Mary Bernard

photo: 123rf.com

Tulip Tuesdays: Calvinism, Part 1, the “T” in TULIP

I’ve had a few questions from friends about my beliefs in Calvinism and what it means to call myself a five-point Calvinist. I’ve decided to devote Tuesdays to exploring my beliefs, outlining them for you here.

Simply, Calvinism can be explained using the acronym, TULIP. Persons who affirm all five of the points of the acronym, are called “five-point Calvinists.”

Today I begin with the first point: the “T” in TULIP, which stands for “total depravity.”

I’m sure you’ve heard many people say they think people are basically good. They may say they have “great faith in the goodness of mankind” and believe that the majority of human beings will typically choose kindness and generosity.

You may be stunned, then, to hear me say that people are–at their core–basically bad. They aren’t as bad as they could be because of God’s intervening common grace to all of creation. But, humans are born sinful– totally depraved (marked by corruption or evil).

Scripture describes totally depraved human beings in two ways: enemies of God and dead in sin.

Enemies of God
What is an enemy? A rival. Someone at cross-purposes. Someone who is opposed to your success. An enemy doesn’t love you or cheer you or have your best interests at heart.

We human beings are born as enemies of God.

Dead in Sin
We are also dead in sin. A dead person is without life. A dead person is incapable of calling out, looking for, or moving toward anything. A dead person does NOT seek God.

So you may be wondering at this point, why should I care? All that stuff sounds like negative, depressing theological mumbo-jumbo. I mean, I live a good life. I’m a good mom and a good wife. I’ve never cheated on my husband or cheated on my taxes. I think I’m doing OK. I’ve definitely done enough good things to outweigh the bad things.

Hmmm. Well, it doesn’t really work like that.

And that’s why the doctrine of humanity’s total depravity is so important. You AREN’T as bad as you could be. But you are still born sinful. You are still NOT God, and God is still God. And God’s requirements for holiness have never changed but they are something neither I nor you can EVER attain.

Understanding my true nature is one of the most humbling experiences I’ve ever been through. I grew up a “really good girl”–and I haven’t cheated on my husband or my taxes, either. But I was born dead in sin, just the same. It wasn’t until I studied Calvinism (and Reformed Theology) that I grasped the gravity of my sin nature (just simply because I’m an imperfect human compared to a perfectly holy God).

The cool thing, though? The darker my sin surrounded me, the brighter God’s grace overtook me!

Why? Why are humans depraved? Well, the Bible says that the first humans were born holy and happy but when they disobeyed God, all of their ancestors would inherit their sin nature. Why did they disobey? No one knows.

God, however, did not leave his creation without a remedy. He sent his Son to obey perfectly and then to receive the punishment that all of those sins deserve.

We’ll talk more about that next week, with the “U” in TULIP, which stands for “Unconditional Election.”

I’d love to hear your thoughts below.

Trying, trying, trying to get organized.

Gonna start here with Menu Plan Mondays.

Monday–Enchilada Casserole

Tuesday-Crockpot roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli

Wednesday-Chicken noodle soup (using leftover chicken) and salad or baked potatoes

Thursday-Steak, baked potatoes, salad (daughter’s request)

Friday-Date night out to eat

Saturday-Steak tips over rice with sauteed onions/peppers/mushrooms (extra steak cooked on Tues.)

Sunday-simple supper or take-out or leftovers

***I’ll post some of my recipes later.***

In Nashville, it is expected to dip below FREEZING tonight. It’s this time of year when I can’t remember when summer ended and when fall began. It blurs in my memory.

And Christmas comes next.

The Titans stink. They lost to the Patriots, 59-0. My husband–and most every one of my friends–are giving them h*ll. I understand their criticism. I just kind of feel sorry for them. I suppose it goes with my non-competitive nature. But, hey, when you are making that much money, you best live up to peoples’ expectations.

What’s wrong, Titans?

The Balloon boy saga from last week was all a hoax. I was stunned to read that headline. I watched the event unfold on Twitter: mothers, mainly, expressing concern and offering prayers for this boy’s safety. At one point, someone started making jokes and was quickly shot down. Then I saw a post from one mom who said her husband wasn’t concerned or sad at all, since he thought it was all staged. Boy, was he prophetic.

What’s wrong with people?

***UPDATED 10.27.09 TO INCLUDE THE ORIGINAL SOURCE FOR THE FORWARDED EMAIL.***

I get a gajillion FWD emails from my Aunt Pat (thanks, Aunt Pat!). But this one (quoted below) sparked my curiosity and seemed legit (who knows, right?). I did search Snopes and didn’t find a matching hit; so if it’s a myth, it hasn’t come to the attention yet of the folks at Snopes.

Anywho, I figure if you follow his advice, you’re only out a few minutes a day of gargling with salt water.

Also, if you do not have a good multivitamin, talk to me. I DO take a great multivitamin that—I’m convinced—contributes to my overall health and well-being. Melaleuca’s vitamins have a special delivery system**. We also have an immunity booster supplement. I promise you that Chris and I have both taken Activate at the FIRST sign of a throat tickle or yucky feeling and we rebound like that (*snapping fingers*).

Another boost to your immune system is to GET THE TOXINS OUT OF YOUR HOME. When your immune system is continually assaulted with chemicals (they’re in many household cleaners and personal grooming products, including shampoo, even kids’ so-called “gentle” and “pure” products!), it becomes taxed and compromised. Then, when the REAL germs come along, your immune system has little to nothing left with which to fight. I can help you convert your home to a more natural, healthier, safer environment using Melaleuca products. Leave a comment below or email me if you’d like to learn more (maryb1517 [at] gmail [dot] com).

clip art: royalty-free image from dreamstime.com

Preventing Swine Flu – Good Advice

By Dr. Vinay Goyal. Dr. Goyal is an MBBS,DRM,DNB (Intensivist and Thyroid specialist) having clinical experience of over 20 years. He has worked in institutions like Hinduja Hospital , Bombay Hospital , Saifee Hospital , Tata Memorial etc.. Presently, he is heading our Nuclear Medicine Department and Thyroid clinic at Riddhivinayak Cardiac and Critical Centre, Malad (W).

***The following information was compiled from notes taken at a lecture by Dr. Goyal in August 2009.***

The only portals of entry are the nostrils and mouth/throat. In a global epidemic of this nature, it’s almost impossible to avoid coming into contact with H1N1 in spite of all precautions. Contact with H1N1 is not so much of a problem as proliferation is.

While you are still healthy and not showing any symptoms of H1N1 infection, in order to prevent proliferation, aggravation of symptoms and development of secondary infections, some very simple steps, not fully highlighted in most official communications, can be practiced (instead of focusing on how to stock N95 or Tamiflu):

1. Frequent hand-washing (well highlighted in all official communications).

2. “Hands-off-the-face” approach. Resist all temptations to touch any part of face (unless you want to eat, bathe or slap).

3. *Gargle twice a day with warm salt water (use Listerine if you don’t trust salt). *H1N1 takes 2-3 days after initial infection in the throat/ nasal cavity to proliferate and show characteristic symptoms. Simple gargling prevents proliferation. In a way, gargling with salt water has the same effect on a healthy individual that Tamiflu has on an infected one. Don’t underestimate this simple, inexpensive and powerful preventative method.

4. Similar to 3 above, *clean your nostrils at least once every day with warm salt water. *Not everybody may be good at Jala Neti or Sutra Neti (very good Yoga asanas to clean nasal cavities), but *blowing the nose hard once a day and swabbing both nostrils with cotton buds dipped in warm salt water is very effective in bringing down viral population.*

5. *Boost your natural immunity with foods that are rich in Vitamin C (Amla and other citrus fruits). *If you have to supplement with Vitamin C tablets, make sure that it also has Zinc to boost absorption.

6. *Drink as much of warm liquids (tea, coffee, etc) as you can. *Drinking warm liquids has the same effect as gargling, but in the reverse direction. They wash off proliferating viruses from the throat into the stomach where they cannot survive, proliferate or do any harm.

**Explanation of Melaleuca vitamins’ special delivery system: The minerals in some supplements crystallize during digestion, which inhibits absorption. In addition, minerals also tend to trigger free radicals during digestion. This cascade of free radicals can “use up” the antioxidants in your multivitamin (vitamins A, C, and E), rendering them nearly useless.

Oligofructose Complex binds minerals to organic compounds (oligofructose and amino acid) to mirror the way minerals are naturally found in fruits, vegetables, and other whole foods. This binding process not only keeps the minerals more available for the body to absorb, it also guards the minerals—disarming their ability to generate massive amounts of free radicals. As a result, more of the critical nutrients you need for better health are available for use every day. (Source: Melaleuca)

If you read this blog with any regularity, you may conclude that I hate doing laundry.

And you would be correct.

In fact, I despise housework pretty much altogether. And I’m not terribly good at it, either. (I am desperately trying to “fly” with FlyLady, though.)

The hardest part of being a homemaker/mother/wife, I think, is doing the same things over and over and over again. And waking up the next day and doing them over and over and over again. Again. And, again.

Does any of it really matter?

My friend, Jennifer, once posted about how even taking care of the family’s basic necessities is a blessing to them and glorifies God.

She’s right, of course. But we forget. And we get trapped in our humanity and the immediacy of this world. At least I do, anyway.

If you ever feel this way, you MUST read this post from John Piper. He so beautifully speaks of the mother’s work as eternal work and how every little thing is just a part of the bigger picture to come.

We were created for more. Bigger. Better. Future. More.

I just have to remind all you dear readers of a grammatical goof that absolutely bugs the snot out of me. Since I have a policy of never correcting my family members’ or friends’ conversational grammar, I will get everything off my chest here on my blog.

OK. When speaking of yourself and another in the subject of a sentence, put the other person’s name first and yourself last, referring to yourself as “I.” The pronoun, “I,” is in the nominative case. The nominative case is used as the subject of the sentence.

Correct:

Mary and I went to the store.

Incorrect:

Me and Mary went to the store.

And, to be fair, most people get this correct.

But here’s the part that really bothers me: the use of the objective case pronoun. When you and another are used as indirect objects in a sentence, put the other person first then refer to yourself as “me.” “Me” is in the objective case. Objective case pronouns are always used as indirect objects.

Correct:

The woman gave Mary and me two tickets to the play.

Incorrect:

The woman gave Mary and I two tickets to the play.

You wouldn’t say, “The woman gave I two tickets to the play.” This is a handy little test to see if you have chosen the right pronoun; just remove the other person’s name and see if the sentence makes sense.

Thank you for reading.

This post brought to you by Grammar Nerds of America.

I’ve been married to my husband for fourteen years.

About 50% of the time, I’ve had no clue what he’s been saying to me.

You see, he’s a musician—a guitarist, to be exact—and I’m convinced that Guitar-Speak is really another language.

The indigenous peoples of Guitar Center spoke the native tongue when they settled in strip malls and shopping centers years ago. The language has evolved as the musical genres have dictated unique terms for the sound a guitar makes.

Um, I just call it, music.

Chris can spew all sorts of words as he describes his ideal tone: dirt, grit, hair, boost, compress—to name a few.

Last week, my husband traded all his gear (not sure exactly what, although I think it was an amp, two pedals, a telecaster and some other guitar that he called using initials—I think) and came home with a Fender stratocaster* and a new amp.

And that’s about as far as my comprehension goes.

He proceeded to tell me all about the impressive features of his new set-up.

I tried. I tried. I tried to listen intently and display the enthusiasm that I realize I should have had at this one-of-a-kind, never-before-possessed, and will-never-find-again veritable expression of musical perfection and excellence.

Unfortunately, his soliloquy sounded more like Charlie Brown’s teacher (“wah-wah-wah wah-wah-wah”) to my gear-illiterate ears.

And then he played it for me.

Strum. Click, switch, strum, strum. Turn knob once. Strum. Click. Strum. Turn other knob.

“You hear that?” [Mumble, “grit,” mumble, mumble, “hair,” mumble, mumble, “dirt.”] “It’s so different from anything I’ve had before! And this is it! Mary, this is the tone that I’ve been searching all my life for. I’ve reached the pinnacle, the zenith of all that is musical goodness with this new set-up.”

As he finished speaking, angels began singing and beams of light burst through our windows. A soft white glow outlined his body, as he struck a pose similar to Scarlett’s in the “I’ll never be hungry again” scene from Gone With the Wind.

“Uh-hum.” I nodded. “Honey, it’s just wonderful.”

And I really did mean it in my ignorant I-have-no-idea-what-you-are-talking-about kind of way.

Things would be a lot easier if my husband had come with subtitles.

*Photo disclaimer: I have no idea if this is a picture of the actual guitar he got or not. I just found a picture of a white Fender strat, and it looks close enough to me, so I posted it.

This morning, it occurred to me that in a few short weeks, I will do something really insane:

I will spend enough money to buy a nice pair of shoes on bags and bags of candy.

I will then take my kids on a time-honored ritual of going door-to-door throughout the neighborhood to ask for and receive candy from the homeowners.

With three kids getting candy, we will have at least three times as much candy as what I bought in the first place.

Inexplicably, I will have overbought candy and/or had a slow night, so we will end up with leftover candy. More than likely, we’ll have an unopened bag of a 500-count of something.

I will then—that very night—sort and loot my kids’ candy bags, paring them down to an acceptable amount of candy to be rationed out over the next year.

I will take all of the Reese’s peanut butter cup-related candy out and hide for myself.

I will throw a few handfuls of candy into the trash.

I will send at least two Ziploc gallon bags’ worth to work with Chris.

I will give at least one Ziploc gallon bag’s worth to my father.

I will throw another few handfuls of candy into the trash.

I will grumble and complain at the obscene amount of candy my kids got on Halloween.

I will supervise vigorous and thorough teeth-brushing.

I will watch my scale climb up five pounds.

I will then wonder, Now why didn’t I just avoid all of this and buy a new pair of shoes?

What is it that makes kids investigative journalists? I mean, if we just sent our kids into governments and corporations, I’m sure we’d soon discover all of their inner workings and hidden secrets.

Seriously, where do my kids get these questions? Are they bored? Are they testing me?

Just a few snippets from my afternoon driving between Bellevue and Brentwood to get haircuts.

(Passing Forest Hills Baptist Church with lots of kids carrying backpacks milling about outside):

Su: Mommy, is that a school?
Me: No, it’s not a school. It’s a church.
Su: Well, there are kids out there with backpacks.
Me: OK. Maybe it’s a preschool.
Su: No. Those kids look much older than that. So, what is it, Mom, what? What is it?
Me: I don’t know.

~~~

Se: Mommy, remember when we went to the doctor and I peed in a cup?
Me: Yes, I do.
Se: That was neat.

~~~

What’s that building?
Do you like it?
What do they do in that building?
What’s that noise?
Where’s my flip-flop?
Can I have some juice?
Are we having pizza for dinner?

~~~

(Going down Old Hickory Boulevard near Christ Presbyterian Church):

Su: Mom, if we lived out here, could I go to my school?
Me: No.
Su: Where would I go to school?
Me: Hmmm. Probably Percy Priest.
Su: Could the bus come pick me up for my school?
Me: No. You’d have to go to Percy Priest.
Su: What’s Percy Priest?
Me: It’s the school where kids who live out here go.

~~~

(Passing lots of kids running around in a field at the corner of Edwin Warner Park):

Su: Mom, what are they doing?
Me: Looks like they are running.
Su: Why are they running?
Me: I don’t know. Maybe it’s a track meet.
Su: Are they my age?
Me: No. I think they are teenagers, but I really don’t know.

~~~

(Turning onto Granny White Pike off of OHB):

Su: Mom, if we lived here, could I still go to my school?
Me: No. Ummm. I don’t even think we are in the county anymore. This is Williamson county now.
Su: What’s a county?
Me: I don’t know. I really don’t know.

When I was a little girl, more than anything, I wanted to be a grown-up. I really despised the confines of youthful dependence. My desires weren’t based on wanting to run buck-wild (that’s never been me at all). I was ready to speed through childhood so that I could get on with life. I was ready to dispense with—what I perceived as—the inconsequentials and get to the good stuff: independence, self-sufficiency, self-made wealth, decision-making, marriage, family, and career. (Yep. I know you are laughing. With youth also came idealism and naivete.)

A true hallmark of being a grown-up for me was having pierced ears. From the time I realized there were such things (probably at age five or six), I begged my mother for pierced ears.

“No,” she had said, over and over.

I moaned. I groaned. I complained. I begged. I cried. Some days I thought I couldn’t live another minute without holes in my ears.

I’m not sure why she refused. I think she mumbled, “little girls don’t wear earrings,” or some such thing.

Honestly, to this day, I don’t understand her logic. If I had wanted to wear hoops to my ankles with fish-net hose and a low-cut halter top, I could have understood her concern. But, in my opinion, small star or heart studs do not a hooker make. Not then. Not now.

Finally, she committed to giving permission for pierced ears (and makeup!) on my 13th birthday. Ah, yes. The rite of passage into the teen years. I counted the days to September 27, 1983, with more enthusiasm than a convict’s anticipating parole.

And so, it came to pass. I’ll never forget the extreme pleasure of having pierced ears for my school pictures that year.

Now, the ironic part of the story comes as my sister, Laura—two years younger than I—decided she wanted pierced ears a few months after me.

In what is an inexplicable turn of events after the years of stalwart refusal to me (the prostitute wanna-be that I was), my mother relented, granting my sister’s request with little negotiation and fanfare. And like that, my sister was pierced well before her 13th birthday.

This did not sit well then. And, you see, the injustice of it all haunts me to this day (I’ll be 39 next week).

So, when my daughter started asking for pierced ears at age 5, I muttered something like, “Hmmm. We’ll see and talk to Daddy.” Inside, my heart fluttered and my tummy did a little somersault.

On her sixth birthday, my little angel (no prostitute-in-waiting here) got her lobes decorated with some precious pink flowers about half the size of my pinky nail.

My parents came to her birthday dinner the next night.

“Mom! Look. Susanna got her ears pierced for her birthday,” I showed her off like a prize-winning zucchini at the county fair.

“Yea. Well, aren’t those cute?” She paused as she recalled the past. “Oh, I remember. I wouldn’t let y’all get yours pierced for several years.”

I had the accurate historical record ready. “Well, I had to wait until I was 13. And Laura? Laura got hers done shortly after mine. Nowhere near her 13th birthday.”

She kind of nodded and chortled, unfazed by my logical presentation and vivid reminder of such an obvious display of inequity.

Daddy jumped in.

“What you’re saying is, that you had to wait. But Laura didn’t.”

“Precisely. And now my daughter got her ears pierced at six. I choose to live vicariously through my daughter.” I finished that with a little “huff,” crossed my arms, and said in my head, so there.

“Well, OK,” she smiled and nodded.

I think the many years had mellowed her opinion and her resolve on youthful ear piercing. Really, I’m pretty sure she could care less at this point.

I, however, was quite satisfied.

Justice or revenge or something had finally been served.