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Tomorrow night Paul and I embark on six weeks of pre-marital counseling for some younger dear friends of ours.

We've never done anything like this before, but we are thrilled to be called upon for this Titus 2 ministry.  We're grateful that Christ's light shines through our marriage so that it has become a testimony to others, but it's also rather humbling for us, as we recognize that we have no authoritative voice of our own; any wisdom we have is only that which is anchored in Scripture.

If you think of it, please keep us in your prayers.

from Titus 2:

1 But as for you, speak the things which are proper for sound doctrine: 2 that the older men be sober, reverent, temperate, sound in faith, in love, in patience; 3 the older women likewise, that they be reverent in behavior, not slanderers, not given to much wine, teachers of good things— 4 that they admonish the young women to love their husbands, to love their children, 5 to be discreet, chaste, homemakers, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be blasphemed.
6 Likewise, exhort the young men to be sober-minded, 7 in all things showing yourself to be a pattern of good works; in doctrine showing integrity, reverence, incorruptibility, 8 sound speech that cannot be condemned, that one who is an opponent may be ashamed, having nothing evil to say of you.

 

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Being sick is so disgusting.  And mind-numbing.

So I chose this picture just because I feel warm and comfortable and a little more alive when I look at it.

Also, it's not greenish-tan and globby.

from Romans 8:

9 But you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God dwells in you. Now if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he is not His. 10 And if Christ is in you, the body is dead because of sin, but the Spirit is life because of righteousness. 11 But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.

It's spring break for these next two weeks here in Chicago, so I am now among the most blessed of women to have the Professor in his real academy throughout the entire day.

Sure, he spoils me with chai lattes and flirts with me in the teachers' lounge.  But he's even more dear for the other things he does.

For one, I've never seen a more effective substitute teacher:  he is not to be taken advantage of, and his unparalleled access to resources in the basement has enabled him to rise to supervising the "Biosphere on Mars" activity with great aplomb.

He excels when leading a practicum:  the toilet needs a new kit, so after the field trip to the hardware store, he will be tutoring our boys on what it means to be men, and on the blessings that are to be found when one gets dirty with a real purpose.

He's even a great example of studiousness and honest effort during our Greek lessons, despite the fact that his attendence in the past has been especially lacking.  While his past truancy has kept him at a relatively remedial level, the other students are dearly fond of him and are particularly willing to reinforce their own scholarship by attending to his.

I cherish these times when my husband is home to mentor his principal body of students.

from Deuteronomy 32:

 1 “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak;
      And hear, O earth, the words of my mouth.

 2 Let my teaching drop as the rain,
      My speech distill as the dew,
      As raindrops on the tender herb,
      And as showers on the grass.

 3 For I proclaim the name of the LORD:
      Ascribe greatness to our God.

 4 He is the Rock, His work is perfect;
      For all His ways are justice,
      A God of truth and without injustice;
      Righteous and upright is He.

I can't believe this is happening.

It wasn't a fit of passion that sent us to this destruction, nor was it pre-meditated cold heartedness.

Or at least my cold heart never anticipated the horror of it all.

No, it was a matter-of-fact decision to carry out this crime against culture, against history, and against my own principles for both, but I can't afford to think about that now.

I must be content to trust my memory of a hulking figure towering in the dining room, lurking in the corner.  Yes, once it had been a welcome guest, and I was willing to see the beauty beyond the scars in its face.  I could even accept that its brittle age prevented it from being sharp enough to play with other musicians, but I just haven't been able to trust it lately.

I suppose it all began when, at certain times, it failed to respond.  At other times it would fail to silence itself.  Then followed more belligerence upon passive aggression.

And then I began to wonder which would be the greater crime: allowing its influence to subvert the family's artistic formation, or evicting a sturdy representative of a golden, bygone era?

With this thought in mind, other doubts were raised, and my affections strayed.

Needless to say, the choice was made.  Someday soon I will present my case for selecting a replacement and inviting it into the home even as the old one yet remained with us.

Today, however, I present in this confession my defense for this destruction.  I do admit to hiring a henchman and his crowbar, hammer, and chisel.  I agree: total destruction is a far cry from mere eviction, and I shudder to think of it, but it had to be done.  The six men who helped move it in that day made it clear that once it got in, there was only one way for it to get out.  There just wasn't any other option.

And now I must get about the task of removing the evidence.  I may even have to assist in the removal of its skeletal remains.

Being an upright grand piano, it was a beast of a thing.  You simply cannot imagine.

from Zechariah 11:

1 Open your doors, O Lebanon,
      That fire may devour your cedars.
       2 Wail, O cypress, for the cedar has fallen,
      Because the mighty trees are ruined.
      Wail, O oaks of Bashan,
      For the thick forest has come down.
       3 There is the sound of wailing shepherds!
      For their glory is in ruins.
      There is the sound of roaring lions!
      For the pride of the Jordan is in ruins.

.

It's very cold in Chicago.

Of course, it's always colder for those made of sterner stuff living north of the 45th parallel, but it's still very cold in Chicago.

I had almost forgotten the risks of owning a very old house when temperatures stay below freezing for well over a week.  At least, until it came time to do laundry.

Usually I run hot water into the laundry sink (not the one pictured above) to warm up the pipes before filling the washing machine.  This ensures the laundry is actually washed in water hot from the heater, rather than water tempered by the first few gallons cooled down while sitting in the pipes.

To my dismay, nothing happened when I turned the faucet this afternoon.  The cold reality hit me:  It's very cold in Chicago.  Pipes freeze when it's very cold.

Would water come through the pipe feeding the washing machine?  I quickly tried to start the load, but nothing happened.

Hurriedly, I tested the twin laundry sink at the end of the pipeline.  Though we rarely use it, it worked.  Praise the Lord!  This problem wasn't as big as it could have been.

The scenario took another turn for the better: I tried the washing machine again, and this time water poured into the basket.  Hallelujah!  "User error" probably caused the "malfunction" in my earlier haste, but it had served quite well to grab my attention.

I set to work.  I checked all the valves to see if Paul had, for some reason, closed one, but I could see that I still had what seemed to be a frozen pipe on my hands.  Therefore, I proceeded as though I did, and it eventually turned out that I was right.

Believing that the hot water going down the line would also warm up the affected pipe, and preparing for eventual success, I kept both hot water taps on in the laundry sinks.

I also collected the hot water from the working faucet and poured it over the stony surface of the cold sink, behind which lay the disabled pipe.  I perceived that warming up the sink would hasten the warming of the pipe.  Besides, this was the best access I had to the pipe.

Then I lay down on the cold, dirty concrete floor and aimed my heat gun up at the section of the pipe that I could reach from below.

I listened intently for the flow of water from the faucet, all the while wondering if the pipe's expansion from the heat gun would be faster or slower than the icy obstruction's reduction in volume by melting.  Was using a heat gun or blow dryer on a frozen pipe one of those seemingly innocent pitfalls that trap unwitting homeowners?  Was I about to burst the pipe myself?

The washing machine shifted from filling to agitating.  I jumped, startled.

I went back to work, pouring hot water into the sink, aiming the heat gun on the faucet, then on the pipe from below the sink.  Finally, a most welcome sound met my ears: the sound of flowing water, and this time it wasn't from the washing machine emptying itself for the spin cycle.

It was the sound of a crisis averted and a commitment renewed: when it's very cold in Chicago, be sure to leave a tiny stream of water flowing through the tap of an uninsulated pipe.  Our elderly landlady of a very old house in an old neighborhood of Chicago told us so long ago.  And it's always turned out that she was right.