Why don't candy canes taste as good on December 26 as they have for the last four weeks?
Overnight, radio stations have stopped playing Christmas music and resumed regular programming. Shiny packages wrapped with care are now shreds of white with ribbons trailing like puppy leashes. Holiday dinners are now leftovers.
Christmas trees are looking tired, and the glow of the rooftop lights is overshadowed by the prospect of bringing them down. And even as you read this, some are returning gifts they received only yesterday.
Christmas appears to be screeching to a halt if you merely take into account those cultural embellishments that we hang on the holy day like flashy ornaments. Their temporariness reflects the material life we live now, but the true gift of Christmas is eternal.
Recently, my pastor closed a service by sharing a Regina Spektor song sparking a whole lot of discussion due to the ambiguous last line: "We're all laughing with God."
I was certainly confused. It was all I could think about on the way home. Then my family discussed possible interpretations over lunch. We didn't agree.
Later that evening, a group of friends took up the discussion. We even piled into the hosts' home office to watch the video and analyze the lyrics. Then we read online comments to see what others thought. In spite of all of this research and theorizing, we never reached a consensus. Even the next day, co-workers gathered around my desk to discuss the enigmatic lyric.
Apparently, people feel that the song is meaningful and worthy of attention, but they also feel unsettled by it.
I think this is probably the way people felt about Jesus.
Please click on the button to read the rest of the column.
If you're interested in the lyrics or video:
No one laughs at God in a hospital No one laughs at God in a war No one’s laughing at God When they’re starving or freezing or so very poor
No one laughs at God When the doctor calls after some routine tests No one’s laughing at God When it’s gotten real late And their kid’s not back from the party yet
No one laughs at God When their airplane start to uncontrollably shake No one’s laughing at God When they see the one they love, hand in hand with someone else And they hope that they’re mistaken
No one laughs at God When the cops knock on their door And they say we got some bad news, sir No one’s laughing at God When there’s a famine or fire or flood
*Chorus* But God can be funny At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or Or when the crazies say He hates us And they get so red in the head you think they’re ‘bout to choke God can be funny, When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus God can be so hilarious Ha ha Ha ha
No one laughs at God in a hospital No one laughs at God in a war No one’s laughing at God When they’ve lost all they’ve got And they don’t know what for
No one laughs at God on the day they realize That the last sight they’ll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes No one’s laughing at God when they’re saying their goodbyes But God can be funny At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or Or when the crazies say He hates us And they get so red in the head you think they’re ‘bout to choke God can be funny, When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus God can be so hilarious
No one laughs at God in a hospital No one laughs at God in a war No one laughs at God in a hospital No one laughs at God in a war No one laughing at God in hospital No one’s laughing at God in a war No one’s laughing at God when they’re starving or freezing or so very poor
No one’s laughing at God No one’s laughing at God No one’s laughing at God We’re all laughing with God
No, I didn't write about giving up the Camaro or being afraid of bears on vacation. I did, however, write about the hotel fire alarm experience, which you see depicted here but must read every word to totally get the picture. [Clever enticement to read the column, eh?]
This is a re-vamp of the letter I wrote to Katie upon graduation; many of you have already seen it, but if you haven't, I invite you to by clicking on the button.
I have two graduation open houses to attend this weekend and several more to come. In Indiana, these open houses are a very big deal. I'm told that this is a regional thing unique to Hoosiers.
Indiana:
State bird: Cardinal (nice) State flower: Peony (very nice) High school graduation open houses (temporary shrines built to honor the graduates) Home of the "Monkey Nut"
This newspaper column is a re-write of a piece I did for Internet Cafe. The newspaper audience is broader and less homogeneous, so I edited it appropriately. And at the time of the Internet Cafe piece, my child had not yet accumulated 6,000 text messages in one month!
Linda Crow: Perfection is Not the Goal in Family Foundations
Recently, I created a gingerbread church from scratch, with stained-glass candy windows and a roof of candy shingles.
Since this was my first attempt, I gathered tips from experienced bakers and researched blueprints in order to prevent catastrophes. Even so, when I assembled the sections, I found odd structural problems.
None of the research advised that when your cookie sheet goes "boing" in the oven, your walls might warp, turning your creation into a wonky funhouse instead of a sweet fairy tale cottage.
I added candy to detract but only felt dissatisfied. I considered placing a gift-laden sleigh on the bowed roof to imply the cause of sinking, but I knew that camouflaging the flaws compromised the integrity of basic gingerbread principles. (I'm serious about this stuff!)
So, I heated a knife in a candle flame and painstakingly cut through the thick royal icing, removing one section at a time to begin again.
After reassembling it with truly flat pieces, I added ribbon candy, peppermints, gumdrops and dripping icicles, which I then enjoyed with a clear conscience -- no artful deceptions on my church!
My experience made me think about how real homes and churches get off-kilter, literally and figuratively, when they're built on shifting ground or with compromises in integrity.
Sometimes, couples try to candy-coat flawed relationships by buying more stuff, as if to say, "How could our marriage be bad? We have worked together to buy a great house, take tropical vacations, fill a four-car garage and enjoy lavish Christmases."
But if there are foundational flaws, the sugar frosting belies the funhouse incongruity in their hearts.
My parents, celebrating 66 years of marriage on Dec. 14, built my childhood home on a foundation of faith in Christ, and my brothers and I enjoyed the sweetness of a loving home as a result.
There weren't a lot of Dr. Phils or premarital counselors in 1942, and I'm sure there were bumps and cracks along the way, but they have always painstakingly sacrificed whatever it took to stay true to their vows and to God, their foundation.
No family is perfect, and I've learned through gingerbread baking that perfection is not the goal. I now embrace small glitches that prove my gingerbread wasn't stamped out in a factory but rolled out by my hands.
However, I'm grateful to know that when my marriage or my individual life shows signs of cracking or warping, I can bring the pieces to God, who straightens crooked hearts and rights wrong thinking.
And that is the good news of this season -- through the events of the first Christmas, God provided a way to re-build, restore and renew our relationship with Him and with each other. Those are indeed good tidings of great comfort and great joy.
Merry Christmas, and happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.
Check out Linda Crow's blog, www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com, to see pictures of her gingerbread house.
When I was seven, my parents bought a brand new piano for me, before I ever had a lesson. That seems rashly optimistic, but my parents really wanted a piano player, with a fervor usually reserved for prospective doctors and lawyers. I can’t explain their unity and intrepidness in this goal, but when I was born, my father declared, “Now we have our piano player!”
Even though I wasn’t very good, you should’ve heard my folks go on about my playing. No matter how many times I bungled notes, they told me they loved it.
I thought, “What’s wrong with them? Can’t they hear the mistakes? I can’t finish a song without messing up, yet they think I’m headed for the Lawrence Welk Show!”
Now, every morning before school, my 15 year-old plays a collection of popular ballads she has learned from the Internet. As she practices, she tinkers with chords, misses notes, uses the pedals wildly—she’s all over the map, so to speak. Yet her music gives me a warm “Christmasy” feeling, one of peace, contentment and pride.
My joy comes from her expressing her God-given creative spark. I can feel her heart in the ballads. Notice that perfection is not even a remote consideration in my appreciation. I love that girl, and her music moves my heart.
When I was the young pianist, I couldn’t get past the mistakes, but my parents heard music above the flaws. Now I do the same thing with my daughter.
We created beings know our frailties all too well. We regularly bungle the gifts our Father has given us. Sometimes we start and don’t finish; sometimes we get a little crazy and miss the mark.
For instance, you may feel that you have not excelled at parenting lately. You may feel that your house is a mess, that you are scattered between home, church and work. You may have lost your patience with a family member in spite of your sincere desire to love him.
You only notice your flaws, while your Father who loves you sees your efforts and hears the music of your life above your clinker notes.
Missing the mark doesn’t surprise Him. Perfection isn’t even a remote consideration in his love for you. He delights in you even now as you sit soaking up these words.
Whatever you do today, “play” with all your heart for the One whose ear is inclined to you 24 hours a day. Don't let inner accusations and missteps drag you down. Your soul longs to express itself to its Creator, and He longs to hear music that is uniquely yours!
Olympian swimmer Dara Torres possesses a stunning physique and fierce athleticism, but what sets her apart from other top athletes is her age, 41.
Torres inspires me because at 45, I started running again, which is neither easy nor graceful. I call what I do "slogging," for "slow jogging," because I'm ridiculously leaden. My allergic post-nasal drip is faster than my gait.
But this morning, I had the best slog of my life.
Mid-route, as I neared two runners, they began hooting, pumping their fists, jumping around and singing the Olympic anthem at the tops of their lungs on a Saturday morning in the middle of a quiet neighborhood street. It was quite a heady experience.
A while after I passed them, I realized I hadn't needed to slow to a walk anytime during my run. In fact, my legs felt solid, my breathing was adequate, my calf didn't cramp, my laces stayed tied. I seemed to be morphing into a real runner.
Before long, I noticed I was about to match my own distance record. Fueled by pride and adrenaline, I decided to keep going, and I went a full extra mile!
I thought about Torres as I ran. She's used to slicing through the water to confidently gaze at her time. I'm used to looking for sprinklers to run through and collapsing in my yard. She has hundreds cheering her on. I have my husband, George, and his friend, ironically named "Victor," encouraging me and annoying the neighbors. Torres has the life of a champion; I have the life of a tryer.
So I wonder: Does Dara truly ever exult in the small things, like going one more lap in the pool or holding her breath a few seconds longer?
Because I sure exulted this morning: "Thank you, God, for this beautiful day! Thank you for legs! For breath! For no hot flashes during this run! Thank you that I can thrill over small things. Thank you for helping me go the extra mile. ..."
And that's when my thoughts changed perspective: "The extra mile! Wasn't that exhilarating? Guess what? You can get that same great feeling again today if you go the extra mile for someone else. Encourage someone the way Victor and George encouraged you; give your all to whatever situation you're in; don't discount small beginnings and rejoice in small victories -- go the extra mile."
1 Peter 4:10-11 says, "Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others ... If anyone speaks, he should do it as one speaking the very words of God. If anyone serves, he should do it with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ."
Whatever you do today, go the extra mile. You're golden!
Linda Crow, of Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Visit her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com.
It all started with reading Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, followed by a close friend's serious cancer diagnosis. Then, there was the death of a former high school classmate.
Death has been on my mind a lot lately.
Actually, I think about dying at some point every day, not in a morbid way, but in an "Are you ready? Is there unfinished business? How do you want to be remembered?" way, which is constructive, to a point.
What's not constructive is allowing myself to be tortured by the fear of leaving my children and husband. As a believer, I must draw the line of rumination there. I can't give in to hand-wringing.
Henri Nouwen spoke about the unique relationship of a trapeze team. When the flyer lets go of his bar and hangs in mid-air for a split second, he has no security. He cannot see his catcher nor control the catcher's speed or method. But at just the right moment, the flyer's "savior" arrives and whisks him to the base.
Most of us believe death will be like that frightening moment of suspension. But 2 Corinthians 5:8 tells us, “We should be cheerful, because we would rather leave these bodies and be at home with the Lord.”
In other words, we will not be left hanging for one moment because to let go here makes us present there.
*Sometimes when I sit down to write, I face the blank screen and feel uncertain and anxious—the term is “writer’s block.” After this sad, question-filled week, I’m comforted by the thought that although life is uncertain, it is not unwritten. That is to say, God is the author of life, and he has never suffered writer’s block. He is not uneasy about the future at all.
*That’s why Christians shouldn’t despair. Death is simply another part of each of our stories.
Paul says, "When you sow a seed, it must die in the ground before it can live and grow. And when you sow it, it does not have the same body it will have later. What you sow is only a bare seed, maybe wheat or something else. But God gives it a body that he has planned for it" (Corinthians 15:35-38).
The key phrase is: "that he has planned for it." We who trust in Christ can know that as the story of our life unfolds, we are in His sight and in His thoughts, safe in the strong hands of our savior and "catcher" who has planned for us to be with Him forever. Nothing can pry us from his loving grip. ________________________________________
*section that was edited/partly omitted that I re-inserted here.
Here is my mom with me probably in 1963. On the right is my mom winking because she is feisty like that. Just yesterday, she told me she saw Tina Turner, who is 68, on Oprah. She said "That Tina said she loves being 68. She has learned a lot and loves her life and doesn't care that much what she looks like. I say, 'Wait 'til you get some 80 on ya, Tina; then let's see what you say!'" And we both cracked up. "Get some 80 on ya?" where did she get that? My mom is funny and has great cheekbones. I did not inherit them. Below is the newspaper column in the Muncie Star Press honoring her.
COLUMN: Thanks, Mom, for Opening my Mind, Heart By LINDA CROW • May 10, 2008
When I was little, I often clutched books as well as dolls close to me at bedtime, cherishing them equally. In fact, some of my earliest, happiest memories are of my mother reading to me. Although it has been 40 years since I've held my childhood books in my hands, I can still remember many illustrations and recall my mother's voice ringing out the phrases of my beloved stories.
My favorite was about three little siblings who built a snowman but forgot about him after they went inside for the evening. The deserted snowman gazed longingly into the picture window as the children decorated their Christmas tree. It's hard to overstate how the snowman's loneliness broke my heart; in fact, all of the compassion I've had as an adult for others or animals has never surpassed the intensity of sympathy I had for that storybook snowman!
Now I realize that I was so moved because my mother read with such enthusiasm and expression that she completely drew me into the story.
One day, I asked Mother whether she remembered this story, and she said yes, although she couldn't remember the title. Neither could I, so I searched the Internet with only one sentence and one scene committed to memory.
Guess what? I found it: The Snowman's Christmas Present, by Irma Wilde.
A week later, I opened the book for Mother in my home and read the words that evoked memories of being smaller, sitting securely on her lap with her arms around me, smelling a hint of Dove soap and brushing against her cotton sleeves and gingham skirt: "This is the story that the Snowman told to the Big Red Sun at sunset on Christmas Day." We turned to the page where the snowman remained outside, and I shared with her how that scene affected me, how her reading formed a life-long love of reading in me.
Mothers do so many big and small things for their children, imparting important lessons, meeting their children's every physical, spiritual and emotional need as best they can. But sometimes, in the most quiet, unassuming, unplanned ways mothers touch their children's souls for a lifetime without realizing it. That's what my mother's reading did for me.
I am 45; my mother is now 82. I write this thank you to her today as a way to "rise up and call her blessed" (Proverbs 31:28) for investing her time and herself in me for so many years. And although my mother was -- and is -- absolutely wonderful in every way, I would like to offer this poem by Strickland Gillilan as a tribute to the precious gift she gave me when she lifted me onto her lap and opened not just a book, but also my mind and my heart. Thank you, Mom, ... I love you.
The Reading Mother
I had a mother who read me things That wholesome life to a child's heart brings- Stories that stir with an upward touch. Oh, that every Mother were such! You may have tangible wealth untold, Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be; I had a mother who read to me.
Linda Crow, of Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Visit her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com.
Published Saturday, April 5, 2008 in the Muncie Star Press.
God of the Second Chance
Just as if I were starring in my own classic sitcom, I managed to back into my co-worker's car in the parking lot last week. My gas tank cover hooked her fender, leaving her car with scratches and a nickel-sized hole and my gas tank cover twisted up like a soda can tab.
The only thing worse than the initial impact of the fender bender was the awkward moment of returning to the building to inform my co-worker, "I have some very bad news about your vehicle."
And the consequences just kept rolling in. I had to tell my husband, face my co-workers, pay the deductible, schedule repair and re-live the incident every time I saw our vehicles.
Although I've always been a pretty conservative, prudent driver (read: grandma in a Camaro), I'm even more aware now that I've blown my one "get-out-of-jail-free" card -- a first-time forgiveness insurance policy protecting me from a premium increase -- and cannot afford another wreck. So, every time I start my car, I tell myself, "Whatever you do, don't mess up." That's a lot of pressure! Every unfortunate decision or sin has consequences. Not only should we confess to our Father, but we might also have to confess to the person we've wronged or to a third party who can hold us accountable in the future. Confession is humbling, but it's the only way to start reparations.
My stomach knots up whenever I see my mutilated car and know that I alone am to blame. Likewise, just when we're beginning to find peace in the process of confession and forgiveness, remorse can sucker punch us with shame. When overwhelming regret condemns us again and again, we should remind ourselves that what's past is past and that we've learned where our weakness lies, where our strength lies (in him) and how to avoid that kind of mess in the future.
Sometimes long after the event passes, we harbor fear that we'll trip up again. We certainly don't want to re-live the pain -- or worse -- wear out God's forgiveness policy. But God does not want us to live in constant fear of anything, including sin.
Insurance companies might not forgive us "70x7" because they're not all that into holiness, grace, mercy, etc. -- but God is.
It is often said that "God is the God of the second chance." Isn't it wonderful to know that he also has a second, third, 43rd and 1,000th-time forgiveness policy?
I'm so glad that "Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning" (Lamentations 3:22-23).
Knowing how relentlessly forgiving our Father is should make us want to live obediently inside the circle of his best will for us every minute of every day. But it's comforting to know that when we do mangle our lives, he doesn't demand that we pay a perpetual debt. Jesus paid that price once for all, and the same mercies that are brand new every morning also endure forever.
We bring our ugly mistakes to God, and He turns our wreckage into something beautiful. It's a crazy policy when you think about it, but that's our Father: the extravagant giver of unmerited favor, the God of infinite chances to those who know and love him.
Linda Crow, of Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Visit her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com.
You usually get a 2nd Cup of silly here, but I do enjoy writing with a little more depth once in a while. Regarding my columns, I try to speak to people who aren't yet committed to following Christ and then with the next column, to those who are committed. However, all of my columns appear on the religion page, and to be honest, I don't think many people go there on purpose. Unless they're my parents. And sometimes not even them! ["Mom, did you know my column is in today's paper? No? Well, it is."] Also, I did not title this piece; the editors did.
Feeling Lost? Here's a Message in a Bottle
For the first time since the General Hospital Luke and Laura phenomenon of my senior year in high school, I'm hooked on a television series.
Lost is ostensibly about the survivors of an airplane crash on an uncharted Pacific island, but the reason the show is wildly popular is that every week, the double meaning of the title becomes more and more enthralling.
Each Lost character has his own backstory that brought him aboard Oceanic flight 815, allowing writers to address themes such as the existence of God, fate vs. destiny, good vs. evil, dualism within characters, relationship dysfunction -- particularly between fathers and sons, faith vs. science and redemption.
Plus it's just so ingeniously written that it's completely captivating.
So, I've been thinking about being lost a lot lately, specifically, that while a person can be physically disoriented, he can also be confused in his spirit, his heart or identity.
Maybe you can relate to these "lost" moments from my life:
When I was a child, I skipped up to my father in a department store and took his hand, only to look up and see that I had grabbed a stranger's hand instead. I was so panicked I couldn't speak and ran away. I wasn't running toward anything because I wasn't thinking at all; I could only run away.
I'll never forget the first time I was driving when suddenly I whispered, "Where am I?"
Once I lost my toddler daughter only to find her curled up behind a toilet in our half bath, smiling mischievously at me.
I remember when my husband took my little dog for a short car trip without my knowledge. When I couldn't find her, I was heart-sick, believing her to be lost.
I also remember how lost I felt when my college sweetheart broke up with me as I looked down the road at the rest of my life without him.
And then there was the moment as a young adult that I realized that I was living in a state of lostness, desiring a meaningful life and unconditional love but feeling depressed instead. Again, I reached out for my Father's hand. This time, I recognized the sure grip of a faithful God. No more confusion or running -- His hand was the right thing to reach for.
Eugene Peterson, who wrote The Message, said that we're all stuck on a personal "I-land," where we are so lost that we don't know who we are, who God is or why we're here. In this sense, we are born lost. We're merely existing, just surviving. The message in a bottle: "I have made a way to rescue you from your I-land!" floats by everyone on his I-land, but only a few realize the need to be rescued or believe that it's possible.
If you're confused, afraid, lonely, hopeless, or empty, open the message in the bottle with your name on it and know that help is on the way. Your rescuer is closer than your next heartbeat if you'll just reach out. For the rest of your life, you'll feel your Father's presence, and nothing will be able tear you away from His firm grip -- you'll never be lost again.
Linda Crow, of Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Visit her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com.
I re-worked the wisdom tooth extraction experience for my column today. I'm copying it here because you can only link to the articles on line free for 7 days, so instead I'll to link to this post for the archive. The last thing I want to do is pay to get to my own words!
Twenty-two years ago, I had two wisdom teeth pulled. Because the whole ordeal wasn't a picnic, I decided to wait a while to have the others removed.
"A while" became 22 years.
In spite of meticulous brushing, flossing and even whitening, the remaining "wizzies" had to go. My dentist said there was nothing I could've done to avoid the surgery; the very nature of these nonessential, problematic teeth demanded that they go.
Driving home, I remembered his words, "It's the nature of the tooth, its anatomy, its physiology. It's just naturally bad."
Something being naturally bad made me think of sin.
I remembered a time when I hid sin similar to these teeth, keeping my secrets tucked so far back into the recesses of who I was that there was no danger of people seeing my misery. I practiced all of the spiritual disciplines -- reading scripture, attending church and serving others, but still, I hid my pain, thinking, "I'll take care of this at some point-just not yet."
Eventually, I realized as long as I harbored one unrepented sin, all the "whitening" in the world was either just for show or a half-hearted, prideful attempt to patch a serious problem. Living in denial about the state of my heart became a way of life. It hurt to expose flaws and release long-held anger, but it was necessary. And in the end, it was the best thing for me.
Although I knew I would feel some discomfort after this extraction, I trusted this surgeon -- unlike my father-in-law, who continually offers to perform all kinds of medical procedures fast and cheap for his family, and no, he's not a doctor! This surgeon didn't appear to have a sadistic bone in his body. He listened to all my fears and reassured me. I was in good hands.
Likewise, I know that when I release my grip on an ancient grudge or heartache, at first, it won't feel good. I might feel like I've "lost" somehow. But that's not so. The truth is, being set free from decaying forces in my life is the best thing for me.
And I trust my God. He wants to excise whatever harms me and drives a wedge between us. When I'm scared to turn over my hang-ups to him, he listens to my fears and reassures me. When life hurts, I could resort to all sorts of crazy methods to treat myself, but the truth is, he is the only one who can truly set me free. I cannot help myself. I will always need a savior.
Right now, my front teeth look great, but don't come too close! The inside of my mouth looks and smells like walking death. I'm reminded of Matthew 23:27, where Jesus warned, "You Pharisees and teachers are in for trouble! You're nothing but show-offs. You're like tombs that have been whitewashed. On the outside they are beautiful, but inside they are full of bones and filth." Yet I am comforted by Isaiah 1:18: "I, the Lord, invite you to come and talk it over. Your sins are scarlet red, but they will be whiter than snow."
To be human is to be naturally inclined to disobey, even though we know we are digging our own graves. When God says, "It's time for this rot to go," I have to remember to trust in his mercy and unfailing kindness toward me. Even though there's much value in doing good, no regiment of noble behaviors or charitable endeavors can purify my inner self. Therefore, to kick off this month of thanksgiving, I'm declaring my thanks to God for exchanging real life for my decay, for trading his joy for my sorrow. Great is your faithfulness, O God!
Linda Crow, of Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Visit her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Originally published November 3, 2007
Whatever we're called at home or school, God has a special name for each of us August 12, 2006
By LINDA CROW Back to school -- ahhh, the memories I'd like to forget. For instance, I had an oddball last name: Batt. Other than allowing me to whip across two T's in one express stroke, "Batt" brought nothing but school days opened with and hemmed in by Batt jokes. By middle school, I learned to answer clever quips like, "Hey, is that your Battmobile? Is that coat your Battcape? Is Battman your dad? Do you live in the Battcave?" the way you answer a two year-old: "Yep, umm-hmm. Gee, you're funny." Or sometimes, I'd sarcastically go along, "Yes! And this is my Battpencil, my Battdesk, my Battclassroom and Battschool!" I became pretty tired of "Battworld."
Ancestry.com offers this charming Batt history: "Origin and meaning are not clear, but it is perhaps akin to batt 'cudgel' and so, as a byname, given to a thick-set man or a belligerent one." I guess that includes thick-set, belligerent females, too, which I am at least once a month.
Like a lot of little girls, I dreamed of Prince Charming. Only along with his shock of dark hair and white teeth, his name would be "Someone Smith," or "Somebody Jones." Yes, I daydreamed we would seal our love with a K.I.S.S.: Keep Important Surname Simple.
And then I met the Prince. Dark hair, white teeth, athletic, funny, dark skin, religious, and very, very smart. One problem: His last name was Crow. Imagine that. I had fought the black flying-object battle my entire life, knowing that there would be light at the end of the Batt Tunnel upon marriage. I found "the one" but --holy irony, Battman! -- his name denoted another black flying object, proving once and for all that God has a sense of humor.
Eventually, the Prince and I prepared for little Crows. I didn't know whether to read Dr. Spock or Caring for Nestlings. I did read one piece of advice that seemed pretty useful in a Crow handbook: Before you decide to tackle the job of raising a baby crow, there are a few things you should consider. Baby crows, depending on their stage of growth, will need to be fed every 30 minutes up to every couple of hours from sun up to sun down. My teenaged son still eats by that schedule, usually at a popular local Mexican restaurant. His name is Jordan, but having a witty English major for a mom, he's lucky he didn't get named "Edgar Allan Crow." I don't mind my name anymore. Someday it's going to change again for good -- not by legal document or marriage but by the Lord, who promised in Revelation 2:17, "I will also give [her] a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to [her] who receives it."
Why is this exciting? Because a long time ago, God created and then Adam named. Someday, I'll hear my creator himself say my name, and it will be a perfect fit. Until then, I am content to be the daughter of a Batt and wife of a Crow. Anyway, it could be worse -- I've seen the surname "Butt." So no matter what name you're called by at home or at school, remember that the truest thing about you is what God says about you -- that you are loved beyond mere human words. He has a special name waiting for you, too. Linda Crow, Muncie, is the mother of three teenagers and works in youth ministry. Read her blog at www.2nd-cup-of-coffee.blogspot.com .
