If you don't get anything else out of this . . .

My preacher has two sentences he often uses in sermons.

The first is, "Shake your head yes, no, or maybe, it'll go faster" after asking a question of the audience. 

The second is, "If you don't get anything else out of this sermon today, I want you to get this."

The first sentence usually gets a chuckle out of me. 

The second sentence, to me, is a signal to "listen up!" because I'm about to hear a main point.

Has this been any other year, last night we would have had our Christmas Eve service.  We would have sung along with our praise team, listened to our preacher's take on Christmas, and then ended with a rendition of "Silent Night" as each congregation member held a lit candle.  

2020 has not been any other year.

I had wondered if we would do an in-person Christmas Eve service this year, and a couple of weeks ago, I got my answer:  No. Instead, we would do a virtual service, as we did for so many months this year, from March until November (and as we still offer for those who don't feel comfortable or safe coming to an in-person service right now.)  

When the plans for the virtual service were announced, we were told, don't worry, we are still going to do our candles!  

So last night, Christmas Eve, at 5 p.m., with the rain falling outside mixed with either a bit of sleet or snow and the temperature hovering in the 30's, we pulled up our chairs to our dining room table, in front of my PC, and we watched as, thanks to the talents of our tech team and our praise team, and thanks to several families from our church, we listened as we celebrated Christmas in song and story.  

Members of our praise team, standing six feet apart, sang; members of our church (both kids and grownups) read portions of the Christmas story. 

And our preacher spoke. 

Since, for the past couple of years, Christmas has now become a debate about what Mary did or did not know, our preacher tackled the song "Mary, Did You Know?" and said that no, she didn't.  The angel Gabriel did tell her, "you will have a son and he will be the Messiah."  She knew that.  

She didn't know that she and her husband would have to flee for their lives, as refugees do today; that perhaps, when they returned to Nazareth, their family would probably be the subject of rumors and gossip ("Son of God? Really?"), and that she, herself, would wonder at least once if her eldest son was out of his mind.

She didn't know that a crowd that welcomed him with "Hosanna!" on Palm Sunday would scream "Crucify him!" mere days later. 

And she didn't know that death would not have the final word; that resurrection would.  

But, our preacher pointed out, Mary knew the faithfulness of God.  Mary was a Jewish girl who would have known of a prophesied Messiah.  She would have known the story of the Exodus, the story of Joshua, of David, of Solomon, of the exile to Babylon and the return home of the exiles.  

Over and over, she would have heard how God took care of his people. 

Mary may not have known the future, but she knew the past faithfulness of God . . . and although my preacher didn't say these words, I thought of the sentence, "If you don't get anything else out of this, get this."  

We have suffered through a long, difficult, weary year; a year of so much loss, so much suffering, so much anger, so much exhaustion, so much isolation. No one on earth has been unaffected. 

Personally, while I have lost no one to COVID, nor have I lost a job, I also have struggled this year with the effects of isolation, with the fallout of COVID and of the racial unrest in the US and the US presidential election and its aftermath.  I've adjusted to a spouse now working at home and dealt with a son doing digital learning through the computer.  I've asked questions about God, about faith, and I still have more questions than answers at times.

But I cannot get away from what Mary couldn't get away from, either:  That although neither of us know the future, we know the past faithfulness of God. 

God has not always done what I want Him to do when I want Him to do it. I don't understand why he does not directly intervene to stop COVID, stop the evil of racism, open the eyes of people so that they can see truth, make it obvious who can be trusted and who cannot be. 

But I still believe that God is faithful. I still believe that God cares, that He became human for a time to show us that yes, He does love us; yes, He was willing to become one of us to tell us, yes, I suffered when I was tempted so I can help those who are being tempted. He was willing to die for our sins because He wanted a relationship with us.  

Last night, at the end of our service, we were told to get our candles and light them, while a recording of our praise team singing "Silent Night" played over videos of candles.  

My family took three candles and lit them. And we watched the computer screen as we sang "Silent Night", a homage to a virgin mother and child, a story of shepherds quaking and glories streaming, and of a Son of God that is "love's pure light".  

If you don't get anything else out of this, get this;

Even through a computer screen, in this year of masks and social distancing, of Zoom, of an increasing "us vs. them mentality" . . . there is a God who is still faithful, a God who still cares about his people, a God who loves them.  

Just as a young girl named Mary did, I count on my past experiences with God's faithfulness to believe that He will see me through an uncertain future.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

That’s Doctor Biden --and Doctor Engineer -- to You, Sir!

In a conversation held probably in the late 1940’s or very early 1950’s, a teacher informed a mother that her youngest son “would never amount to anything.”

Today, that youngest son is the proud owner of a doctorate in engineering. 

He’s traveled all over the world, worked for the Honeywell Corporation, and taught at a large university. 

He is one of a handful of people in the country that knows what he knows.

He put in the hard work to earn the title “Doctor” of engineering.

But, according to the author of an recent op-ed piece in the Wall Street Journal, [note: you may need a subscription in order to read] he has no right to call himself “doctor”.

Why? 

Because he hasn’t delivered a baby.

That is the opinion of one Joseph Epstein, author and former lecturer at Northwestern University.  

The thrust of his opinion piece was to suggest, nay urge, soon-to-be First Lady Jill Biden to drop the “Dr.” from her name. 

Dr. Jill Biden holds an Ed.D.  She teaches at the community college level.  Her students refer to her as “Dr. B.” She plans to continue teaching once her husband takes office as President. 

For whatever reason, Epstein took it upon himself to tell her:  “Madame First Lady — Mrs. Biden — Jill — kiddo: a bit of advice on what may seem like a small but I think is not an unimportant matter.  Any chance you might drop the ‘Dr.’ before your name?”  

He goes on to say that “Dr.” “sounds and feels fraudulent” and also “a touch comic”. 

He disparages her dissertation title, “Student Retention at the Community College Level: Meeting Students’ Needs”.  Apparently, he’s not familiar with the usual titles of dissertations, which do not run along the lines of “Fifty Shades of Gray” or “Gone With the Wind” or “The Bluest Eye”. 

He states that he taught at Northwestern University for 30 years without a doctorate or advanced degree. 

Then, he goes on to lament about the “relaxation of standards in university education” and also about the decline in the “prestige of honorary doctorates”.  

He concludes by ordering Jill Biden to “please consider stowing [your title] at least in public, at least for now. Forget the small thrill of being Dr. Jill, and settle for the larger thrill of living for the next four years in the best public housing in the world as First Lady Jill Biden.”

So let’s see:  a man with only a B.A. who taught English at the university level for 30 years, who has not lectured at Northwestern since 2003, who does not even know Jill Biden, thinks he has the authority to tell her to drop a title from her name that she has honestly earned through hard work?  

I guess that means that since only those who have delivered children can call themselves “Dr.,” that means, first of all, that all teachers should forthwith refer to themselves as “Mr.” or “Ms.” or [first name]. 

Second of all, since not all doctors are OB/GYNs and therefore, not all doctors deliver babies, I guess psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists, and most surgeons should forthwith drop the “doctor” from their names as well.  

The blowback from this article has been swift and punitive. Northwestern immediately stated that they did not agree with Epstein's opinion, and Northwestern's English department has removed Epstein's profile from its website. And if you Google "Joseph Epstein op-ed", you'll find a smattering of articles from NPR, Psychology Today, Chicago Tribune, and others roundly condemning the piece as "misogynistic" and "out of touch".

Dr. Jill Biden became an Ed.D. after 15 years of hard work while raising a family and supporting a husband.  I've gone to school while being a wife and mother, and it is not easy.  (Unlike Dr. Biden, I did not finish.  I attempted court reporting school, and due to a number of factors, had to stop.) 

Part of the reason for the blowback has been the tone of the article. Epstein referred to Dr. Biden as "kiddo" and told her to "forget the small thrill of being Dr. Jill" (did he intend to be a poet with that phrase?) and enjoy the "larger thrill" of being First Lady. This from a man who has never held public office and definitely will never be a First Lady. 

I've also seen the question asked:  Would such an article have been written about a man? Let's think about it:  When a woman becomes President, if she's married to a man who holds a doctorate and who is not a medical doctor, would he be ordered to "forthwith drop the doc" and enjoy the next four years as First Husband, or First Man, or whatever he will be called?

Somehow, I doubt it. 

Dr. Jill Biden earned her degree through hard work, stress, and figurative -- if not literal -- blood, sweat, and tears. (While I doubt the blood part, the sweat and the tears are probably true.)  When one has earned a degree, one has earned the right to use the title conferred by that degree.  When you receive a diploma, part of the wording on that diploma includes "all the rights and privileges thereof", including the right to use the title conferred upon you.

Oh, the man I referred to at the beginning of this article?

The son whose mother was told he'd never amount to anything?

The one who holds a doctorate in engineering?

Who traveled all over the world and taught at a university and worked for Honeywell?

Know how I know about all that?

He's my uncle.

I will proudly introduce him as Doctor Jerry Sergent, Ph.D.

In other words, Mr. Epstein, that's Doctor engineer to you!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

A bleak, colorful winter

I've been reading headlines predicting a bleak winter.  This is mainly due to COVID spikes and flu season coming upon us and the possibility of a "twindemic" of COVID and flu. 

A contentious election that some still want to contest isn't helping.

And election season is still not over in my state of Georgia, where voting will soon start for two Senate seats. My son recently said that the campaign ads were like a war.  He's not wrong. 

No one's mental health is good right now. 

I've thought about this "bleak winter" and I've come up with one antidote.

Color.

So recently, I fired the first shot in my one-woman war against this bleak winter.

I went to Walmart on Black Friday and bought an ugly Christmas sweater.

It's colorful, decorated with Christmasy decorations, and has a bunch of bells on it that jingle when you move.

Obnoxiously perfect, right?

Well, I think I will need to cut the bells off, because I want to wear this to church and constantly having bells jingle whenever you move is a little bit too obnoxious. 

2020 has been a long year.  It's been a bleak year. And winter is coming (nod to Game of Thrones).

One person may not be able to do much. But if I can bring some color to this bleak winter, I think it's a start.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

One cheeseburger, please

All Bruce Boynton wanted was a cheeseburger.

When I want a cheeseburger, it's easy enough. I go to my local McDonald's, or Burger King, or Wendy's, step up to the counter, and say, "I'd like a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke."

If I want a fancier cheeseburger, I'll probably go to Applebee's or Chili's. 

If I want to put forth the effort, I'll make one at home.

But Bruce Boynton wanted a cheeseburger . . . in 1958 . . . in a bus station in Richmond, Virginia . . . and he was African-American. And although federal law banned segregation in interstate travel, the bus station was segregated by color. 

So when Bruce Boynton, hungry and weary from bus travel, got off the bus, all he wanted was something to eat.   

But when he went to the part of the restaurant that was meant for blacks, he saw an eating area that, in his words, was "very unsanitary".

So he walked over to the white section, which he described as "clinically clean", and told the waitress, "I'll have a cheeseburger and tea."

The waitress left and came back with the manager.

His order for this hungry man, who just wanted a cheeseburger?

"Move!" accompanied by a racial slur.

Bruce Boynton was hungry. He wanted a cheeseburger. He did not want to eat it in a dirty restaurant. 

So, following the example of Rosa Parks, he said, "No." He pointed out that he was an American citizen with federal rights and thus was entitled to his cheeseburger and tea. As a law student at Howard University, Boynton knew his rights and knew the law.

It didn't matter.  Boynton was arrested and convicted on a charge of trespassing.

He appealed his case all the way up to the Supreme Court, with future Supreme Court justice Thurgood Marshall as his counsel. In 1960, the SCOTUS, in Boynton v. Virginia, sided with Boynton, ruling that "when a bus carrier has volunteered to make terminal and restaurant facilities and services available to its interstate passengers as a regular part of their transportation, and the terminal and restaurant have
acquiesced and cooperated in this undertaking, the terminal and restaurant must perform these services without discriminations prohibited by the Act." 

Unfortunately, the Interstate Commerce Commission didn't enforce the SCOTUS ruling.  Jim Crow in the South continued.

So in 1961, groups of people climbed aboard interstate buses, the Greyhounds and the Trailways, and rode straight into the arms of white mobs waiting for them in places like Anniston, Alabama and  Birmingham, Alabama.

For exercising a right guaranteed to them by the Supreme Court of the United States, they were attacked and beaten severely. It took their blood on the floor -- the blood of John Lewis, C.T. Vivian, Stokely Carmichael (also known as Kwame Ture) and others -- on the floor of a bus station to finally get the right to ride a bus, a right that whites took for granted.

In 1961, the "whites only" and "coloreds only" signs came down in the waiting rooms of interstate bus lines.

Bruce Boynton died on Monday at the age of 83, in Selma, Alabama, his hometown. He put his legal education and experience to work as a civil rights attorney after initially being unable to get a law license in Alabama.

I only learned of Bruce Boynton, and his story, this morning, while scrolling through the pages of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the man who, just because he wanted a cheeseburger, ended up inspiring the movement that ended segregation in interstate travel and helped pave the way for the civil rights acts now enshrined in federal law.

As US District Judge Myron Thompson said in Boynton's obituary, "All he wanted was a cheeseburger, and he changed the course of history."

I will never look at cheeseburgers the same way again.

So, next time I go to a restaurant and say, "One cheeseburger, please," I hope to remember Bruce Boynton, a time when his order for a cheeseburger was met with "Move!", and toast his courage with a ground beef patty with cheese on top, tucked securely into a bun.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sending home china and "hand grenades"

For a young American serviceman, on his own for the first time in his life, and lonely for his family, china was affordable.

So was a cuckoo clock.

Such gifts were affordable for an American in 1950's Japan and Korea.  

So my dad took part of his paycheck from the United States Army and plunked it down for a set of china to send to his mother, my Granny Mary, in Harlan, Kentucky.  

At another time, he paid for a cuckoo clock and sent it home to his mother.

I don't know what her reaction was to receiving the china.  I suspect she may have been pleased and happy that her son remembered her and cared enough about her to send a gift home.

I do know, thanks to one of my cousins, what her reaction was to receiving the cuckoo clock.

When unpacking the box that the clock came in, the first thing she unwrapped were the weights that made the clock operate properly.  Not knowing what they were, she shrieked and threw them out the window, screaming, "Good Lord, he's sent home hand grenades!"

Thankfully, the weights were retrieved and the cuckoo clock assembled.

Granny Mary's daughter, my aunt, kept that cuckoo clock.  

My father kept the china.

The reason he kept the china was because, when he got married, Granny Mary gave it to him and my mother because they were setting up housekeeping and they needed the dishes.

I grew up with that china.  We used it for special dinners, and I remember using the smaller plates to eat off of at times.  

Today, that china sits on a shelf on my own china cabinet.  It is the china I use for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  

We will use that china this Thanksgiving.  My husband will cook either ham or turkey, depending on what we choose as our main dish, and we will use the large serving bowl to hold the ham or turkey while we carve and serve it. 

There will be three places at my table, because, in this season of COVID, it would not be wise to travel to family or for family to travel to us.  So it will be my husband, my son, and me at our table. 

Each place will have a china plate, decorated with painted violets, with our fancy silverware.

No, my father did not send home hand grenades to his mother.  But he did send home a treasure that his daughter still uses, a reminder of a time when he was alone and wanted a way to remind his family that he still remembered them.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Sick to my stomach!'

While writing for the Louisville Courier-Journal, the late columnist Joe Creason told an amusing story that speaks to where we are today as a country.

Two candidates running for office in Kentucky traveled up and down the states, ripping each other verbally to shreds as they did their campaigning.  One day, they were both campaigning at a rally in am in a Kentucky town.  

One of the candidates had a habit of taking a drink of bourbon before getting up and speaking.  The rally was outside, it was a hot day, and the candidate was not wearing a hat.  The heat made the bourbon inside him act up, and suddenly, the candidate became sick in front of the entire audience.  

When he recovered, he stepped up to the platform, held up both hands, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, this just proves what I have been saying all over Kentucky.  The man just plain makes me sick to my stomach!"

Yeah, that pretty much sums things up, doesn't it?  "The other guy just plain makes me sick to my stomach!"  

There is another part of this story that also speaks to where we are as a country, or rather, where we are not as a country.

Creason described the two men who traveled all over Kentucky verbally ripping each other to shreds on the campaign trail as "warm friends who often traveled to campaign sites in the same car." (I cannot remember if he was referring to an automobile or a railroad car.) 

Does anyone remember the days when Ronald Reagan and Tip O'Neill battled it out in the political arena; Ronald Reagan as President and Tip O'Neill as Speaker of the House?  Reagan and O'Neill stood firmly on opposite sides of the political spectrum . . . and at the end of the day, would sit down and have a beer together.

Contrast that with our current President and Speaker, who haven't spoken to each other in a year.  

Contrast that with the current division in our country, where the results of Election Day 2020 shows a country almost evenly split down the middle, with some friends and family barely speaking to each other, if at all; with people fearing that the wrong word could ignite an argument, or that posting the wrong thing on social media will get you canceled.  

Is this what we have come to?  

Where we are so entrenched in our beliefs and our opinions that we will not even entertain that the other side might just have a point?  

In this environment, two opponents for political office can't be warm friends who travel together to the same campaign venue.  They can only be two people who verbally rip each other to shreds, both on and off the campaign trail.

That should make anyone sick to their stomach.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Election 2020

It's nearly 7:30 a.m., November 3, 2020, as I write this.  

By now, the residents of the tiny towns Dixville Notch and Millsfield, New Hampshire have cast their ballots for president.  Traditionally, they meet just after midnight and vote.  A third town, Hart's Location, scrapped their plans for midnight voting due to the COVID pandemic.  Their 48 voters will participate during normal hours.

Polls in my state of Georgia opened at 7 a.m., as they do in many states in the Eastern time zone.  By 10 a.m., the polls will be open in all 48 states.  By noon, they will be open in all 50.  

I've heard all the superlatives:  the most important election of our lifetimes, the future of this country rides on this election, etc.  

Never is that more true than now. 

Today, we have a choice.  

I have cast my ballot in early voting, as over 100 million people already have.  CNN states that the pre-election day vote "surpasses two-thirds of all 2016 ballots cast".  

Pundits have complained for years about poor voter turnout.  Well, this year, they may be wrong.

I have my feelings and my opinions about this election.  I haven't posted all of them on my Facebook page although I have posted and vented about them in private and secret groups.  Frankly, I really don't know at this point whether I'm at peace with the outcome or if I'm resigned to the outcome.  

God knows what is going to happen.  Sometimes, I wish He'd tell me, but I also understand that He is God and I am not.  And I'm not sure if I could bear the foreknowledge of certain events.  (Imagine knowing the time and manner of your death.  Would you be able to deal with that?)

I believe this is the election of a lifetime.  It comes during a year of COVID, a year of racial strife, a year of fire and flood and hurricane, a year of sniping, a year of disunity.  

What can I say?  I'm not an "influencer".  I don't have a YouTube channel.  I'm not an influential writer like a James Patterson, or a Stephen King; not a columnist like a George Will, or Leonard Pitts, or Peggy Noonan.  I'm just a person with a blog that a handful of people read and a few people say they enjoy. 

I realize how little power I have over the events of today.  I have one vote, and I can encourage others to vote, but when it all comes down to it, there's very little I can do about what will happen.  This is not meant to be a whine about how powerless I am, but a realistic look about what I do and do not have control over.  

I have cast my vote.  I have prayed.  The rest of this is in God's hands. 

For the past few days, I've woken up with the song "Courageous" by Casting Crowns playing in my head.  I deliberately linked to the lyric video here because the words are powerful. 

Too many American Christians, including myself, have put their hope in politics and getting the exact right President, Congress, governors, etc. in office. 

What has it gotten us?

A divided nation, and people who are more interested in earthly political power than they are in worshiping and serving the God they claim to follow.  I think many so-called Christian leaders have sold their soul for political power and influence.  When you do that, Mephistopheles WILL eventually come to collect the payment due.  

I'm not an influencer, but I will use whatever platform I have to (I pray) the honor and glory of God.  

I'll end by quoting from the song Courageous:

"The only way we'll ever stand
Is on our knees with lifted hands
Make us courageous
Lord make us courageous!"

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

239 Days

239 days.

34 weeks.

5,736 hours.

344,160 minutes.

20,649,600 seconds.

65.30% of 2020.

That is the amount of time between March 8, 2020, the last time I attended a Sunday worship service inside my building, and November 1, 2020, the next time I attended a Sunday worship service inside my building.

(I did the calculations on timeanddate.com.  So the hours, minutes, and seconds are give and take a few.)

We knew, on March 8th, that the pandemic was already here.  We just didn't know how bad it was going to get.  

We elected not to meet as a congregation out of a desire to stay healthy and protect others.  

We had tried to come back together in August, but our leaders canceled plans because of a spike in the COVID numbers. 

In the absence of being together, our tech team pulled together a virtual lobby, where we could "meet" without meeting.  

Our worship team filmed videos of their singing so we could sing with them.  

Our preacher, and others, filmed videos of their sermons.  

My ladies' Bible study communicated with each other via text message.

My small group held their meetings through Zoom.  

And thanks to Zoom, I got (and still get) to participate in my best friend's ladies Bible class in another state. 

But it was not the same.

Yesterday, I realized it was just not the same.

Yesterday, it was still "not the same".  We needed to register before we came to church (I'm guessing to manage the number of people in the building).  We needed to wear masks.  Inside, we picked up a portable communion set (a cellophane-wrapped wafer and vial of juice; and I am sorry, but that wafer tastes like foam!) and then went into an auditorium where every other row had a sign saying, "Don't sit here."  

We were reminded to "stay six feet apart" from people you didn't come to church with.  

And at the end, we were dismissed section by section and encouraged to "go fellowship in the parking lot".  (I felt like I was back in second grade and being dismissed by a teacher after lunch. :-) ) 

No, that was not the same.

But some things were still the same.

In spite of COVID, we came together, in a building, on Sunday.

We elbow-bumped, fist-bumped, air-hugged, jazz handed, and said how glad we were to be back.  

We sang, we raised hands, we praised God.

And we listened to our preacher remind us, before this election, to treat others as we would want to be treated.  We were reminded to "accept one another as God has accepted you".  

My son "made his rounds", as he does on Sundays.  We give him a dollar every week to put in the offering plate, and since we have not be able to attend, he's had no place to put his money.  Yesterday, he took all 34 dollars he'd saved since we had to stop meeting and contributed them.  

Maybe this is just for a little while.  Maybe we will have to stop meeting again in the building if the COVID numbers spike.  

I hope not and pray not.  

Because 239 days, 34 weeks, 5,736 hours, 344,160 minutes, 20,649,600 seconds, and 65.30% of 2020 is just too long to be apart.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Hurt"

It is a powerful, terrifying, heartbreaking song, and right now I am afraid to listen to it again.

It is Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt", written by Trent Reznor and originally recorded by Nine Inch Nails.

I've heard about the song, I've heard about its acclaim, its reception, but I never heard the song until today. 

It came up in one of my Spotify playlists, one of those Spotify makes for you based on stuff you've played in the past.  Probably, "Hurt" came up because I've played a couple of country/pop songs on Spotify before.  I saw on the playlist and thought about playing it, but decided not to.  

But after playing a few songs while doing some prep work for a proofing job, "Hurt" came on as the next song in the queue.  

And I froze.  

I think it may have been the first line:  "I hurt myself today to see if I still hurt" that got me.  

And during the chorus, when Cash laments about what he'd become and how everyone he knew went away in the end . . . and the guitar chords in the background of the chorus crescendo slowly, louder, louder, more emphatic.  

The song has ended, and I cannot bring myself to put on another one.  I thought about putting on another happy song, something to get this one out of my head . . . and how can I?  Because doing it, looking for something light, peppy, happy . . . it seems somehow disrespectful to the pain and the anguish of both Johnny Cash and Trent Reznor.  Putting on a happy tune says, "Go away, go away, I don't want to feel you right now; I don't want to face the sadness, the uncomfortableness; I don't want to face the fact that heartbreak and fear and sadness and depression exist."  

Pushing the feelings away, masking them with something upbeat and happy, it somehow seems wrong, disrespectful, almost sacreligious, as if I am blaspheming something sacred.  

The music has ended and right now I cannot put on music.  

Because all I can hear is Johnny Cash, in his gravelly voice.  

"I hurt myself today to see if I still hurt."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Start panicking!"

 At 10 a.m. on Monday, October 5, 2020, Chief Justice John Roberts will mount the bench of the Supreme Court of the United States.  

Dressed in a black robe, followed by seven others dressed in black robes, he will bang his gavel, call the court to order, and issue the following proclamations:

• Abortion is now illegal.
• Roe v. Wade has been overturned.
• Gays can no longer marry.
• Transgenders no longer have job protection.
• Blacks can no longer vote.
• The South can revert back to Jim Crow.

From the way people are reacting to the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, that is exactly what it going to happen.

Monday, October 5, 2020, 10 a.m. is when the new session of the Supreme Court will convene.  It will do so without Ginsburg, who died on Friday after a battle with pancreatic cancer.  Pancreatic cancer is an awful disease, and I am glad she is no longer suffering with it.  

Her death has sparked discussions about her legacy (there was a time in this country where a married woman couldn't open a bank account without her husband co-signing, for example.)  

Her death has also sparked near-panic among many in social media.

Because now, there is a new spot on the SCOTUS, and there's a rush to fill it with a conservative justice before the November elections.  

Never mind that the party rushing to fill the vacancy is the same party that insisted that a SCOTUS vacancy under Obama shouldn't be filled until after that particular upcoming election.  

The last I checked, the SCOTUS does not have the power to unilaterally grant or take away the rights that I just listed above.  Chief Justice Roberts does not have the power to bang a gavel and say that gays can't marry, for example.  

What the SCOTUS does have the power to do is to listen to a case and decide what the law is.  Granted, the SCOTUS has made some dreadful decisions in the past.  No pun intended, but the Dred Scott decision comes to mind; also, Plessy v. Ferguson.  

The SCOTUS has also responded to changing times and bad decisions with decisions that reversed previous rulings; probably Brown v. Board of Education is the most famous.  

But Brown, and Roe, and others had to follow a long process to get to the SCOTUS.

This isn't the time to panic.  If you are genuinely worried about the direction the country is going in, educate yourself, make plans to vote in November, follow the docket of the SCOTUS, and write your representatives. And if you're genuinely afraid of the direction the country is heading -- and a majority of people are afraid -- then start looking for another country to call your own.  Maybe that is the best case for some who are able to do it. 

Panic feeds on panic, and it's panic that leads to bad decisions and ultimately to mob rule.  I don't want to live under mob rule, but I fear that in these days of social media cancel culture and fake news, it may happen.

Then it may be time to start panicking.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 1-3, Quarantine Edition

I haven’t done a TEOTWAWKI journal lately.

I mean, what is there to say? 

We’re in the midst of a pandemic, the response to the pandemic in the USA has been and is being mismanaged by both incompetent leadership and selfish people who refuse to wear masks and take appropriate precautions, all in the name of “my freedom” and “I refuse to live in fear”. 

Race relations in this country have sunk to a terrible low. 

And don’t get me started on the coming election.

Like probably all of us, I feel weary and burdened.  I struggle with feelings of depression, of being buried under the weight of everything going on in the world, and also being buried under the weight of dealing with everyday life.  I am grateful for the work I have and for the money I can earn.  But sometimes, carrying everything is exhausting. 

Monday, the five letters, two numbers, and hyphen that have come to define our lives hit home. 

My husband called me and said that he’d been exposed to someone at work who’d tested positive for COVID.  He was sent home immediately.  At the moment, he is quarantined in our home office.  This is Wednesday, his third day of quarantine; which is why this is Quarantine Edition, Day 1-3. 

He is showing no symptoms.  Neither am I and neither is our son.  At the time of exposure, he was wearing a mask, as was the other person, and they were both practicing social distancing.  

The odds of any of us getting sick are low.  But he is going to have to be tested in a few days.  

Since the rise of COVID numbers in my state, I’ve made sure to wear a mask when I go out and have my family wear them also.  I wash my hands.  This past Saturday, my son and I went to a gathering at our church.  It was outside, we all wore masks, and when we sat down, the chairs were six feet apart.  

Today, I had an appointment with my ear, nose, throat doctor to make sure that I was doing OK with my CPAP.  I called the office yesterday to tell them that my husband had been exposed, and when I said that my husband was quarantined in the office, that he’d worn a mask when he was at work, and had practiced social distancing, the office person said that I was at very low risk.  

When I went there today, they asked me if I wanted a COVID test, and since I was there, I decided to do it.  

They use a swab and insert it into your nose.  

A long swab. 

Inserted WAY up your nose. 

I said after it was over that that test seriously cleared out your sinuses! 

I will know the results by Friday. 

(As far as the CPAP is concerned, I’m doing okay.  I use it every time I go to bed.).

So, life in my house consists of going to necessary places and coming immediately home, wearing masks, working from home (my husband was cleared for working from home even before he was exposed; he was at the office due to problems with our WiFi.).

And I need to get my son ready to start back to his program.  And figure out what to do when his program ends in February.  (We are in the system with Vocational Rehabilitation, and there are other options available.).

This will not be an encouraging entry.  Outside events and internal issues have drained me.  Just like the vast majority of us on this earth. 

Instead of being snarky, today’s theme song reads:

It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it . . . 

And I don’t feel fine. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Letter to the editor, but not mine . . .

On June 4, 1980, in response to the Florida Legislature's raising the legal drinking age from 18 to 19, the St. Petersburg Times published the following letter to the editor:

Tina Sergent was my name before I got married.

I did not write this letter.

In fact, the very first thing I ever heard about this letter was when a classmate of mine walked into first period and said, "I didn't know you were 18."

I wasn't.  In fact, I was 16 in June of 1980.

I don't know of anyone else named Tina Sergent who lived in St. Petersburg, Florida and who was 18 years old in 1980.  So, unless there was another Tina Sergent who wrote that letter to the editor and had it published, the only other possibility I can think of is that someone wrote that letter and signed my name to it.

My piano teacher even asked me about it, and my father's response was that probably one of my "friends" wrote it. 

Here's my question:

Why?

I may not be able to find out, after 40 years, who wrote this letter and why, but I'd like to know why.

Was this a calculated attempt to embarrass and humiliate me? 

To be honest, I would not be surprised.  I went through public school and didn't have a year where there wasn't a bully.  

This week, I proofread a harassment case.  The lawyer doing the deposition commented that there wasn't any touching involved. 


That comment reminded me of what abusers sometimes say:  "I never laid a hand on them."  "I never hit them."  "I never touched you." 


I never got in a knock-down, drag-out fight during my years in school.  I did get punched in the back one time on the bus, and I hit back twice. 


But I:  was blocked on a sidewalk and in the hallways, had my books stolen, had stuff played "keep-away" with, had my shoes thrown in the trash, was gossiped about (even was falsely accused of shooting crumbs at lunch one time), and for me, the crowning insult:  the embarrassing question.  I was shown a picture of a naked person and then asked later, did you see such and such?  I wore and Adidas shirt to school and was later asked if I went to the Adidas concert.  I had my attempts to play volleyball mocked.  I was asked, will you do my homework for me?  I was asked, can I borrow your textbook? from a person I didn't trust.  I had a boy attempt to shove a ring onto my finger.  That same person also asked me if my little sister drank milk from my breasts.  I had a group of people yell at me that the bus was coming, and when I ran, they laughed at me because the bus wasn't coming.  When they repeated that trick and I didn't fall for it, someone said, "You'd walk if the bus came, wouldn't you?" and then threw a piece of paper in my face. 

And this is not the end of it. 

So I think I can be forgiven for suspecting that that letter to the editor signed with my name was a calculated attempt to embarrass me. 

Here's what I would like to know, and may not get an answer to:

What in God's name did I ever do to you that you treated me like this? 
What did I do to you that was so horrible?
Why did you do this to me?
Why did you target me?
And why was the system around me structured so that I feared that if I fought back, I would be the person punished and the bullies would not be?



This week has not been a good week.  Like everyone in the US, I am tired of living under the chronic stress of COVID.  I am disheartened by the racial animus in this country.  (I am not referring to peaceful protests, nor am I referring to African-Americans' insistence on "we need to expose history, all of it, and we need to be heard."  One can be passionate and insistent without being hateful.)  I dislike the animus between the parties as the election draws closer.  In fact, I hold out very little hope of this country ever getting better. 

I put in a lot of energy this week into work and drained myself of so much physical energy that I took a day off on Friday because I was just sapped.  When I don't feel well physically, my mind turns absolutely black, and sadly, remembering the bullying is one place where it goes . . . and this is one question it asks. 

Why?


Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Will you still hashtag tomorrow?

"Will you still love me tomorrow?"

The Shirelles asked this question in their 1960 hit of the same name.  While they were asking about a romantic relationship, I think the question, or a variant on it, is a good one to ask.

Recently, social media celebrated "Blackout Tuesday".  People put up black squares as their avatar, passed around the hashtag #blackouttuesday, #blacklivesmatter, and other similar slogans.  (A backlash attempt, "whiteness Wednesday", backfired when K-Pop fans stormed Twitter and posted K-Pop videos with that hashtag.) 

I looked at the hashtags, and the posts, and thought, this is a good gesture, but what about tomorrow?

To call these last few weeks "convulsive" is a bit of an understatement.  We're dealing with coronavirus, a very contentious election, and now, more violence of whites against blacks, and specifically, white police officers against black suspects. 

I've heard of and seen wave after wave of protests across the country.  I know people who have participated in peaceful protests.  I have heard people say "we are sorry", "we repent," and I have heard African-Americans say, "I'm exhausted," "I'm beyond exhausted."  In our virtual lobby last Sunday, an African-American woman spoke of her feelings about recent events, and you could hear the exhaustion in her voice and see it in her demeanor. 

But people cannot march in protest forever.  No one can keep up the level of intensity that's permeated this country for the last several weeks.  Eventually, the public protests will die down and hashtags will not be trending quite as much.

What then?

What are you planning to do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, to fight racism and other sins in our country? 

Today, the hashtag is on your Facebook and Twitter posts. 

But will you still hashtag tomorrow?

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Spiritual Echolocation

“Joy still comes in the morning.”

I heard this line in a song on my car radio this morning, while taking my husband to work.  Yes, my husband has gone back to work for the first time since March!

On the way back, I asked myself, “Joy still comes in the morning, but what do you do when the night seems so long?  When there’s no light except for the occasional teasing of the sun, like the perpetual twilight people in Alaska live in for so many months out of the year?”

These last few weeks have been some of the most convulsive our country has ever seen.  I know there have been worse times in our country’s history (Civil War comes to mind).  But these last few weeks and months?  The isolation of coronavirus turned our world upside down and inside out, and then the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd — and now, the shooting of Rayshard Brooks by an Atlanta police officer — has burst open the abscess of racism in this country. It is not a clean surgery, either.

What do you do when there is no light at the end of the tunnel, not even the headlight of an oncoming train?

Whenever you take a tour of a cave, inevitably, there is the moment when the tour guide turns off the lights so that you can “see” what it is really like underground.  If you want the definition of “ink-like blackness”, that is it.  You can see nothing but black.  There’s no light for your eye to catch or to focus on.  It is truly terrifying.  You don’t dare move, you don’t dare take one step because you have no way of knowing if you will put your feet on solid ground or go hurtling down into an abyss.

What do you do?

Bats and other creatures who live in caves, who live in that sort of darkness, use what is called echolocation.  Since they can’t see, they use sound to navigate their way in the darkness.  The sounds they make bounce off of walls and help them find their way.  Dolphins and whales also use echolocation to navigate in the ocean.   Sonar uses the same principles.

I wonder if there’s such a thing as spiritual echolocation that helps us find our way in the dark, when we can’t see the joy that will come in the morning.

When the coronavirus really started to hit, it was March, right before the beginning of spring.  I kept saying to myself, spring will come, spring always comes.  Even in the middle of coronavirus, spring will come.

Well, spring came; and now it’s only four days until the beginning of summer.  And we are still dealing with the effects of coronavirus and now we are dealing with the open abscess of racism.

But spring comes, summer comes; summer will turn into fall and fall into winter.  God promised, after Noah left the ark, that summer and winter would not cease as long as the earth endured.

Right now is a time of darkness for so many of us.  The night is long and we don’t think morning will come.  Maybe you’re there right now.  I’ve been there and probably will be there again.

Maybe now, if we can’t see, maybe now is the time to use some spiritual echolocation.  Make some noise.  Pray.  Scream if you have to.  Then wait for the sound to bounce back.  Listen.  Listen for what God might be telling you.  Maybe it’s nothing more than, I’ve got this; or, remember what I have done for you before.

Spring does come, even in the middle of a pandemic.  So does summer.  So will fall, so will winter.  Sunrise does follow sunset. Even in areas of Alaska, where there is perpetual twilight during so many months of the year, the morning does come.

Joy does come in the morning.  But while we’re waiting for morning, let’s practice some spiritual echolocation.  Because God is there for the sound waves to bounce off of.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Oh, hell no."

"Oh, hell no."

That was the response that one woman put on another woman's Facebook post.

C. is a Christian woman.  She's African-American, a single parent to a wonderful teenage boy.  I know them both.  

Yesterday, she wrote that someone she knew posted the following on Facebook.

"All of this could have been prevented if:

1. George Floyd would have used an actual $20 bill and not to try to pass off a counterfeit bill.

2. Gave the cigarettes back to the store when they asked for it.

I don't agree how the officers handle [sic] the situation.  I believe all of them should and have been held responsible for there [sic] actions.  They all have been arrested and charged.  There has been a lot of lives and business lost over something that could have been prevented."

C. went on to write, "I really wonder if people understand how much this hurts."  Then added:  "I am tired of the justifications ... if if if . . . He was murdered on camera over eight minutes."

J., another woman, who's white, and whom C. and I also know, wrote the following in reply:

"Oh hell no.  Y'all.  It's time to take back the church from this kind of co-opted, tone deaf, insulated Americanism.  No. No more."

Some of you that read that sentence are going to be offended at her use of the term, "Hell no."  After all, she's a follower of Jesus and she shouldn't swear, right?

I'm reminded of a quote attributed to preacher Tony Campolo: 

 "I have three things I'd like to say today. First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a $%*&. What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said $%^& than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night."

We Christians, especially us white, American Christians, are very touchy when it comes to certain subjects.  We're especially touchy when it comes to sex and swearing.  We don't want to talk about sex because it might encourage kids to do it.  And we especially don't want people to swear around us because it offends us.  Not because it's offensive, but because it offends us.  There's a difference.

I am sick and tired of our white-bread, sugar-coated Christianity that emphasizes a shallow theology composed of "accept Jesus into your heart, and here's five ways to be a better Christian (man, woman, wife, husband fill-in-the-blank)."  Like the audiences Tony Campolo spoke to, we are more offended by swearing, sex, and the lack of prayer in schools than we are about poverty, racism, domestic violence, and the general poor treatment of people of people in our society.  We'd rather have our greed and our appetites filled than have any sort of care and compassion about those whose bank accounts and stomachs are empty. 

We women, especially, are encouraged to buy our pink, lace-covered Bibles with soft, breathy sayings from the current celebrity de jour of Christianity.  We're encouraged to keep a clean house and homeschool our many children and are shamed when we can't/don't.  

I don't plan to make a habit of swearing.  It is offensive and indulging in a steady diet of cuss words is a bit like eating junk food for every meal.  Lay's and Fritos taste good, but after a while, they make your body sick.  We Christians should be better than this. 

But isn't it time to lay aside our sugar coating, our white bread, our lacy pink Bibles, and confront our sin and engage in some serious repentance, on our knees and maybe on our faces?  

I don't know if George Floyd knew that the $20 bill he handed to a cashier was counterfeit or not.  (I probably would not know the difference between a real and counterfeit $20 bill.)  I've heard reports that "he was a criminal who was turning his life around".  I've also read where he had fentanyl in his system at the time of death.  I've read that he was positive for COVID-19.

Even if he had a criminal past, even if he had committed a crime, even if he was resisting arrest, does that give anyone the justification to put their knee on another person's neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds while that person is saying "I can't breathe"?

Isn't it time for us to think about how that is just one more piece of evidence that the life of a black man is not worth as much as the life of a white man?

Isn't it time for us to listen to our friends of color who are afraid to go jogging, afraid to wear a mask to the store, afraid that their teenage sons might be stopped by the police on suspicion of fill-in-the-blank and possibly shot even though they obeyed orders? (See Philandro Castile.)

Isn't it time to think about how what we post on social media will affect our Christian brothers and sisters of color?

Isn't it time to stand up and say, "Oh, hell no!"

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Breaking the Third Commandment

Last night the President of the United States broke the Third Commandment.

He walked over to a church, after protesters in front of it had been tear-gassed, held up a Bible, and had his picture taken, after threatening to send out “thousands and thousands of troops” to stop the violence currently taking over America if the governors did not do it themselves.

If you look up a list of the Ten Commandments in the book of Exodus in the Old Testament, the Third Commandment reads, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.” (King James Version).  The New International Version reads, “You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name.”

Last night, in using the Bible and a church for a photo op, the President of the United States took two symbols of Christian America and misused them for his own purposes.  

There are people who have called him “brave” and said “well done”.  

No.  This is not well done.  

Trump used St. John’s Episcopal Church as a backdrop for his photo op.  The Right Reve. Mariann Buddy, who is the bishop of Washington, D.C.’s Episcopal Diocese, said she was “not given even a courtesy call that they would be clearing with tear gas so they could use one of our churches as a prop, holding a Bible, one that declares that God is love and when everything he has said and done is to enslave violence.”

Earlier, Trump told governors on a conference call that they had to “dominate”, and take back the streets, and called them “weak”.

We have a man who died at the hands of police a week ago.  We have another man who died at the hands of two white men three months ago, and it took two months for video of that murder to emerge.    We have a woman who died at the hands of police who “went to the wrong house.” (Oops.). In case you have forgotten, their names are George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor.  

I know of two African-Americans — people I am personally acquainted with — who are afraid to go jogging in their neighborhoods, who are afraid to wear masks when they go out.  Another African-American whom I know personally has said, I don’t want to die.  I just want to go home to my wife.

And our President has the chutzpah to go to a church and hold up a Bible, after demanding that governors “take back the streets” and threatening to send out “thousands and thousands of troops”.  

President Trump, do you want a second Civil War?

Do you?

We Christians get very touchy at the use of certain language.  We should.  I find certain words offensive and I don’t like my ears and my brain being assaulted with them.  

But something is terribly wrong when Christians are quick to scream about a particular word which takes the name of the Lord in vain, quick to demand prayer back in schools and the Ten Commandments posted on the walls, quick to demand that abortion be outlawed . . . and yet see nothing wrong when a President of the United States misuses the name of the Lord by using a church and a Bible to make himself look strong, tough, and Presidential.

We, indeed, have lost our compass.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Go home!"

"Go home!"

That was the order Atlanta mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms gave to hundreds of rioters in downtown Atlanta last night, who took advantage of a peaceful protest and turned the place into a war zone. 

They eventually did go home, but not before vandalizing the CNN Center, breaking out the windows at McCormick and Schmick's, a downtown restaurant; torching several police cars, and streaming up into Buckhead, where they looted businesses around Lenox Mall and Phipps Plaza.

At the moment, it's quiet downtown, but who knows what tonight will bring?

Governor Brian Kemp has authorized 1500 National Guard troops to hopefully quell any more violence. 

As I write this, there is a peaceful protest going on outside of the Governor's Mansion in Atlanta.

71 arrests were made and 20 police cars were burned last night. 

What started it?

It began with a knee to the neck of George Floyd, in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  Floyd had been arrested on suspicion of passing a $20 bill.  He'd been handcuffed, questioned, and then, when the cops started to take him to the car, he resisted. 

I don't know how he ended up on the ground with officer Derek Chauvin's knee on his neck, but Floyd pleaded, "I can't breathe . . . I can't breathe."  If this story sounds familiar, those were also the last words of Eric Garner, who was placed in a chokehold by an NYPD officer, and who died as a result. 

Eight minutes later, Floyd had suffocated. 

Floyd was African-American.  Chauvin was white. 

Coming on the heels of the murder of Ahmaud Arbery and the shooting of Louisville, Kentucky resident Breonna Taylor -- shot by police who forced their way into what they later said was the wrong house -- both victims being African-American, the shooters being white -- Floyd's death was the last straw.

I have seen an outpouring of anger, rage, sorrow, and other emotions from whites and people of color this week on social media.  I have seen people of color, some of whom I know in real life, who say that they do not feel safe.  One young man doesn't feel safe jogging in his neighborhood anymore since the murder of Ahmaud Arbery.  A mother does not feel safe wearing a mask out in public because the perception of an African-American in a mask spells "they are up to no good". 

Last night, Atlanta blew up. 

Atlanta was not the only city that blew up.  Minneapolis blew up, the second or third night in a row it has done so.  Houston blew up.  Los Angeles blew up. 

I am a white woman.  I have a limited voice.  While I have African-American friends, I can not even begin to say, yes, I know how you feel, I understand.  No, I don't understand!  I don't understand how people can hate people based on the color of their skin.  I don't understand the roots of systemic racism and systemic discrimination. 

And I am not a leader, so I don't know how to make it better. 

Right now, I am listening to two women, Keshia Lance-Bottoms and Erika Shields (police chief of Atlanta, Georgia) saying in no uncertain terms that what happened last night in Atlanta will not be tolerated again.  I pray that any protests stay peaceful. 

I will raise my voice and add mine to Mayor Bottoms:

"If you care about this city, GO HOME!"

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina’s TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 62-63

I called my BFF to vent this morning.

I feel tense and jumpy, waiting to be interrupted all.the.time.

If I wake up before my husband, I run the risk of waking HIM up.  Our dressers are on the same side of the room, his side (they also serve as a divider between the bedroom area and the “office” area which I am now using.)

I KNOW the Christian homemaking books say that the wife is supposed to get up first, have her “quiet time” or “devotional time” and then fix breakfast for everyone, but both Frank and Matthew get up anywhere between 4 and 4:30.  I absolutely cannot get up that early.  (And a decent “quiet time” has been beyond my ken for years.  I listen to an audio Bible app.  I stopped trying to keep up with a Beth Moore and a Priscilla Shirer study that my Sunday school class and my ladies’ Bible study was doing because it got to be too much.).

I started back working this week (yay!) but I’ve been putting in about seven hours’ worth of work daily since I’ve been working.  Yesterday I wanted to go walking with Frank and Matthew.  I finally told them to go on alone.  The major problem I was having was the spinning blue circle of death that was happening nearly every single time I tried to move the cursor!  The circle can spin from ten seconds up to over a full minute.  AND, all of the depositions I am listening to are done by videoconference.  For obvious reasons.  Which can affect the sound quality.

Our preacher has been talking a lot about current events lately, particularly Ahmaud Arbery’s shooting (and now, the horrific shooting of Breonna Taylor in Louisville, Kentucky) because we have people of color in our congregation that have been deeply affected.  And as much as I want to support people, I have a limited amount of time and energy, physically and emotionally.  But, if I don’t put forth the energy to listen to people’s concerns and get educated on those concerns, I fear being told that “you don’t care about your brothers and sisters in Christ.”

And *both* of my knees hurt.  I may have to head back to the orthopedic doc.  They hurt in the same way that my knee hurt about a year and a half or so ago when I ended up having a torn meniscus and needed knee surgery.  One of my docs wants me to walk.  How am I supposed to walk when my knees hurt?

I have pages to proof that are due by Monday.

Today I am scheduled for an eye exam, which I was scheduled for last month and I forgot the appointment.

Next week Matthew has an appointment and one or both of us will have to take him (and it’s 45 minutes one way.)

Frank STILL has not heard when he’s going back to work.  He is getting paid, and I’m thankful for that.  But he’d rather be working and I don’t blame him for that.

Next week Matthew’s school ends for the semester.  We have gotten his paperwork sent in for vocational rehab.  I have a copy of The Loving Push by Temple Grandin, and every time I pick it up and see what she has to say about electronics addiction, and how staying in a room is not acceptable, I want to scream, “But that is ALL of what Matthew wants to do!  Stay in his room and play with the electronics!  That is IT, and it will be a full-time job just to get him out of there!  I don’t have the energy, especially the emotional energy, to do it, especially when most of the job is going to fall on ME!”

My BFF told me, ‘you be you’, but sometimes I just think that ‘me’ is not acceptable.  I don’t know if I could consider myself “shy” anymore, but shyness is NOT acceptable in our culture.  In American Christian culture, a working mother is just barely acceptable.  An intellectual woman is an anomaly.  And being fat and not that attractive is not acceptable.  I’m way overweight, have tried Weight Watchers, have tried at least one other program, and I just cannot stick with it.  It’s too overwhelming to think about food, and exercise, and everything else.

Such is life on Day 63 of quarantine!

It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina’s TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 59-61

On Monday, for the first time in 49 days, I was able to post the following status:

“Time to make the donuts!”

The people I proof for are slowly picking up work again and as a result, I am starting to get work again as well.

Yesterday I proofed 150 pages, and when I listened to the recording, I felt everyone’s pain.

For right now, lawyers, deponents, and court reporters are having to do their jobs via Zoom, or Google Meet, or whatever videoconference platform they are using.  They’re doing their jobs the same way millions of people around the world are:  in living rooms, bedrooms, dining rooms, home offices; using Internet, using desktops, laptops, iPads, and phones.

They’re working the same way that I am attending church and that my son is attending school.  Only in the 21st century would this be possible!

The one disadvantage to my particular job, however, is called sound quality.  I listen to recordings as part of my job, and unfortunately, meeting via videoconference is not always conducive to audible legibility.

So it means often playing a portion of a recording over and over, trying to figure out if the person really is saying what the transcript has recorded them saying.  And it means sometimes straining your ears and turning up the volume.

I’m not always crazy about working, and sometimes the tedium of the job can get to me.

But I appreciate the fact that I am working.  There are people that can’t say that right now.

So it’s nice to be able to say it again:

“Time to make the donuts!”

And, also time to sing our theme song:

It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 58

She was ten years old when she went to bed, 80 years ago, and when she woke up the next time, the world as she knew it had ended.

Did the bombs wake her up in the middle of the night?

Did her parents' exclamations wake her up?

Did she hear them turning the radio dial, get up, and wonder what happened?

Did her 14-year-old sister wake her up?

Or did she just wake up the next morning to learn that her country had been invaded?

She and her sister probably didn't go to school that day, although her father did go to work.

Her mother probably told her and her sister to "stay in the house, it's not safe to go out," and I'm guessing she was only too glad to comply.

For the next five days, she lived her life in uncertainty, not knowing what was happening or why, just knowing that her adopted homeland was under attack.

Five days later, the army surrendered.

Five years later, Anne Frank would be dead.

I've been listening to a day-by-day accounting of the World War II years on YouTube.  The owner of the channel is a little bit behind due to unavoidable circumstances. :-) The person on the channel reads the day's headlines from the Chicago Tribune 80 years ago (he is a Chicago native) and then will play what would have been broadcast on the radio that day.  He's played episodes of Fibber McGee and Molly, The Lone Ranger, and similar shows; he's also broadcast Presidential speeches and breaking news shows.

He's running a little bit behind due to unavoidable circumstances, but in a couple of weeks, he's going to be talking about 80 years ago today, May 10, 1940, which was the day Germany invaded the Low Countries, including the Netherlands, where Anne Frank and her family were living. 

His day-by-day approach to recounting history makes me think of the day-by-day lives of people like Anne Frank and her family.  We have the advantage of history and are able to see the entire story arc of her life and how it fits into history.  She didn't have that advantage.  All Anne knew was that one evening, she went to bed, and the next time she got up, the world as she knew it was over.

She didn't know that she'd be dead in five years, that she'd never get to grow up, marry, have children.

Anne could very well join in in singing our theme song:

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 56-57

It has been a hard week in this country.

And I am tired.

All week I have been seeing posts about a movie, "Plandemic" which claimed -- among other things -- that the COVID-19 virus was allegedly, according to CBS News, engineered to increase vaccination rates, and that wearing face masks is harmful. 

I don't have the mental energy to go chasing rabbits down that particular rabbit hole.  What has truly annoyed me is the screams of "Censorship!" because both Facebook and YouTube have removed the video (multiple times, in the case of Facebook) from their platforms.  I think the video is currently available on Vimeo.  I am not going to go looking for it, nor am I going to provide a link to it.  I don't do conspiracy theories.  (Oswald acted alone.  Deal with it.) 

And, this week, another video surfaced, that of the shooting of an unarmed black man, Ahmaud Arbery, who was followed and shot by two white men who claimed that he had burglarized houses in the area.  (Georgia does have a citizen's arrest law, saying that a private citizen can lawfully detain someone who has committed a crime in the presence of another person, or the person must have "immediate knowledge" of a crime committed by the perpetrator. 

As I understand it, these men thought Arbery had committed a crime, and they allegedly went after him to detain him until the police arrived, according to a statement by George Barnhill, the Ware County, GA District Attorney.

The rest of the story is told in the 36-second video:  Arbery being blocked by the truck, trying to go around it, then grappling with Travis McMichael's shotgun; three shotgun blasts, then Arbery dead in the street.

One of the questions I was asking myself yesterday was, why did Arbery go for the gun?  Didn't he realize that that was probably going to get him shot? 

It finally occurred to this very foolish white woman that my question begs the question:  Why in the world was Travis McMichael even pointing a shotgun at Ahmaud Arbery to begin with?  If he hadn't been confronted with a shotgun in the first place, there would have been no reason for him to grapple with Travis McMichael! 

This week also, screenshots of a Facebook group, "Justice for Gregory and Travis McMichael" came up in my FB feed.  The description of the group reads as follows:  "These two God-fearing men were only trying to protect their neighborhood.  This area has had a string of break-ins and this man fit the description and did not comply with simple commands."

If I were jogging, and two men pulled up to block me and demanded that I stop, that they "just wanted to talk with me", and I saw that they were armed, I would probably do one of two things:  stop with my hands up, or run as fast as I could in the opposite direction while screaming.  I would not feel the obligation to "comply with simple commands".  Rather, I would probably think, "Men.  Guns.  Threat," and respond accordingly.  Had it been a police officer who demanded that I stop, I would stop, raise my hands, and show that I wasn't armed.

"Justice for Gregory and Travis McMichael" currently has 100.4K members.  To be fair, this group was renamed from a previous group, Christians Against Google, and it may already have had a fair number of people in it rather than it being a group started from scratch.  But I suspect that many more joined after the name change. 

I am hearing all of this on top of handling a son who is going to school online, and also while gathering up the paperwork I need to apply for more services for him.  And I have my day-to-day life I am trying to lead in this midst of this pandemic.  This week, I saw in our church's email that our campus was closed "until further notice".  I find that phrase very depressing to read, although I understand why it's necessary.

And I also hear the screams about "government overreach" when people are asked to wear masks when they go outside.  I hear the screams about "open the economy or more people will die!"  I've heard the word "doomed" applied to our country, and I want to say sarcastically in response, "We're doomed.  Doomed, I tell you!"   

I am going to use a bad word here.  I am fed up, mentally fatigued and angry, and it seems the only word appropriate at the moment. 

What in the hell is wrong with our country???

Snark is definitely appropriate today:

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Day 54-55

Ahmaud Arbery, 25, left for a jog on February 23, 2020, and never came home.

He died of a shotgun blast on a Brunswick, Georgia street. 

As I understand the story, two men saw him running, thought that he was responsible for a series of break-ins in the neighborhood, pursued him, and shot him when he wouldn't stop.

Arbery is black.  The alleged shooters are white.

As of the time I'm writing this, May 7, 2020, 2:37 p.m., no charges have been filed.

And the only reason I know about this case is because of media coverage of a video that was just released a few days ago. 

I have not watched the video.  I cannot bring myself to do so.  But this CNN article gives the details.  The video clip is 36 seconds long, and I don't know who made the video. 

According to CNN, the video shows Arbery jogging down the middle of the street and veering around a truck blocking his path.  He then tussles with 34-year-old Travis McMichael over a shotgun McMichael was holding.  A shot goes off.  64-year-old Greg McMichael, Travis' father, pulls out a handgun but doesn't shoot. 

Arbery and Travis McMichael disappear briefly off screen, then come back into view.  Both are clutching the shotgun when a third shot goes off.  Arbery drops to the street.  Travis McMichael walks away, holding the shotgun. 

The McMichaels claim self-defense.  A prosecutor who's since stepped down said that the McMichaels "engaged in hot pursuit and had solid first-hand probable cause as civilians to detain Arbery."  He stated, "It appears their intent was to stop and hold this criminal suspect until law enforcement arrived.  Under Georgia law, this is perfectly legal."  Georgia does allow for a citizen's arrest if they "have immediate knowledge of an offense or if a perpetrator is trying to flee after committing a felony."

My first reaction, after hearing of this shooting, was, "This is Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman all over again.  Black man shot by white man because white man thought black man was a criminal."

My second reaction was, "If these two people thought he'd broken into a house someplace, why in the world did they not let the police handle it?"  (Someone did make a 911 call; CNN did not release the caller's identity.) 

My third reaction is heartsickness, again, for my African-American brothers and sisters who, again, have to deal with a white-on-black shooting.  One of my Facebook friends, who is African-American and who attends my church, said today that he jogs, and now he's afraid to because someone might decide to shoot him simply because of the color of his skin. 

Others of my African-American friends say that they have had to have "the talk" with their sons.  It is "the talk" about how the police may treat you if you are black, about how you have to be careful, about how you have to behave . . . it is a talk I will never have to have with my son, solely because I am white and he is white. 

Today, Ahmaud Arbery's picture has shown up on Facebook multiple times, including in my son's Facebook feed.  Today, I had to explain to him that two men shot another man because they thought he'd been a burglar when he wasn't.  My son has autism.  I kept race out of it because I know of no way to explain to him that yes, there are white people out there who hate people who are not white.  They hate people like the man who leads our college ministry.  Like a favorite usher of my son's.  Like a former minister at my church who now preaches in Tennessee.  Like a young lady who is also part of our college/young adult ministry.  Like three elders at my church and their wives and their children. 

Yesterday, finally, a district attorney has decided to take the case to a grand jury. 

I pray that justice will be done and that truth prevails.

How much longer must we see crimes, shootings, anger, prejudice, bigotry? 

How long, O Lord?

I definitely feel like being snarky on this particular entry:

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, day 53

It's rare that a TV show makes me want to ugly cry, but there are two of them that push me to the brink.

One is This Is Us.  The other is Call the Midwife from the BBC.

I cry because both shows bring life and death, tragedy and humor all together at once.

For those unfamiliar with the show, Call the Midwife is the story of a group of British midwives based in a Catholic convent in London.  It is based on the memoirs of Jennifer Worth, who served as a midwife there in the 1950's.  The show has aired since 2012.  I don't get to see it until it comes to PBS, many weeks after it finishes airing in the UK.

The midwives and the nuns of Nonnatus House, where the women serve, handle a number of issues; most dealing with pregnancy and childbirth, some dealing with the culture and history of the time.  They have dealt with the effects of thalidomide (a drug that caused major birth defects in the 1960's), the subject of abortion, the rape of a nun, the introduction of the National Health Service, the care of a mentally handicapped young man, adoption, and many other topics.

I just finished watching the latest episode. 

One of the storylines featured a mother who wanted desperately for her child to be born on her father's birthday.  Her father had died many years earlier and thus had not been able to get to know his grandchildren.  So, she took castor oil in order to induce labor.  It worked, and right before midnight on her father's birthday, she gave birth to a baby boy. 

Two days later, the boy was taken to the hospital and diagnosed with multiple birth defects.  It turned out that she had been exposed to German measles early in her pregnancy.  The baby would die within weeks. 

So the family decided to bring him home and enjoy the time they would have with him. 

Which they did. 

This storyline was intertwined with the efforts of the members of the Poplar community, where Nonnatus House is located, to put on a flower show.  The elderly Sister Monica Joan insisted on doing an exhibition from Nonnatus House, and she insisted on doing it alone. 

At the end, all you see at Sister Monica Joan's spot is the small statue of St. Nonnatus (the patron saint of childbirth and midwives) . . . until a group of women come bringing their babies to lay at the base of St. Nonnatus's statue.  These were the "flowers" of Sister Monica Joan's exhibit.

One of the midwives had been closely involved in helping the family of the infant who died.  At the end of the episode, the father gave her a picture of the baby, and she attached it to a potted plant and laid it with the rest of the babies. 

I have never lost a child to death, nor have I had a miscarriage, but I know many who have.  The day I'm writing this, May 4th, is the anniversary of the birth and death of a little girl named Hope, the first child of a couple I met at my church.  I know of other women who have lost children to stillbirth and to SIDS.  My own grandmother lost a little girl to illness at three months.

Call the Midwife begins and ends with a voiceover monologue from the elderly Jenny (voiced by Vanessa Redgrave).  The ending monologue moved me close to ugly crying.

"Some seeds are more predictable than others.  We plant them and they send up shoots.  We water them and then we watch them grow.  They reward us with abundance, with joy, with pleasure, in the rhythms of life itself.  Water them and they will flourish.  Nurture them and they will thrive.  Love and light and rain and air are all they need.  Flowers take many forms.  Each one has its story and its roots.  Each one unfurls from its bulb or its kernel, revealing itself and all its promise as it will.  Each is entirely precious and unique.  Each is the best and the only.  Each will linger in the mind.  Each will teach us what it is to love.  To be torn, to nurture, and let go.  Not every garden blooms as we expected.  Despite our care, not every child can thrive.  Tears take the place of rain and the sunshine fails us.  But the buds, however delicate, were prefect.  They were real, and their fleeting scent will live forever on the air."

Today is not the day to end with a snarky rendition of "It's The End Of The World As We Know It", because this is not a subject for snark.  It is a time to reflect on the delicate buds that, although they did not thrive, were real, and to detect their scent that still lives on the air.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Days 49-52

In 1987, during the heat of a Presidential campaign, then-candidate Gary Hart threw down the gauntlet in response to rumors of his womanizing.  He challenged the press to follow him, saying "they'll be very bored."

The Miami Herald called his bluff, picked up the gauntlet, and discovered that he was carrying on a relationship with a young woman, Donna Rice (now Donna Rice Hughes). 

As a result, Gary Hart dropped out of the race for president . . . until December, 1987, when he announced, "Let the people decide, I'm back in the race!" 

His second attempt was as unsuccessful as the first.  Michael Dukakis was the eventual Democratic nominee in 1988, and he lost to George H.W. Bush.

During this period, I remember hearing talk about, "does character count?"  I thought, "Why are we even having this conversation?  Of course, character counts!" 

Apparently, the majority of the American people did not agree with me, because in 1992, Bill Clinton, himself the subject of allegations and suspicions of womanizing, was elected president, not once, but twice.  We know the rest of the story, involving a young woman named Monica Lewinsky, a deposition where a sitting president committed perjury, and a press conference where Bill Clinton looked the public dead in the eye and lied.  (Yes, Clinton should have been impeached because he was a sitting president who committed perjury.  He lied under oath.) 

And again, the question came up:  Does character matter?

And again, the answer:  Apparently not, because in 2016, the American people elected a man who's been openly unfaithful to two wives, bragged about how if you're famous, women will let you grab them by a particular area of the anatomy, been accused of sexual assault by a number of women, and, since his election, has used Twitter as a place to blast people he doesn't like or agree with.

Now, in 2020, our choices for United States President have come down to two men, both accused of sexual assault.  In the past weeks, a former staff assistant for Joe Biden, Tara Reade, has come forward accusing Biden of sexual assault back in 1993.  According to what I have heard, her story has evolved from "uncomfortable touching" to outright assault, and people who have commented on her allegations have said things from "she never described the assault to me" to "oh, yes, she told me exactly what happened." 

Last week, my son showed me a news clip and said, "It's about Joe Biden".  When the clip was finished, I asked him if he understood what they were talking about.  When he said no, I said that Biden was being accused of treating a woman in a way she shouldn't be treated.  I then said -- and yes, I used the exact word -- that I didn't know if he had raped her or kissed her when she didn't want to be kissed, but if he was guilty of any of that, I wouldn't feel comfortable voting for him for president.

The minute the words left my mouth, I realized the position I had just put myself in.  You see, I've seriously thought of voting for Biden just to get Trump out of office.  (Yes, I believe Trump is that bad.  I think he's incompetent as a leader and he has done little, if anything, to discourage people from stirring up xenophobia and from leading armed protests about "stay-at-home" orders in certain states.  Last week, after reading a headline, "Will a new great depression dictate Trump's fate?"  my frustrated response was, "I hope it does!"  When a friend asked me if I hoped for things to get worse, I said, no, I didn't; I just wanted him out of office.) 

But, if I wouldn't feel comfortable having Biden in the White House, and I won't vote for Trump, what do I do?

As Jimmy Stewart said in It's A Wonderful Life when he discovered that Donna Reed was hiding naked in the hydrangea bushes, "This is a very interesting situation!"

Libertarian Justin Amash entered the presidential race last week.  He could, if he knows how to work his campaign right, draw away enough votes from one candidate to get the other elected; or possibly split the vote enough to throw the election into the House of Representatives. 

No, I am not looking for a perfect presidential candidate.  No, we are not electing a pastor.  Yes, other presidents -- see JFK and FDR -- have also been guilty of adultery while providing leadership to our country. 

But is it too much to ask for a leader who has character and morality and self-control?

Is it too much to ask for a candidate that has character?

While we're pondering that question, let's sing our theme song:

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

Tina's TEOTWAWKI Journal, Days 45-48

The inability of families to gather together and grieve just hit home with us this morning.

My husband's brother died this morning of throat cancer, and we can't go and be with the family.

I don't know what sort of memorial they may be planning, whether they'll have a very small funeral and a larger memorial service later, or if they have other plans.

This particular brother-in-law leaves behind a wife, and also two kids that are either in their late teens or early 20's.  I am not certain of their actual ages, but my son is 21 and they are both a little younger than he is.  When I told my husband that that wasn't a good time to lose a dad, he pointed out to me that no time is a good time to lose a dad.

It stinks not to be able to be with family during a difficult time.


A friend of mine just had a granddaughter and wasn't able to go to the hospital to be with her daughter.  She has finally gotten to see the baby.  (I am of the opinion that all babies are cute and all brides are beautiful.) 

This is yet another reason this virus totally stinks.

In other news, technology worked against us on Sunday; we had a problem where some people could get onto the platform we use for online church and some couldn't.  Matthew could.  Frank and I couldn't.  The problem was eventually fixed (thank you, tech team!) . . . just in time for our power to go out at the end of service!

Neither situation was our fault.  The first was a technical problem that the experts had to solve.  The second was the result of a power transformer that blew up.  We got power back within less than a half hour.  Other people in my neighborhood were not so lucky.  They had to wait longer.  While I dislike inconveniences, I hope I realize that much of what I am dealing with right now is inconvenience, and we'll get through it.

But losing a family member and not being able to be with them?  That's not an inconvenience.  That is a situation that just plain stinks.  And too many people are in that situation.  Some of those deaths are from COVID and the family can't be with them due to the nature of the illness.  Some of those deaths are from family members in another city or state where you can't travel to be with them. 

In this case, snark may or may not help:

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine!  Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.