Advertising 101

Thanksgiving break finds me flipping on the TV more than I’d like. Maybe it’s the green bean casserole that always makes me sick and couch-confined, or maybe it’s the futile hope to catch a decent, classic Christmas movie to watch with my kids. And football is always a good second option.
I’ve waited years for my boys to grow up enough to sit still for more than a minute, so I take primetime football as a sign we have finally arrived at our destination. Televised football, I reason, is my reward for the hours and years I’ve spent on the floor racing hotwheels and reading board books.

But along with football comes some awful commercials. The TV we are so careful to monitor becomes a minefield. 

This is where my feelings get worked over, where I doubt my standing, if I’m really a nice person, and most of all–where I stand on Culture.
I remember learning in sixth grade about advertising. We took notes on how companies try to sell product, services, and ideas by putting an emotional or compelling spin on their brand. Drinking Pepsi makes you fun and possibly capable of rollerskating backwards. A diamond necklace wrapped up under the Christmas tree means your daddy loves your momma, and she will cry ecstatic tears of joy when she opens it. Good food and family time can be bought, and endless breadsticks will never let you down–Olive Garden.

Maybe the rest of it went over my head; maybe commercials haven’t changed that much. But I get a sense there is more culture molding, more propaganda than ever before. Brands aren’t just trying to get me to buy what they are selling. They’re actually trying to invade my brain with their version of the world. They want to destroy my conscience by numbing it. Repetitive, outrageous behavior becoming normalized.
I’m not talking about healthy, slender people sinking their teeth into a Big Mac, Coke, and fries (though I’ve never seen an obese, self-loathing character in a McDonald’s commercial).

I’m talking about same-sex everything, the glory of “coming out”, grown men pretending to be little girls, drag queens, nebulous he/she/they situations, women falling in love with women. I’m not saying JLo undressing on a pole during halftime is any better, but this influx of regularly, reliable “strange flesh” (Jude 7) on television is disconcerting. 

If you don’t think these situations are a problem, if you think it is mere “conspiracy”–there is a good chance you have become desensitized to evil. You are ignorant to the impact these advertisements have on your conscience, your morality.

It isn’t just on television where my kids are exposed to this cultural revolution. In my six year old’s online Spanish curriculum, he was introduced to the idea of two women on a honeymoon (nevermind he is still only mastering greetings and simple phrases. Donde esta tu esposo? No tengo esposo, tengo esposa! Um, que?!)
Several days ago, our school district sent out an email to the parents of 85,000 children, announcing the celebration of Trans Week.

News flash: this is not normal behavior.
Romance languages worldwide are not reordering their feminine and masculine nouns to accommodate a generation of gender-confused, sexually-disoriented people.
Most other countries are not suddenly identifying a mass bending of gender.
It still takes one man and one woman to procreate.
The stable family unit–one mom, one dad–is still the strongest predictor of life success (kids actually need both).
In less affluent societies, children desire an education and hope to rise from poverty–they don’t take turns in class declaring their preferred pronoun.
And more telling than anything: these rapid, evolving perversions are rolling in by the dozen. Grooming children? Pedophilia? Tell me, o wise Netflix, what shall I give into next?

Lest you be confused, at this moment in history suicide, anxiety, hopelessness, mental illness, sexual disease transmission (!) is at an all time high. There exists only one explanation, one correlating schema.

Sin destroys people.

Our culture is very, very weak. Take a gander: we have undermined our own efforts at eliminating mental illness in schools by actually celebrating deviant behavior. By normalizing fatherless and motherless homes, we are effectively telling our children there is no one path, no example, no model of right living, because anything goes.
We are confusing our little girls by letting perverse men pretend to assume their innocence and naivety. We are devaluing womanhood and manhood by suggesting there is nothing special about one’s sex, nothing creative and wonderful and God-given. We are unraveling the fabric of our society by claiming birth-assigned gender is mere suggestion, open to interpretation. We are destroying our children with confusing misnomers instead of firmly, lovingly giving them some sturdy truth.

Our glory is our shame.

When, in the past, tolerance of evil becomes the sacred cow, when we’d rather not say anything out of fear of retaliation, when cultures have disparaged the family, when they’ve resorted to total anarchy and rejection of stability–namely values, virtues, and moral uprightness–when they have rejected what is True and Right without blinking, shameless and corrupt, haters of God–this is when they were decimated. It didn’t take a feather to knock them over; they rotted from the inside out.

This makes me want to turn off my TV. It makes me glad schooling is remote this year and that we have our kids under our wing.
But I can’t keep them there forever. We cannot avoid living in this world, cannot hang up blackout curtains and pretend Rome isn’t burning. I want my kids to be able to contend for our faith someday. I want them, more than anything, to stand firm (1 Thess.3:8).

We need practice.

So this is what we’ve been doing–pointing out the inconsistencies.

Just like sixth grade, the lesson is advertising. How are we being manipulated, kids? What are the tools the enemy is using to sear our consciences?
Do you recognize it? Is it worth buying?

And just like that very erroneous, cheap bedazzling kit with which to ruin a perfectly good jean jacket–it might suffice for one glamour shot session in the early 1990s, but it won’t hold up in the washing machine.

Don’t be taken in. Don’t for one second think it is loving, compassionate, or reasonable to fall for it. 

Love allows a person to think and choose.
Love does not pressure us to give in to the madness.
Love begets wholeness, not emptiness.
Love is long haul.
It doesn’t act unbecomingly, does not seek its own, doesn’t rejoice in unrighteousness (1 Cor. 13:5,6).


Advertising 101: do it for the kids sitting on the couch next to you. Explain those rainbow flags, point out flagrant, destructive behavior. Change the channel, but bring it up. 

Explain God’s truth, how Jesus died to wash us clean.

Stand firm, friends.

 

…they exchanged the truth of God for a lie.
And just as they did not see it fit to acknowledge God any longer, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do those things which are not proper…
Romans 1:25,28

For the mind set on the flesh is death, but the mind set on the Spirit is life and peace.
Romans 8:6

Stick out your elbows: contending for the faith

In the fall, we play football.

But between feeling a little put off every time I turn on the NFL (seeing as grown men who make millions still pound each other into the ground every weekend but millions of kids in America cannot go to school and learn in person)…and the small issue of my son being a tall, thin reed of a boy…complicated by the fact I have seen and worked with many brain injuries–well, I decided this fall to make it a point to practice our basketball skills. Maybe it is time to branch out and love other sports, the kind that don’t require helmets and full body armor.

We walked past the park to the court. I am woefully behind in the teaching-my-kids-sports arena. Their parents are mediocre, mostly-fans, and we’ve been putting off organized teams (except for a random t-ball and flag football season) since they were born. Saturdays were always easier that way.
Near the hoop, I give him a few pointers. I direct him to post up, lay up, and all those other coachable things you say to a young boy who is bound to be 6 and a half feet someday.

We are several years behind, let’s be honest. He tosses around a football. We play for fun. We’ve moved too much to invest whole seasons in team sports, and defense isn’t a thing when you’ve got parents who prefer amiable games where everyone gets to play. He has no real feel for opponents, grabbing a basketball, pivoting, squaring up, and banking the money shot. On this windy, cold, sunshine day, I lob the ball in his direction and he runs long, ball tucked under his elbow, tapping his feet just in bounds like he’s caught a touchdown pass.

No, I tell him, basketball is different. Stand strong down low, keep near the basket. I remind him his opponents on defense will only come up to his chin, so if he can catch it and keep it above his head, there isn’t even a chance they could get it from him, even if they tried.

It isn’t natural, keeping your elbows out and catching a ball eye level. I remember my dad practicing the same moves, passing me a ball, again and again. It was annoying how he aimed for my head, threw it as hard as he could, expecting me to catch it without flinching, pivot, and score.

I should’ve been better, for all we practiced.

Good thing basketball mattered very little in the long run. It was nothing more than an allegory in my life–one that has served well to remind me of what could be called a calling:

Contend for the faith.

Jude didn’t get very far in his little book, didn’t mince words. Fight as though you are going to win.

The apostle wanted our elbows out, hands out and ready to catch the ball thrown our way. We’ve been warned to hold it high–keep truth eye level–handle it with care, and get the dang ball to the basket.

It’s the broken record in me, I guess, or my dad’s persistence to keep throwing balls at a person’s head–we have got to handle the truth. We’ve got to make it to the basket, opposition be damned.

Look around, take in the scene. Out there are masters at manipulating our thoughts, our feelings, our ideology, and we are catching the ball way too low. In fact, I’m not sure we’ve got a very good handle on catching the ball at all, or even realizing we are all playing the game. Perhaps we’ve fallen so out of practice, we don’t even know why it’s important to be a part of anything at all, much less uphold truth.

I, too, take the bait often. If I’m tired or in need of distraction, I usually stumble upon news articles or feel good reports and let it sink in too deep. I let my elbows drop. I listen to the sob stories, I genuinely try to understand where a person is coming from when they use their human reasoning to justify all sorts of contrary matter. I get sucked into the uplifting, fluffy nonsense. I indulge far too often in temporary, this-world-is-my-home, humanistic, nihilistic, and perilous self-centered thinking.

I get it, because I’ve been the person with a bad marriage, secret thoughts, depression, self-issued borderline personality disorder, low self-esteem, narcissism, a quick hand at blaming, and overall complainer supreme.
It’s very easy to wallow in it, let it handle me.  It comes from a very tender soul, the commiserating on weakness, the abhorrence of stigma, the recoiling at every sense of shaming. It almost-
almost–makes me feel like I belong somewhere when we are all throwing the human pity party, waxing on about our problems and struggles.

But it isn’t truth.
Truth doesn’t begin and end with self. Justice cannot be just if I’m the one always banging the gavel.
Truth is chained to authority, and God is the one in charge. 

The truth is–I am the one responsible for my sin. Guilty.

Jesus pulled me out of myself and those lowly, worthless groanings. It was the Father who put the ball in my hands and told me to hold it up a little higher. It was the Spirit who made me sturdy enough to weather the practice. They won’t be able to knock it out of your hands–when you stand up, you’re taller than everyone else on the court.

And here is the God honest truth: you aren’t much to look at, when it comes right down to it. You and I have nothing to offer, not one speck of anything special, lovely, or wonderful. But God put Jesus to death to buy you. When I was worthless and wretched, He said, I want her–and it cost Him his Son to make you His most priceless treasure. There was only one Truth who could reconcile me back to the Father and blot out those endless, worthless pity parties.
I will not go willingly back to the pig pen.

The world will not tell you this. It will swipe the ball right out of your hands. You will watch it bounce down the court and you’ll wonder why it feels like your life is slipping away. You’ll maybe think there isn’t a God big enough to rescue you from your hopeless situation. You’ll continually depend on other people to fix your problems, mend your fences, make you feel a certain way. You’ll be a blamer and a whiner. A hater and a gossip. Forever dissatisfied and addicted to self. Ungrateful. Filled with loathing. Despair.

All because truth is gone and the ball is completely out of your hands.

More than anything, I cannot stand to watch Truth being knocked around, when we’ve been charged with protecting it. I cannot tolerate souls in torment when God reached down to ransom them back by the blood of His Son. I cannot fathom a life of just dabbing ointment on the pain, waiting for death as some sort of rescue. And truly, I hate it when people wave off the Gospel as some sort of fairy tale, because it is the only thing that, at my lowest and loneliest, pried me out of the miry pit.

I am throwing the ball in your direction; I charge you to contend for the faith.
Arms up! Elbows out!

They won’t be able to knock it out of your hands.

Fit more babies in the car.

At the moment, in this period of quarantining, there are three games I refuse to play with my children: Sorry!, Monopoly, and a game called Life.

For beginners, nothing is worse than having four tokens per player to laboriously move around the board (sorry!), except, maybe, if you get held up in Jail and roll no doubles three turns in a row. Nothing is worse–except not having a good excuse to not play these blasted games because, after all, we are staying home and avoiding people at all cost. 

And then there’s the game of Life–I’m sure you know it. While I fold clothes, I listen to my boys argue about what’s better: going to college or taking the straight-to-work path, retiring early or being a famous rock star. And, of course, if winning a forehead contest should really earn a person $40,000.

It’s so funny, and it reminds me of MASH, that old fortune telling pen and paper game girls played in junior high. We’d sweat out our nightmare scenarios and potential dream lives–Mansion? Apartment? Shack? House?–and fall over laughing at the absurdity of marrying a classmate someday.

The boys poked little pink and blue pegs into their tiny cars–each one ironically had a pair of twins. I heard Luke say to his brother, “You know, I think we should play with a different goal this time. Instead of early retirement, let’s play whoever has the most babies at the end wins.”

I smiled to myself, paused my folding, and went over to the desk to pick up my most recent mail. If I’m counting according to Luke, I’m winning, because I’ve got eight other babies around the world.

Eberson sent me a photo with his new baby ox. Paul is grinning ear to ear, holding a wily little goat by a rope. Lucina has lost her front teeth. Shedrack’s mama has bought a new piece of property and is ecstatic to begin a business. Fatima, at age three, has finally taken her first steps. I am as proud as can be, a mom who has sent out some tiny words and scraps of hope and been blessed a thousand times over. These kids of mine sprinkled around the world aren’t drawing any lucky cards; they are masters of hard work and sunshine. They are evidence of God’s love for me.

When I get mail from them, I hear the Lord whisper in my heart, Watch, Pearl, and if you keep your eyes on the prize, I’ll let you play a small part in what I’m doing.

Believers in humble circumstances should take pride in their high position. But the rich should take pride in their humiliation–since they will pass away like a wildflower. (James 1:9-10)

This is a teaching I can understand. I grow wildflowers–plant them right under the sprinklers in my front yard–I know. I cut down those barren stalks last weekend, I remind myself on purpose how swiftly one’s fortune can fade. If life were about me and what I can hold onto, He would’ve never made wildflowers to remind me how fragile it all is. They wilt in a cup of water. They drop their seeds all over the place; just a flash of glory, barely a memory.

We are at home, nine months into this coronavirus gig, nine months of bearing with one another, clueless to what the future holds. Sometimes I still can’t believe my luck, that the biggest aggravation today will be breaking up simple sibling spats, deciding what to make for supper, and trying to pretend I’m too busy to play board games. 

My husband’s job is fantastic. My family is healthy. 

I stay up late to remind myself this is passing away like a wildflower. I sort through my stacks of correspondence and wonder if we can hold up one more of our brothers and sisters in humble circumstances. They are so loved, so elevated, so very highly thought of by our Father. It’s those little blue and pink pegs, those precious children with forever souls, that God wants to see move forward and win in this game of Life. It is a far worthier goal than early retirement or rockstar status. 

So be it if we are the token cars to get them there.

So be it, if I am just a wilting wildflower. Let’s fit more babies in that car.

 

Perhaps you have been overlooking your own wildflower status, when we’ve been directed by our Savior to notice and uphold the cause of the poor. How has education, nutrition, and encouragement factored into your life? If it has been a sizable impact, would you consider passing this favor on?

Pause to consider the impact a child released from poverty can have on her community. Pause to consider the impact this same child can have on you.

In a recent email I learned that more than 250,000 children are waiting for a sponsor through Compassion International. 

World Vision says,

 “thanks to the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security (CARES) Act, the cap on cash contributions to charitable organizations like World Vision has been lifted from 60% to 100% of adjusted gross income if the gift is made in 2020”.

Please think about supporting a family today.

https://www.compassion.com/

https://www.worldvision.org/

 

He upholds the cause of the oppressed

    and gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets prisoners free,

    the Lord gives sight to the blind,

the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down,

    the Lord loves the righteous. 

The Lord watches over the foreigner

    and sustains the fatherless and the widow,

    but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

 

Psalm 146

We Homeschool (an update)

I hesitate to write this. Many people read what I write from the view of a happy public schooler. I really don’t want it to sound like I’ve lost my first love, so to speak. I also don’t want anyone to get the vibe I am anti-homeschool. But I promised an update on this situation, and I think there are plenty of us in the same weird boat, so here goes:

I used to notice how relentless homeschoolers were with mentioning that they homeschooled. Relentless, I say, because it was the unabating, reliable first words off their lips.

We homeschool, was the inevitable answer, when asked everything from what grade the kids were in to if they celebrated Halloween. I think it annoyed me from the get-go, because life can be both simple and complicated. It immediately shushed me as if I were an outsider, daring to insult or challenge a system I had no business anywhere near. It brought into clear view a once-invisible scaffolding: we are building a fortress, and you public schoolers will never understand.

What can I say? I’m too sensitive–though I still think it’s a pertinent observation for the homeschooling crowd. People are curious, and curiosity is not, of itself, a screaming insult tossed like a grenade in your direction.

Yes, but level are they at, grade-wise? Just an honest, friendly question.

And why, exactly, would you not take the opportunity to visit with your rarely-seen neighbor who happens to be passing out free candy only one night per year?

Now I am a homeschooler, and I sort of get it. I can’t claim the title–I’m far too disorganized and pell-mell for a legit schoolroom and steady curriculum. I am sure it’s to the chagrin of many a pro homeschooler we are invading this hallowed territory and stamping a big fat “better-than-nothing” label on it, but: we homeschool. I’ve found it’s a catch-all explanation, and it has a nice, wholesome edge to it. My kids are at home all the time. We do everything together, and the lines are a little blurry.  We have values. It’s none of your business.

Like it or not, it puts a firm and polite end to the conversation, one that many homeschoolers are unwilling to pursue. I can see why one doesn’t wish to hash out their convictions in line at Walmart. I like my freedom like anyone else. 

Besides, I’m not at peace admitting it, but there comes a self-assuredness with limiting outside influences and challenges. It’s a yellow danger sign to the uninitiated and curious–we homeschool. Leave us alone.

I’ve had an ongoing snail mail correspondence with a dear friend of mine where we’ve written out pages, longhand, weighing the pros and cons of every educational approach. We both are reluctant to throw shade on any particular perspective, mostly because we’ve met wonderful, life-giving, encouraging people in every corner. We see certain unique benefits to private, public, and homeschool sectors.

But we’ve recently admitted that the public school scene is encountering some major problems. Flaws that might not be resolved. That separation of church and state that seemed (once upon a time) so constitutional–well, the gap is closing with government-instituted mental health care and humanistic, progressive ideology. Government is re-introducing itself into education as hope and hero, and kicking out parents. Even a mild Halloween celebrator like myself draws the line somewhere.

And private school is so…expensive.

This year I happened upon a really awesome (almost too good to be true) online program that has finally centered homeschool well within my capabilities.
It’s put into my hands virtually every curriculum and software a school could offer, plus tech classes for my more advanced kids. I can do simple things like print off worksheets, or they can follow a step by step lesson on digital animation in Adobe. I’ve been given a stipend to buy things like books, DSLR cameras and tripods, 3D printers, sewing machines, ski lessons, drones, musical instruments, language tutoring.
All I had to do is mail in an intent to homeschool form, and enroll in this free, online option, and the funds were diverted from the state, some of it directly in my pocketbook.
The opportunity dropped out of the sky and into my lap in August–no doubt a heavenly nudge, perfectly timed.

Now, three months in, and as schools around me are sending kids back home to remote learning, It’s enough for me to really, truly wonder why I wouldn’t homeschool. This program is fantastic for us, flexible and forgiving.
But those funds came from the state, and I can’t help but think for every cool thing we are doing at home, we are ripping a bit off the public system. And, quite possibly, ripping my kids off when it comes to life experience.

I’ll tell you how easy it is to ignore the world outside my home when I’m focused on helping my own kids get their schoolwork done. What a relief it is to not be tied to the zoom teacher schedules all day long. To not have to monitor the screen time or trust they are marching right along with state standards.

To have an eye on everything and think, foolishly, it’s all under control.

I want to be clear: we are in weird, crazy times. I will finish out this school year with side eyes, wondering if we actually made headway or if we just were treading water. We wanted to escape the heavy political climate due to Covid, and we’re doing it. But I’m hoping and praying I don’t finish this year thinking I’ve got it all figured out.

I hope I never give up knocking on our neighbor’s doors for Halloween in favor of celebrating Reformation Day (no offense to those who do, I just never knew what it was till recently, and ironically many non-Halloween-celebrating folk of the homeschooling variety have found a handy substitute holiday. God bless Luther). I pray to God He reunites us with teachers and coaches who will love my kids and, for Pete’s sake, teach them some upper level math.

I’m realizing the more I think I have it together, the less I usually do. The more confidence I put in my arrangement, the less I actually depend on Jesus. The more I talk myself into an ignorance-is-bliss mentality, the more of a light under a bushel I become.

I’m forever reminding myself to distrust safety and false assurances which promise I have any control over the situation. Everyday is reality, undulation, wonderful highs and desperate lows. It is fine to test my intentions with a gut check–necessary, even. When all this cautious, careful, home-staying business is over, will I still understand our safety and security was never dependent on my ability to maintain it?

Covid. Schooling. Politics. Our lives have been rolling along on these three wheels, anticipating the next bump. Day by day, the only thing I can trust is Jesus. 

For me, I’m finally able to put it into words. Sure, I homeschool. It’s the quickie version and cheap explanation for how we are moving through these times, biding our days until parents are allowed back in school and voices are heard. But “we homeschool” still certainly doesn’t answer all my questions (nor anyone else’s) when it comes to much else. It doesn’t address more than our current situation. To the rest of the world, we homeschool is not code for Jesus is my Lord. You’ve actually got to say those words if your intention is to confess Him before men.
And that is a legitimate challenge for every believer, no matter where you fall on the educating-your-kids spectrum. It will set you apart like nothing else, and it lands a bit more resounding than any conversation-ending “we homeschool” comment.

Anyhow, saints, I know you are trusting Him, too.

Whether you homeschool, private, or public school–you’ve really only got one Hope. This year has not been any bigger disaster or triumph than a previous year. It’s all going perfectly according to His plans, even if maddeningly so for us humans who cannot quite grasp it.

So hang in there–till things change, and even if they don’t. Rip the bushel off and burn bright on your hill, wherever that is.

To you hard working moms and dads juggling school however and wherever that may be:
What has changed for you in the last eight months?
Does anything still need to change?
How can you balance humility and shine brightly in your circumstance?
Do you need to let go of some control issues you have and allow Jesus to take the reins?