse babies and make breakfasts and shopping lists and play-doh pizzas; I kiss boo-boos and sweaty little baby curls. I wipe up spills and runny noses.

But it's mechanical and dutiful and forced. These are beautiful things-- beautiful children. My God has blessed me abundantly. So why is it such a chore?

Oh, Jesus-- soften my heart. Make me content.

Cana's first 'do

It's Beauty Parlor Day at the Strayer house, what with blue-painted fingernails, flat irons, and THIS:

Piggies are running amok 'round these parts:


*sigh* I love having girls.

Crunchy Tribal Goddess Mama

THAT is how I would like to be referred, from now on, please.

'Cause no, I didn't clean the bathroom today.

No, I didn't fold the laundry.

Yes, I fed my kid Cheerios for breakfast (again) instead of our *ahem* usual diet of sprouted grain toast and organic tahini topped with ground flaxseed toppy.

But darnit, I got my infant on my back with a long piece of fabric. And nothing but a long piece of fabric.



Just like the crunchy tribal goddess mamas do.