“You’re never going to find that.”

It happened again last night.

A gentleman friend for whom I’ve come to deeply care told me, “I love you, Heather. The only question is: how long have I been in love with you?”

And again, just as happened last summer with another dear male friend who confessed feelings of love towards me and even was seriously talking of marriage, when I awkwardly answered by describing the type of man who would match me, I was met with the same basic response: “You’re never going to find that. You haven’t been single for long (or really at all, since your divorce isn’t even final). You don’t know how difficult it is to find a real connection out there in the single world. You’re not going to find someone who checks off all those boxes you’re looking for.” Maybe not, but there’s one box that’s more important than the rest.

First, though, as an aside, the surprising thing about both of these situations is that I’d made it crystal clear all along that we weren’t dating, and I never even kissed either of these men. But I suppose an emotional connection can be more powerful than any physical one, and when I sense a depth and capacity in someone, male or female, I simply don’t know how NOT to connect with them. Maybe I need to rethink my male friendships and my interactions with men. But that’s a topic for another day.

“You’re never going to find that.” Maybe not, but that’s OK. The one thing that most of my gentleman friends tell me is an impossible dream is also the one thing more important to me than any other consideration, and that is that my future man must be what I call a spirit-mate. My future man and I must share a passionate faith in Jesus, equally devoted to Him. But furthermore, we must be on the same mission, the same calling…or at least complementary ones where we are deeply committed to supporting each other’s callings. We must form a team for the Lord that can accomplish together what neither of us could do alone. Only then will I give up my singlehood.

What I’ve discovered in the past year is that singleness truly does have its perks, and I’m not about to give it up lightly. I used to think the apostle Paul couldn’t possibly have had single mothers in mind when he gave his advice that it was better to be single than to be married, for the sake of single-minded devotion to the Lord and to the mission He places on our lives (I Corinthians 7). After all, what single mom isn’t already stretched in a million directions trying to take care of the kids and the paycheck and the dishes and a zillion other responsibilities all by herself, let alone adding a ministry or calling of some sort into the mix? But no, this year God has been showing me that there are ministries—precious and important ministries—that single moms are uniquely qualified to do. And if I had a husband, my energies would be split, as a spouse rightfully deserves time and energy. So it’s good I have no husband to hold me back. If I ever were to come across a spirit-mate who has the same passion and drive for the same causes that I do, such that we can work together while loving one another, well, that would be heavenly. But I’m not holding my breath. “You’ll never find that.” You know what? NOTHING is too big for God and I believe if He wants it to happen, it will most assuredly happen. But I have to agree that my gentlemen friends are probably right, and you know what else? I’m OK with that.

Truly, I have everything I need. God has been a better provider than my husband ever was. Yes, I struggle, but God takes beautiful care of me. I could give scores of examples, but here I’ll just mention a relatively recent one: I had been putting off some dental work for years because I didn’t have the money. I told no one. Lo and behold, a dentist in our church couldn’t sleep one night. He felt a strong urging in his heart that God wanted him to donate his time to the Refuge, and while it made no sense, he got no rest until he resolved to tell our pastor that he would donate his services to anyone in need from the Refuge. (The Refuge is a Christian, comprehensive program addressing domestic abuse, and this past year our church has started a chapter and I have become a mentor.) My pastor mentioned this in passing to another woman at the Refuge, in fact to the very woman I have been mentoring.  It was during a counseling session in which I was accompanying her, and my pastor thought that perhaps she might be in need. But it was my own eyes that began tearing up, until my pastor and my friend inquired why and I confessed my own need. That same day, the church sent me home with a letter to present to the dentist vowing that the church would pay for any material costs related to my dental care. So I am 100% covered! I just need to make an appointment. And this is just one example. God is a good provider; I need no Sugar Daddy to take care of me. And Jesus is the Lover of my Soul. He has shown this to me over and over through His Word, through circumstances behind which his hand is evident, and through His body, the church. He has given me a rich and satisfying network of amazing friends and family. Truly, I have everything I need to live singly. My only real complaint with the single life is celibacy. It stinks, it’s hard, and there’s just no getting around that. But it’s a cross I will willingly bear unless and until God sends me a spirit-mate and husband. It’s worth the agony.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had temptations to ease my single-life burdens, too. The call of pleasure comes in various ways. My 2019 opened with a bang, as the wee hours of New Year’s Day 2019 brought a stunning experience: as if in a dream, someone utterly and completely out of my league began flirting with me. Never in all my life was I so happy to be propositioned, because of the source! This guy looks like a movie star and has an equally attractive personality. His talents take him all over the globe, and his accomplishments give him superstar status in my circles. But since he does not follow Jesus, he doesn’t follow the same moral code that we Christians do—in fact at one point he told me, “I see no trouble; I think God would like us to enjoy each other sexually,” but he meant no harm and was very respectful when I further explained my beliefs.  I’m sure this man must be an incredibly experienced lover with lady friends all over the world, probably amazing in bed…but of course my answer was a very definite (if flattered) “no.” It had to be. How could I trade my calling in Christ for a night of carnal pleasure? God forbid. But pleasure tries another calling: how about a whole life of pleasure and ease? My gentleman friend from last night is a kind and generous man who has worked hard in life and is now reaping financial benefits. He owns three homes along the east coast. He travels regularly and offered to pay my way on a Tango cruise. He is sweet and thoughtful, service-minded and cooks and cleans for himself in complete competence. He is a caretaker by nature and has told me repeatedly that he wants to make my life easier. Life with him would be full of love, comfort, ease, and delight. (Did I mention he’s an amazing dancer?) So pleasure calls out, “If not a night of carnal pleasure, how about an entire lifetime of love, pleasure and ease?” But as wonderful as this gentleman friend of mine is, he’s not my spirit-mate and I know it.

The call of pleasure appears far more appealing than the two callings God has placed on my life right now: to homeschool my children even though my 13-year-old son is angry, abusive and unpleasant most of the time, and to do the heavy but precious work of the Refuge. But when God places a call on your life, it is irresistible. So I continue to struggle to pay the bills and maintain my move-at-the-speed-of-light schedule. Although it often feels like a losing battle, I fight the pull of entropy that would devolve my house into the kind of messiness rivaled only by the abodes of heroin addicts who just don’t care to clean up. I subject myself to all kinds of emotional heaviness on all fronts: home and ministry. And I trust one day in Heaven I will look back and say it was worth it. And you know what? Sometimes God lets me see fruit here on earth, too…like the two women who just separated from abusive husbands this week and are breathing the unpolluted air of freedom for the first time in decades, or the experience of coming downstairs in the morning to find my son reading his Bible unprompted.

“You’ll never find that.” Maybe so. But look what I HAVE found: life is full and rich and deep and meaningful and adventure-filled. Even as a single. Perhaps especially as a single. I am filled to overflowing with the riches of God’s grace; it carries me, buoys me, covers and drenches me delightfully. God’s grace is sufficient for me as a single, and if He ever calls me to marry again, God’s grace will be sufficient for me married. He ordains my every step, so why in the world would I ever worry whether I do or don’t find a spirit-mate and husband? His ways are good. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

"What shall we eat in the seventh year?" - My Testimony

My friend wrote a beautiful blog post recently about a gem she found in Leviticus 25. God commanded that the promised land itself be given a Sabbath every seven years, when the people would not be allowed to sow, reap, or even gather what grows of itself. Just take a moment to ponder the implications! No food in the seventh year, but then no food in the eighth year either, because they wouldn’t have sown in the seventh, and then after sowing in the eighth, still no food until the harvest in the ninth year! But as my friend pointed out, Leviticus 25:21 also tells us that God had a plan: He promised such blessings in the sixth year that the land would produce a crop sufficient for three years! As my friend pointed out, God always prepares the way. I’d like to share from my own life how I have seen this principle at work.

Two and a half years ago, I went through the most earth-shattering experience of my life. My husband of 20 years, pastor for the last 10, was arrested because he had attempted to solicit a prostitute who turned out to be an undercover cop. I found out about it—and the church where he was pastoring found out about it—and the internet found out about it—all in the same dreadful weekend. Life was turned upside down in an instant, and ugly truths kept tumbling out; it turned out that the incident that had prompted the arrest was only part of a decades-long pattern of deception and bondage. He was forced to step down as pastor (thank God!) and we embarked on the path towards separation and now divorce.

As you can imagine, I felt much like the Israelites must have felt, wondering, “What shall I eat?” and so many other questions. I cannot possibly overstate the anxiety of those first months. And yet, God met every need. I soon realized that He had prepared the way before me, putting safety nets in place that He knew I would need, so they were there when I needed them the most.

First, several months before the arrest, my clinician at my holistic health center retired in order to become a foster mother. Since I have a history of health issues that forced me into a wheelchair at one point, it’s important for me to take care of my body, and so when they considered passing my case to a brand new clinician, I asked if someone with more experience was available. The senior clinician looked at my file, said that she had tools in her arsenal that could help me greatly, and promised to take my case at the billing rate of my previous clinician, even though it was half her normal fee! Indeed, my health improved in leaps and bounds under her care, and that was important since I would be shoveling snow and performing a myriad of other new physical tasks due to the separation. What a contrast, considering that I had previously not been able to walk across a room without leaning my weight on my husband’s hands!

Secondly, several months before the arrest, an old friend had said that God had laid it on her heart to pray for me. She said that her children were growing and becoming more independent in their homeschooling, and she wanted to spend an hour each week just talking on the phone and praying for one another. When the catastrophe hit, prayer time with her was a lifeline already built into our schedules!

Thirdly, several months before the arrest, I had begun to receive counseling from a Christian counselor. I had shared with my best friend some recent flashbacks to incidents that had occurred 18 years previously, and she had insisted that I set up time with the counselor, and that she would foot the bill! (We were living like paupers because all of our family finances were going towards strip clubs at the time, only I didn’t know it. I thought we were “suffering” for the sake of the Gospel!) So when the catastrophe hit, my regular counseling appointments simply shifted focus into triage mode, dealing with the issues I was facing during my transitions.

The last way in which the Lord prepared the way before me was the most unexpected, because on first appearance, it looked like death to me: six months before the arrest, I was uprooted from my hometown of 40 years, my family, my friends, my doctors, my church, my homeschooling community (and passionate calling), my support systems…all because my husband insisted on taking a pastoral job in a town two hours away, even though the children and I privately begged and pleaded against it. After the forced move, I felt abandoned by God. It was the darkest spiritual time of my life. And yet, what looked like death was actually God preparing the soil for new life. In fact, the place of my pain has become the place of my blessing. York (my new hometown) is where God provided networks and resources that would be vitally important to sustain the children and me in our new life, physically, emotionally and spiritually. Living in York is part of how we keep afloat financially (well, almost) and still homeschool; we live in York where the expenses are lower and I work in Philly where the income is higher. York is where I met my pastor, an insightful counselor who has a huge heart for abused women (into which category I hadn’t realized I fit), and an entire church that cares for the widow and the orphan in such practical ways. Since this church has a heart for expanding ministry to other women like me, I hope to be involved in encouraging other sisters through this ministry someday!

I could list other ways in which God clearly was preparing the path before me for the road He knew I would need to walk as a suddenly single mom. So much of the preparation didn’t even look like God’s provision at first! And yet He knew exactly what He was doing.

If I remember my Old Testament history correctly, I believe one reason the Lord cited as a grievance against His people for which He sent them into captivity and exile in Babylon was disobedience of this very Scripture passage: they never did give the land its Sabbath or keep the year of Jubilee. Ah, yes! Here in Leviticus 26:34-35 the Lord warns them what He will do if they disobey, and then here in 2 Chronicles 36:20-21 the awful promise comes true. I think it’s recorded elsewhere as well. I can’t say I blame the people; I can’t imagine how much faith it would take to obey that command to give the land a Sabbath every seven years. It must have sounded like sheer crazy talk! Yet how much more foolish is it to disobey the Lord than to trust Him even when it seems like what He is calling us to do is foolish.

Thank you, my friend, for pointing out this precious gem in Leviticus 25! Thank you for the reminder that the Lord takes care of us and goes before us preparing the way. He always keeps His promises; therefore, we can trust Him and not fear. So now, this gives me the confidence to shore up my faith and ask God to reveal to me where I am not trusting Him. What has God called me to do that feels foolish and unreasonable? God, help me to trust in You. You are sufficient. You are trustworthy. You’ve got this.

Feeling the Hole

Some days, I feel the hole in our family more than others. Today was one of those days. (This is a depressing journal entry that will likely be of no value to anyone but myself. It’s not literary. It’s not beautifully expressed. But I need to process, so here goes…)

In the backdrop is the pressure to make a decision. By the end of this month, I need to decide whether to re-enroll the kids in their homeschooling co-op, and for the first time, I’m not sure what the right decision is. So I’ve been praying for wisdom, and asking God to make the choice clear.

So when my 12-year-old son gave me such behavior problems today that I was unable to teach him, I thought, “Maybe this is the guidance I’m looking for. If he can’t learn from me, he needs to go to a school.” But then the onion began to shed its layers, and I began to see the issues behind the issues. Now I’m not so sure about the school decision, but I am sure of this: there is a hole in our family created by divorce, and there is nothing I can do to fix it.

My son! Our progeny can say the most hurtful things. The disrespect was intolerable, so I finally ended the math lesson to focus on the character lesson instead. What good are academics if we neglect the heart?  I think I recall some great quotes along those lines.  Ah, yes, here's one by Aristotle:

Apparently I am insufferably embarrassing to my son. The root cause of his problems is that I am such a nerd and so annoying. (These were his exact words.) As he continued to speak, his anger then unleashed itself on females, claiming that moms and girls are trash. He then bemoaned living in a household of girls and lacking a dad in the household with him five days a week. Hastily after that, he added that he doesn’t want a new dad; he wants his dad. Dad understands him. Dad has similar tastes, and they have fun together. He’s able to study better at Dad’s house, because Dad has better control, because…well, because he’s Dad. He doesn’t want me; he doesn’t want a mom. He wants his dad. My son’s tears began to flow.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

Divorce stinks. It creates a sucking, gaping hole where the heart should be and leaves one gasping, choking, sputtering, grasping at life but feeling doomed to failure. There is a hole in our family, and I cannot fix it. Even when I am free to remarry, a new dad cannot fix it. No one can fix it but You, Lord.

Lord, I don’t understand what you are doing. I ask You for wisdom about school decisions, and You highlight a painful, impossible abyss in our lives. What’s that about? Whether my son goes to a school or whether I continue to homeschool him, the hole will still remain; he will still miss his dad. In fact, if I do put him in a school, he’ll see even less of his dad. I’d get a break from his angst, but I’d have fewer opportunities to train up his character, and he seems to need it more than ever.

Lord, I need You to fill this hole. I have no idea how, but I don’t have to know. You are the God; I am only Your handmaiden. Lord, please fill my family’s hole. Please fill it with Yourself…although I have no idea what that looks like. Please show me what that means, or at least as much as I need to know. I am hurting, Lord, but I trust You. It’s all I can do.

Tango and Trust

Have you ever heard the expression “it takes two to tango?”  Well, now I believe it.

I used to think that if one wanted to learn any dance style, tango included, one needed only to practice…with or without a partner.  You can always dance with an imaginary partner, I figured.

Not true.

This past Saturday I got to attend a milonga for the first time.  A milonga is a tango social dance.  I don’t know much about it yet, but I’m learning bits and pieces.  For example, when a gentleman asks a lady to dance, it is customary to dance three songs together in sequence, called a “tanda.”  At the end of each tanda, the music plays a “cortina” (curtain) in a different musical style, to signal the end of the tanda.  If a partner says, “Thank you” at the end of one of the songs but before the final song of the tanda, it is a polite way to say that they don’t want to dance the rest of the tanda with that dance partner. 

I learned this last point of tango etiquette in an amusing way.  I was blessed to have some fabulous dancers ask me to dance even though I was a complete newbie.  After one dance with a gentleman with an excellent sense of rhythm (who turned out to be a drummer—that explained it!), I had enjoyed myself so much that at the end of the dance, I instinctively exclaimed, “Thank you!” simply to express my gratitude for the dance.  He cocked his head and with a confused look asked, “Do you want to keep dancing?”  “Oh, I’m enjoying myself tremendously.  I’d keep dancing as long as you wanted to!” I answered, with great gusto.  He grinned widely and explained the point of etiquette.  Mortified, I apologized profusely.  He laughed and assured me, “I thought you might not have meant it that way.  That’s why I asked.”

What I discovered in the course of the evening was that tango is all about trust and the art of connection.  It is all about the communication between the leader and the follower.  He must take bold, decisive steps so that she can feel where they’re going.  She must pay attention to his cues, his hand placement, the way he is angling her.  She must relax in his arms and let him lead her.  She must trust him, because she is almost always dancing backwards, blindly, and with no idea what is the next sequence of moves that he has in mind.  But if he is a strong leader, she can trust him and enjoy the surprise of what enfolds.  I felt this connection, this communication so much more with some partners than with others.  My greatest delights were the moments when something happened that was unexpected to me but that my partner had apparently planned out, and he softly muttered, “goo-ood.”  But since I’m a tango newbie, all too often I would realize too late that I had missed a cue.  Thankfully, one excellent dance partner in particular, who took great pains to explain moves to me and teach me, also had a gracious way of reacting to my errors: he would silently smile when I missed my cues.  My only correction was the good-natured curl of his lips, but it gently gave me all the feedback I needed, and we tried again until I heard the soft, “goo-ood.”

The relationship between a man and a woman, or a husband and a wife, has often been compared to a dance.  As I reread the previous paragraph, I can certainly see some helpful parallels and life lessons for these relationships.  Life works best with a strong leader and an attentive follower.  Two leaders would not work well together, nor would two followers.  We are not created identical but complementary, each with a special role to play.  God, may you bless me with a dance partner for life itself, and may we move in one accord, with gentleness and trust.  As we grow on the dance floor of life, may we be patient and gracious with one another, so that we might enjoy the process of becoming more and more one, creating a beautiful, unified, living, moving work of art.

Divinely Dissatisfied

A few months ago, I heard Downhere's song, "My Last Amen," on the radio and immediately fell in love with it. It’s not new; in fact, it’s been on Downhere’s VEVO for seven years already! How had I never heard it before?! Musically, this group reminded me of a Christian version of Queen: the vocal stylings, the tight harmonies, the unexpected chord progressions, and the sudden contrasts of instrumental layerings to create dramatic crescendos and decrescendos. But while I delighted in the music, I deeply resonated with the lyrics.

“Somewhere in the grand design
It’s good to be unsatisfied.
It keeps the faith and hope a little more…
                                                                   ALIVE.”

Do you find yourself continually struggling to make life work in this broken, fallen world? Of course you do. If you don’t, you’re either in denial or depression. Life is hard. Granted, it’s harder for some than others, but the Fall affects every life on this planet. No one escapes untouched.

I was reminded of this the other day, when a dear friend expressed a worry that poignantly echoed my own heart’s cry, although it surprised me to hear it coming from her. She is such an amazing soul. Brilliant and energetic, she ties together life as a stage and theatre director, actor, and writer; an artist in residence; a film actor; a teaching artist; a homeschool mama; a tutor and a scholar; and probably so much more of which I’m not even aware! Me--I think I have it hard bouncing back and forth between York and Philly like a ping-pong ball.  But she--she’s more like a pinball machine’s dizzying whiz between York, Baltimore, New York City, and beyond! And she manages to keep everything straight, even down to the details of our sons’ mutual basketball commitments in three different locations this past weekend, when I called her in a panic to ask where I should be going. Of course, she knew. This friend is one amazing lady, and she seems to “have it all together,” however impossible “it” seems to me.

So when this friend’s eyes gave me a slight glimpse into her soul’s struggle, sharing a deeply emotional worry whether she was spending enough time with her precious family, I realized: Hey! My own struggles in this area—of feeling stretched in too many directions, of never being enough, never having enough time to spread between the necessities of life (e.g. making an income) and the purposes of life (e.g. loving our children)—these are not just “single mom” issues; they are larger than that! I think I assign the blame for the brokenness of my life far too often on the dysfunction of single motherhood. Truly, life’s struggles hit us all.

Life doesn’t work.

I’m not just talking about being pressed for time. Certainly, busyness is an almost universal epidemic in our American culture. The hectic pace of life is mind-numbing and soul-crushing. But when I say, “Life doesn’t work,” I’m talking about something more mysterious than busyness. The tension between necessary activities and meaningful ones is slightly closer to what I’m getting at. God has set eternity in our hearts (Ecclesiastes 3:11) and so we reflect the image of our Creator in dreaming big dreams and seeking purpose and meaning.  But yet in this fallen world, the weeds of the mundane crowd out the glorious, and the thorns of the vicissitudes of life thwart our best efforts.  There’s just this persistent feeling that life isn’t supposed to be like “this.” Relationships, work, schedules, everything…when they’re at their worst, they crush and wound us; when they’re at their best, they still leave us with a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction.  We feel it deep in our spirits: we were made for so much more.

Is life even supposed to work?

There are beautiful questions, even moreso than beautiful answers, and I believe this is one of those beautiful questions, because of where it leads us.

Is there a divine reason for our dissatisfaction with life? What have great minds concluded on the subject? In “Making Sense of God: An Invitation to the Skeptical,” Tim Keller states that one of the greatest minds that ever lived, Saint Augustine, believed that our discontent has both a functional cause (“disordered loves”) and an ultimate source.

C.S. Lewis said:

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” –Mere Christianity

And because I love the French language so much, I can’t resist quoting Albert Camus too:

“Ce monde, tel qu'il est fait, n'est pas supportable. J'ai donc besoin de la lune, ou du bonheur, ou de l'immortalité, de quelque chose qui soit dément peut-être, mais qui ne soit pas de ce monde.” –Caligula

(So much of the beauty of Camus' words is lost in translation, but here is the English version, prosaic thought it may be:

"This world, as it is, is not bearable. So I need the moon, or happiness, or immortality, something that is insane perhaps, but not of this world.")

Recalling the opening chapters of the Bible that set the stage for everything to come, after Adam and Eve sinned by eating of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, there was another mysterious tree that became forbidden to them.

"Then the Lord God said, 'Behold, the man has become like one of us in knowing good and evil. Now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—' therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life."  (Genesis 3:22-24)

Was this prohibition from the tree of life another aspect of punishment? No! It was actually a loving protection! Can you imagine how horrific it would be for Adam and Eve to live forever in a fallen, sinful state? And yet, when we expect life to “work” in this fallen world, are we not expecting something similar? Are we not expecting the temporal and imperfect to be the eternal and perfect? How horrible would it be if this life, such as it is, did not leave us dissatisfied?

I have heard it said that the goal of classical education is to learn to love what is lovely. If that is true, what is the goal of life? What is the most lovely of all? Jesus. And yet our natural hearts turn to so many lesser loves, because we don’t yet know better. I think this world is a training ground, where God uses the pain to forge us into jewels for Him, purging us of lesser loves until we do truly love what is altogether lovely: Him. And this brings us full circle, back to Saint Augustine and a wonderful quote of his:

"You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you."

Our lives are not supposed to “work” because this world is the Protestant’s “purgatory.” Life in this world is supposed to train our souls for their eternal destiny with God. But yet, celebrating Christ’s incarnation this Advent season reminds me that our Emmanuel is already with us.  Jesus has come, so that little foretastes of Heaven break through into the present, even now. In one sense, we shall not be whole, not be healed, not be purged of our sins until Heaven, but in another sense, Jesus has already accomplished it all.  He has already come, already lived a sinless life on behalf of the elect, already died in propitiation, and already defeated sin and death by His resurrection. Through His Holy Spirit living in our hearts, we can, EVEN NOW, live in the fullness of joy and in His peace. Because God has not left us alone, we have hope. God has a purpose for our dissatisfying lives in this world, and this world shall not have the final word. The Word made flesh will.

Life shall not always be like "this."

Of Geometry And Worldviews

Believe it or not, mathematics is a gateway for some pretty wild stuff.  Oh, it’s true that every mathematical system has order to it, and, therefore, predictability.  In fact, that’s what draws folks like me to it: the orderly aesthetic of a world that makes sense.  (Now, if you saw my messy house, you might challenge my self-avowed love of order, so I should clarify that it’s mental order in which I dwell!  Physical order is indeed beautiful, too, although thus far it’s been an elusive goal for me.  But I digress…)

Anyway, if you dip your toe past the shallow waters of grade school arithmetic, you may be surprised at the other-worldly creatures you will find swimming in the deep end.  That’s why I called mathematics “wild.”

Mathematics must be built progressively, like a house.  Admittedly, I am no contractor, but even I can understand the basics: first you start by pouring a foundation.  You’ll need the right set of tools and some sturdy, consistent building materials.  You can’t just start haphazardly throwing down row after row of brick.  The angles and placement have to be just right, especially in the beginning, because that will set the shape of the structure that will result.  Mathematics is no different.

Merriam-Webster defines an axiom as “an unprovable rule or first principle accepted as true because it is self-evident or particularly useful.”  Also called a postulate, it is accepted without proof.  Once you lay down your axioms and definitions, you can then use them to prove theorems, and then you can use those theorems to prove other theorems.  And so the house is built.  Whole structures of mathematics start from these unprovable but self-evident axioms and definitions.

If you’ve never taken a math class after high school, my guess is that the mere mention of the words “theorems” and “proofs” transports your mind back to geometry class.  Proofs and theorems are actually the building blocks for all kinds of different mathematical structures, including number theory and its simplification into the arithmetic with which we’re all so familiar.  But let’s hang out in our geometry house for a while and have a little fun.

Did you know that there is more than one kind of geometry?  The kind that you probably imagine, the kind typically taught in high school, is Euclidean geometry, named after the ancient Greek mathematician, Euclid.  In his mathematical treatise called “The Elements,” written circa 300 B.C., Euclid collected 23 definitions and 5 postulates, or axioms.  Euclids “Elements” rendered him the father of the most well-known geometry of the past two thousand years.  Take a look at his first four postulates, or axioms, and see if you agree that they are pretty straightforward and self-evident:

1. A straight line may be drawn between any two points.
2. A piece of straight line may be extended indefinitely.
3. A circle may be drawn with any given radius and an arbitrary center.
4. All right angles are equal.

The fifth postulate has an interesting history.  I’ll let curious readers research it for themselves.

So what kind of geometry can be constructed with these postulates and definitions?  Well, a Euclidean plane is flat.  It exists in two dimensions.  Think of length and width, or imagine a sheet of paper and then imagine it extending out infinitely in both directions.  As we have stated, Euclidean geometry is built on a certain set of axioms and definitions.  Euclid’s Definition 23 states, “Parallel straight lines are straight lines which, being in the same plane and being produced indefinitely in both directions, do not meet one another in either direction.”  Again, that seems pretty straightforward and familiar.  Parallel lines don’t intersect.  Okay.  Easy peasy.  Got it.

But now, haha (oh, yes!)…now let’s have a little fun.

What if we change our axioms and definitions so that “parallel” lines can intersect?

This will lead to a whole new animal.  Ready to meet one of those other-worldly creatures in the deep end?  Let’s try!  First, imagine a geometry where the shortest path between any two points is a curved line.  Imagine that there is actually more than one shortest path between those points!  Imagine a scenario where the sum of the interior angles of a triange exceeds 180 degrees.  Now, don’t get too excited (or freaked out, as the case may be).  We actually haven’t gone very far into the deep end, and we haven’t encountered a very exotic creature at all.  You see, all you have to do is imagine a globe.  Spherical geometry will illustrate my point quite sufficiently and yet still be familiar enough to feel rather comfortable.

Think of the lines of latitude and the lines of longitude.  

Would you consider lines of latitude to be parallel to each other?  How about lines of longitude—would they be parallel to one another?  Can you call these things lines at all?  It all depends on your definitions and axioms.  That’s my point.  It’s not hard to imagine parallel lines intersecting if we allow lines of longitude to qualify as parallel lines and consider that they intersect at the north and south poles.  Now, the punctilious mathematician will notice that I am not speaking strictly of standard spherical geometry, in which straight lines are replaced by geodiscs, parallel lines still cannot intersect, and there simply are no parallel lines.  Spherical geometry is indeed an interesting creature, one that turns out to be quite tamable and willing to harness its powers to benefit us with practical applications in navigation and astronomy.  But the purpose of this blog post is not to teach about spherical geometry, or even of exotic creatures like hyperbolic geometry, in which a line has two parallels and an infinite number of ultraparallels through a given point.  Rather, this blog post is about the consequences of choosing different axioms.  Your axioms will determine the entire structure that you can build using them.  Throw out Euclid’s parallel postulate and you have a whole new geometry!

So how does this relate to worldviews?

Looking at my word count, I see that this post already should take more than five minutes to read!  I’ve also run out of time to write the rest of it.  (Oops!)  So I’ll have to leave you hanging.  Please stay tuned for a continuation in the future!  But in the meantime, here’s a teaser for you, for your pondering pleasure:

On an intellectual level, what kind of axioms underlie the way you see the world?  How would your worldview change if you replaced one of those axioms?

On an emotional level, what are the axiomatic beliefs by which you live your life?

Feel free to comment below!

Branjun's Escape - Part 2

Note to Reader: This is not my usual style—not that I’ve been writing long enough yet to have a usual style!  I suppose it’s more accurate to say that I would not have initiated this setting or this plot, but it is, instead, a writing exercise.  It all came about like this: I have a friend who is a master storyteller, although he balked when I called him such.  He wrote a short story called “Branjun’s Escape” that left the main character stranded.  When I inquired about a continuation, he threw down the gauntlet and challenged me to extend it!  Yikes!!  That’s rather intimidating, not only because it’s his story, but also because I don’t remember the last time I wrote a piece of fiction!  Grade school, perhaps?  But I had to admit that it was a useful and challenging exercise to take another author’s plot and extend the story.  So here goes nuttin’…OK, Captain Blog Master, this one’s for you!

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The shaggy, old wretch beamed a misshapen smile.  Even with several front teeth missing, presumably from the club of the dungeon guards, the old man’s face was still pure joy.  It made no sense in this dark place of hopelessness, but the wretched man’s eyes contained such warmth and life as Branjun had never seen.  Had the old man gone insane?  Well, even if he had, his was the only voice in this hellhole who dared speak the word “escape.”

“Come to me later tonight after the other prisoners fall asleep.  My helper will take care of the night watchman.”

Now Branjun knew the prison’s torment had cracked the old man’s mind.  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he moaned, raising his shackled, bloody hands. 

The man shook his head.  “Listen.  Branjun, if you’re going to escape, you must learn to trust me.”

Branjun stewed.  The king had forgotten him, and his only hope in this God-forsaken pit had turned out to be a complete crackpot.  Why should he be surprised?  But something didn’t add up, and it nagged at him.  With each hour-—no, with each minute—his will vacillated like a pendulum’s swing.  “Forget escape, and just focus on numbing the pain as much as possible.”  “No, anything is better than this; hear the old man out.”  “This hopeless dungeon is your life; the sooner you get used to it, the easier it will go for you.”

The hour finally came.  No sound, no stirring could be heard throughout the prison except labored breathing and fitful snores.  Somehow the night guard had obtained a bottle of rum, and had drifted into a drunken stupor deeper than a sound sleep.

“Psst.”  This time, it didn’t come from across the cell.  It came from somewhere close.  It made no sense, but it felt like it came from inside Branjun.  “Psst.  It’s time.  Go to him.”  Branjun felt like he was arguing with himself.  Perhaps he was going mad.  Is this what people had described as hearing voices in their head?  “These chains won’t let me!”  Why was Branjun even talking back to the voice?  It was a good thing the other prisoners were asleep and not overhearing his insane conversation.  “Just do it.  Do as he says.”

The shaggy, old man lifted his head, looked straight at Branjun, and said, “Come, Branjun.”

Branjun obeyed without thinking.  He walked right through the shackles as if they were mere holograms, past the rack upon which a fellow prisoner had been tortured just hours ago, and across the cell to the old man.  He had been confined for so long.  Savoring the stretch in his limbs with each step, he marveled to be walking upright.

The old man remained shackled.  He lifted his gaze to Branjun.  Again, those eyes!  Such tenderness and yet such fierceness combined; how was it possible?

“You want to ask me a question,” the old man read his mind.

“I…I…it’s just…” Branjun didn’t know where to begin.  “You’ve called my name three times now.  The guards don’t even know my name.  How do you know me?”

The bedraggled, old man turned up one corner of his mouth in amusement.  “I know a lot more than you can imagine.”

“How did I just walk through my shackles?”  The old man only grinned and gave the non-reply, “We need to clean you up.”

At that, the man ripped a filthy piece of homespun wool off of his tattered sleeve and rubbed it into a bleeding, pussy wound in his side.  Branjun’s stomach curdled.  He recoiled as he realized that the crazy old man was extending the foul rag towards Branjun’s own hands.  The old man was unfazed.  “Give me your hands,” he said patiently.  Branjun obeyed.  He didn’t even know why.  But as the old man rubbed the bloody rag over each scab of Branjun’s, he felt a tingling warmth enter into it.  Before long, his hands were dripping with blood so thick he could not even see the cuts and scabs beneath, but his hands felt whole again and the dull pain in his knuckles was gone, even when he clenched his fists.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of his bloody, healthy hands.

“Helper, a clean cloth please.”  A clean cloth dipped itself into a bucket of clean water.  Branjun started.  He didn’t even have time to wonder how the bucket of clean water had made its way into the cell.  The cloth hung in midair, then floated over to Branjun’s now trembling hands and began wiping off the blood.  Branjun’s face went white as he realized that the scab over his left ring finger was gone, but a scab over the old man’s left ring finger had appeared.  With amazement and horror, Branjun realized that each cut, each injury of his had not simply been wiped away, but actually wiped onto the old man.  The shaggy, old wretch looked more afflicted than ever.

Branjun stared, a huge lump forming in his throat.  This wasn’t fair.  He wondered how the old man had done this, but what he wondered even more was why.  And why, if the old man held so much power, did he spend his days hanging out in a damp, fetid hellhole like this dungeon?  If he knew how to escape, why didn’t he escape, himself?  The man’s newly bloodied hands were still shackled. 

Finally, Branjun could contain himself no longer.  “Why are you here?” Branjun blurted, “Why waste your life in this hellhole living the life of a prisoner if you don’t have to?”

“I do the will of my father who sent me.”

Father.  That single word sent a cold numbness through Branjun, immediately cancelling the warmth he had felt from the healing tingling in his hands.  “What kind of sadistic father would send his son to this infernal place?  Even my father wouldn’t do that!”

“You speak of things you do not know,” the old man calmly and gently replied, “I know many things.  I know your father.  And I knew your father’s father.  And his father before him.  Now there was a real troublemaker.  It’s become quite the family tradition, doing time in this prison.”

“How do you know my father?” Branjun’s eyes grew wide with fear.  A knot was growing in his stomach.  “And just how old are you?”  The man’s stories were too fantastic to believe, yet Branjun had seen such magical things with his own eyes just now—unless he was indeed going mad.  Maybe this was all a lunatic’s dream.

“Your father is confined to another cell within this very same prison, only he doesn’t realize he’s lost his freedom.  His cell has windows and sunlight enough for him to keep studying and working and carrying on.  Others have tried to warn him, but he chooses not to listen.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Branjun’s whole body tensed as he recalled his latest conflict with his father.  “Let him rot.”  Branjun spat on the ground.  Suddenly, Branjun began slipping backwards, being pulled from behind by an invisible but inexorable force, like a preternaturally powerful magnet dragging him back across the excrement laden floor and back into the shackles that snapped their icy, metal jaws around his wrists once more.