Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Grateful Nation Pauses.....and Remembers Her Protectors
In the beginning of a change,
the patriot is a scarce man,
and brave, and hated and scorned.
When his cause succeeds,
the timid join him,
for then it costs nothing to be a patriot.
~Mark Twain, Notebook, 1935
These words do indeed ring true. It wasn't all that long ago that war protesters were a ubitiquous presence on the nightly news, vilifying our soldiers with ugly epithets and vindictive speech. Many of those who shouted the loudest would later collectively (and rightly) thank our soldiers for bringing down 'the bad guy' - as if one man controlled the terror button for all the world.
At various times we experience a collective enthusiasm for using our military might to attack or defend the "right" friend or enemy, often depending more heavily on political will and pragmatic considerations than on simple moral conviction. It is ironic, really, that we ordinary citizens, who are spared the hideous horrors of war up-front, are the ones consulted in the court of public opinion regarding what the nation's stance should be, and our opinions - hawk and dove alike - become the face of our national will. Recipients ourselves of the soldier-borne freedom to recline peacefully in our Lazy-Boys, comfortably ensconced in our climate-controlled living rooms, we are elevated to arbiters of actions whose origins or details have never encountered the challenge of our limited understanding.
We are not wrong to hold opinions on these matters; in fact it is our right, purchased at no small cost. Our military men and women stand ready to defend the cause of such freedoms, based not on their own personal feelings, but on something larger. Their campaigns are not waged in the marketplace of ideas where losses are tallied by arguments won, but in the dusty battlefields of far-off lands where blood is spilled aplenty, and from whence a steady stream of hushed heroes silently return from across the sea to be remembered, honored and buried on the soil they swore to defend.
The honor we hold for those who lost their lives should be copiously bestowed on the heroes they leave behind. Every veteran has given more than we can ever know to protect our freedoms, despite the political winds that blow without ceasing. They deserve our praise each and every day.
We salute our Veterans in every branch of the military. Your sacrifices past, present and future are remembered and honored. A grateful nation remembers her protectors.
"The nation which forgets its defenders will be itself forgotten."
- Calvin Coolidge
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Just As I Am
I love this rendition of the classic 'come to Jesus' hymn, popularized by the Billy Graham crusades. It was written by Charlotte Elliott of Brighton, England in 1836. As with so many hymns, this one was borne of the personal experience of the writer: A broken woman, embittered by her circumstances, experiences the joy of acceptance and love flowing from the One who bids us "Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."
The story goes that Charlotte was an invalid whose disability was brought on by a serious illness in her younger years. She was beset by an ailing body that did not function as it should, and often caused her pain, resulting in a somewhat irritable nature. She is said to have muttered, "If God loved me, he would not have treated me this way."
Charlotte grew up in a family of believers, and her father often entertained ministers and others doing gospel work. It was at one of these visits that a Swiss minister, Dr. Cesar Malan, was having dinner with the family when he witnessed an ugly outburst from Charlotte, in which she assailed faith and family after losing her temper. Once the dust had cleared, Dr. Malan began a quiet and serious conversation with Charlotte. He gently asked her if she was tired of herself, because she herself was all that she was holding onto in this world, and it was making her bitter; full of anger and resentment. When she asked him what the cure was, he answered that it was "the faith you are trying to despise". The minister talked with her for some time, and her countenance softened as they spoke. She told him that she wanted to know God, but did not know how she could come to Him in such a miserable state. He is said to have answered her, "Why not just come as you are?". He told her that she could give herself to God with all of her "fightings and fears, hates and loves, pride and shame". He was able to explain to her that great truth of the gospel: it is not what WE have done, can do or will do, but what HE has done for us by virtue of His shed blood on the cross, that makes us acceptable in His eyes. Charlotte did indeed come just as she was, and on that day she was transferred from the kingdom of darkness into the kingdom of His light and life. Her entire world shifted from one of self-centered alienation from the things of God, to a holy adoption into His very family, a brand new creation for whom the promises of God are both sure and manifold.
Charlotte later found a special personal meaning in a verse she read in John's gospel: "The one who comes to Me I will by no means cast out." Later when she wrote "Just As I Am", her first among many hymns, that scripture reference was noted in the anonymously-penned leaflet that comprised its first publication. It is said that years later, when Charlotte was ill and bedridden, her physician brought a copy of this hymn with him when he came to visit. He had previously received it from a woman who found it greatly comforting, and who had taken to copying and distributing the words to anyone whom she felt might benefit from its simple message. Charlotte's doctor put it into his feeble patient's hands, telling her that he hoped that she would find it as comforting as he did. There is no doubt of the mutual joy they shared in discussing not only the content of that hymn, but the author!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Hidden Treasures
This true story is reminiscent of so many instances in my own life that it nearly took my breath away when I first read it. Not only do we regularly undervalue our material, circumstantial, relational and other gifts, but how often do we figuratively trample them into the dust, completely blind to their true worth...
Friday, September 23, 2011
Hidden Treasures
by Jill Carattini for Ravi Zacharias International Ministries
A nurse named Melanie was on her way to work when something in the trash bin caught her eye. She was immediately taken with the possibilities in the discarded treasure. It was a cello, slightly cracked in several places, but nonetheless a discard of great character, a piece quite charming to the eye. Her boyfriend, who is a cabinetmaker, also saw the cello's potential. Together they thought it could be turned into a beautifully distinctive CD holder.
At first glimpse, this story seems to evoke a mantra commonly upon artists' and antique-hunters' minds alike: "One person's trash is another's treasure." With a mother as an antique dealer, I have an endless bank of similar stories. Yet this one was deemed newsworthy and is thus worth retelling.
The discarded cello was indeed old and it in fact had really been abandoned, though authorities are not sure why or how it ended up in the trash that day. But a most shocking revelation to the nurse (and possibly to the thief as well) was the fact that it was not merely an old, interesting cello. It is a one of only 60 like it in the world, made by master craftsman Antonio Stradivari in 1684. The 320-year-old masterpiece, valued at 3.5 million dollars, was stolen from a member of the Los Angeles Philharmonic orchestra just weeks before it sat rescued in Melanie's apartment with dreams of becoming a CD holder.
In the music world, "Stradivarius" is an untouchable description. Neither scientist nor musician understands the difference between the voice of a Stradivarius versus the voice of modern violins and cellos, but the distinction is real—and costly. They are the most sought after musical instruments in the world—works of art in their own right—coveted by collectors and players alike. To be in the presence of a Stradivarius is to be in the presence of something great, whether it is recognized or not.
What I find so compelling about this story is that Melanie knew for sure that she had found a treasure (and there are countless people overwhelmed with thanksgiving that she felt this way). She saved a magnum opus from landing in a truck of garbage because she saw the potential in a piece of trash. But she had no idea how true her thought actually was, until reports of the missing cello transfigured the precious masterwork before her eyes.
Hearing this story, I wondered if our relationships with God do not sometimes hint at something similar. Like the disciples on the mount who fell on their faces as Jesus became "like the sun" and "as white as light," it seems God can bring us again to that place where we are awed by God's glory, goodness, or mercy—even fearful existence. And like the disciples, like Job and Isaiah, we can be unexpectedly reminded that we are in the presence of the Father in all his glory, or remarkably present with the Son, or suddenly aware of the Spirit. Yet whether we are aware of it or not, God is always near, God's glory declared day after day, the work of God's hands proclaimed night after night.
A poem penned by Augustine of Hippo utters the lament of a soul who has realized belatedly that God is there, while he himself was not aware of it. Writes Augustine, "Slow was I, Lord, too slow in loving you. To you, earliest and latest beauty, I was slow in love. You were waiting within me while I went outside me, looking for you there, misshaping myself as I flung myself upon the shapely things you made. You were with me all the while I was not with you, kept from you by things that could not be except by being in you. You were calling to me, shouting, drumming on deaf ears. You thundered and lightninged, piercing my blindness."(1) His words remind us to taste and see the bounty of God today, presently, in this very glimpse. There is surely rejoicing in being found at all times, but perhaps, too, lament in not seeing sooner how near God was all along.
Like Melanie who saw beauty but did not see the true splendor of all she was holding, like the thief who held a masterpiece but saw fit to discard it, we are often unaware of how near we are to God and all within God's kingdom. It is like "treasure hidden in a field," taught Jesus, "like a merchant looking for fine pearls." In finding the pearl of great value might we recognize it. In finding the God who is there, might we fall on our faces treasuring our find, thankful that we ourselves have been found.
Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.
(1) Saint Augustine, Confessions, trans. Garry Wills, (New York: Penguin, 2006), 234.
© 2008 Ravi Zacharias International Ministries. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Shelby Steele: Obama and the Burden of Exceptionalism - WSJ.com
Shelby Steele: Obama and the Burden of Exceptionalism - WSJ.com:
'via Blog this'
'via Blog this'
Outstanding essay. Steele nails it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Awaiting Irene in Little Compton RI
 |
| From Recently Updated |
630PM August 27 2011: What's left of the beach, hours before Irene's expected arrival....don't think we'll be coming here again before it's over....
Friday, August 12, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
A Tribute to My Mothers
I have two mothers. My mother Joan bore me and raised me and my siblings, until I was 12 years old, when she succumbed to a brain tumor. That was in 1972, and a few years later my father, who was left with 7 children ranging in age from 4 or 5 to 17, remarried. So I have two mothers, both of whom have shaped me in ways that the other could not, and my life is richer for it. Of course, I have the benefit of looking back through the rear view mirror as a 50 year old, where things look vastly different than say, at 18. When I knew everything. And hated a lot of things. Which caused me to do many stupid things. But I digress.
What I wanted to share was the idea of doing a Tribute to our parents, and Mother's Day being tomorrow, I thought I'd post it here, although it can be done for any occasion, or none at all. In any event, the idea came to me from a dear friend who had heard about it on a Christian radio program several years ago, where it was promoted as a way to biblically honor our parents and provide them with a lasting gift - words of remembrance and encouragement for all that they had meant to us. This friend, who knows that I am NOT a touchy-feely person (probably because of, not in spite of, the fact that I cry at Hallmark commercials), asked me to take this on with her as a church-wide project, the first for Mother's Day and another for Father's Day. We would promote this as a way for members to honor their parents (whether by blood, adoption, or for someone who has been 'like a mother/father' to them), and we would offer assistance where needed. This would mean that we would likely be asked to help folks who didn't know where to begin on such a project, or who perhaps had strained relations with their parents. Or maybe they had parents who were no longer living (for which this could be more of a healing exercise for the giver). In any event, since (and only since) she was a good friend I said yes. Little did I know the blessings that would flow from this project, for both givers and recipients, and even entire families...
The fact that we would be helping others meant of course, that I would need to do a Tribute myself. Both of mine were emotionally challenging, to say the least. Thinking about my mother who died so tragically when I was so young would dredge up many thoughts that I had kept buried for years. And the tribute I embarked on for my stepmother was worse - THIS I would need to PRESENT! How do you present a tribute to someone you treated poorly from the time she arrived in your home until you moved out a several years later? Someone you resented for having usurped the role of mother from a woman you barely knew? These were the thoughts that swirled around my own mind as I 'anticipated' the task ahead. So while many of our members (including my friend) got immensely creative with pictures and other memorabilia which they placed in elaborate frames for presentation to their own mothers, along with childhood memories, remembrances of family holidays, special occasions, etc., I spent a long time staring, as it were, at a blank, and later cross hatched, piece of paper. But once I got started, things just flowed. Emotions and memories are like that, once we open the gate that has been closed so long it's hinges have rusted through...
I have copied below the simple tributes I wrote, even thought they are pretty personal and not very polished. I just feel like they may be able to encourage someone else to fashion their own tribute, no matter what the situation. It could be a wonderful gift that will never be forgotten; it could become a vessel for healing; it could even be a turning point in a relationship that has needed one for a long time. I believe it will bless someone, whether that is a son, a daughter, a mother or a father, a friend or sister or brother. My examples will just give you an idea to help you get started. Here is the website from the creator of this idea with lots more information: http://www.familylife.com/site/apps/nl/content3.asp?c=dnJHKLNnFoG&b=3584679&ct=4639567
They don't look very pretty as I've retyped them here, but scanning made them too small and I don't know how to do fonts in blogger. So just picture these with titles and accents in lovely flowery fonts, on parchment paper...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Tribute to My Mother - Joan Matthews Fallon
by Patricia Fallon Cady
My mother came from a large family, and wasted no time assembling one of her own when she married my dad, producing 7 children in 10 years. I remember hearing comments from neighborhood kids about our family size, but I always considered they were the odd ones, sometimes with only 2 kids! I remember thinking - who did they play with anyway?
We didn’t think we had much back then, but of course we were wrong...
Birthdays at our house meant that you had the option of a party with your friends OR going out to a ‘real’ restaurant - the kind with cloth napkins - with just mom and dad. This was an indulgence of epic proportions, and I don’t remember ever choosing the party... When my dad installed an above-ground pool, I remember watching my mom as she painted each of our names in huge script letters, along with a particular flower, all around the steel siding. Too young to be embarrassed by this blatant (not to mention tacky!) display of maternal affection, I absolutely loved it, and have fond memories of playing in the pool with siblings and cousins. My mother’s friends called her a ‘hoot’ and I remember that wherever she was, the sound of laughter was never far away. Her sense of humor was probably essential in the care and feeding of her boisterous brood. I look back in wonder at how she always managed to have every one of us dressed and ready for church on Sundays, and how we all sat together, usually assembled in a specific order, according to my parents’ weekly discernment of “whom must not sit next to whom”. My mom enjoyed cooking and baking, and to this day I can still be transported back in time, if only for a moment, when I smell sugar cookies baking. Mom was also a gifted painter, and managed to churn out an amazing number of canvases while caring for us and taking on an assortment of volunteer activities at our school and church. Writing this makes her sound like “Wonder Woman”; I guess she was...
Mom went home on September 8, 1972, after a battle with brain cancer that was waged in the hospital and surrendered in our family room. She was 39 years old, and I was just shy of 12. For many years I lamented that my mom died before I was able to really know her, but I now realize that I was wrong. Today I look back from the vantage point that includes my own experiences with marriage and motherhood, and I can begin to appreciate the tapestry God has woven through my mother’s life, and that He is weaving through me still... I knew my mother well enough to learn some valuable lessons:
From my mother
I learned that what we truly treasure is never made with human hands.
I learned that by giving you are filled and fulfilled.
I learned that laughter is not only good medicine, but an inheritable trait.
I learned that creativity nourishes the soul and refreshes the mind.
I learned that bringing up children is sometimes messy and usually humbling.
I learned that there are no perfect mothers, but there are mothers who are perfect for us.
Thank you Mom, for the love that you gave me, the lessons that you taught me, and the legacy that you left me...
Can’t wait to see you when I get home!
Love, Patricia
(2007)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Tribute to My Mother - Alice Marie Fallon
by patricia fallon cady
Dear Mom,
When we first met, I was 15 years old and full of myself. Despite my own issues, I remember thinking you were pretty nice because no one else ever brought us Brown Derby cake! But I must admit that I was dumbfounded as to why you'd want to marry my dad, since he came complete with some undeniably weighty 'baggage'! You had already finished raising your daughter, and were now going to start a new life with a man who had seven children! That most of us were teenagers, five were females, and all were probably still grieving and troubled over the loss of our mother, should have been enough to send you packing, but what a testament to your love that you stayed! Thank you for your willingness to come into our home and for helping to make us a family again. I think Joan would be proud of you - I know that she would have admired your fortitude!
Thank you Mom, for showing me that being a mother is not always about bearing children, but it can be about bearing with our children and their burdens, as together we negotiate the unexpected twists and turns of life. I thank God for the the divine appointment He made more than 30 years ago when He put you and Daddy together. The love and commitment you have shown in your marriage has been both and example and a blessing, not only to your children but to your many grandchildren. That is a legacy worthy of celebration and honor.
Mom, your caring attitude, persistence and patience allowed you to transcend the difficulties you encountered as you came into our lives and helped to mold us. You stuck with us through difficult times, when a lesser woman might have thrown in the towel. I didn't realize until later in my life, the enormity of the job you undertook, and regret the hard time I gave you growing up.
So please forgive me Mom, not just for being a self-absorbed teenager when you married Dad, but for my unwillingness to extend to you the honor I should have reserved for such a courageous woman. You took on and met and enormous challenge with uncommon grace and strength. I am so thankful to have this opportunity to honor you on this Mother's Day for all you have meant to me!
May the Lord Bless You and Keep You
may the Lord Make His Face to Shine Upon You and Be Gracious Unto You
May the Lord Lift Up His Countenance Upon You and Give You Peace
Much Love,
Patricia
13 May 2007
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL! You have the hardest and best job there is!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What I wanted to share was the idea of doing a Tribute to our parents, and Mother's Day being tomorrow, I thought I'd post it here, although it can be done for any occasion, or none at all. In any event, the idea came to me from a dear friend who had heard about it on a Christian radio program several years ago, where it was promoted as a way to biblically honor our parents and provide them with a lasting gift - words of remembrance and encouragement for all that they had meant to us. This friend, who knows that I am NOT a touchy-feely person (probably because of, not in spite of, the fact that I cry at Hallmark commercials), asked me to take this on with her as a church-wide project, the first for Mother's Day and another for Father's Day. We would promote this as a way for members to honor their parents (whether by blood, adoption, or for someone who has been 'like a mother/father' to them), and we would offer assistance where needed. This would mean that we would likely be asked to help folks who didn't know where to begin on such a project, or who perhaps had strained relations with their parents. Or maybe they had parents who were no longer living (for which this could be more of a healing exercise for the giver). In any event, since (and only since) she was a good friend I said yes. Little did I know the blessings that would flow from this project, for both givers and recipients, and even entire families...
The fact that we would be helping others meant of course, that I would need to do a Tribute myself. Both of mine were emotionally challenging, to say the least. Thinking about my mother who died so tragically when I was so young would dredge up many thoughts that I had kept buried for years. And the tribute I embarked on for my stepmother was worse - THIS I would need to PRESENT! How do you present a tribute to someone you treated poorly from the time she arrived in your home until you moved out a several years later? Someone you resented for having usurped the role of mother from a woman you barely knew? These were the thoughts that swirled around my own mind as I 'anticipated' the task ahead. So while many of our members (including my friend) got immensely creative with pictures and other memorabilia which they placed in elaborate frames for presentation to their own mothers, along with childhood memories, remembrances of family holidays, special occasions, etc., I spent a long time staring, as it were, at a blank, and later cross hatched, piece of paper. But once I got started, things just flowed. Emotions and memories are like that, once we open the gate that has been closed so long it's hinges have rusted through...
I have copied below the simple tributes I wrote, even thought they are pretty personal and not very polished. I just feel like they may be able to encourage someone else to fashion their own tribute, no matter what the situation. It could be a wonderful gift that will never be forgotten; it could become a vessel for healing; it could even be a turning point in a relationship that has needed one for a long time. I believe it will bless someone, whether that is a son, a daughter, a mother or a father, a friend or sister or brother. My examples will just give you an idea to help you get started. Here is the website from the creator of this idea with lots more information: http://www.familylife.com/site/apps/nl/content3.asp?c=dnJHKLNnFoG&b=3584679&ct=4639567
They don't look very pretty as I've retyped them here, but scanning made them too small and I don't know how to do fonts in blogger. So just picture these with titles and accents in lovely flowery fonts, on parchment paper...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Tribute to My Mother - Joan Matthews Fallon
by Patricia Fallon Cady
My mother came from a large family, and wasted no time assembling one of her own when she married my dad, producing 7 children in 10 years. I remember hearing comments from neighborhood kids about our family size, but I always considered they were the odd ones, sometimes with only 2 kids! I remember thinking - who did they play with anyway?
We didn’t think we had much back then, but of course we were wrong...
Birthdays at our house meant that you had the option of a party with your friends OR going out to a ‘real’ restaurant - the kind with cloth napkins - with just mom and dad. This was an indulgence of epic proportions, and I don’t remember ever choosing the party... When my dad installed an above-ground pool, I remember watching my mom as she painted each of our names in huge script letters, along with a particular flower, all around the steel siding. Too young to be embarrassed by this blatant (not to mention tacky!) display of maternal affection, I absolutely loved it, and have fond memories of playing in the pool with siblings and cousins. My mother’s friends called her a ‘hoot’ and I remember that wherever she was, the sound of laughter was never far away. Her sense of humor was probably essential in the care and feeding of her boisterous brood. I look back in wonder at how she always managed to have every one of us dressed and ready for church on Sundays, and how we all sat together, usually assembled in a specific order, according to my parents’ weekly discernment of “whom must not sit next to whom”. My mom enjoyed cooking and baking, and to this day I can still be transported back in time, if only for a moment, when I smell sugar cookies baking. Mom was also a gifted painter, and managed to churn out an amazing number of canvases while caring for us and taking on an assortment of volunteer activities at our school and church. Writing this makes her sound like “Wonder Woman”; I guess she was...
Mom went home on September 8, 1972, after a battle with brain cancer that was waged in the hospital and surrendered in our family room. She was 39 years old, and I was just shy of 12. For many years I lamented that my mom died before I was able to really know her, but I now realize that I was wrong. Today I look back from the vantage point that includes my own experiences with marriage and motherhood, and I can begin to appreciate the tapestry God has woven through my mother’s life, and that He is weaving through me still... I knew my mother well enough to learn some valuable lessons:
From my mother
I learned that what we truly treasure is never made with human hands.
I learned that by giving you are filled and fulfilled.
I learned that laughter is not only good medicine, but an inheritable trait.
I learned that creativity nourishes the soul and refreshes the mind.
I learned that bringing up children is sometimes messy and usually humbling.
I learned that there are no perfect mothers, but there are mothers who are perfect for us.
Thank you Mom, for the love that you gave me, the lessons that you taught me, and the legacy that you left me...
Can’t wait to see you when I get home!
Love, Patricia
(2007)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Tribute to My Mother - Alice Marie Fallon
by patricia fallon cady
Dear Mom,
When we first met, I was 15 years old and full of myself. Despite my own issues, I remember thinking you were pretty nice because no one else ever brought us Brown Derby cake! But I must admit that I was dumbfounded as to why you'd want to marry my dad, since he came complete with some undeniably weighty 'baggage'! You had already finished raising your daughter, and were now going to start a new life with a man who had seven children! That most of us were teenagers, five were females, and all were probably still grieving and troubled over the loss of our mother, should have been enough to send you packing, but what a testament to your love that you stayed! Thank you for your willingness to come into our home and for helping to make us a family again. I think Joan would be proud of you - I know that she would have admired your fortitude!
Thank you Mom, for showing me that being a mother is not always about bearing children, but it can be about bearing with our children and their burdens, as together we negotiate the unexpected twists and turns of life. I thank God for the the divine appointment He made more than 30 years ago when He put you and Daddy together. The love and commitment you have shown in your marriage has been both and example and a blessing, not only to your children but to your many grandchildren. That is a legacy worthy of celebration and honor.
Mom, your caring attitude, persistence and patience allowed you to transcend the difficulties you encountered as you came into our lives and helped to mold us. You stuck with us through difficult times, when a lesser woman might have thrown in the towel. I didn't realize until later in my life, the enormity of the job you undertook, and regret the hard time I gave you growing up.
So please forgive me Mom, not just for being a self-absorbed teenager when you married Dad, but for my unwillingness to extend to you the honor I should have reserved for such a courageous woman. You took on and met and enormous challenge with uncommon grace and strength. I am so thankful to have this opportunity to honor you on this Mother's Day for all you have meant to me!
May the Lord Bless You and Keep You
may the Lord Make His Face to Shine Upon You and Be Gracious Unto You
May the Lord Lift Up His Countenance Upon You and Give You Peace
Much Love,
Patricia
13 May 2007
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL! You have the hardest and best job there is!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
A Buried Grief
A searing indictment of the conventional wisdom that assures us that women do not suffer emotional or psychological trauma as a direct result of having undergone an abortion. I have no doubt that if 20 women read this article, more than half of them could directly relate to the feelings described by the subjects of the counseling session described, all of whom were in treatment for issues seemingly unrelated to their past abortions.
It's time we stopped pretending that the only victims of abortion are buried away as sad remembrances of the 'difficult choices' one makes in life. On the contrary, the living victims remain with us in ever greater numbers, men and women whose wounds are manifested in broken families, broken lives, substance abuse, eating disorders and a myriad of other ways that describe what happens when people need to numb a pain that simply will not subside on its own. Fortunately, help is available for those walking wounded who want it. There is a Balm in Gilead.
It's time we stopped pretending that the only victims of abortion are buried away as sad remembrances of the 'difficult choices' one makes in life. On the contrary, the living victims remain with us in ever greater numbers, men and women whose wounds are manifested in broken families, broken lives, substance abuse, eating disorders and a myriad of other ways that describe what happens when people need to numb a pain that simply will not subside on its own. Fortunately, help is available for those walking wounded who want it. There is a Balm in Gilead.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tornado Alley Needs Some Heroes...
Since I wasn't able to find a clearinghouse of relief organizations for the recent devastation in the south, I thought I would just do a little research and publish what I found so that people have a place to go where they can then choose among the many different opportunities to help. The following organizations are either well-known first responders capable of meeting immediate needs, relief organizations used to handling the clean-up, housing and other needs in the aftermath of a disaster, or local churches and other organizations whose long-term ties to the community put them in the best position to meet the particular needs to which they are suited. Please consider the possible ways in which you might personally get involved in helping out others who have been hit so hard in recent weeks, whether that help is extended by the donation of money, goods, or even yourself/your family to help out in the clean-up efforts. The need is great.
WORLD VISION: http://www.worldvision.org/#/home/main/tornadoes-american-south-1-1389
SAMARITAN'S PURSE: http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/articles/responding_to_deadly_tornadoes/
RED CROSS: https://american.redcross.org/site/Donation2?4882.donation=form1&idb=1495181504&df_id=4882&gclid=CPHJ4MXVyagCFch-5QodClVQpg
A TENNESSEE Red Cross chapter is seeking volunteer workers: http://www.wbir.com/news/article/168258/2/Red-Cross-looking-for-volunteers-to-help-TN-tornado--flood-victims
Here's an ALABAMA news piece which lists some other organizations and needs for both goods and volunteers locally. http://blog.al.com/spotnews/2011/04/alabama_tornadoes_how_you_can.html
Ditto for MISSISSIPPI: http://www.wtva.com/content/alertbarblank/story/How-you-can-help-the-tornado-victims/AKYnBc1bnEe1W4x6Ce8dXw.cspx
When I see the pictures of the devastation I must admit I have a hard time relating. To walk outside your house and not be able to see the familiar landmarks that have stood like sentinals to mark out the boundaries of your home, your neighborhood, your entire town, seems far more believable as a Twilight Zone episode than the reality of life as experienced by thousands in the southern states. And that's without considering the deeper devastation of the lives lost. Today's ability to view disasters in real-time technicolor detail can even overwhelm our very willingness to help, if only because the depth of need appears so great compared to our abilities to provide whatever help we can. But that simply isn't true. Every donation makes a difference.
I am only one, but I am one.
I cannot do everything,
but I can do something.
And I will not let what I cannot do
interfere with what I can do.
~Edward Everett Hale
THANKS for considering helping!
WORLD VISION: http://www.worldvision.org/#/home/main/tornadoes-american-south-1-1389
SAMARITAN'S PURSE: http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/articles/responding_to_deadly_tornadoes/
RED CROSS: https://american.redcross.org/site/Donation2?4882.donation=form1&idb=1495181504&df_id=4882&gclid=CPHJ4MXVyagCFch-5QodClVQpg
A TENNESSEE Red Cross chapter is seeking volunteer workers: http://www.wbir.com/news/article/168258/2/Red-Cross-looking-for-volunteers-to-help-TN-tornado--flood-victims
Here's an ALABAMA news piece which lists some other organizations and needs for both goods and volunteers locally. http://blog.al.com/spotnews/2011/04/alabama_tornadoes_how_you_can.html
Ditto for MISSISSIPPI: http://www.wtva.com/content/alertbarblank/story/How-you-can-help-the-tornado-victims/AKYnBc1bnEe1W4x6Ce8dXw.cspx
When I see the pictures of the devastation I must admit I have a hard time relating. To walk outside your house and not be able to see the familiar landmarks that have stood like sentinals to mark out the boundaries of your home, your neighborhood, your entire town, seems far more believable as a Twilight Zone episode than the reality of life as experienced by thousands in the southern states. And that's without considering the deeper devastation of the lives lost. Today's ability to view disasters in real-time technicolor detail can even overwhelm our very willingness to help, if only because the depth of need appears so great compared to our abilities to provide whatever help we can. But that simply isn't true. Every donation makes a difference.
I am only one, but I am one.
I cannot do everything,
but I can do something.
And I will not let what I cannot do
interfere with what I can do.
~Edward Everett Hale
THANKS for considering helping!
Friday, April 22, 2011
King of Glory; Man of Sorrows
A time is coming
and in fact has come
when you will be scattered,
each to your own home.
You will leave me all alone.
Yet I am not alone,
for my Father is with me.~John 16:32
With these words Jesus revealed to his disciples that he knew the depth of their weakness, offering a measure of comfort despite their lack of understanding. I wonder who among them might have recalled these words, even as each one crouched uneasily behind his own door of denial, shrinking back as the maddening crowds made their way to Golgotha.
Even as he comforted his disciples, he reminded them (and us) that he was never alone. His father would remain with him until the final moment when payment would be extracted. On top of the beatings, on top of the scourging, on top of the bloody humiliation, it was the separation that would cost him the dearest, that would strike the deepest wound.
No element of Jesus' life or path to the cross was wasted. No tears fell for naught, not a drop of blood spilt without purpose. His journey from the throne to the cross was the greatest distance ever covered in time or in eternity, the largest chasm ever breached here or in the hereafter. There are no words to describe the King's ransom that was paid to reach down to me, and to you, and lift us from the mire of our sin and debasement from which we could not (try as we might) extricate ourselves. As if that were not enough to turn our hearts of stone into flesh, in his extravagance he clothed us with his own righteousness. The perfection of Him who shined with sinless purity was transferred to our account, making what was once worthless into royalty of inestimable worth. Inestimable because he paid for it, royal because of our adoption as His children.
I have been studying Philippians and pondering the imponderable, which is to contemplate the heights of glory Jesus descended in order to reach us. He willingly laid aside the outward manifestation of his glory to breach the walls of humanity and meet us at our point of need. The King of Glory become the Man of Sorrows to save the likes of me, and of you. In order to understand that most un-God-ly transaction, one needs to at least attempt to wrap one's mind around the holiness of God, an impossibility which defies exaggeration. But the attempt itself is an exercise in knowing Him, and one in which, while acknowledging the Mt. Everest in front of me (and I arriving jacketless and barefoot!), I can yet sense Jesus - my Savior friend - holding out his hand and bidding me come and follow - He shall lead the way! And so He has, and because of Him I have sometimes felt as if I have stood outside the very door of Glory as-it-were, and somehow caught a glimpse of the tiniest sliver of the white-hot light shining forth from the throne room of God. It is a trembling, humbling beholding that is most un-earthly.
There is a sense in which we cannot grasp the depth of our own depravity and need for a savior until we comprehend something of the holiness of God. In The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Quasimodo, though aware of his hideous appearance, does not fully comprehend it until he is in the tower with the woman. It isn't until he is close to her that he says: "I did not know how ugly I was, until I saw how beautiful you were."
and in fact has come
when you will be scattered,
each to your own home.
You will leave me all alone.
Yet I am not alone,
for my Father is with me.~John 16:32
With these words Jesus revealed to his disciples that he knew the depth of their weakness, offering a measure of comfort despite their lack of understanding. I wonder who among them might have recalled these words, even as each one crouched uneasily behind his own door of denial, shrinking back as the maddening crowds made their way to Golgotha.
Even as he comforted his disciples, he reminded them (and us) that he was never alone. His father would remain with him until the final moment when payment would be extracted. On top of the beatings, on top of the scourging, on top of the bloody humiliation, it was the separation that would cost him the dearest, that would strike the deepest wound.
No element of Jesus' life or path to the cross was wasted. No tears fell for naught, not a drop of blood spilt without purpose. His journey from the throne to the cross was the greatest distance ever covered in time or in eternity, the largest chasm ever breached here or in the hereafter. There are no words to describe the King's ransom that was paid to reach down to me, and to you, and lift us from the mire of our sin and debasement from which we could not (try as we might) extricate ourselves. As if that were not enough to turn our hearts of stone into flesh, in his extravagance he clothed us with his own righteousness. The perfection of Him who shined with sinless purity was transferred to our account, making what was once worthless into royalty of inestimable worth. Inestimable because he paid for it, royal because of our adoption as His children.
I have been studying Philippians and pondering the imponderable, which is to contemplate the heights of glory Jesus descended in order to reach us. He willingly laid aside the outward manifestation of his glory to breach the walls of humanity and meet us at our point of need. The King of Glory become the Man of Sorrows to save the likes of me, and of you. In order to understand that most un-God-ly transaction, one needs to at least attempt to wrap one's mind around the holiness of God, an impossibility which defies exaggeration. But the attempt itself is an exercise in knowing Him, and one in which, while acknowledging the Mt. Everest in front of me (and I arriving jacketless and barefoot!), I can yet sense Jesus - my Savior friend - holding out his hand and bidding me come and follow - He shall lead the way! And so He has, and because of Him I have sometimes felt as if I have stood outside the very door of Glory as-it-were, and somehow caught a glimpse of the tiniest sliver of the white-hot light shining forth from the throne room of God. It is a trembling, humbling beholding that is most un-earthly.
There is a sense in which we cannot grasp the depth of our own depravity and need for a savior until we comprehend something of the holiness of God. In The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Quasimodo, though aware of his hideous appearance, does not fully comprehend it until he is in the tower with the woman. It isn't until he is close to her that he says: "I did not know how ugly I was, until I saw how beautiful you were."
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Thoughts for Palm Sunday
Jesus set his face towards Jerusalem,
arriving to accolades; even worship.
Some sought a political savior,
who would finally wrest the yoke of oppression
from the heavy hand of the Romans.
Others praised the miracle worker,
the one they hoped would heal them
from the deformities and pain of their mortal bodies.
What no one sought or comprehended
was the suffering savior in their midst,
making His way to the cross of shame,
on his final descent to the throne of agony.
We look back and wonder - how could they not know?
Why didn't they understand?
But they were no different than we are.
Jesus isn't at all what we expect, either.
We thought he would come and fix our life.
We thought he would come and fix our world.
But Jesus didn't come to fix anything.
Fixing things requires an agenda.
The people in Jerusalem had an agenda.
We have an agenda.
But Jesus didn't have an agenda.
Jesus had a mission...
arriving to accolades; even worship.
Some sought a political savior,
who would finally wrest the yoke of oppression
from the heavy hand of the Romans.
Others praised the miracle worker,
the one they hoped would heal them
from the deformities and pain of their mortal bodies.
What no one sought or comprehended
was the suffering savior in their midst,
making His way to the cross of shame,
on his final descent to the throne of agony.
We look back and wonder - how could they not know?
Why didn't they understand?
But they were no different than we are.
Jesus isn't at all what we expect, either.
We thought he would come and fix our life.
We thought he would come and fix our world.
But Jesus didn't come to fix anything.
Fixing things requires an agenda.
The people in Jerusalem had an agenda.
We have an agenda.
But Jesus didn't have an agenda.
Jesus had a mission...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Evolutionary Christianity
An excellent article critiquing the future of modern evangelicalism as envisioned by one of its stars. What do you think?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Social Scientist Sees Bias Within - NY Times 2/08/11
This is a fascinating article, and rather unusual for the reliably liberal Times. Even if you think you have no interest in the social sciences, please read it and you will recognize that you either do, or should. From these hallowed halls of academia arise all sorts of research resulting in broad and often far-reaching sociological conclusions, edicts and 'new understandings' that can impact every facet of our lives, including education, health care and even what constitutes our societal norms. If the only people providing us with this information already have strong opinions based on personal ideology, then science is not only not being served, it is not being practiced in any objective sense of the word.
Can you imagine if nearly all of 100 scientists doing research on a particular project (let's say poverty in Appalachia) were found to be staunch conservatives, what affect that would have on how their research was received? Would skepticism regarding the results be expected? Should it be?
Can you imagine if nearly all of 100 scientists doing research on a particular project (let's say poverty in Appalachia) were found to be staunch conservatives, what affect that would have on how their research was received? Would skepticism regarding the results be expected? Should it be?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sen. Schumer on the Three Branches of Government
It's a good thing he's not on 'Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader'...
Friday, January 21, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Frederick Douglass’s America: Race, Justice, and the Promise of the Founding | The Heritage Foundation
It is always a worthwhile endeavor to reread history, lest someone else rewrites it for us...
Frederick Douglass’s America: Race, Justice, and the Promise of the Founding | The Heritage Foundation
Frederick Douglass’s America: Race, Justice, and the Promise of the Founding | The Heritage Foundation
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sowing & Reaping: The True Sickness of Society by Mario Rizzo
This writer deftly sifts through the rubble of the media machine to offer truly reasoned analysis on the bizarre response to the Tucson tragedy, and the greater issues we should be thinking about as a society.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Frozen in Disbelief
For most of us, thinking about the subject of abortion is uncomfortable, while the prospect of a discussion can raise our discomfort to unsustainable levels. For some, it is simply a subject not fit for discussion in polite company, like having polyps removed. It happens, but we don't need to talk about it. For others, discussion of the subject can hit too close to home, dredging up painful memories that we would prefer to remain buried, whether they are from our own past or perhaps someone close to us.
For many years I was proudly pro-choice, mostly because I never fully considered the reality or the impact of what is lost in that seemingly simple, clinically sterile procedure known as pregnancy termination. I had bought into all of the safety-minded and appropriately heartfelt jargon that softened my instinctual understanding that abortion was, at its core, the triumph of one life, one lifestyle, one carefully mapped-out future, at the expense of another.
It was during my own first pregnancy that I came to understand that what was growing inside of me was much more than a 'blob of tissue', or 'potential life'. At around the same time, science began to show us a more detailed view to the womb than had ever been seen before, and life inside that dark cavern was being explored in all its mysterious complexity.
Over time, I slowly came to understand that a fetus may be small, but it is a life: no less grand, and no less ignoble, than my very own. The tiny fetus that a woman in turmoil, or a man, or a family, contemplates the fate of on any given day in America, has its own unique destiny to fulfill on this planet, and we play god each time we impose our own will upon that destiny. Sadly, many have since learned that playing god comes at a cost, and there are now generations of the 'walking wounded' among us today: women, men, girls, mothers, fathers, lovers, brothers - each of whom have had a hand in the taking of one life so that another's may continue, in the mistaken view that life as they knew it could go on as before. The sad reality is that abortion never claims only one victim.
This woman's story, while disturbing, is essential to understanding the reality of abortion. If the director of a Planned Parenthood clinic could have her entire viewpoint changed by having to witness that reality firsthand, then I think it behooves us as members of the human family to read her story. It is compelling.
For many years I was proudly pro-choice, mostly because I never fully considered the reality or the impact of what is lost in that seemingly simple, clinically sterile procedure known as pregnancy termination. I had bought into all of the safety-minded and appropriately heartfelt jargon that softened my instinctual understanding that abortion was, at its core, the triumph of one life, one lifestyle, one carefully mapped-out future, at the expense of another.
It was during my own first pregnancy that I came to understand that what was growing inside of me was much more than a 'blob of tissue', or 'potential life'. At around the same time, science began to show us a more detailed view to the womb than had ever been seen before, and life inside that dark cavern was being explored in all its mysterious complexity.
Over time, I slowly came to understand that a fetus may be small, but it is a life: no less grand, and no less ignoble, than my very own. The tiny fetus that a woman in turmoil, or a man, or a family, contemplates the fate of on any given day in America, has its own unique destiny to fulfill on this planet, and we play god each time we impose our own will upon that destiny. Sadly, many have since learned that playing god comes at a cost, and there are now generations of the 'walking wounded' among us today: women, men, girls, mothers, fathers, lovers, brothers - each of whom have had a hand in the taking of one life so that another's may continue, in the mistaken view that life as they knew it could go on as before. The sad reality is that abortion never claims only one victim.
This woman's story, while disturbing, is essential to understanding the reality of abortion. If the director of a Planned Parenthood clinic could have her entire viewpoint changed by having to witness that reality firsthand, then I think it behooves us as members of the human family to read her story. It is compelling.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
"Dear God"...Letters from the Dog
These excerpts are from actual letters composed by dogs (or in some cases of the less educated breeds, as dictated to their owners):
Dear God: Is it on purpose our names are the same, only reversed?
Dear God: Why do humans smell the flowers, but seldom, if ever, smell one another?
Dear God: When we get to heaven, can we sit on your couch? Or is it still the same old story?
Dear God: Why are there cars named after the jaguar, the cougar, the mustang, the colt, the stingray, and the rabbit, but not ONE named for a Dog? How often do you see a cougar riding around? We do love a nice ride! Would it be so hard to rename the 'Chrysler Eagle' the 'Chrysler Beagle'?
Dear God: If a Dog barks his head off in the forest and no human hears him, is he still a bad Dog?
Dear God: We Dogs can understand human verbal instructions, hand signals, whistles, horns, clickers, beepers, scent ID's, electromagnetic energy fields, and Frisbee flight paths.
What do humans understand?
Dear God: More meatballs, less spaghetti, please.
Dear God: Are there mailmen in Heaven? If there are, will I have to apologize?
Dear God: Life is very hard for me.
Here is a list of just some of the things I must remember to be a good Dog.
1. I will not eat the cats' food before they eat it or
after they throw it up.
2. I will not roll on dead seagulls, fish, crabs, etc., just because
I like the way they smell.
3. The Litter Box is not a cookie jar.
4. The sofa is not a 'face towel'.
5. The garbage collector is not stealing our stuff.
6. I will not play tug-of-war with Dad's underwear when he's on the toilet.
7. Sticking my nose into someone's crotch is an unacceptable way
of saying 'hello'.
8. I don't need to suddenly stand straight up when I'm under the coffee table.
9. I must shake the rainwater out of my fur
before entering the house - not after.
10. I will not come in from outside and immediately drag my butt.
11. I will not sit in the middle of the living room and lick my crotch.
12. The cat is not a 'squeaky toy' so when I play with him and
he makes that noise, it's usually not a good thing.
P.S. Dear God: When I get to Heaven may I have my testicles back?
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