My brother John is home from Marine Corps training for the first time in eight months.
He met his new niece this last weekend.
Is there anything cuter than Little Miss Menter and a Marine?
Everyday Life
Safely Falling
I was completely out of control, but I was attached to one who knew what was going on and who was in control.
The air roared past my ears as we free-fell towards the ground.
My mind strained to remember my instructor’s directions, even though I could no longer hear his voice.
Arch my back, kick my bottom, hands hanging on to my harness chicken wing fashion.
Content that I’d followed instructions, I could enjoy the ride.
Exhilaration.
Free-falling.
Amazing.
He pulled the chute, the free-fall ended far too soon. I wanted it to last forever.
Now he guided my hands into the chute’s handles, asked me if my harness was comfortable. Everything was fine.
He told me he would be loosening the connections that held us. I’d drop a bit lower, so inches would separate our bodies.
Now, here, I felt a glimmer of fear. I knew it would be safe, I knew I’d still be attached. But it wouldn’t be the same. Once he’d lowered me, I wouldn’t be able to feel his presence. Would I be able to make it without that sure sensory feedback reminding me that I was safe?
I would choose to trust, I told myself–and so I did.
I relaxed as the distance grew between us.
I was still safe, still connected, still hearing his voice. He was still guiding the chute.
He asked me if I wanted to do anything fancy–circles, loop-de-loops, or the like. “Or would you rather just hang out?”
It was hard to push the words from my lungs: “I’d rather just hang out.”
“That’s okay,” he told me, “we’ll just hang out.”
And so we did, arms outstretched, hands in the chute’s handles. We hung there, suspended between sky and earth, observing the scenery below as we softly drifted along.
My head started spinning. I willed it to stop. I was enjoying this too much to be sick.
I wanted to see.
I told my instructor that I was getting dizzy. He encouraged me to breathe deeply, said he’d go gently.
I breathed, my eyes taking in everything I saw.
Beside me, Joanna and her instructor were doing crazy moves.
I smiled and breathed and wished I could be flying forever, and never.
Burning coals on my head
I am the world’s worst neighbor.
I let my grass go so long I had to use my hedge-clippers to get the crab grass short enough to mow.
No joke.
So when my neighbor starts his lawn mower when I’ve decided to at last tackle the front yard, I’m feeling serious guilt.
I see him glance over at my old-fashioned mower taking its hundred passes.
He’s done with his front yard and moves on to his back.
He’s mowing a little extra, taking a few feet out of my backyard.
Instead of returning my negligence, he’s showing me kindness.
My hair’s almost on fire.
Darn it all. Now I feel obligated to mow the BACK YARD too.
I haven’t even attempted that since the Fourth of July.
“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”
~Romans 12:19-20 (ESV)
The Jump
When the time came for the actual jump, I didn’t have opportunity to be terrified.
I had to get on my knees, and let my butt scootch between my knees so the instructor would have enough room to get on top of me and get himself (and the chute) attached.
I felt tugs and clicks as one attachment point after the other connected.
Now my butt needed to come up a bit, the instructor couldn’t get close enough to tether us together.
I tried to obey, lifting my bottom infinitesmely–but I guess it was enough. We were connected.
Now I needed to swing my right leg out onto the ledge.
In ground practice, I’d been the only one of the girls who’d made it all the way to the ledge on the first try. Everyone else’s legs were too short to easily traverse the distance.
In the air, it was completely different. I swung my leg out and the air caught it, pulling it beyond the ledge.
I used all my strength to lift my foot above the ledge and move it forward to a secure resting point.
The tap came to my left shoulder.
It was time for me to grab a strut and then dip down onto my left elbow so the instructor could get himself out through the doorframe.
He tapped my shoulder again, reminding me to let go of the strut.
I was falling. He was falling right behind me. Except not behind me. With me.
I had no fear.
No fear at all.
Missed Opportunities, or I’ve Always Wanted to Fly
Once we’d geared up, we had a short wait. Then, it was time to get in the plane for our trip up.
Joanna would jump second, we discovered as her instructor directed her towards the back-right corner of the little plane. Her instructor entered after her and took his seat on the floor facing her, back to the the pilot’s chair.
Then my instructor sat with his back against a box, bent knees parallel with the other instructor’s, but coming from the opposite direction. The two men draped their arms over their touching knees, settling in for what was for them a comfortable routine.
My post was alongside the pilot, back against the front of the plane, with instruments and our pilot’s lap to my right, the airplane’s door to my left, and my instructors knees directly in front of my own.
There weren’t many non-awkward places to look, not a lot to observe from my floor-bound vantage point. So I focused on my friend in the opposite corner, merely five feet away.
Joanna must have felt a bit awkward too, sitting face to face with the man she’d soon be strapped to. Or perhaps she was enjoying a Zen moment prior to a terrifying jump–at any rate, she closed her eyes.
My instructor saw her and turned back to me, gesturing with his head. Did I see her there? I grinned and nodded. Yes, I saw.
Now he gestured at his co-instructor, tapped on the pilot’s arm, and enlisted the help of the other men. “It’s her birthday!” He shouted, his voice a nearly indiscernible sound above the engine.
“You’ve got to help me,” he told the young pilot–and then launched into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Could Joanna hear us singing over the usual noise? Yes, she was blushing now as my instructor sang loudly: “Happy birthday, dear whatever-your-name-is” and we all sang together: “Happy Birthday to You!”
We sunk back into our silence. The flight seemed much longer than I’d expected. But we were finally reaching altitude.
The pilot’s hand touched my shoulder and I thought for sure I’d done the forbidden–messed with his controls somehow. I scrunched further into the corner–but when I looked up, I saw that he was looking at me.
“Wanna steer?” he mouthed, gesturing back and forth with his hands in a steering motion.
I looked at him askance. “Are you serious?”
“Sure, It’s nothin’.” He jogged the yoke towards me and we turned accordingly.
I was facing backwards on the floor. I couldn’t see. There was no way I could steer the aircraft. Even if it was “nothin’.” I was more than a little terrified. What was going on here?
I shook my head no and turned aside. Why I was I afraid to take his daring offer? I’d always wanted to fly.
Later, I learned that he was in his late 20s and that he listened to Moody Bible Radio.
He could have loved Jesus. He could have been flirting.
I could have just missed an opportunity.
I’ve always wanted to fly.
On Choosing a Bible (Part 1)
A dozen and a quarter years ago, I was beginning my teen years and was in need of a good, hefty Bible to make me feel like a good, proper Christian.
An NIV Life Application Bible fit the bill–weighing in at approximately fifty billion pounds, it was my constant companion and sure proof of my spirituality.
Then, in my senior year of high school, I grew disillusioned with what I felt was the childish tone of the NIV. It just so happened that the Bible program I was in had me purchasing a number of different Bibles, so I found myself with a NASB Life Application Study Bible, a (second) NIV Life Application Study Bible, and a NKJV Thompson Chain Reference Study Bible.
The NKJV became my companion, probably for the sake of the non-applicable study notes.
Imagine, a study Bible that actually was about studying the Bible? (Do I sense some bitterness towards the–count them–three identical, expensive, and utterly useless Life Application Study Bibles?)
When I needed a smaller Bible for my trip to Sweden less than a year later, I chose a leather-bound NKJV.
A bit of a word-study nerd, I’d come to love the formal equivalence and old-fashioned syntax of the New King James. I was an NKJV girl, I proudly declared.
We had our little family squabbles over translations.
Half of us were squarely in the formal equivalence camp, favoring the translations that anal-retentive geeks everywhere adore. The other half didn’t really enter into the Bible translation conversation.
NASB vs. NKJV
That was our big argument.
Abridged or unabridged.
Until Dad (up to that point a true NASB lover) turned tails and suddenly started using the TNIV.
We were all aghast.
Not only was he going for a dynamic equivalence instead of a formal equivalence, he was choosing the infamous gender-neutral Bible.
Why would he do such a thing?
I contemplated getting another Bible off and on for about a year.
My Bible was getting a bit bedraggled. It had been dropped in the bathtub several times, dropped in the toilet once (was that TMI?), and squished into my shoulder bag more times than could be counted.
I started reading up on textual criticism and the pros and cons of the NU text versus the Majority Text. I became sold on the NU Text even as I appreciated how the additions made in the Majority text have (by the grace of God) little impact on things of doctrinal importance.
I started reading Reformed bloggers and started attending a solidly NASB church.
But spending money on a new Bible when I already had five or ten at home seemed wasteful–especially if I was purchasing a translation I already owned.
I held off. No new Bible for this girl.
That is, no new Bible until the second to last day of July, when I sat at my parent’s kitchen table, puzzling over the “so then” in James 1:19–
“So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath;” (NKJV)
The “so then” clearly indicated that this command was related back to what the author (James) had just said. But I couldn’t find any reasonable connection between the previous statement and the current command.
I read it over and over and over again.
I set down my Bible and paced a bit, took a bathroom break, got some cereal. I picked the Bible up again and re-read some more.
I got frustrated. James was just the most confusing book. I’d been struggling all week to figure out its theme.
My dad’s statement that James is like a New Testament Proverbs helped me quite a bit in interpreting the book altogether–but with that “so then” in there, there had to be a connection. Dad’s “Proverbs” trick couldn’t get me out of this one.
That’s when I saw the footnote: “NU Text reads Know This.”
There wasn’t a connection. There wasn’t supposed to be a connection. The “so then” doesn’t exist. That was a Majority-text addition not included in the best (NU-text) manuscripts.
I was getting a new Bible.
Lest you be completely confused by this post, have no fear. I intend this to be a lead in to several articles about choosing a Bible. My intent is to explain some of the jargon (and jokes) I’ve used in this article, hopefully in a way that will help you to understand some of the thought process that goes into wisely selecting a Bible translation (and a study Bible).
Snapshot: Geared up
I knew I was in for some fun when we got to the part of the release form that stated something to the effect of “I certify that, apart from the conditions listed below, I am free from any medical condition…”
My list of medical conditions isn’t that long–but every condition means skydiving is not an ideal sport for me. I listed the group: hypotension, vertigo, exercise-induced bronchospasm.
I’d been drinking Powerade (with plenty of sodium to manage the hypotension). I had my meclizine along (to manage the vertigo). I had my inhaler (to manage the bronchospasm.) The only one I was really worried about was the hypotension. It’d really stink to black out while in free-fall, thus missing the experience I’d paid so much to have.
My friends started to worry for me. “Will they still let you skydive?” they wondered.
I told them there was no doubt. We’d all be jumping tandem–which meant the instructor tied to our backs would be doing the work. If I were to have a medical event mid-jump, the only problem would be that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my jump.
I really wanted to enjoy my jump.
Sure enough, the instructor looked over my list, asked if I used an inhaler, and never said another word.
I loaded the Powerade, took my Meclizine, and entirely forgot about the inhaler (but really, jumping from an airplane is not exactly aerobic exercise!)
Then, when my time came, I geared up for the jump!
I’m Alive
I realized, on my way home from work, what my silence (especially on this Nightstand day!) might seem like to my long-time readers.
Last you knew, I was jumping out of an airplane. Then I don’t participate in the carnival I’ve faithfully participated in for almost two years.
Clearly, I died.
Except that I didn’t.
I went, I jumped, I lived. (I loved it!)
State surveyors showed up in one of my “away” facilities yesterday–and I needed to be up bright and early to meet them this morning.
Ten hour workdays are fun when you’ve got an hour and a half travel time on either end.
Even more fun when you’ve got to try to be there by 7 am.
Long day today, long day tomorrow.
I’ll share jump stories and photos when the madness stops.
For now, I’m just thankful to be alive–and reminding myself of James 1:2-5
“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.”
Snapshot: Little Miss
Anna and I were in Lincoln when Little Miss Menter was born–but we weren’t going to try visiting until Dan and Debbie blew the all-clear.
At the same time, both of us had to work in the morning–so neither of us could stick around town waiting for the whistle that might or might not come that evening.
Which meant we were halfway home when the text came to tell us that visitors were welcome–too late to turn around.
So we worked our weeks and made the trip back down this Saturday–ready to meet our newborn niece.
The Little Miss was definitely a Menter baby, tall and skinny. What differentiated her from the many Menter babies who have come before her was the hair.
All the rest of us were bald.
Thanks, Debbie, for introducing baby hair into the Menter gene stream!
Bat Dreams
The music was on, the bedroom was ready to accept coats. Everything was in order, but only one coworker had shown up. I was starting to get nervous–this was, after all, a work Christmas party.
My sister threw open the door and flashed on the lights. I woke with a start.
Oh no–I was late for work. I’d overslept.
I glanced at the clock.
4 am.
No I hadn’t overslept.
“How long have you been awake?” Anna asked.
I was absolutely bewildered. I hadn’t been awake. I’d been dreaming of Christmas parties.
“Can you help me catch a bat?”
The story spilled out. Apparently, Anna had been awakened some time earlier by a whirring sound in her bedroom. I guess she’d started yelling when she realized it was a bat–which is why she’d assumed I’d be awake.
At any rate, I threw on some clothing (extra covering necessary lest said bat be rabid and attempting to bite) and went to catch a bat.
By then, the bat had ceased flying about–and we had a difficult time finding it.
I’d searched the entirety of Anna’s bedroom floor before Anna found it curled up in the track on which the windows slid. It was a motionless ball smaller than a mouse.
Perhaps it was dead, I thought. Which was rather a frightening proposition. If so, we’d have to save it and take it in for rabies testing.
My hands clad in oven mitts, I draped a towel over the semi-prone figure. A whirr of movement I could barely feel beneath the towel and my oven mitts indicated that the bat was still alive.
Now to extract the creature for its cubby.
This was the hard part. I couldn’t feel much through the clumsy oven mitts–and even the towel by itself was difficult to maneuver. The bat was snuggled in between two little runners. How could I get it out without squeezing it to death?
I sent Anna out for a ruler. When she returned, I slid the thin metal ruler under the bat and gently lifted it up, enfolding the ruler and all into my towel.
Outside, some distance from the house, I laid down my package and unwrapped it, standing ready for the animal to fly away.
A few moments and it took off. I dropped my used towels and oven mitts into the washing machine, checked my sister for bite marks (there were none) and made my way back into the world of dreams.