Author: Amy Spiegel

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Waking Up

By Amy Spiegel

Years ago, as a young mom and aspiring author, Jen Hatmaker was all that I wanted to be. I saw myself in her frazzled authenticity, her flair for the dramatic, her diving in headfirst approach to life and faith. I was disarmed by her self-deprecating humor, which was such a breath of fresh air in the evangelical world of stay-at-home moms. This was the age of the mommy-blog, and Hatmaker struck a chord with those of us “in the trenches”, trying our best to live up to the impossibly high standards set for us, sometimes by others, but often by ourselves. With her big earrings and even bigger smile and personality, Jen felt like an example to aspire to and admire, as well as a reason to be real about one’s own failures and flaws.

I will confess, though, that while I often scrolled through her Insta and laughed and let out a sigh of relief that I wasn’t the only one whose kids were eating in front of the TV and calling it a picnic, relief and relatability weren’t the only feelings she inspired. I was sometimes overcome by feelings of envy and inferiority. It wasn’t just her life I coveted; we shared a publisher, and there were times when her level of success and reach felt so tantalizingly close, like staring over at the cool kid table, longing for someone to make eye contact and ask me to join them.

It wasn’t long into the promotion of my book that I realized the game of self-branding was not for me. I must admit, with regret and shame, that the temptation to view my family and life as a source of content rather than my primary mission in life was real. It is likely God’s grace that He didn’t allow my book sales to skyrocket or my speaking career to extend beyond the local churches of dear friends. At the time, Jen Hatmaker was a mirror into which I looked and saw my own heart’s darkness, a desire to measure myself not by how well I was completing the mission to which I had been called, but against the measure of how well someone else was completing theirs. I set aside my dreams of growing my brand as an author and sought to grow in my knowledge of the Author of my faith.

Fast-forward nearly a decade and a half to the present. I have seen Jen Hatmaker pop up on my radar now and then over the years: on HGTV, having her house renovated, coming out as gay-affirming in 2016, and the sad announcement of her divorce in 2020. By that time, my attention had shifted away from the world of women influencers. I was off social media for the most part and navigating a chaotic time in our own lives.

When, however, I saw Hatmaker had written a memoir, I was curious. Our life Venn diagrams still have a lot of overlap; we are both in our early fifties, learning to straddle the divide of parenting adults and younger kids simultaneously; we have both spoken out on political and cultural issues, though from different sides of the aisle; we both have some harsh critiques regarding the church in America.

Reading Awake, I didn’t walk away with any deep insights, theological or otherwise. I felt a deep compassion for Jen and her children, given the heartache they have experienced and had to navigate in the fishbowl of public interest and attention, though one does need to acknowledge that, for Jen’s part, this was attention she had fostered and benefited from for years. But that doesn’t make her pain less real, just perhaps more avoidable.

I have no desire to personally tear down Jen Hatmaker. And undertaking a deconstruction of her premises feels daunting given the structure, or lack thereof, of Awake. To summarize is impossible, but it does appear to me that Hatmaker has made the fatal mistake of exchanging one form of legalism for another. She notes many examples from her early life growing up and later in ministry of others casting pharisaical judgment on her, while at the same time she casts a plank-filled eye of judgment at those who do not share her political or theological perspectives. While I can certainly sympathize with the pain caused by the former, I believe it to be no more destructive than the latter. She has cast aside the prudes of the evangelical world only to cast her lot in with the puritanical progressives.

My greatest takeaway from the book was a sense of deep sadness that of all of the things Hatmaker has lost, her reliance on the Bible as a firm foundation on which to build (and rebuild) is by far the most tragic. On a much smaller scale, I understand what it is to be uprooted, to lose the part of one’s identity tied to community and public perception. I know the pain and questions that come from life-imploding, faith-threatening events. But I also know the sweet peace that comes after the storm if you anchor in the harbor of God’s trustworthiness.

I have never known the horror of marital betrayal Hatmaker experienced, awakening to the sound of her husband speaking words of love and devotion to another woman. My hope and prayer for her is that one day she will hear our Father’s voice, reminding her of His love and devotion. Then and only then will she be truly awake.

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Before and After

By Amy Spiegel

Every life has a few before-and-after moments, some that are shared with others and some that are more personal. There are some before-and-afters that seem small but which have profoundly shaped my life. Before and after discovering the world of independent film. Before and after reading Jane Austen. Before and after realizing that food from other countries is better than chicken fingers.

Some moments are deeper and more life-changing. Before and after becoming serious about my Christian faith. Before and after becoming a wife and then a mom. Before and after 9/11, an experience many of us have had, in our own way, together. Wednesday was a day of two before-and-after moments. First, one moment, I was emailing a Hillsdale donor about the impact a single life can have on the world. The next, I was reading a message from Jim saying that Charlie Kirk had been shot. Then, I got on Twitter and inadvertently watched a video of Charlie being shot. One moment, I was waxing poetical about the price of liberty and the next I was watching someone paying the ultimate price. Before and after.

While we won’t know for days, months, or even years how Charlie’s death will reverberate throughout history, I know with certainty how it will echo through mine.

The fact of his death laid bare the stakes we are playing for in our current public discord. Labels of Republican and Democrat no longer really apply. You are now either on the side of life or the side of death. The contrast is too stark to ignore. This should be good news. Surely the cause of life is something most reasonable people can rally around. Aren’t the rights to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” all things that were just stolen from Charlie Kirk, things we all want to see secured for us all? We might disagree about how to pursue those things, or how to secure them for others, but good gravy, can’t we all say in unison, “I don’t want public figures being gunned down in public because they said something someone else disagrees with”?

So I resolved that I will hold out two hands from this day forward: the first will be a fist so tight that, to quote Ferris Bueller, if it held a lump of coal “in two weeks you would have a diamond.” In that fist, I will hold my unalienable rights, given by God to me and all my fellow citizens. And those rights will only be taken from me by force. I will not strike out with that fist, but I will cling to those rights for me, for my kids, and for all my fellow Americans to whom I will extend that second hand, in an attempt to bridge whatever divide separates us—in a desire to find a way to unite around values and principles we all hold dear. I will not join with those who seek to snatch my rights of life, freedom, and expression, but I will look for common ground wherever it can be found.

I said that I experienced two before-and-after moments on Wednesday. The first when I got the news and the second when I witnessed it with my own eyes. Despite initial news to the contrary, after seeing that video, I knew that Charlie Kirk was dead. Dead and yet . . . in all the horror of that moment, I felt as if I watched Charlie come alive. And that was the second “after.” Seeing that Charlie had not lost anything and he gained everything. My second resolve was to live in the light of that reality, that I have nothing to lose that anyone can take.

In times of discouragement or doubt, I can often be found, driving with the windows down, singing badly, but with great gusto, the Avett Brothers’ song “Ain’t No Man” the chorus of which is:

There ain’t no man can save me. There ain’t no man can enslave me. Ain’t no man or men that can change the shape my soul is in. There ain’t nobody here who can cause me pain or raise my fears. ‘Cause I got only love to share.

While I usually find this song quite uplifting and inspiring, it isn’t entirely true. There is a man who can save me. A man who died for the sake of the truth, and it wasn’t Charlie Kirk. It was the man who saved Charlie and me and anyone who will call upon His name. This is the man who was waiting for Charlie on Wednesday. He is waiting for us all. And this man, Jesus Christ, said of those who will trust Him, “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand.” May we all reach out, as Charlie did, and take that hand until He sees us home.

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Connecting the Dots

By Amy Spiegel

Several years ago, the Spiegel family spread out across multiple countries and continents in an unprecedented flurry of world travel. Jim was in Greece, Bailey in Israel, and Sam was in Bolivia while Maggie, Andrew and I kept the home fires burning back in Indiana. Multiple times a day, I would pull up our family chat and check the location of my family members. I got a rush of joy and a feeling of connecting to my far-flung husband and offspring as I watched them move jerkily across the screen like a technological version of the Marauders Map from Harry Potter. I am not sure that I could solemnly swear I was up to no good, but I did develop a terrible addiction. I became a “location dot” addict.

Something about seeing this tiny dot, so far away, made me feel closer to them. When everyone came home, I started checking to see if they had left soccer practice and were on their way home for dinner. Or if they were cutting it close for curfew. Now that we are quasi-empty nesters, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and double-check that they have all made it home safe and sound. Ironically, my mom has started doing the same to me. I get texts from her saying, “Are you working from home today?” or “Traffic bad? Why are you stopped in the middle of the interstate?”

I recently learned this is a “thing.” When referring to my locations addiction at work, a male co-worker said, “What is it with women and dots?” Until he asked, I didn’t realize there was a thing with women and their dots. I thought it was just me.

If this is, in fact, a female phenomenon, I imagine there is more than one answer to that question. Typically, women are “running the show” when it comes to the family schedule, coordinating drop-offs and pick-ups, mealtimes and bedtimes, invites, and events. So it makes sense that they would look for a “leg up” in keeping all their family ducks in a row. I will confess to sending an innocently worded “Almost home?” which, given the location of the recipient, could also have read “Why haven’t you left yet?” Entirely a truthful reflection of my knowledge of their whereabouts? No. Highly effective way to both avoid an argument and get them to hightail it home? Heck yeah.

But beyond the convenience as a tool of the homemaker, I think there is something deeper, more visceral that calls to our maternal nature when we seek to “find my.” If you aren’t an Apple user, “Find My” is the app for Mac users to find their devices, items (e.g., air-tagged car keys, etc.) and people. Perhaps it is a stretch, but this app presents women with a temptation eerily similar to that first forbidden fruit of Eden. Tempted by Satan to disobey God, Eve was told that in doing so, “your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5) What Satan predicted came true, Eve’s eyes were opened and she did gain the knowledge of good and evil, but she, along with all the women that followed, sure paid the price. Her relationship with God, Adam, and all of nature, even her own body, was irrevocably altered for the worse. The blessing of womanhood, our beauty, frailty, and unique reproductive role was turned against us in God’s curse and its devastating consequences.

Now I am fairly certain that I do not fall under God’s judgment each time I reach out and check my family’s locations. And I seriously doubt they are struggling under the burden of His wrath because I like to know where they are. But I do think there is a clear connection between Eve’s failure and my own obsession, both are rooted in a lack of trust and a longing for control. Eve didn’t want to obey; she wanted to rule. I don’t just want to know; I want to control. Somehow, I have convinced myself, however subconsciously, that by knowing where they are, I am protecting those I love. As if by knowing where they are, I am watching over them as well. But I am not, because I am not God. Only He can protect. Only He is in control. He not only knows how to find us, He knows how to bring us home. I am just an observer of dots. He is the one connecting us all.

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Wanting is Needing

By Amy Spiegel

As the great philosopher Britney Spears once said, “Whoops, I did it again.” Or more precisely, we did it again. After two and a half wonderful years in Hillsdale County Michigan, I sit here writing while surrounded by the chaos of a house in flux. Some of the chaos is the kids’ preparing to move out on their own or head to college. While we are sad to have this, likely, final season of all the OG Spiegels under one roof coming to end, we are thrilled to see them moving on to new adventures.

But they aren’t the only ones heading for parts unknown. Jim and I too will be packing up and moving on and I must admit my heart is heavy with the thought of it. It isn’t just the dread of packing and unpacking a lifetime of possessions or choosing a new home, attending a new church, or deciding where to do our weekly grocery shopping. Don’t even get me started on figuring out what gas station carries my favorite beverages and how I can maximize their loyalty reward program. Nor is my grief isolated to the thought of saying goodbye to friends, some of whom it feels like I have waited a lifetime to know. It is all these things and so much more, something deeper that keeps crying out “This is not how it is supposed to be. Human lives aren’t meant for uprooting.”

I fully admit to being a creature of habit. I order the same favorites from my faithful favorite menus. I love to wear my favorite clothes into oblivion and re-watch my favorite films and re-read my favorite books. I value predictability over novelty, comfort over the unknown. If Forrest Gump is right and life is a box of chocolates, I prefer the box containing only one variety, please and thank you.

This afternoon, as I took a break from our pre-photo shoot house cleaning and decluttering session, I mustered up the energy for half-formed prayers of supplication, asking God “Why? Why is this necessary? Why can’t we stay?” And in that entirely predictable God-way, He answered by holding up a mirror to my heart and asking me to respond to my own question. What I saw there made clear the answer. I want things to be predictable because I want to be in control…which, needless to say, I am not. The very thing I want to cling to so badly, the illusion of control, is the thing I desperately need to let go, because it isn’t real. I may feel like I am clinging to reality, but really I’m grasping at thin air.

I’m like a passenger in a self-driving car whose destination has already been punched, but I insist on white-knuckling an imaginary steering wheel, pretending I’m the one driving and then banging my head against the dash when the car fails to respond to my commands. When life doesn’t go according to my plans, it isn’t because my GPS is malfunctioning. I am the problem, and God is gently but firmly reminding me that I’m not even the co-pilot in this scenario.

As I sat throwing an itty-bitty pity committee for myself today, a voice rose above the whining violin in my heart to sing a different song. This song says that loving anything above my Creator isn’t just wrong, it’s harmful. I can pretend it would be better for me to get what I want, but if what I want isn’t Him, then it’s not only not better, it’s the worst. By taking it away, God is revealing an idol, an area of wrongful worship and giving me the chance to lay it down and walk away.

But He isn’t asking me to walk away into the wilderness, into nothing. He isn’t calling me into a land of want, in the sense of deficiency. He is calling me to a land of wanting in the sense of desiring. Desiring the ultimate Good. He wants me to walk away from a place of want, of deficiency of Him in order to pursue wanting Him. And that is what I need even if it isn’t always what I want.

The Israelites walked away from Egypt, a place of great want in which they were slaves. They walked into what looked like a desert but in reality it was a path to the promised land, the land in which God dwelt, a land of plenty in which He would provide all they needed and more. Their short-sighted fallen hearts couldn’t help but look back, like Lot’s wife, longing for the familiar routine of enslavement.

I would love to laugh at them but I can’t. I’m too busy looking over my own shoulder with regret. As I sigh for what I want, I hear the voice of the One I need. And deep down I know, like David, He will turn “my wailing into dancing” and He will “clothe me with joy,” so my heart will sing His praises and not be silent even on the road to who knows where. Because that’s the road that will lead me to the thing I want and need, above all else. I just have to close my eyes, stop trying to navigate the way and tell myself “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

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They Aren’t Just Eating the Dogs and Cats

By Amy Spiegel

My mind is often a colliding mix of thoughts and ideas, swirling around in a chaotic soup inside my head. This morning while sitting on a balcony looking out at the Gulf Coast of Florida, Jung’s “devouring mother,” the words of the apostle Paul, and Springfield, Ohio all coalesced into what follows.

Sitting in God’s beautiful creation, I was reading 2 Timothy 3 which outlines “the last days” and what will characterize them. Some of the things listed, frankly, have characterized human civilization since Adam and Eve decided to have a snack from the wrong tree in Eden: lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, etc. What struck me, however, was the following: “…lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness but denying its power. Avoid such people. For among them are those who creep into households and capture weak women, burdened with sins and led astray by various passions, always learning and never able to arrive at a knowledge of the truth” (vs. 4-7).

Could there be a more apt description of the current state of our nation and many in the evangelical church in America? Women, burdened by their guilt with no one calling them to repentance are not only being led astray but leading the charge to assault the most vulnerable among us, our children. Through the ungodly teachings of the woke, which has infiltrated our thoughts on parenting and motherhood, whichever side you land on politically, these women have been persuaded to follow harmful paths, carrying their children along with them into a desolate and dangerous land.

As a frequent consumer of Jordan Peterson’s lectures and podcast, I have become familiar with the concept of the devouring mother. The basic idea, as I understand it and will use it here, is of a mother who has come to depend so heavily on her children for her sense of self-worth that she consumes them with toxic “care” rather than nurturing them into healthy and self-sufficient individuals. Think the “bad” mom in the story of Solomon willing to divide the baby in 1 Kings 3 or Gothel of “Mother Knows Best” fame from Disney’s Tangled.

So, you ask, how does this relate to 2 Timothy’s weak women and the hellscape of morality in modern America? Here are a few current issues where I believe we can see the devouring mother doing battle against, rather than for, her children:

Abortion: I’m not sure I need to say more. Literally a mother killing her child in its most dependent and vulnerable state. What is different now is that women are no longer being told this is a final escape hatch only to be used in case of emergency. We are being encouraged to celebrate doing that which should be devastating even to contemplate. The aim of “rare and necessary” has become “common and discretionary.” Women are being told to rejoice and defend our ability to destroy life; we should instead be marveling and protecting our sacred and unique ability to procreate and carry life.

Trans rights: The response of many women to the onslaught of trans activism is a head-scratcher for me. Allowing their compassion for those they see as marginalized to blind them, these women have aligned themselves with one of the most misogynistic movements in history. I could take a whole post to outline this argument but standing against the mockery and erasure of womanhood, the predatory nature of “gender affirming care” providers who with little thought subject vulnerable young girls to life altering medical procedures, and the physical, emotional and psychological endangering of women in sports and public spaces should be a stance with whom any clear thinking woman agrees. There also seems to be a vampiristic segment of mothers who are encouraging their children to disavow their biological sex. Don’t believe me? Just look at the disproportionate number of celebrities with trans children. These real-life stage moms are exploiting their children’s confusion for social standing rather than helping them navigate their way, as beings created by God in His image, through the confusing waters of childhood and adolescence.

Social media: A non-partisan issue we should all be able to get behind is the harmful effects of social media on the mental health of women, especially young girls. This is an area where I feel most ashamed as a mother and child of God. I have allowed social media to eat away at my soul with envy and greed. I have used my kids as props for online clout building and failed to shelter them from the destructive repercussions of social media consumption. Ironically, it was my daughter who helped to lift the scales from my eyes when she asked me, years ago, to not post pictures of her online. It started me questioning why it was that I wanted to in the first place. I should have been the one protecting her rather than “selling” her image to prove I was worthy of others’ approval. This is to say nothing of the use of social media by predators or the devastating effect of social media on the mental health of children.

After the second presidential debate, I became obsessed with Donald Trump’s delivery of the line “They’re eating the dogs. They’re eating the cats. They’re eating the pets.” Whatever your opinion of the man, you have to admit, he knows how to coin a phrase and create a slew of chuckle-worthy memes. Though the truth of that claim might be in dispute, there is no disputing the perilous danger our children find themselves in, partially due to the cowardice of weak Christian women, myself included. The world is eating our children and our failure to stand up and protect our children, whatever the cost, is a stain on the sacred reputation of motherhood and we must do all we can to remove it. We must refrain from devouring them ourselves and protect them. We must teach them and one another how to live as God’s children. When reminded by Jim that our kids will one day cut the apron strings and fly the coop, I would often say, “Yes, but on the battlefield they always call for their mothers.” Ladies, our children are crying out to us from the battlefield and we must heed their call or they will perish alone.

The devouring mother will not be defeated through politics. This is not a power structure issue; it’s an issue of the heart. And in some ways that’s good news. When it comes to influencing the hearts and minds of our fellow believers, we the Church are in charge, not the political powers that be. Let us stand against the devouring mother and see her transformed into the nurturing, protector she was meant to be. Let us guard her heart with truth and wisdom, as we guard our own, and in doing so we guard her children from destruction.

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Book Notes

By Amy Spiegel

Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry: My first reading of Wendell Berry came to me via a book recommendation shared in line at our campus coffee shop and was reinforced by a friend a few days later at a wedding. Somehow this seems a fitting way to discover the world of Port William. I now know this is one of the last in the series and plan to work my way from the beginning. Beautifully written, lush with description and life without being overly fussy. Enjoyable but with depth, Berry celebrates the simplicity of rural life in America without reducing his characters to caricatures. Only now I am sad I didn’t pick up any of his works before now. I fully intend to make up for lost time.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy: Would you be satisfied if I just said “Ugh”? When he decides to dive into the world of fiction, Jim has a nasty habit of taking the plunge with very difficult but quality works. In this instance, he decided to make me share in his suffering and unfortunately for us, the work was difficult without the quality. Reading this book was an act of futile drudgery, devoid of joy or meaning. A bit like the task of “the man,” the main character, walking endlessly with his beloved son; destination and purpose unknown. My issues with McCarthy’s Pulitzer Prize winning work weren’t just the nihilism that seeped from every adverbless, comma avoidant sentence. It lacked imagination, character development, and realism. One can only assume it was meant to be a Hemingwayesque, bare bones narrative whose style reflected the bleakness of the landscape through which the man and boy are traveling after some unnamed event has left Earth in ecological ruin. But Hemingway’s genius was bringing character into sharp relief despite his restrained prose. McCarthy starves the reader’s imagination to death with regards to his characters while forcing them to feast on absurdities like roving bands of cannibals and just-in-the-nick-of-time root cellars. In this case, I’ll choose the road less taken, thank you very much.

Troubled by Rob Henderson: I read this after hearing Henderson interviewed by Jordan Peterson. This memoir is unflinchingly raw and honest about the failings of the foster care system and the adults who raised him but also his about his own behavior. He recounts how the selfishness and unthinking actions of many people impacted his life and worldview with a sympathetic clarity which is to be applauded. Avoiding creating villains and heroes, Henderson allows the reader to draw their own conclusions about the complex motivations of both himself and others. A tragic and triumphant story well worth reading.

Beyond the River: The Untold Story of the Heroes of the Underground Railroad by Ann Hagedorn: This is my favorite style of historical non-fiction. Hagedorn brilliantly draws the reader into the world of 19th century Ripley, Ohio with her immensely well-researched work, often drawing heavily from primary sources which allows the historical figures to tell their own story instead of being spoken for by the author. This book has special meaning to my family because we have vacationed near Ripley the last two summers and had the opportunity to visit both the John Parker House and the John Rankin House for two of the most memorable historical museum visits we’ve ever had. History comes to life as you look across the Ohio River listening to the stories of slaves, aided by hundreds of brave men and women in their desperate bid for freedom. These stories were passed on to Harriet Beecher Stowe, a friend of the Rankin family, and many appear in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Inspiring stories of courage in the face of unthinkable cruelty, particularly in the dark and clarifying times in which we live.

Honorable Mentions: Close to Death by Anthony Horowitz: Nothing to write home about but the perfect light read; a nice ice cream cone on a summer day. Wrong Place Wrong Time by Gillian McAllister: This one actually annoyed me, a lot but kept me turning pages to get to the end. Not exactly an ice cream cone, more like a slightly squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich halfway through a long hike: you won’t be leaving a five star review but better than nothing at all.

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Women’s Work

By Amy Spiegel

For years, when our children were small, Jim and I would share a hurried kiss and a “Have a good day” as he left for campus and I began a day at home with the kids. We used to joke that as we went our separate ways, each of us would look at the other with wistful pity and mutter under our breath “Sucker!”

Sure, there were days when, with a heart full of envy, I imagined him gathered around the water cooler (this was truly imagining because they didn’t have a water cooler) with his colleagues, discussing current events, quoting Plato and basking in the luxury of adult time. I am less sure that there were days where he sighed with regret as he pulled out of the driveway, watching the kids and I head out for a walk to the library or a playdate with friends. But for the most part, we were quite comfortable in our roles. He was the main breadwinner, supporting our family financially, not to mention influencing the minds of countless students and readers through his lectures, books, and articles. I was a stay-at-home mom, supporting our family through the various little tasks of home life, planning meals and doing laundry, not to mention educating our kids through elementary and middle school. We were, and still are, a great team, sharing the responsibilities and burdens, as well as the joys and rewards, of raising a family and pursuing a life of purpose and accomplishment.

I have no doubt that Jim, were he left on his own, would not have accomplished as much professionally without my support. Were he to have been a single dad, most of his time and energy would have gone into raising his kids, with little surplus for research and writing. I consider his accomplishments, all the publications, awards, etc., to be shared accomplishments in which I played a vital, though not equal, role. Obviously, he could have been a non-dad and had many more hours for his intellectual pursuits, but without the depth of experience, not to mention the love and encouragement, a family brings which I think has shaped him into a greater man than he would be otherwise.

Similarly, had I been a single mom I’m not sure the kids and I would have made it out of their formative years alive. Putting aside the obvious financial support Jim provided, allowing me the privilege of focusing on raising our family, his emotional and spiritual support was instrumental in my development as a wife, mother, and more generally as a human being. He is quick to credit me with influencing our kids to a greater degree than he has and that is perhaps somewhat true given the sheer quantity of time I was able to spend with them. But that time was made possible through the hours he spent lecturing, grading, doing research, and so on, not to mention the profound impact he has had on me as the spiritual head of our family. Our roles have shifted over the years, with the kids off to school, though I am still more focused on the daily routines of our family while he is focused on providing for our family through a myriad of ways.

This division of labor has worked, with varying degrees of success, for thousands of years. Men and women working together to nurture the next generation. Of course there have been abuses and imbalances of power, but the modern tendency to sneer at “women’s work” in the home as oppressive or demeaning is yet another symptom of the overall mass misogyny of our times. Nowhere is this more apparent in the current petition calling for the dismissal of Kansas City Chief’s player Harrison Butker over comments he made as the commencement speaker for Benedictine College which you may read in full here.

Those supporting this effort have called his comments “sexist, homophobic, anti-trans, anti-abortion and racist.” Well, they at least they got the anti-abortion part right. I won’t go into all their claims but would like to address their accusation that Butker’s remarks were sexist. Many

National Catholic Register

have pointed to the hypocrisy of those leading the charge for Butker’s firing given the numerous instances of domestic abuse and unlawful and violent behavior on the part of countless NFL players which has garnered little attention from the press or fans. What’s most interesting to me about the outcry on the part of some regarding Butker’s comments, however, is hypocrisy in another form.

They believe that a man celebrating the sacrifices and achievements of his wife is sexist. They believe that a woman’s value is to be found in her paycheck and not in her eternal investments in the lives of those entrusted to her care. In other words, they believe that women should be judged by the historically male dominated standards of career and, for lack of a better word, “worldly” accomplishments. Do they think that Butker holds his wife hostage at home? Do they think so little of women’s intellect that we are incapable of deciding for ourselves how we will divide our time and energy? Do they see so little value in the great joys of motherhood and homemaking? This seems the epitome of sexism!

In a world where men have decided that they can simply declare themselves women, invade our private spaces, steal our opportunities in sports and demand our acceptance of them as our equal, can we not at least acknowledge that being a modern woman can take many forms? Can we not celebrate those who work inside the home alongside those who choose to do so outside the home? In a world which demands acceptance of all manner of lifestyle choices, can we not allow for the rights of the traditional alongside the pantheon of “alternatives”?

The petition demanding his firing calls for unity rather than divisiveness. I couldn’t agree more; as our founding fathers put it, “Out of the many, one.” One body with many parts, all working together to function as a whole. This to me is the unity of purpose Harrison Butker wished to celebrate by praising his wife and all she has done from the sidelines to support and enable him and their family. In my eyes, she is playing the better game and winning. There are of course other roles that women can play, roles which hold great value and purpose. But I say Isabelle Butker is the star quarterback for her team. Perhaps you disagree but as for me, I’m a big fan!

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Risky Business

By Amy Spiegel

As Christmas approaches, this mother’s heart is humming with anticipation. All four of our kids, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, will be spending the holiday break with us this year. As they grow up and out (of the house that is), I am learning not to take being all together for granted. Gone are the days of me hiding in the kitchen pantry, eating chocolate and trying to get five minutes to myself. Most of the time I’m lucky to have more than one of them sitting at the dinner table and last Christmas we suffered an emigration mix up getting Andrew home from his semester in Bolivia and ended up with only half the crew celebrating with us.

Earlier this week, I was listening to Megyn Kelly discussing the case of Kate Cox. If you haven’t heard of the case, Cox is suing the state of Texas for the right to abort her baby. Texas’ recently enacted laws prohibit abortion once a fetal heartbeat is detected with some exceptions. Despite the fact that Cox’s baby has been diagnosed with Trisomy-18 and is highly unlikely to survive to full-term or the birthing process, the lower Texas courts have denied Cox’s application for an exception to be made. Kelly expressed her belief that forcing a woman to carry a dying baby was a form of “torture” and condemned the Texas law as too extreme, a position I strongly disagree with but not, perhaps, for the reasons you might think.

Surely no one who hears this story can fail to sympathize with Cox, although extremists on the left would have a hard time selling their sympathy to me as genuine. Many, though not all, abortion advocates have moved well past the argument for “legal, safe, and rare” and into the space of gleeful celebration at the death of a helpless unborn child. Those on the opposite end of the spectrum should most definitely offer their condolences to Cox and her family; if you are pro-life, you certainly should seek to comfort those who face such a dreadful diagnosis. But for myself, I believe that in seeking an abortion Kate Cox is not escaping “torture,” as Kelly put it, but rather inflicting further wounds to her psyche. She is already the mother of a dying child and having an abortion will not erase that fact. Being the direct cause of her child’s death, rather than allowing her child’s life to unfold, in my opinion, will only add to her grief. The risk of heartbreak is an inherent part of motherhood and a medical procedure cannot remove this from the job description.

We, as mothers, are all the mothers of dying children and our journey through parenthood is a tortuous one. We bring them into this world knowing that one day, hopefully many decades from now, they will leave it. Not only do they face certain death, we also know there will be many pains and traumas along that path. We hold our breath from the moment we feel that first stirring deep inside our wombs, through their first tottering steps and watch with anxiousness as they are off to school and have their first disappointments and heartbreaks and failures. As their worlds widen, our fears only increase. As they grow, so too do the dangers they face.

But so too do their joys. And through them, our joys increase as well. As they say, with great risk comes great reward. There is no joy in mothering without the sorrow; to love is to venture heartbreak. There is no escaping the tortures of motherhood, whether it be carrying a baby you know is destined to die early or carrying a baby you know will face untold perils as he or she grows. Just as in the throes of labor there is no escaping the pain of birth; all you can do as a mother is grit your teeth and know you are giving birth to something worth the pain.

Years ago in my early days of parenthood, I was complaining about not getting a moment to myself, and a friend wisely shared an insight that pierced my heart. He looked down at one of my toddlers and said “If I had known the last time I held my son or daughter was the last time, I would have held them five minutes longer.” We never know when that last time will be so we should cherish each time as if it is the last.

From the news reports I have read, Kate Cox won’t get that last time, or a first. She has pursued an abortion in another state. For that loss, I grieve for her. I’m sure that this Christmas will be a challenging and sad time for her, to say the least. I will certainly pray for her to experience repentance, forgiveness and healing during the season which celebrates not only Jesus but also his mother Mary. Not only Mary in the stable but also Mary at the temple, dedicating her baby to God and being told by Simeon, according to Luke 2, that He would do great things but at the cost of a sword piercing, not just His side, but also her soul. I think of Michelangelo’s Pieta. Mary holding her son for just five minutes more; the pain of His death and her sorrow bring us who believe the greatest of joys.

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Anti-Social Behavior

By Amy Spiegel

I suppose we all have a relationship or two which falls into the “guilty pleasure” category. We know they aren’t a good influence. We rarely leave their presence feeling better about ourselves or the world in general. They make us a worse version of ourselves, and yet we just can’t bring ourselves to walk away. We make up all sorts of excuses for not cutting ties with them: we’ve known them for such a long time. Our mutual friends would feel awkward if we didn’t associate with them anymore. Or worse, our mutual friends might choose them over us. We are a good influence, and if we abandon them who will be left to offer a more enlightened perspective? We tell ourselves maybe they will change for the better.

And then one day, you’ve just had enough. A line is drawn that you just can’t cross. And you suddenly realize the futility of continuing in this relationship any longer. It’s like eating Rocky Road ice cream straight from the tub and praying it will magically turn into non-fat sugar-free frozen yogurt. Going no contact won’t be fun, but it’s time.

I have come to this place with social media, by which I am referring to Facebook and Instagram. I know these aren’t the only social media platforms out there, but these are the two with which I mostly frequently engage and with which I am officially breaking up. For a few years now, I have known FB and IG were a negative influence on my life. It wasn’t just the time wasted but the overall impact on my outlook that bothered me. When Jim left Taylor, I inadvertently walked away from posting for the most part. I’m not sure of all the reasons this happened, but I do know the co-mingling of friends and former friends in my network made me feel vulnerable online and I started just sharing pics here and there with friends through text. To minimize time spent online, I deleted my IG app and only accessed it via web browser. (If ever you doubted the intentionally manipulative design of social media, contrast the browser and app version of the experience. I can’t believe how much faster I exit IG and FB when I’m not plugged into the app.) I was more conscious or rather self-conscious about how much time I spent browsing. It also made me aware of the distraction it created in others, as I tried to engage with people whose eyes kept drifting to their phones. I have also started the absolutely radical behavior of leaving my phone in the car for church services, dinners out, and walks with the fam. Try this exercise and you will quickly realize what a lurking presence your and others phones are, even when turned upside down or in a pocket. Phones in this situation are like a rude, socially awkward third wheel, just waiting to interrupt and turn all eyes on them. Stop inviting them along! But I digress…

I noticed that this somewhat distanced relationship had me questioning why I would be involved with social media at all. I found myself asking questions like “Who is this post for? The person you are writing about or your “fanbase”? I was alarmed at the use of children as props for their parents’ “brand” and recognized that I have been guilty of doing the same. One of the kids asked me not to post pics of them from fun family events and would ask me “Why are you doing that?” which made me stand up and think “Yeah, why am I doing that?” The fact that I stopped posting for the most part during the dark season after Jim’s firing is a good indication that I was more interested in highlighting our happy seasons than transparently sharing real life with friends.

As my relationship with social media weakened, I could feel more clearly the impact on my state of mind when I did engage with it, generally walking away feeling fatter, uglier, less accomplished, and poorer while simultaneously feeling smug and judgmental. Not a good combo for the psyche.

Then this winter, Andrew’s school hosted a night with Dr. Leonard Sax, a prominent physician and psychologist, who opened my eyes even further to the negative impacts of social media on children. Not only was I participating in something harmful to myself, I was engaging with a dangerous organism which was being weaponized against the young and vulnerable. Jim and I spent time in prayer, repenting of having, in ignorance, exposed our kids to this malignant force and talking with our kids, most of whom are now young adults, about the impact this activity has had and is having on them.

With all of this, I still haven’t been able to walk away. That is until I heard of a Wall Street Journal article exposing the fact that Instagram “helps connect and promote a vast network of accounts openly devoted to the commission and purchase of underage-sex content…” What further motivation did I need to cut ties with IG? Maybe I was willing to ignore the cancerous impact it had on my productivity, my thoughts and even my children’s mental health. Sure IG is the gateway drug for pornography and a vast number of physical and mental disorders, but it’s so deliciously entertaining. But when confronted with this horrifying though hardly shocking article, how could I ignore that I was willingly partnering with a monster that doesn’t simply allow but promotes and profits from the sexual exploitation of children?

So I am breaking up with Instagram and Facebook. I will no longer post or monitor my accounts. I’m sure I will slip up every now and again or will peer over someone’s shoulder to watch a funny dog video or see who just got engaged. I’ll take it one day at a time and hopefully turn those days into months and years, but I am planning for an anti-social media life moving forward. An anti-social media life that is full of actual socializing and genuine and authentic engagement with friends.

As the saying goes, you do you. I don’t have any desire to judge others and their navigation through the complex “Metaverse” we find ourselves in. But I hope you will do so with your eyes wide open to the dangerous waters you are sailing through and prayerfully consider your course.

 

“O Trinity of love and power

Our brethren shield in danger’s hour

From rock and tempest, fire and foe

Protect them wheresoe’er they go.”

~William Whiting, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save”

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Passing Into History

By Amy Spiegel

Recently, I had the sad honor of attending a memorial service for a dear friend’s father who passed away quite unexpectedly. I listened as several people shared their memories of Fred, some funny, some touching, but all laced with the sorrow of his absence. It is a tragic irony of such events that the more beloved and accomplished the person is, the deeper the sense of loss and grief. It struck me that most of us are striving to live life in such a way as to make many people, whom we love, miserable when we are gone. The only thing worse than a funeral for someone for whom everyone is grieving is a funeral for someone for whom no one is mourning.

My friend’s dad was, fortunately, not such a person. There were many tears from the large crowd who gathered to comfort his family and celebrate his life. There was beautiful singing and a truth-filled homily declaring faith in life after death and the hope of resurrection. And then . . .  it was over. We wiped away our tears and hugged one last time. Some of us gathered for a meal and caught up on life. Then we drove home and did chores, walked our dogs and spent time with our families. Of course, the grieving process is not over and for his family and close friends. It never will be, at least this side of heaven. He will be missed at each family event, talked about among those who didn’t have the privilege of knowing him. But as those who had that privilege slip away, so will their memories. So it will be for each of us. One day in the future our lives, however long, will be reduced to an obituary and an afternoon service.

There are, of course, a select few whose lives take on historic relevance, but they are few and far between. Most of us will not be a world leader, a great inventor or the writer of a timeless classic. Even these figures aren’t really remembered as people but more by their accomplishments. Their deeds and works live on in our memories rather than in their personal impact on individual lives.

As I reflected on this truth, I realized that this is actually true for all of us. In the case of my friend’s dad, Fred, his skills will carry on every time his grandson tees up for a round of golf. His smile and kindness will echo through history in the smiles and kindness of each person whom he influenced for good. Each time his daughter stands in front of her class, his love of teaching will continue.

We each have the opportunity to live a historic life, one that ripples through time far after we are gone. Each day presents us with countless opportunities to reach beyond our eventual grave and live on through small acts of kindness or faithful service. There is no telling how you might echo through history, how loudly your life might resonate through time.

Of course, this requires one to think beyond oneself. After all, if I live a life that is primarily focused on myself, then that leaves very little behind after I am gone. While writing this post, the lyrics of the Beatles’ famous Eleanor Rigby kept playing through my mind. The namesake of this famous song which asks “all the lonely people, where do they all come from?” is buried in Liverpool’s St. Peter’s church cemetery. In the song, Eleanor is alone, touching the lives of no one, she is not mourned or missed at the end of her life. According to the gravestone of the real Eleanor, however, she was a beloved granddaughter and wife. One version of Eleanor has been enshrined as a monument to human isolation and loneliness. But the impact of the real Eleanor is quietly rippling through history in who knows how many ways. Let us strive to do the same.