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In our preaching through Ephesians, our pastor preached today on the importance of singing from Ephesians 5:15-21.

He spoke of how our singing is directed in two directions: to others (addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs) and to God (singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart.)

Daniel and I discussed the sermon on our way home, and I was reminded of the great grace of God in giving me a husband who sing to me with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. When I’m inconsolable and he doesn’t know what to say, oftentimes, he’ll just begin to sing:

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”

I don’t always appreciate it in the moment. Sometimes I resent his focusing on God when I want him to be focusing on me. But once I stop, I thank God for a man who always sets the glory of God before my eyes–and who sings to me in (heretofore unwitting) obedience to Paul’s teaching.

Just now, I was blessed as I saw Barbara H’s post on new lyrics to “So Send I You.”

Barbara wasn’t physically singing to me, but she was as she recounted the story behind the hymn and how the hymn-writer rewrote her lyrics later in life.

The second verse of the new lyrics brought me such edification:

“So send I you-my strength to know in weakness,
My joy in grief, my perfect peace in pain,
To prove My power, My grace, My promised presence-
So send I you, eternal fruit to gain.”

We must acknowledge that our call involves weakness, grief, and pain. But we are not called to suffering for suffering’s sake. This pain is not the end result. I am sent not simply to be weak, but to know God’s strength in weakness. I am sent not simply to experience grief but to know God’s joy in grief. I am sent not to have pain, but to know God’s peace in pain. Ultimately, my suffering is that I may know Christ and that I may show Christ.

In which case, my suffering is worth it.

May I know Him and show Him still better with every passing day.

And thank you, Barbara, for singing truth today.

Because blogging something is better than blogging nothing, right?

I read this article today and was bowled over:

“Murder for hire is an uncomfortable subject, and I personally could never order a hit. The better course is to avoid unwanted marriage in the first place. Yet this is not a decision that anyone else can make for a woman. It is her marriage; only she can decide when it must end.”

You really should read the rest.

One of the many reasons I love my husband…

When I assert that I doubt white fertility rates reach replacement level anywhere in the developing world, he challenges me to a race to determine if this is true in the US.

For those of you uncertain about the concept of “replacement rate”, this is the number of children a woman would have to have to keep the population stable. In most developed countries, this rate is about 2.1

Daniel beat me (finding this CDC dataset), but the challenge led us to making an excel spreadsheet to evaluate which states, if any, were reaching the replacement rate (irrespective of race).

Our results showed that nine states and four US territories have fertility levels at or above the replacement rate.

Oklahoma came in closest to the replacement rate, with 2.105 children born for every woman of childbearing age. Nebraska, Hawaii, Kansas, and Texas were next up, with approximately 2.15 children born for every woman. Idahoan and South Dakotan women had about 2.25 children each; while Alaskan women have 2.35 children each. Utah tops the count, with 2.45 children per woman.

I don’t find this information particularly surprising. In general, states that exceed the replacement rate are conservative, Bible-belt or Mormon states with a heavy emphasis on “family values”.

More interesting to me was the knowledge that Northern Marianas, the Virgin Islands, Guam, and American Samoa have very high fertility rates. In fact, the last three on the list have the highest fertility rates in America, ranging from 2.49 to 3.11.

Why is this, I wonder? Could this be evidence supporting my assertion that developed countries tend to have fertility levels below replacement rate while developing countries (and maybe developing territories too?) have fertility rates above the replacement rate? Could this support my assertion that white fertility rates (especially in developed countries) are less likely to reach replacement rate than those of other races and ethnicities?

I’m just going to have to see if I can find some kind of data on the fertility rates of different nations around the globe.

Well, wouldn’t you know…the CIA keeps record of such things and the
CIA list of fertility rates can be found on Wikipedia.

Of the 34 countries listed by the CIA as “developed countries”, only four meet the replacement rate: Israel (2.67), Faroe Islands (2.4), South Africa (2.28) and Turkey (2.13). Of these, South Africa’s black peoples exceed the replacement rate, while their white peoples have a total fertility rate of only 1.4-1.8 (per table A3 in this report from Statistics South Africa). Both Israel and Turkey are difficult to classify racially, since their residents often have white-toned skin but claim a variety of ethnic backgrounds. Only the Faroe Islands is undeniably white.

Additionally, of the 117 nations listed in the CIA Factbook as having fertility rates of above the replacement rate for developed nations (note that replacement rate is higher in less developed countries where mortality is higher), only four can potentially be called “White”. Three of the four are from the “developed country” list: the aforementioned Israel (2.67) Faroe Islands (2.4), and Turkey (2.13). Kazakhstan (2.41) is a newcomer to the mix, being composed primarily of Turkish ethnicities but with a substantial population that could be called “white”.

So my original claim (that I doubt there are any countries in the developing world where white fertility rates reach the replacement rate) is not true. The Faroe Islands almost certainly has white fertility rates above the replacement rate.

On the other hand, my underlying premise does appear to be true. Overwhelmingly, the developed world has fertility rates below the replacement rate–and primarily white nations are exceedingly unlikely to have fertility rates above the replacement rate.

So there you have it. Rabbit trails I’ve taken tracking fertility data.

So, you all know that one of my nieces is Little Miss Menter.

And you all know that Little Miss’s Little Sis was born just a couple month ago.

Well, I am happy to announce that we now have a third Little Menter.

Little Master Menter was born tonight, just before June 1st Okinawa time.

Welcome Little Master!

:-)

I’ve been marvelously blessed to have wonderful men and women around me throughout my single years–men and women who have encouraged and blessed me every day–but especially on Valentine’s Day.

This week I’m thankful…

…for Kara’s card and the accompanying Scripture
One year, while I was in college, my Bible study leader sent me a Valentine with a kind note and the verse:

“For your Maker is your husband— the Lord Almighty is his name— the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.”
~Isaiah 54:5 (NIV)

The verse and the note were such a blessing to my bruised single soul.

…for Erik’s chocolates
Three years ago, Erik wanted to bless the single ladies in our church–and while he ultimately decided that flowers were way too expensive, he and Cathy gave us all chocolates. Erik’s care and concern reminded me of God’s care–and gave me courage to continue along my single journey, knowing that I was single but not alone.

…for Valentine’s Dinner with the girls
Two years ago, we girls got together around Valentine’s Day at Anna’s and my house. It was lovely to share my season of singleness with so many wonderful, God-honoring girls.

…for Cathy’s earnest desire
At the aforementioned Valentine’s dinner, Cathy expressed her desire to see us all well married. She told of attending a function for a semi-local Christian school and finding herself scoping out the men in the crowd–wondering if maybe she could find us suitable husbands from among the teachers. It was so encouraging to have the friendship of a woman who affirmed and supported and loved us in our singleness–but who also knew our desires to be married, and sought the Lord on our behalf.

…for my Mom’s text
Last year, my mother sent me a texted Happy Valentine’s Day–which put a smile on my face in the midst of a busy day. My mother has consistently loved me and listened to me, through every season.

…for my newest Valentine
A year ago, I had no idea how life would be changing for me. I was thinking about starting to seriously search for a home to buy–but was wondering if I was giving up on the idea of marriage. Little did I know that only a year later, I’d be only a month away fro marrying my Valentine–a man who loves me and leads me with patience and care. His love has been a great stabilizing force in this new season in which I find myself.

…for my oldest Valentine
The many things I’m thankful for this Valentine’s Day have been gracious gifts from a loving God. But nothing can compare to my very first Valentine’s Day. No Valentine is more precious than the One God purposed and executed nearly 2000 years before I was even born.

I am overflowing with thankfulness for the Valentine that so clearly demonstrates God’s undeniable, unalterable love for me.

Many times, over a dozen Valentine’s Days, I asked with mixed emotions: “How much do You love me? How much do you love me when I am still single? When I am struggling? When I can’t see the end of the pit I’m in? How much do You love me?”

And, like the saying stitched on the “confirmation” quilt reminds me, Jesus’ response was “This much.” And He stretched out His arms and died.

Thank You, precious Savior, dearest to me above all.

Thank You for giving me Yourself–my best ever Valentine.

Readers of bekahcubed are probably aware that I’m a little…um…quirky (that’s a nice way to say “weird”)–but you may not be aware that I am also clumsy. Quite clumsy.

Usually, this means that I spill things on my shirt, pants, skirts while eating, that I drop things or run into people as I’m walking, or whatever.

Occasionally, it means that as I’m walking to the car after listening to a friend play at a coffee shop, I step off the curb right onto the side of my ankle–sending my face hurtling towards the pavement and my bags into oncoming traffic.

It isn’t the first time I’ve fallen off a curb. I fell off a curb years ago in Jacksonville, Florida, leaving me with a bruised ankle that prevented me from climbing a palm tree or wearing my new high heels–both things I’d intended to do before I left town.

It also isn’t the first time I’ve done a faceplant on pavement. I bear a tiny scar on the underside of my chin from where the pavement outside my friends’ house took it’s ounce of flesh the time I was in a little too much of a hurry to get to my car to go to class.

For that matter, it isn’t the first time something belonging to me has ended up in oncoming traffic. That has happened before too–the time I rode my bicycle headlong into a fire hydrant (which, in my defense, happened to be in the middle of the sidewalk). My bike went sprawling into the parking lot to the north, my body into the street to the south.

So last Thursday’s adventure was pretty much standard fare for me. Just another day in the life of Rebekah Menter.

What made it different was what came next.

My fiancee picked me off the ground and walked me to the car. He took me to his house where he prepared ice for my ankle and a hot soapy washcloth for my scraped up knees. He arranged pillows under my bunged up ankle and gave me ibuprofen when I winced. He brought me blankets when I got cold; and, once I’d removed the ice, loaned me his favorite wool socks to get my feet toasty warm once again.

Then, once I was determined well enough to drive home, he picked me up and carried me out the car–and went back inside to bring out my bags as well.

Clumsy though I may be, I sure managed to end up with a keeper :-)

My first ever job was as a dishwasher. I was nine years old and my pastor’s wife–who also happened to be our across the street neighbor–wanted someone to wash dishes on Fridays as she prepared baked goods to be sold at the local Farmer’s market.

We started at eight or nine in the morning and kept going until at least four or five in the afternoon. Malinda made sticky rolls, braided Danishes, angel food cakes, sponge cakes, and more. And I washed dishes and wrapped baked goods.

We were on our feet for most of the day. Malinda chided me for my lack of appropriate footwear and lent me an extra pair of Birkenstocks (my feet were already size huge, so hers fit me just fine). And once an hour, we took five minutes to put our feet up.

We’d go to the kitchen table, pull out a chair, and…lay on the floor with our feet on the chair.

It was purposeful, intentional, and utterly relaxing.

We’d been working hard. Our feet were tired. They needed a break. We needed a break.

And so we took one. Not a break to laze about and gossip, but a break to rejuvenate our bodies for the next task.

Undoubtedly we looked silly, an older woman and a young girl, lying on the kitchen floor with their feet on a chair. But we were catching our breath, relaxing our bodies and minds, and letting the fluid leave our feet.

I don’t wash dishes all day anymore. I’m rarely on my feet. The need to literally put my feet up occurs only rarely. But I wonder if I’ve forgotten what Malinda was trying to teach me.

It is good to take a break. Not to be lazy or idle–but to rest. I may not be on my feet anymore, but I sit at my computer for hours on end. Perhaps I need to get off the computer for five minutes an hour and rest my eyes. I read for an extraordinary amount of time each day. Perhaps I need to rest from that. I think for a living–studying, preparing lessons, grading papers. Maybe I need to rest my mind every once in a while–and take time to just be.

Instead of running as hard as I can and burning myself out, maybe I need to learn how to take purposeful breaks, truly relaxing breaks. Maybe I need to re-learn the lesson Malinda taught. Maybe I need to put my feet up every once and a while.

I found this video via girltalk. I watched it twice, brought Anna into my room to watch it, and then proceeded to watch it again.

I was showing a friend some of the photographs of old documents that I took while I was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house–and came upon this:
My great-grandpa Pierce’s Social Security Card.

Which reminded my friend that she needed to get a new card, having lost hers.

I whipped open my internet browser to the SS administration website to find her the information she needed to know–and found this useful tidbit: “…You are limited to three replacement cards in a year…” Now I don’t know about you, but that just about saved me from disaster. I had been planning on using the three I’d ordered in the last couple of months in a decoupage project and ordering another. Now I know that I’ll have to wait until next year to get that project done. After all, never know when I might be switching employers and need another SS card.

Additionally, parents should take note that only 10 replacement cards are allowed in a lifetime. So if you’ve been letting little Johnny use his or your cards as a teething biscuit–you’ll have to be aware that unless you legally change names or maybe change immigration status, you will not be able to obtain an eleventh card.