Saturday, August 31, 2013

farewell to summer



Today is the last day of August. The last day. I'm letting that sink in.

Summer is over; the academic side of home schooling is starting--arithmetic worksheets and journal-writing, followed by a lunch of sandwiches and apples in the great outdoors.

The days are getting shorter, and the nights cooler.  It's quilting weather, hoodie weather, run and play in the leaves weather, and put your garden to bed weather.  This is when campfires start to feel good again, and hot chocolate comes back into vogue.  Hikes are more enjoyable with fiery-bright colors and fewer mosquitoes.

Apples begin to ripen, and there's a crisp feel to the air as the mugginess wears off.  It's time for cinnamon and pumpkins, and scented candles in the windows.  Time for the first fire in the wood stove, and all-day soup simmering on its top.  Pies and muffins appear on the table.  Sweaters, socks, and warm fuzzy jammies come out of hiding.

Geese sail honking toward their southern vacation grounds.  Crows argue in the high branches near the corn fields, and squirrels chatter over their acorns.  Leaves are raked into playhouse blueprints for living in, or piled on the trampoline for jumping in.  Cornstalks gleam golden against vivid blue skies.

As darkness gathers, so does the family, sharing laughter and teasing over a game of Uno, enjoying a book read aloud, or singing favourites with dad's guitar.

The cold winds of winter draw near, but fall is a song of joy.

Friday, August 30, 2013

get rid of the germs! ...or not



In my study of health and nutrition, germs and disease, herbs and natural remedies, and illness prevention, I recently came across an interesting observation.

As the daughter of a nurse, I grew up hearing the story of the long-ago maternity patients who died, and whose babies died, because their doctors came straight from the morgue to deliver these babies, without stopping to wash their hands first.  When these doctors started washing their hands, the mortality rates dropped dramatically.  The moral of the story was that we should always wash our hands after using the bathroom, before eating, after handling pets and other animals, before working in the kitchen, etc.  And, of course, with a story like that being ingrained into my thinking, I couldn't do anything but wash my hands when told.  The child-me probably rolled my eyes a few times, but I washed.

Tonight I read a short summary of the actual historical account.

Ignaz Semmelweis, a Hungarian obstetrician, was practicing medicine when childbirth was just beginning to occur more frequently in hospital.  At that time, close to 30% of all maternity patients were dying of what was then referred to as "childbirth fever", an infection of the female reproductive organs, that developed after birth.  Strangely, home birthing mothers were not susceptible to this infection, so many families felt they had reason to fear physicians.  In those days, doctors working in autopsy rooms often went straight to their living patients afterward, delivering babies, and moving on to other patients without washing their hands in between each encounter.  But since most people never thought twice about dirty hands, it took a while for them to begin to make the connection.

Until Dr. Semmelweis came along.

Dr. Semmelweis took note of the fact that midwives, who never performed autopsies, had a much lower mortality rate among their patients than doctors did.  Then one day a close friend of his accidentally cut his hand while performing an autopsy.  Shortly thereafter, he came down with the fever, which soon killed him.  Dr. Semmelweis believed this was more than a coincidence, and began washing his hands before and after working with autopsies and living patients.  He also encouraged his fellow physicians to do the same, but since what we think we know is the greatest hindrance to discovery of new facts, these doctors did what many doctors and scientists still do today: they laughed him to scorn and continued with their own theories; in this case, their practice of working with dirty hands.

It took some time, but when Dr. Semmelweis' mortality rates dropped dramatically, more physicians began washing their hands, and "childbirth fever" began to be a disease of the past.

And thus began the "good hygiene" campaign.  People everywhere were warned of the dangers of disease-causing germs, and were strongly advised to wash their hands frequently.  People began to clean everything more thoroughly, and there was a general improvement in health wherever good hygiene and good house cleaning habits were adopted.

Yet all the while, one important fact was overlooked.  One question failed to be asked.  Why were an overwhelming majority--more than 70%--of maternity patients NOT dying of "childbirth fever"?  Why were so many women surviving, and bringing strong, healthy children into the world, in spite of their doctors' "germy" hands?  There had to be something more to staying healthy than merely keeping clean.

Enter Professor Max von Pettenkofer.  When this brilliant German bacteriologist heard that a former student of his, Dr. Robert Koch, was doing experiments with cultured cholera bacteria, he sat up and took notice.  Dr. Koch was quite famous.  He had received a Nobel prize for isolating and identifying tuberculosis and anthrax along with cholera, and his students were well on their way to doing the same for other diseases.  His theory was that cholera-causing microbes will always cause cholera; essentially, he was stating that all (not merely some) who are exposed to cholera will come down with the disease.

Professor Pettenkofer disagreed.  To prove his point, he asked Dr. Koch to send him some cholera bacteria.  When the package arrived, the professor promptly drank the whole thing.  Of course, everyone exclaimed over the foolishness of this rash act, and expected him to become deathly ill immediately.  On the contrary, he merely suffered a bit of mild diarrhea.  He came through his risky experiment virtually unscathed. 

Dr. Koch's conclusion?  "The important thing is the disposition of the individual."

In other words, if you boost your immune system, you will be more resistant to disease.

But people weren't yet ready to say things quite that way.  Instead, they focused more on washing their hands and cleaning their houses.  And modern technology kept up with the times with the manufacture of disinfectants, and antibacterial salves and soaps.  People had never been cleaner, and many of the old diseases such as those whose bacteria Dr. Koch had identified began to disappear.

There was, however, a change in health among the aristocracy.  Remember Theodore Roosevelt's childhood asthma?  That was a new illness, becoming more and more prevalent among the children of the upper class.  Allergies, hay fever, and skin rashes also began to be more common, again among the wealthier families.  In fact, these maladies became known as "diseases of the rich".

Not until the 1980s did people begin to connect these new illnesses with extreme cleanliness practices.  The British Medical Journal published an article in which it was observed that children with older siblings were less likely to develop allergies.  They also noted that throughout the late 19th/early 20th centuries, large, rural families and farmhands had been healthier than their more prosperous contemporaries.  Finally, in 2008, a study was published in which it was revealed that children who grew up with pets, particularly dogs, experienced fewer cases of asthma than those raised in pet-free environments.

So what do rural children living with lots of brothers, sisters, pets, and often farm animals have that suburban children, living with fewer siblings, and without pets, don't have?  Those pesky little creatures commonly known as germs.  Actually, they are microbes, and there are more of them that are good for you than otherwise.  Microbes, both good and "bad", keep your immune system in practice.  By keeping you constantly exposed to a certain amount of "germs", microbes keep your immune system strong in the same way soldiers are kept sharp by constant watching for and fighting against their enemies.

Children are better off living with a certain amount of dirt.  Yes, they should wash their hands after using the bathroom.  But unless they are covered in mud, it's okay for them to eat their peanut butter sandwiches and their apple slices while playing in the sandbox or weeding in the garden.

Once at a cookout during my childhood, I dropped my hot dog in the dirt by the fire pit.  My mother wanted me to wash it off, but my dad merely brushed it off with his hands and tucked it into my bun.  "It's clean dirt," he assured my mother.  "It won't hurt her."

Turns out, my dad probably had a good point.

my summary of Understanding Holistic Health, "Chapter One: Germ vs. Terrain Theory", by Jessie Hawkins, published by Vintage Remedies School of Natural Health

Sunday, August 25, 2013

a day of rest (part one)


I am not a sabbatarian.  I don't believe there should be a list of do's and don'ts prescribed from the pulpit, religious literature, or other sources about what should or should not be done on Sunday, commonly referred to as the "Christian Sabbath".  Our Lord Jesus spent a significant amount of time sharply rebuking the Pharisees for their practice of adding hundreds of their own rules to what God had already prescribed in the Mosaic Law.

That said, I do believe that each family can and should prayerfully decide how they will observe the weekly day of rest God has given to us.  God has designed our bodies to require one day of rest out of seven, and He meant for us to enjoy that rest, not look at the day as a drudgery.

My dad had a way of making Sunday special and enjoyable.  There were definitely things we were not allowed to do, but the focus was on all the really cool things we could do, that we did not normally do any other day of the week.  Here are some of the things I remember:
  • Playing Scrabble using Bible words.  In this version of the game, you are allowed to use proper names, such as Hannah or Samson.  When you lay your tiles down, you say one sentence about the word you are playing.
  • Listening to Dad read missionary stories aloud.  We got to know William Carey, Hudson Taylor, George Muller, and many others.
  • Taking a walk in the woods.  Not a long hike, but a nice, brisk walk, with apples to munch along the way.  And we learned what the word "biodegradable" meant when Dad taught us to toss the cores into the bushes "for the birds and the rabbits and the field mice".
  • Relaxing.  Once the Sunday dishes were done, we were free to lie in the hammock, wander through the woods on our own, curl up on the porch with a book, draw, or partake in some other quiet, reflective activity.  No homework, no house chores, no piano practice (unless we wanted to play hymns), etc.
Patricia M. St. John, author of Star of Light, Treasures of the Snow, Rainbow Garden, and other wonderful Christian children's books, recalled the joyous delight Sundays were in her own childhood:

"...the service being over, we belted for home in high spirits, for the rest of Sunday was the most exciting day of the week.  There was a special pudding and sweets after lunch, and, for the little ones, tiny biscuits shaped like letters (being Sunday, you had to make a text with them), and special bricks and modelling clay (being Sunday, you had to build a recognizable Bible story with them).

"For the older ones, there were missionary books, and how my mother, in her busy life, managed to write to so many missionaries and persuade them to produce letters, postcards, photographs, etc., is still a mystery to me; but there was always a pile of material for our fascinating scrap books....  The evenings were spent around the piano singing those old hymns then beloved of little children, with their bright imagery of blue skies, shepherd and lambs, or marching round the table with a percussion band to the strains of "Onward Christian Soldiers" or some such military theme.  In winter we gathered around the fire and my mother would read us a "Sunday book," and Sunday books in those days were not very cheerful.  They were nearly all about poor orphans who lived in slums and died making beautiful speeches pages long.  My mother would cry and we would shout with laughter at her (we were not nice children) and we would all enjoy ourselves immensely."


In our house, we've changed the definition of "Sunday book" to include missionary stories and biographies, and Christian children's fiction.  Sometimes we have gone for walks or on picnics, but mostly we try to stick close to home and rest.  Those who are too young to stay awake during the evening service without a nap usually go to bed, sometimes with Dad--a special treat that encourages sleep without too much fuss.  We try to keep meals simple enough that there is at least an hour after clean-up before we all have to get ready to go again, and this hour is kept sacred for relative quiet, each with his/her own thoughts and quiet activity.

We've tried to keep chores to a minimum, but sometimes there's an "ox in the ditch" that we need to care for: plumbing emergencies (waking up to no water), bedding to wash (someone wet their bed or was sick in the night), pigs loose in the yard and needing a sturdier cage, a car that wouldn't go, etc.  Once I spent a weekend goat- and chicken-sitting for friends in Texas, and had to spend a good half hour on a Sunday morning rounding up a couple dozen chickens that had escaped.

There are a few things we need to change in our house, since Sunday mornings tend to be a bit more harried than I'd like.  Here's the list of things I'm planning to amend for next week:
  • Buy boxed cereal for Sunday breakfast.  Those of you who know my "whole foods militarism" will perhaps understand how desperate I am for peaceful Sunday mornings, for me to resort to such measures.  I assure you, those boxes of non-nutrition will be strictly reserved for Sundays only, and only when I haven't had time to bake granola that week.  (Side note: while at Maranatha a couple of weeks ago, I did buy cereal for those mornings when camp was not in session, and we had to feed ourselves.  "RICE KRISPIES!!!" Elizabeth exclaimed.  "I haven't had Rice Krispies in so long!")
  • Have young boys' clothes better organized so that when the older boys help on Sunday mornings, it's easier for them to tell whose clothes are whose.
  • Make sure everyone knows where their Bibles and Sunday school worksheets are.
  • Have lunch meat, cheese, and other sandwich fixings already bought/prepared so that nothing has to be made on Sunday.  We could also use paper plates, thus cutting down on clean-up time, as well.  The traditional full-course Sunday dinner is only restful for those who don't have to cook or clean up.
  • Put everybody to bed at 7:30 instead of 8:00 on Saturday night.  People who think they are too old for such an early bed time can read a book.  This will mean starting baths/showers at six, which will mean having supper no later than five, which I'm not always able to manage.  But it's better than trying to wrestle sleepy children out of bed. 
  • Be organized enough for me actually to eat breakfast on Sunday morning, instead of rushing all over creation trying to do a zillion things. 
Next week, I hope to be able to say I made progress.  :)

Saturday, August 24, 2013

the wife of one man: a love story


This is me, age 19, in my favourite spot: meditating in the Pennsylvania mountains.

I had just ended my third relationship, this time with a guy I met in college.  Or, rather, he ended it for me.  He offered some lame excuse, but it wasn't long before he was being seen around campus with another girl.  And I was left reeling with hurt, anger, and jealousy.

This was not going to happen to me again.   The dating game was getting old, but Joshua Harris had not yet written his classic I Kissed Dating Goodbye.  So I did the only desperate thing I knew to do.

I prayed.

After six agonizing months living in a college full of paired off couples, I went home for summer break, and I prayed.

Lord, You know my heart.  You know how I long to be a wife, and have children, and stay home with them, and home school them.  You know how hurt my heart has been.  I'm tired of looking for a husband.  Just please, You give me the man you want me to have.  You pick him out and bring him into my life.  Because I'm done.  I can't go through this again.

I was 19 years old, ready to be an adult for real, not just an over-grown kid pretending to be an adult.  I wrote a list.  I wish I still had it, but to the best of my memory, here were some of the items:

...a Christian
...believes like I do, doctrinally
...plays the guitar
...has brown, curly hair
...has a beard
...has blue eyes

Yes, I prayed about the color of his eyes and hair.  Maybe those things aren't important, but, hey--I serve a God who delights in giving His children what they want, not just what they need

I put the list away and went for a walk.  It must have been a Sunday afternoon, because I decided to walk all the seven miles from my house to my church for the evening service.  It was early enough that I decided to visit some friends who were the caretakers of Maranatha, a Bible camp very close to our church.

As I walked, I prayed again about my list.  Then I gave it all to the Lord, and enjoyed a brisk walk on a sunny day.  I got to the camp, walked into the house, and saw the most depressed-looking person I had ever seen in my life.  He needed a haircut, he had no beard, and he just looked terrible.  I knew who he was.  His name was Tom, he lived somewhere in Ohio, and he was friends with the camp caretakers.  He visited sometimes on weekends, and attended our church when he was here.  That was all I knew, and that was more than I wanted to know.  Oh, and he was old.  I guessed late 20s, early 30s.

No, Lord, not him.

So God let me go another whole year, waiting, praying, trying hard to avoid relationships with the wrong guys.  Or even with the guys who seemed like they might be okay.  I even transferred to a different school to lessen my chances of falling for a guy who did not believe the same doctrines as me.  All the while, the more I prayed, the more I lost interest in college, and the more restless I got.  Finally, in April 1986, the directive came.

Go home, Cathy.  No more college.  Go home and live with your parents, and help them, and I will bring you the man I want you to marry.

And there was peace.  I was ready to move on, into whatever the Lord would bring my way.

By the beginning of May I was home, settling into a new routine.  Then they came to my house, the caretakers of the camp.  Ever to the point, and blunt almost to a fault (but lovable all the same), this man said to me, "We heard you quit college, and we came to find out why."

After recovering a bit from the shock of such a direct question, I answered, "God told me to come home, and that He would bring me the man He wants me to marry."

"Well, we know a man who's looking for a wife.  But you might not be interested, because he's older.  He's our age."

I knew they meant Tom.  I looked at his wife to see if they were being serious.  They were.

"No, thanks.  I don't think so."

"Well, we're having a workday at the camp this weekend, and he'll be there.  Why don't you just come, and see what you think?  You don't have to talk to him, just come."

Of course, I was going to be there.  I always went to camp workdays when I could, and there wasn't going to be any way I could suddenly back out.  I had to go.  But now it was going to be awkward.  Did he know we were being set up?  Did he care?  Would he be laughing up his sleeve at some school girl checking out an older man?  Did he even know (or care) how old I was?  Grr...  Camp workdays were supposed to be fun, not tense with the eyes of would-be matchmakers and all their friends watching your every move.

I went.  I stayed with the ladies cleaning the kitchen and making lunch, and avoiding the men at all costs.  Then the ladies (were they laughing at me?) told me to go call the men for lunch.  I couldn't avoid him any longer.  I had to bite the bullet.

I walked into one of the back tabernacle rooms, and there he was, up on a ladder, with his back toward me.  There were other men in the room, too.

"Hey, guys," I said.

And he turned around.  And suddenly all I could see was the beard he had grown since I'd seen him last.  And the curly, slightly unruly, brown hair.  And the blue eyes.  And my heart turned over, and I was forever his.

"It's time for lunch."  Somehow I got the words out.  I went back to the kitchen, trying really, really hard to act like absolutely nothing had happened.  I didn't want them to know.

But they kept at it.  They took me to Tom's church, and out to eat with them and him.  They took us shopping, and we bought Tom's first tie, to wear while teaching the adult Sunday school class one Sunday.  We went to his pastor's house for dinner afterward, where we suddenly found ourselves completely alone on the front porch.  They must have arranged that, too.

But I think it was there, on that porch, that I found out Tom played the guitar.  The guitar.

Once I asked them, "Why is this so important to you, to get us together?"

"Because you both seem to have what the other wants," came the answer.

In June, Tom finally called, and asked for a date.  We went to Dairy Queen, where he ordered a black cherry milkshake, and I ordered an Oreo blizzard.  Blizzards had just come out, and that was my first one.  We talked about a lot of things.  Mostly I don't remember what, but I do remember he told me his testimony, how God had saved him from sin, out of rock-n-roll and drugs.  That impressed me.  He was the first guy ever to tell me, on a date, how God had saved him.

I went to bed that night telling myself I had just gone out with the man I was going to marry.

In July, we were engaged.  In August, we announced our engagement at a get together in the dining hall after one of the evening services at Maranatha.  In September, Tom left to look for work and housing in Georgia.  After that, the letters flew back and forth until Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1986, when we were married, forever and always.

Our wedding day, November 27, 1986

Tom still plays the guitar.  His love for the Lord has grown deeper, and that love is reflected in the songs he writes.  His brown curls have turned gray over the years, but he still has his beard, and his blue eyes still make my heart turn over.

July 2012, sitting on the same bridge where Tom proposed 26 years earlier.