We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776
Walking through Target when a t-shirt catches my eye in the girls’ department.
Excuse me?
I’m a proud member of the MOB (Mothers Of Boys). I don’t see a shirt in the boys’ department reading, “My Skills Make Girls Run.” That would never be tolerated. As a grown-up girl, I’d be unhappy if it were.
Then there’s the sign I saw in Kirkland’s.
Where’s the one reading “Boys Rule: Your IQ Test Has Come Back Negative?” Kirkland’s would be boycotted post-haste if that sign ever made it to the shelves.
sorry. your IQ test has come back negative
The battles for women’s suffrage, educational equality, and Title IX were difficult. Necessary. Admirable.
Is this how we want to do it? By using little girls to demean little boys?
The notion that it’s acceptable to degrade boys isn’t new. I love the old Schoolhouse Rock songs and often feature them in my posts. My seven-year-old son and I can sing the lyrics to nearly all of them.
But there’s a line in Unpack Your Adjectives that makes me want to crawl under the table. My heart breaks as my son laughs along, unaware of the politically-loaded, mean-girl, angry-woman sentiment behind it:
“Girls who are tall can get taller, Boys who are small can get smaller, Till one is the tallest And the other’s the smallest of all.”
This is 2012, not 1950, 1969, 1975 when Unpack Your Adjectives first aired, or Thelma and Louise’s 1991. The vitriol is overkill.
Sisters, hear me when I say I’m indebted to you. Now can we please celebrate the partial victories, keep on keeping on, and leave our kids out of the combat?
you’re right. you’re not worthy
Think about what we’re communicating to our daughters. What we’re allowing to happen to our sons. Will this attitude ameliorate animosity or deepen it? Solve inequality or perpetuate it?
Teach respect. Work for equality. Rise above the hurt and the hate. Burn the cattiness with all the gusto once used to burn the bras.
My son isn’t responsible for your pain. No amount of discrimination justifies using our children as pawns in an ongoing, grown-up fight.
And He took the children in His arms, placed His hands on them and blessed them. Mark 10:16 NIV
Thanks to Roy, a reader in Columbia, Missouri, we discovered the starlings featured in yesterday’s post are actually a fine family of barn swallows.
Roy was kind enough to include a link to photos that helped us identify the nest and the birds. Mother-Daughter Press & Gay Bumgarner Images might as well have shot the pictures at my house.
Barn swallow child doesn’t have quite the same je nais se quoi as starling child.
And this isn’t the first time I’ve had to eat crow on the blog, nor will it be the last. But this is the first time I’ve had to do so over an ornithological misnomer.
“The point is that the bird kept jumping out of the nest,” said my husband.
Yes, dear. Reminds me of a certain blogger we know.
Enthusiasm without knowledge is no good;
haste makes mistakes. Proverbs 19:2 NLT
Little Bird by the Annie Lennox: I’ve just got to put these wings to test.
My husband and son rescued this little bunny from our window well and set him free to rejoin his family. I’d post video of the rabbit rodeo, but I’d like to stay married.
baby bunny
Two toads have taken up permanent residence in the window well turned terrarium. Our eyes sift through the sand to detect their camouflaged bodies.
The robins in our holly tree who survived the tornado have long since gone. Another resourceful robin laid eggs in a coil of electrical wire tucked under our deck. She’s fearlessly raising her brood to fledging status this week.
Some starlings constructed a muddy nest under the deck, too.
This past Tuesday morning, I let the dog out to roam in the backyard. As we ate breakfast inside, we heard her urgent barking.
“She wants to come in already?”
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” said my son.
“Okay, just make sure you lock up after you let her in.”
He scurried downstairs to open the door.
“No, Ella! No!”
My skinny seven-year-old lugged our overweight dog into the house.
“Ella was trying to bite the baby bird!” he said.
A starling chick had fallen from the nest. His four brothers and sisters peeked out of their dirt clod cone of a home.
“Don’t touch it!” I said. The tiny bird lie on his back struggling to breathe. Gingerly, I flipped him over. He waddled a few steps.
“Let’s call your dad and figure out what to do,” I said.
My husband was in a meeting, unavailable to take our call. So I did what any modern woman on the prairie does. I Googled it.
“Don’t worry about ‘smelling like a human.’ Actually, most birds have a very poor sense of smell and won’t be able to tell that you helped their baby… If you can find the nest, then put the baby bird into it.”
We stacked benches and climbed up.
“Spot me, will ya?”
I carefully lifted the chick up to the nest. He disappeared down into the funnel. He was a goner for sure.
By evening, he’d fallen out again. We stacked the benches, climbed up, placed him with his siblings. Only this time he didn’t disappear.
This time he turned around and perched on the rim of the dirt cone.
“Go back in,” I said and nudged him. He refused to move, stretching his neck out between my fingers.
on the edge
The next morning, he’d hopped out again. And again in the afternoon.
This bird is not old enough to leave the nest. He’s just beginning to open his eyes. There are downy tufts on his head. He’d be defenseless on the ground if a snake or cat came prowling. My husband thinks he’s trying to find relief from the triple digit heat.
Soon he’ll fly like the adult starlings who circle and complain as we return their offspring to the nest. We’ll save him from danger for as long as we can. But he’s tasted the cool, sweetness of freedom.
Wednesday evening we sat by the window under the deck, quietly watching avian parents fly back and forth. The robins landed and stayed to feed their chicks. But the starlings swooped in and hovered beside the mud nest, their apricot chests suspended by strong, flapping wings.
starling child
If they landed, it was like angels touching earth, too quick for us to see.
Swan-diving starling child, do you show your siblings how to fall into this air?
There’s always one who leads.
But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. 1 Corinthians 15:20-21 ESV
Must have been around 9 p.m. when it began. Shouting rattled our hotel room.
My husband turned up the volume on the TV as the argument continued, peppered with expletives. I picked up the phone.
“Yes, there’s a hostile conversation in the room next door. Well, I think it’s next door. Can you check? It’s really loud.”
We waited. The yelling permeated the walls. My husband called this time.
“Will you send someone up to our floor right away? Sounds like a fight.”
I stood on my toes and watched through the peephole. A man in a uniform appeared and knocked on our neighbors’ door. “Security. Open up.”
A sing-song voice answered. “Everything’s all right in here.”
“Open the door!” said the security guard. He knocked some more, but the door was shut tight and the yelling inside escalated.
“He’s gone!” I said as they guard left. My husband held our wide-eyed son.
elevator going down
The voices cut loose, cursing and screaming. Then we heard what sounded like fists punching a feather pillow in staccato jabs. Thump, thump, thump!
I grabbed the phone again. “This is the third time we’ve called! You have to do something! Call the police! It sounds like he’s hitting her!”
Through the peephole I watched four officers rush the hall.
“Police!” Bang, bang, bang, they pounded on the door. “Open up!”
“I’m scared,” said our son.
Finally our neighbors opened their door. A middle-aged man dressed in pajamas marched out into the hallway. The police checked his identification.
in the hallway
“Who’s in the room?”
“My wife.”
“Were you yelling at your wife?”
“Yes.”
“You argue with your wife a lot?”
“No.”
“You ever hit your wife?”
“Never.”
An officer entered the room. Minutes later, he came out of the room, released the husband, and the police left.
Guess she didn’t want to press charges. No law against punching pillows, right?
clean up, exit
The room next door was quiet the rest of the night, but our room lost sleep.
Our neighbors were gone by morning. Our business-class hotel was apologetic. No harm done, right?
You keeping things on the down-low? Think no one will ever find out what’s done in secret? Don’t kid yourself.
Sin is never a private affair.
Our behavior impacts those around us. Boils over. Burns bystanders as well as those in our line of fire. Leaves us all in dire need of redemption.
You spread out our sins before You—
our secret sins—and You see them all. Psalm 90:8 NLT
In America, one in four women and one in nine men will suffer physical or emotional violence at the hands of an intimate partner (Centers for Disease Control, 2008).
If you or someone you know is being abused or is an abuser, please reach out for help. Contact local authorities, your pastor, or the National Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) or TTY 1-800-787-3224.
What does it mean that secret sin isn’t really secret?
The day before the Tony’s, I watched an interview with actress Judith Light. Remember Judith from Who’s the Boss?
Judith Light, image from wikipedia
She shared how she started her career with preconceived notions about the types of roles she would and would not accept. When her expectations were unmet and she wasn’t offered the roles she desired, she began to look at what was being offered to her. What doors were open.
A soap opera. A sitcom. Eventually Broadway.
She stopped fighting the current and sailed on it instead.
A day after the interview, Judith was awarded a 2012 Tony for her performance as Silda in Other Desert Cities.
You and I may never win a Tony, an Oscar, a Pulitzer, or a Fortune 500 ranking. But we all sail this current. We all run this race.
There is much to be gained along the way.
But my life is worth nothing to me unless I use it for finishing the work assigned me by the Lord Jesus—the work of telling others the Good News about the wonderful grace of God. Acts 20:24 NLT
Only Love by Wynonna Judd. Out of all the flags I’ve flown, one flies high and stands alone.
Milk Wars was first posted more than a year ago. Besides being our most read post, it’s also our most shared post with 528 Facebook shares and counting.
Apparently, the message still resonates.
I know that You can do all things;
no purpose of Yours can be thwarted. Job 42:2 NIV
10,000 Reasons by Matt Redman, a new favorite in my house: Let me be singing when the evening comes.
Yesterday was a banner day. Thank you for reading and sharing.
open for comments
To any new readers, welcome aboard, folks. Fasten your seat belts.
A few things you should know. First, this isn’t a farm and food blog. If it were, it’d be called Farmilicious or Chick & Biscuit or Butterbean Babe.
I’m a suburban girl who didn’t grow up on a farm and doesn’t live on a farm now. I write all sorts of things. You never know what’s coming next, and neither do I.
This isn’t a devotional, although there are Bible verses that apply to the posts.
This isn’t a music blog either, but I really like music, hence the links to songs. Like a soundtrack for a movie.
Now about yesterday’s post Food Fright. Your response encouraged me to take inventory. Lo and behold, a pattern emerged.
Posts about what’s true and what’s not true about farming and food matter to you.
field of dreams
Since Milk Wars exploded a year ago, I’ve met a lot of cool people. Yesterday reminded me there are stories waiting to be told. Questions begging for answers.
Is my food safe? Are farms ruining the environment? Who’s behind all this? Will there be a Madagascar 4?
So among the posts about the dog, the family, the ups and down, the cosmetics and clothes, the social issues and flashback hits, don’t be surprised to see more about farming and food.
Chick & Biscuit can take a hint.
Let them praise the Lord for His great love
and for the wonderful things He has done for them.
For He satisfies the thirsty
and fills the hungry with good things. Psalm 107:8-9 NLT
Recently I ventured into the 630s and 338.19s at the downtown branch of the Wichita Public Library. Those are the Dewey Decimal call numbers for farming and production.
I was looking for a book that could help me address the concerns of yet another well-intentioned friend who watched Food, Inc. and hit the panic button.
Instead of books about the dignity of farming and food production, here’s a sample of the titles I found:
The End of Food: How the Food Industry is Destroying Our Food Supply–And What You Can Do About It
Tomatoland: How Modern Industrial Agriculture Destroyed Our Most Alluring Fruit
Stuffed & Starved: The Hidden Battle for the World Food System
A Nation of Farmers: Defeating the Food Crisis on American Soil
Against the Grain: How Agriculture Has Hijacked Civilization
Really?
Did you eat today? How about yesterday? Last year? Do you plan to eat again?
Did you have trouble finding food? Or did you have your choice of food at your choice of markets? Is someone preventing you from growing your own food if you want to do so?
I know your food didn’t kill you or you wouldn’t be reading this.
steak
I have a child. To borrow a line of reasoning from Katie Pinke, because I have a child, do you think I abuse him? How about my dog? Do you assume I abuse her?
If you have children or animals, should I assume you abuse them? How about livestock or poultry? If a farmer raises livestock or poultry, is it a foregone conclusion that those animals are abused?
Did you find insects in your produce? How about fungi on your fruit? Was your corn sweet and robust or wimpy and weedy? Was it dripping with chemicals?
Bad things happen in agriculture. There are accidents and outbreaks. There are crimes. Sometimes animals are abused. Sometimes people die.
There’s always room for improvement.
Bad things happen at local swimming pools. And at city halls. In factories. Police departments. Schools. Daycares. Animal shelters. Fortune 500 companies. Convenience stores.
There are accidents and outbreaks. There are crimes. Sometimes animals are abused. Sometimes people die. There’s always room for improvement.
Bad things happen, but they’re not the norm.
They’re certainly not the intention of the majority of people who work in these sectors. Crimes should be prosecuted. Innocent people shouldn’t be attacked.
Research, funding, and lifetimes of labor by dedicated farmers go into improving farming and our food. The result is one of the safest, most plentiful, least expensive food supplies in history. We have choices of what to eat.
Surely there must be something right about farming and food.
Much of what’s wrong appears to be grown and harvested on a bookshelf of misinformation. And don’t even get me started about what’s on the internet.
radicchio
Show me the right path, O Lord;
point out the road for me to follow. Psalm 25:4 NLT
The Farmer’s Song by Murray McLaughlin. Thanks for the meal, here’s a song that is real from a kid from the city to you.
I snapped the food photos in this post at The Fresh Market in Wichita, where conventional, organic, homegrown, and imported foods are sold from the same shelves.
What’s your take on this? What are your concerns about farming and food? What would you like to stay the same? What would you like to change?
Consider this is your sign. Your ride is parked at the curb. The doors are open. Get on the bus.
And just as each person is destined to die once and after that comes judgment,so also Christ died once for all time as a sacrifice to take away the sins of many people. He will come again, not to deal with our sins, but to bring salvation to all who are eagerly waiting for him. Hebrews 9:27-28 NLT
Funk musician Frankie Smith says, “Get on the bus!” The Double Dutch Bus.
In the realm of respite, there are restful vacations and there are very busy vacations. My family gravitates toward the busy.
Mr. Whetstine goes to Montpelier
None of us had ever been to Vermont until last week. We were going to make the most of it.
We cruised Lake Champlain, shopped April Cornell’s comeback store in Burlington, visited the state capitol in Montpelier, toured the Ben & Jerry’s factory in Waterbury, and witnessed the birth of a goat at Shelburne Farms (timing is everything, folks). That was the first half of the week.
The second half bowed to my husband’s business commitments. He worked while I entertained our energetic seven-year-old in an unfamiliar city.
this way to Ben & Jerry’s
Our itinerary included swimming, hiking, tree climbing, rock skipping, iPhone games, MythBusters marathons, and a shoreline run to the U.S. Coast Guard station for a band-aid.
We arrived home exhausted, hauling 135 pounds of laundry, a bevy of memories, and one air travel induced backache, namely mine.
A very busy vacation requires a stay in recovery.
“Mom,” said my son, “next time can we just go to Kitty Hawk?” He remembers restful vacations are possible even for us.
We vacation busy because we don’t want to miss a thing.
We vacation restful because we all need time out to recharge.
Lake Champlain
Most vacations fall between the two extremes. There are degrees. There is balance. There is a remote, beachfront condo braving the wild ocean somewhere in my future.
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from Him. Psalm 62:5 NIV1984
I have a tiny bone to pick with Wellesley High School English teacher David McCullough’s assessment, “You’re not special.”
You’ve probably heard about McCullough’s “You’re Not Special” commencement speech. Delivered on June 1, the speech quickly went viral.
king of the world?
It’s not hard to understand why this speech appeals to folks. Much of what we teach our children and how we treat them hinges on overprotection. We work very hard to prevent bad things from happening to them. We do all we can to ensure their success. We treat them as if they are, well, special.
They may get the idea they are entitled to a life of ease without frustration. But the real world doesn’t work that way.
If you’ve ever struggled to earn a paycheck, overcome a hardship, or climb out of a dysfunction, you know life can be tough. The world is no respecter of persons when it comes to fairness. The sun rises and the rain falls on the righteous and the unrighteous, the special and the ordinary.
As an occasional helicopter parent, I agree with the gist of McCullough’s speech. But it troubles me for another reason.
I cringe because the speech’s implication is as dangerous as what it argues against.
“You see, if everyone is special, then no one is,” said McCullough. In order to be special, we must do something special. Our worth depends on our performance.
And if no one is special, then is every one replaceable? Disposable even? If only those who perform and do something special—if only those have worth—who’s to say what’s to become of the rest of us?
Our children, including the young adults graduating from Wellesley High School this year, are special to their families. Or at least they should be. They’re special to their country as our best natural resource. Or at least they should be.
Most assuredly, they’re special to God. So are you and I.
With God, your worth doesn’t depend on what you do or don’t do. He created you, so you have intrinsic value. He loves you, so you have worth. He died and rose to save your life, so your life is beyond price.
all hands on deck
Maybe it’s semantics. I wish McCullough would have said, “You’re not entitled.” Of course that doesn’t sound nearly as provocative as, “You’re not special.”
And I suppose he’s right. Performance is our measure in this world’s economy.
Thank God it’s not our measure in His eyes.
God saved you by His grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. Ephesians 2:8-9 NLT
