Thanks to everybody who has been visiting and commenting. This pregnancy is wearing me out, especially as I try to get the house in order for selling. I feel so foggy and exhausted most days that I feel I have little of interest to say. I think I will take a blog hiatus for a week or two, and see if that revives the urge.

See you after a while.

Antique Mommy and I have been having a discussion by email about bravery, and she suggested we post about it. Here is hers. Our discussion began when she posted about a time she was uncertain whether to intervene on behalf of a stranger, and then regretted that she did not.

I understand that reluctant, paralyzed feeling.  I have felt it more than once.

I once saw three women attacking another woman.  I was picking up my husband from work. His job, like many others, is in a neighborhood mixed with big businesses and poor housing. Across the street from his parking lot I saw the fight.   I zipped across the street, honking wildly, hoping they would stop when they realized they were noticed.  They did not.  Az asked me what I was doing (he had not seen them), and I said, “They’re going to kill her!”

I stopped the car in front of the fight and he got out and did his big, angry man act, which he is very good at.  He is frightening when he wants to be.  The women stopped beating her, and she walked away, bleeding from her face and gloating and laughing.

The whole time Az was intervening, I sat in the car.  I was scared.  He was a little frustrated and said, when it was over, “Why didn’t you get out of the car?”  And I said, “Because I am a coward.”

I have thought a lot about that incident since, and about bravery.  For about a year after that fight, I prayed every day, simply, “Make me brave.” I still act cowardly sometimes, and I cannot intervene sometimes or be too confrontational when I have kids around, but I get involved much more than I used to.  I never want to sit in the car alone with my own cowardice again. I hope I never do.  But someday I may.  I still pray that prayer.

I think what I have learned most is that bravery is a gift of God, and not something we possess naturally.  Everybody learns it in little pieces, and the faithful continue to learn throughout their lives.  And the merciful God turns our cowardly moments into the wisdom that brings true courage - confidence in him, rather than ourselves.

Sometimes bravery is smaller. I have sat in debates where I was the only one willing to defend a certain point of view, even when I knew others shared it. I once had a cordial but passionate discussion with several colleagues about whether or not revelation from God is possible. The sad thing about this discussion was that several colleagues who believe in revelation would only sit silently and passively, not saying a word. They were afraid to defend, even in casual conversation, their deeply held beliefs.

What distresses me still more is how often these same colleagues choose to teach at evangelical schools, saying, “I wanted to be where I was free to say what I believe.” And I want to howl at them, “You were always free to say what you believe; you were just too frightened to do it.” I get exasperated beyond expression every time American evangelicals claim to be “persecuted.” Remaining silent from fear of being unliked is not persecution; it is cowardice. And I say that knowing I can be cowardly, too.

So what is the source of courage? I think it is the proper ranking of fears. If we fear ignobility more than looking foolish, we will be brave. If we fear our own corruption more than loneliness, we will be brave. If we fear divine disapproval more than human disapproval, we will be brave.

May the almighty God make us such people.

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If you want to post your own thoughts about courage in everyday life, please do. Leave a link so I can be sure to read it.

This morning I went to the doctor’s office for my regular prenatal check-up. It was a good visit. I barely had to wait at all, and I got the good nurse, an effusive older woman who calls every patient “Baby” and acts delighted with her job.

In the examining room, Good Nurse slathered my belly with jelly to listen for the heartbeat. Oh dear. The third pregnancy is a little different. I had to hold my belly up so she could listen where my belly usually (gasp!) folds over. After two babies, that stomach skin just does not snap back. I surprised myself by finding it terribly funny.

The humor continued when she found the baby’s strong, reassuring heartbeat and declared, “It’s a boy!” Now I know that no one can tell the baby’s sex by the heartbeat, whatever the theories, but I was willing to join in. “I thought it was a boy,” I said happily. “But my husband is convinced it’s a girl.”

The nurse left, and the doctor came in shortly after that. Her first words were, “She did tell you she doesn’t really know that it’s a boy, right?” I reassured her that I was not so gullible. The doctor said that she recently had a patient to whom Good Nurse had announced her speculations about the sex of the baby, and the patient had sobbed. She did not want to know the sex before the birth, and thought she had just been informed against her wishes. Poor confused, pregnant thing.

Considering I currently cry over the two sentence summaries of news stories on the radio, I feel only sympathy. And not even the sad news stories. Or not even news. A fella called into the radio station and said that the best present he ever got was on a recent holiday when his daughter called him from a treatment center to say that she was finally checking herself in for drug addiction. Try hearing that when you’re pregnant.

So the pregnancy is going well, though I’m a little emotional, and when I told the doctor about how awful the nausea has been lately, she said, “Being over-tired makes nausea worse. Tell your husband he needs to watch the kids more often and let you take more naps.”

*Cue the singing angels*

The medical professionals were not the only ones with thoughts to share, however. JellyBean was sitting in my lap tonight, and squirming too vigorously. I told her she had to be careful, because she could hurt Mama’s belly, and there is a baby growing in there. She scrunched up her face and shouted, “No! No there isn’t! There is no baby! THERE IS NO BABY!”

So you win some, you lose some.

Beck tagged me for this word meme. I am supposed to create personal definitions for these words or what they make me think of.

Callipygian - My newest epithet for Az the Husband. I got past my wedding jitters by focusing on the pulchritude of Az the Callipygian.

Cholera - I would like to tell you that I am such an intellectual that this instantly makes me think of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but actually it just makes me think of gruesome death and creates a little paranoia about the quality of my water.

Circumnavigate - Always makes me think of Magellan, poor doomed fella.

Calliope - This word makes me think of circus music, but, I am embarrassed to say, my first thought when I hear this word is memories of watching Days of Our Lives as a teen. I can practically hear the jangle of the loopy character Calliope’s clunky jewelry, and her voice calling, “Eug!” An unfortunate nickname if ever there was one.

For the last two weeks my pregnant digestion has been longing for onion pie. The savory-sweetness of it, the flakiness of the crust, the baking aroma filling my kitchen — all of it has been filling my imagination the way only the cravings of pregnancy can. But it ain’t easy to cook anything with two toddlers hanging onto my legs, and it was only yesterday I finally had the chance to make it.

I have always been terribly sensitive to onions, but I love them so much that I cook with them anyway. Slicing and frying onions is something I do with frequent handwashings, wide open windows, and the occasional trip out to the fresh air. My eyes water insanely, and I stumble around blindly, feeling my way to the bathroom faucet to flush cold water in my eyes. The sensible thing to do would be to let Az the Considerate do the onions for me, but I am impatient, and I want to eat them as soon as I can.

I made two pies and baked a butternut squash and steamed some broccoli. I have been a lackadaisical cook lately, and Az never complains, but he was delighted to have a real supper. I ate almost an entire pie by myself. It was exactly what I wanted. For almost 16 entire hours afterwards, I had a much needed respite from morning sickness.

I don’t want to be too cliched about it, but I think pregnancy is a bit like cooking with onions. Inconvenient and time-consuming (my chopping skills are clumsy, bumbling and a little accident prone). Uncomfortable and tearful. And, let’s face it, I look ridiculous. But then that perfect pie sits on the table waiting for me, and it’s all worth it.

Recipe for Onion Pie

one pie crust (sometimes I make my own, but usually I just use the frozen kind)
4 to 6 medium yellow onions (the stronger, the better)
2 Tablespoons oil
2 Tablespoons flour
1/2 cup milk or cream
1/2 cup cheese (I think fontina tastes best, but you can use whatever you like)
2 eggs
salt and pepper

Slice the onions and fry in the oil over medium heat until the onions are soft and translucent. Add the flour and stir for one minute. Gradually add the cream and stir constantly until well blended. Stir in the cheese until melted. Remove from heat. Beat in the eggs and add salt and pepper to taste (a little salt really does improve this dish). Spoon the filling into pie crust and bake at 400 degrees F for 30 minutes or until the center is set.