Ten years later

Most of them would be in high school.

They should have had their first dates, first crushes, first loves.

Some of them should still be in the classroom doing the profession they loved. 

And at least one should still simply be a mother. 

But because of the actions of a deeply disturbed young man, 26 people died ten years ago today at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. 

Six were adults who worked at the schools:  the principal, teachers, and teacher assistants.  A seventh adult, the mother of the shooter (I will not name the shooter; he killed himself at the school), died at home, the first victim of the massacre.  

The other twenty were first-graders.

Let that sink in.

First-graders, with single digits showing their ages. 

What can I say that hasn't already been said about Sandy Hook? 

It remains the deadliest mass shooting at an elementary school. 

When you say "Sandy Hook" and "Columbine", people know immediately what you are talking about, and it is not simply a place name. They are names with horrible connotations of blood, of murder, of screaming parents and other adults, of first responders who probably still suffer from nightmares and other symptoms of PTSD.  

And as if the Sandy Hook parents weren't suffering enough, they had to endure the outrageous claims that "Sandy Hook was a hoax." When I was on the hunt for a conservative alternative to Facebook, I was part of such a group and when I mentioned Sandy Hook, the person said, "No one died at Sandy Hook. Show me proof that people died at Sandy Hook." 

I will not name the person that spent the most time tormenting the Sandy Hook families, except to say that every cent this person has should be divided among the families that lost loved ones. 

Seven adults and twenty children died a decade ago. 

Ten years later, nothing has changed.

Instead, we are society that has grown numb to mass shootings. Our ice thaws a bit when we hear about a school shooting. We scream our outrage, we offer our thoughts and prayers, we demand changes to gun laws . . . and then all the feelings die down until the next mass shooting. Lather, rinse, repeat.

What can I say that hasn't been said? Rachel still weeps for her children and cannot be comforted (see Jeremiah 31:15). 

What solutions can I offer that have not been offered?

Like a friend of mine said after yet another mass shooting, "I'm out of ideas." 

The only thing I know to do is remember the victims:  

Nancy Lanza

Rachel D'Avino

Dawn Hochsprung

Anne Marie Murphy

Lauren Rousseau

Mary Sherlach

Victoria Leigh Soto

Charlotte Bacon

Daniel Barden

Olivia Engle

Josephine Gay

Dylan Hockley

Madeleine Hsu

Catherine Hubbard

Chase Kowalsky

Jesse Lewis

Ana Marquez-Greene

James Mattioli

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker 

Jack Pinto

Noah Pozner

Caroline Previdi

Jessica Rekos

Avielle Richman

Benjamin Wheeler

Allison Wyatt

In memoriam, December 14, 2012.

May their memory be a blessing.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Rodent's Revenge?

Back when Windows 3.1 was a thing, it included a game called Rodent's Revenge. The player played the role of a mouse who went after cats. When it trapped the cat, the cat would turn into a piece of cheese, then slowly disintegrate.

While my family and I have not yet disintegrated into cheese, I think we may be players in a game of Rodent's Revenge.

A week ago Thursday, the exterminators came out and set traps and sealed up every place they could think of where rats were coming into the house.  We thought that would solve the problem.

Ha!

Recently, Matthew said he'd seen a rat in the kitchen, dashing across the floor and heading for the corner where the garbage was. I think I know where the rat may have gone. (No, Jimmy Cagney didn't give it to him through the door.)

I've also seen what I think is fresh rat poop in the house. So I'm keeping an eye out for where the poop is. The exterminators will be coming back next week and I can tell them where I think the rats are coming/going.

But I'm convinced that the rodents are getting their revenge in other ways.

On Sunday, I noticed that the house was unusually cold. It was either that day or the next that Matthew wanted to know if we had "an air conditioner for the heater" (meaning the thermostat setting.) I tried to get the thermostat to work and could not.

We called the pros, who came out and discovered that the heat and power upstairs had been turned off.  I think the power had been turned off to the central heat/air, and it wouldn't surprise me if the exterminators had turned it off for safety reasons while they were working in the attic.

The pros turned the head/power back on, and voila, we had heat again, for the price of $95.  (I'm reminded of the story attributed to Henry Ford who, when he had a problem with his plant, called a friend of his, who immediately fixed the problem and sent him a bill for about $1,000. When Ford demanded to know, why are you charging me so much? the friend itemized the bill:  "For tinkering: $10. For knowing where to tinker: $990.")

Okay, problem solved.

Until yesterday.

I went to physical therapy at 8 a.m., and planned to go to Starbucks afterwards so that I could finish a job due at noon. But when I came out from PT, I discovered a flat tire.  So I contacted AAA through the app, and got the message that AAA's ETA was 12:47 p.m. It was approximately 9:45 a.m.

I emailed the people I proof for and said, my assignment will be late. They said, this is a assignment that has to be turned in today, we can extend it a few hours but no more. (Which I understand. The legal profession works under tight deadlines.)

So, I decided to pull out my trusty computer and work while I was waiting. Here I am, sitting with the driver's seat pushed back as far as it will go, listening to a recording and checking the transcript as I'm going along.

Around 11:30, I got a text saying, your dispatcher is on the way; and then I got a phone call a few minutes later from the AAA worker saying he'd be there in about 25 minutes.

He arrived, changed my tire, and chatted with me very nicely while he was working. When the tire came off, I immediately saw the problem. I'd run over a screw. (Yes, my tire was officially screwed. As I write this, my husband and I are at Pep Boys getting it fixed.)

He finished about 12:15, and I immediately got into the car after being told that "you can't drive over 50 miles an hour on that spare". All the way home, I kept thinking about the Sammy Hagar song, "I Can't Drive 55."

I got home at 12:45 p.m. and told my husband what had happened, and said, leave me alone for the next 40 minutes while I finish. He made lunch for me while I was finishing the job.

Job was finished at about 1:40 p.m. When I turned it in, I immediately got a "thank you" from the people I proof for. (I'd also got a "thank you" email from them when I said, I have my computer with me so I can work while I wait.)

So, that problem was solved . . . but as the old Ronco commercials said, "But wait! There's more!"

I had been wearing a long sleeved blue shirt and during PT, I noticed a hole in one of the sleeves. So I thought, "Oh, it's a small hole and I know how to darn holes. I'll get some embroidery thread the same color and fix it."

Last night, when I took off that blue shirt, I discovered more holes.

In BOTH sleeves.

They resemble the holes that are in a pair of my jeans.

I think the rat(s) decided they wanted a midnight snack. It's interesting that they enjoy the color blue.

And, to top it off, there is a small spot on a Rubbermaid container where we're currently keeping the potatoes where it looks like something has gnawed on it. (Yes, I know we are supposed to keep potatoes in ventilated storage. At the moment, we do not HAVE ventilated storage for our potatoes that will protect said potatoes from the rats.)

Is it any wonder that I think the rodents are having their revenge?

If you hear of some slowly disintegrating pieces of cheese in the metro Atlanta area, take off your hats, hum "Taps" and make sure someone gives us all a heartfelt eulogy.

Then go on a war against any rat you find.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Oh, rats!

 The title of this piece has nothing to do with a common expression of frustration from Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang.

Rather, it has to do with literal mice.

It all started when Matthew came running to me one morning, saying, “I saw a rat in the kitchen!” 

I followed him, asked him where he’d seen it, and he pointed towards a corner of the kitchen.  I looked there, couldn’t see it, but I was sure he’d seen something.

Next, I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas we kept out on the counter. 

Finally, while sitting in the living room one evening, I saw a nose, whiskers, eyes and ears poke themselves out from behind our small couch. I said, “Oh, hello. Glad to meet you.” He turned around and ran back behind the couch. 

I nicknamed the creature Jimmy Cagney, as in, “You dirty rat!” (This is probably a good place to mention that Cagney the actor never said, “You dirty rat!” in any of his movies. The closest he came was in the 1932 movie “Taxi!”, where he yelled to his brother’s killer through a locked closet: “Come out and take it, you dirty yellow-bellied rat, or I’ll give it to you through the door!”)

We set out some mousetraps, and one of them caught Jimmy Cagney. 

End of problem, right?

Uh . . .wrong.

I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas a few days later. I begged my husband, can we PLEASE call an exterminator? 

At the same time, we both started seeing rats skittering across the floor. Yes, that was “rats” in plural.

The exterminator came out, explored the house, and informed us that we had rats because he could tell by their droppings. Among other things, he told us that our crawlspace was full of rat droppings. 

Gee, thanks.

He scheduled a date for the team to come out, gave me the cost, which promptly went on the credit card. Sorry, Dave Ramsey, but this was a case where we NEEDED the credit card.

In the next few days and weeks, I saw two rats race around the house, mostly in the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Before I realized there had been rats in the house, I’d found two neatly arranged piles of dryer lint, one in the downstairs bathroom, the other in a corner of the kitchen. (Hey, even rats want comfortable places to sleep.)  I also saw one mouse scurry up the stairs. I don’t know where he/she/it ended up.

When I discovered holes eaten in a pair of my jeans that I’d left in a laundry basket downstairs, I declared war.

I would have been willing to accept unconditional surrender and a humane execution at this point, allowing said rats blindfolds and final cigarettes and maybe a final kiss from a loved one. 

But the final straw came when one rat skittered from behind the small living room couch into a corner of the dining room, skittered back into the living room and under the small couch . . . and then skittered out from under the small couch, towards the big couch — where I was sitting — and headed STRAIGHT FOR MY FEET.

I jumped up, grabbed my iPad, which I was using to chat with my BFF, and ran upstairs. 

That was the moment where I decided I would accept nothing but complete and total annihilation and obliteration.

I named the rats Ben and Willard, after two horror movies from the 1970’s featuring killer rats. I have no idea if they’re both male, both female, or one of each, and I refuse to get close enough to find out. 

They have put teeth marks in my bananas, they have taken a nice big bite out of an apple, and a nice big bite out of a potato. Putting out mousetraps for them did not work. These rats are too smart for that. In fact, they are so smart that they managed to knock down a box of crackers from the top of my pantry! 

They’ve skittered across the kitchen floor under the stove. 

And, on Halloween day, while I was in the bathroom, one of them slithered under the crack in the bathroom door! I gasped and it turned around and went out. (It would have been appropriate if I had squeaked.) 

Well, today, the cavalry has arrived. 

As I write this, the extermination company we hired is going around the house, sealing the entry points and setting traps. They will come back on the 22nd to see how well the traps have worked. 

This time, the rats will be the ones getting it through the door!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

"Now I have hate!"

 I don't know why, but lately I have been thinking of Natalie Wood's final scene in the 1961 version of West Side Story. 

Tony, her lover, has just died in Maria's arms.  She stands up, Chino -- the man who's just killed Tony -- hands her the gun. She wants to know, "How do you fire this gun. By pulling this little trigger?" Then, she points the gun towards the group of Jets, then the Sharks, and shouts (paraphrased), "You killed him. All of you. And my brother. And Riff. Not with guns and bullets. But with hate. Well, I can kill too. Because now I have hate!" 

Maria began West Side Story as an innocent young girl, experiencing her "love at first sight", planning to run away with him because he's in danger from killing Maria's brother and he knows the gang will be out for revenge. Somehow, she retains her innocence . . . until that final scene. 

You see the hardness fall on her face first, then hear it in her voice when she wants to know how do you fire this gun? Then you see her grief when she throws herself over Tony's body, screaming, "Don't you touch him!" 

She knows she has to let him go. So she whispers, "Te adoro, Anton."  Then remains kneeling on the concrete while the Jets and the Sharks -- now working together for the first time in their lives, probably -- pick up Tony's body and carry it away. 

A gang member then covers Maria's head with a shawl, a sign of mourning for a woman who has lost a husband.  In Maria's case, she has lost a lover. Then she, in her red dress, with her shawl-covered head, stands up stoically and follows the Jets and the Sharks offstage.

Maria did not, at that moment, give into her hate by firing the gun.

But I wonder how she handled her hate later.

Her line, "I can kill now, because I have hate!" has run through my mind for some reason. 

Don't the majority of murders happen because of hate? 

Doesn't it start with hate?

Hate of a particular person for an actual or perceived wrong?

Hate of a particular group because of a past history of wrongs done to them?  Or hate of a particular group because you feel threatened by them? 

And what other crimes start with hate? 

Come to think of it, what else starts with hate? Or cultivates hate? Believing, "I'm right, you're wrong, and if we don't agree, we can't be friends? And not only can we not be friends, we can't even talk to each other anymore?"

Do I, Tina, have hate? 

I would love to stand up and say, "No, I am not a hater. I don't hate people. I don't allow myself to be consumed with hate."

That wouldn't be true. 

I've hated people, hated groups of people, let hate eat me up and eat me alive. 

Sometimes hate can be good. Hating prejudice and bigotry, didn't that lead to the Civil Rights Movement? Didn't the hate of being mistreated lead to others having compassion because they didn't want to treat others the way they were treated? 

But too often, hate leads to a Tony, dead on a basketball court, and a Maria, first cold and angry, then grief-stricken. 

Did she carry her hate with her? Did she use her hate to promote non-violence? Did she use herself as an example of what gang violence can do to a person? 

Or did she let her hate eat her alive?

That's a good question for me.

Have I, am I, letting my own hate for whatever eat me alive? 

I don't like how we are being eaten alive by hate in this country these days. I don't like how political candidates attack one another so viciously. I don't like how other candidates take advantage of hatred of a particular group and stir it up just so they can gain votes. 

My question is, how do I not allow hate to eat me alive? 

Our pastor has been doing a series about the fruit of the Spirit. He's from a construction background, and not only does he use the term "fruit" to describe love, joy, peace, etc., he also uses the word "tools" to describe using "love, joy, peace," etc. 

I wonder if these "tools" are the way to not allow hate eat me alive. And these tools and fruit are "of the Spirit". I cannot fight hate by simply writing down a "to-do" list of "how not to hate", forcing myself to be nice to someone while gritting my teeth. 

No, I can only fight hate through reaching out for the power of the Spirit. And he is more than willing to give it. 

I do not want to be Maria, saying, "I can kill, too, because now I have hate!"

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Why I remember

 “No one ever remembers.” 

Those four words, posted on my wall on a now defunct social media site, broke my heart. 

The woman who posted them was replying to my acknowledgement of the anniversary of the stillbirth of one of her children. He was a twin; the other twin was miscarried earlier in the pregnancy. 

Today, October 15, is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. The entire month of October is dedicated to remembering these babies; these babies lost through miscarriage, lost through stillbirth, or lost through early death. 

I have never lost a baby. I don’t know that heartbreak. I know the heartbreak of trying to conceive and failing, of many doctor’s visits, and of finally conceiving and having a son. But not everyone has that happy ending. 

I do, however, know many who know the heartbreak of miscarriage, the heartbreak of stillbirth, the heartbreak of losing an infant to death. A friend just lost a longed-for child through miscarriage and had to have a D&E in order to remove the fetus. 

Two other friends lost their babies to cord accidents, where the umbilical cord strangled the baby in the womb.

Other friends have lost children to stillbirths or early death.  

By coincidence, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day falls on the the day before my birthday. I was not meant to be born in October. Instead, I came early. Perhaps I could have been one of those statistics, a lost baby that my mother remembered. I was lucky. Not everyone is. 

My grandmother lost an infant daughter, Bobbie Lee, when the baby was three months old. She was “Bobbie Lee” because she was named after my grandmother’s father, Robert Lee Thompson. I have a copy of her death certificate, which lists her birthday as August 1st, 1935; and her death date as November 13, 1935.  Her cause of death was “gastroenteritis”. My grandparents lived in Harlan, Kentucky, a small, coal-mining town, and it was 1935. Had she been born today, I think the odds of her survival would have been much better. 

She never talked about Bobbie Lee much, except for at least one conversation with me and perhaps with a few others. In 1935 especially, I think the death of an infant was met with, “At least you have other children,” or, “You can have another one,” (as if one child could replace another.) And then you didn’t talk about it. 

There is a saying, “There is no footprint too small to leave an imprint on this world.” 

Today, so many remember those little footprints; those ones that were never born, those born sleeping, those who lived only a little while. 

I have a list of babies I remember this time of year. 

So:

For Ana C.

For Anna V.

For Bobbie Lee C.

For Caley A.

For Desmond M-S.

For Hope C.

For Hope K.

For Ian A.

For Sarah Grace W.

For William W. 

And for the many others I’m sure I’ve forgotten and the many others I do not know.

You lived in someone’s womb and you lived in many hearts.

And your little footprints left a mark on this world. 

“No one ever remembers.”

Someone should.

This is why I remember.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

One unsung hero

Fourteen thousand people faced their ultimate test on September 11, 1993.

That number, according to Google, is approximately how many air traffic controllers are employed in the United States. 

One of them -- a high school ex-boyfriend -- worked in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  He may or may not have been on duty that morning; If he wasn't, he was probably called in.

September 11, 1993, was the day the skies were cleared of all air traffic except for Air Force One and any military aircraft. 

History.com wrote about the air traffic controllers on 9/11.  The article focuses mostly on the activities of the controllers in the Northeast and the Washington, D.C.; the area where four planes crashed. 

At 8:46 a.m., the first plane, American Airlines 11, hit Tower 1 of the World Trade Center.  Like most people, the controllers thought it was a small plane, like a Cessna. 

But already, they'd heard Mohammed Atta's accidental broadcast:  "We have some planes. Just stay quiet and we'll be OK. We are returning to the airport. Don't try to make any stupid moves."

They knew there was trouble but hadn't yet connected Mohammed Atta's order with the crash of the plane into Tower 1. 

By 9:03, when United Flight 175 hit Tower 2 of the World Trade Center -- in front of millions of viewers who had on Good Morning America, or the Today Show, or CNN, or CBS's Morning Show, or Fox News -- they knew all of this was no accident. Both planes had been hijacked, and there might be more. 

What to do? How many hijackers were there? Would there be more planes crashing? 

Down in Herndon, Virginia, at the Federal Aviation Administration, Ben Sliney realized that his first day on the job would be a baptism by fire. 

One minute after United 175 hit Tower 2, Sliney ordered a "ground stop".  "Ground stop" meant, no plane in the United States of America could take off. 

It was 9:04 Eastern Time; 7:04 Albuquerque time (Mountain time). If my ex-boyfriend wasn't already on his shift, I'm sure his phone rang telling him, "Get in here, now." 

At 9:05, the order "ATC Zero" came over the airwaves. "ATC Zero" translated into the complete shutdown of the airspace around New York City. Not only could planes not take off, planes couldn't land there, either. 

32 minutes later, at 9:37 a.m., a third plane, American Airlines Flight 77, hit the Pentagon.

Five minutes later, at 9:42 a.m. exactly one hour after the first plane hit the World Trade Center, the FAA gave the order to "clear the skies." 

I don't speak FAA lingo.  I'm sure the FAA said it in their own "language", but the order was clear: If you are a plane and you are in the air, pick an airport and land immediately. 

If my ex-boyfriend was on duty, it would have been 7:42 a.m. The sun was up, spreading light over the New Mexico landscape. 

Under normal circumstances, the job of an air traffic controller is tense and difficult. Lives are in your hands and one wrong order to a plane can cause a crash, or a near-crash (or, in more semi-humorous cases, a landing at the wrong airport.) Plus, you have to worry about being on time, or as near on time as possible; they have to keep an eye on the weather and an eye on air traffic.  (I would rather drive in Atlanta traffic than guide people through the air!)  You cannot afford to panic. You cannot afford to show anxiety. Even if your heart is racing at 120 beats per minutes or higher, you have to talk calmly to a plane, telling them what runway is open, what gate to go to, whether or not the pilot should circle . . . all of the things that we airplane passengers don't necessarily think about. 

But "land all planes"? All commercial planes? At the nearest airport? 

Whatever switches flip in an air traffic controller's brain to keep him/her calm and steady, they flipped, and I believe they flipped in my ex-boyfriend's brain. He, and his colleagues, spoke the FAA language that told what plane to go where, what runway to land on, whether to circle the airport before landing, whether to send them on to another airport because they didn't have room.

According to the National Archives, the skies were clear by 12:16 p.m.; 10:16 p.m. by Alburquerque time, two and a half hours after the order to "clear the skies". 

Two and a half hours for someone to sit with headphones on, to strain to listen to a pilot, to look at a radar and keep track of a plane's location, and all the while knowing that four planes had crashed, wondering if there were any more hijackers, would there be any more crashes?

But they did it. In two and a half hours. 

We remember the FDNY and the NYPD when we think of the heroes of 9/11, as well we should. We remember them going up while everyone else is going down. 

But the people manning the microphones, the headphones, the radar, guiding the planes to safe landings when they were not prepared to handle the sudden load of air traffic  . . . they were heroes, too.

My 20th high school reunion came six weeks before 9/11. My ex-boyfriend and I didn't part on the world's best terms. He did get in touch with me much later through e-mail and he apologized for his behavior. At our reunion, the last words I said to him were, "I wish you well." 

And then, six weeks later, 9/11 happened. 

Not only was I horrified at the events as they unfolded, I was concerned about the ex-boyfriend. I knew it had to be stressful and trying. So I popped off an email asking, are you okay?

He responded, "Yes. Thanks for thinking about us."

I have not heard from him since then, and since he has a life, I don't expect to. 

But he belongs to that group of unsung heroes that cleared the skies on a horrible day. 

To him, and to every other unsung hero, I say, "thank you".

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The Olympics' darkest day

I don't speak Hebrew. But I'm sure that, had I heard wrestling referee Yossef Gutfreund's scream at around 4:30 a.m. Munich time on September 5, 1972, I would have known that something horrible had happened or was happening. 

He'd been asleep after enjoying an evening out with other Israelis. What wakened him was a scratching noise at the door of his apartment. He went to investigate and found the door beginning to open and masked men with guns on the other side.

He screamed in Hebrew, "Danger, boys! Terrorists!" then threw his 300-pound body against the door, hoping it would stop the men from forcing their way in. His scream gave his roommate, weightlifting coach Tuvia Sokolovsky, time to smash a window and escape.

A wrestling coach, Moshe Weinberg, joined in the fight. The terrorists' response was to shoot him through the cheek and then force him to find more hostages.

Weinberg lied as they passed the door of Apartment Two, saying, there were no Israelis there. He led them to Apartment Three instead. Apartment Three housed six wrestlers and weightlifters. Perhaps Weinberg thought they would be strong enough to fight off the terrorists. But they were all asleep, and men with guns usually have an advantage over someone who's been suddenly awakened.

On the way back to the coaches' apartment, the wounded Weinberg again attacked the terrorists. Gad Tsobari, one of the wrestlers, seized the opportunity and escaped through the underground parking garage. Weinberg was able to knock one terrorist unconscious and slash at another with a fruit knife. 

He was no match for the gunmen. They shot him to death. 

A weightlifter, Yossef Romano -- who'd fought in Israel's Six-Day War -- also attacked the intruders and wounded one before he, too, was shot and killed. 

These men were not going to go down without a fight. 

With the nine hostages that were left, the gunmen went back to Apartment One. In addition to Yossef Gutfreund, they were: 
Kehat Shorr, shooting coach
Amitzur Shapira, track and field coach
Andre Spitzer, fencing master.
Yakov Springer, weightlifting judge
Eliezer Halfin, wrestler
Mark Slavin, wrestler
David Berger, weightlifter (who held dual citizenship with the US and Israel)
Ze'ev Friedman, weightlifter. 

Who were these terrorists, and why had they picked the Olympics for their heinous acts?

They were eight members from a Palestinian group, Black September.  Their demands? The release of 234 Palestinian prisoners held in Israel, and two founders of the German left-wing group Red Army Faction. 

They allegedly got into the Munich Olympic Village by scaling a six-and-a-half foot chain link fence with the help of athletes who, themselves, were sneaking back into the Olympic Village. Since the eight terrorists were dressed in track suits, the athletes had no way of knowing who they were helping into the village. I guess they thought, "Oh, you're trying to get past security just like we are. We scratch your back, you'll scratch ours." I wonder how horrified they were when they found out exactly who they had helped over the fence. 

In Apartment Two, Shaul Ladany, an Israeli racewalker who'd also survived the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, heard the screams from next door, leapt from his second-story balcony, and ran to the American dormitory.  The other seven people (four Israeli athletes, two team doctors, and their team manager) hid in the building and eventually escaped.

Tense negotiations began and continued for the next several hours. The Black September terrorists, to show that they meant business, threw Moshe Weinberg's bloodied body out the door of the dormitory. 
American marathon runner Frank Shorter (who would later win the gold medal in the event) told Sports Illustrated, "Imagine those poor guys . . . Every five minutes a psycho with a machine gun says, 'Let's kill 'em now," and someone else says, 'No, let's wait five minutes.' How long could you stand that?" 

But elsewhere, the rest of the athletes carried on, and the events carried on, until 12 hours after Moshe Weinberg's murder, the Games were suspended. 

At 4:30 p.m., a squad of West German police -- regular Munich police officers, with no training in combat or in hostage rescue -- arrived at the Olympic Village with a plan to crawl down from the ventilation shafts at the dormitory and kill the terrorists. 

But, while the police were getting into position, members of the media -- in a stunning act of either ignorance or outright stupidity -- filmed the police getting into position and broadcast the images on live television, which the terrorists were watching. After the terrorists' spokesman threatened to kill two hostages, the police backed off. 

When confronted with the terrorists' demands, Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir's response was swift and to the point: "No." Israel's policy was, no negotiations with terrorists, period, because any negotiations would leave Israel open to possible future attacks. Can anyone blame Israel, given the history of the Jews, especially the history of the concentration camps of only 30 years ago? 

So the West German authorities came up with another plan.

The terrorists, at 6 p.m., demanded to be taken to Cairo. Originally, the West Germans offered to transport terrorists and hostages to Cairo by plane. West German police, disguised as crew, would overpower the terrorists and free the hostages. 

Then the West German police backed out, saying the plan was too dangerous. 

But the authorities pretended the agreement was still in place. They sent two helicopters to take terrorists and hostages to a NATO airbase at Furstenfeldbruck. 

A third helicopter, containing West German authorities, preceded them to the airport. Their new plan:  an armed assault in which terrorists would be killed and hostages would be freed. Sixteen West German police, dressed as the flight crew, would be inside a Boeing 727 jet. Two of the terrorists were to be allowed to inspect the plane. Five sharpshooters were also positioned in strategic areas at the airport. 

And at the last minute, the sixteen West German police abandoned the plan, without telling the people in charge and leaving only the five sharpshooters to take out eight terrorists. 

When the helicopters landed and the two terrorists boarded the 727 and found it empty, they realized they'd walked into a trap. They ran back to the helicopters. 

In the shooting and chaos that followed, two terrorists and a West German policeman were shot and killed. Then a terrorist turned his assault rifle on one helicopter and murdered four hostages, then threw a grenade inside, incinerating the bodies. 

A second terrorist at the other helicopter took a machine gun and shot the remaining hostages; their bodies would show that they'd been shot at least four times each. 

While initial reports said that the hostages were alive and the terrorists were dead, the horrible truth slowly came out. 

ABC's Olympic coverage, anchored by Jim McKay, had gone on the air that afternoon with the reports of the hostage taking at the Olympic Village. All evening, and through the night, ABC Sports president Roone Arledge spoke into McKay's earpiece, giving him the events as they unfolded.  

At 3:24 a.m. Munich time, McKay, summoning all the professionalism he could, spoke:

"You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say, 'Our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized.' Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They've now said that there were eleven hostages. Two were killed in their rooms yesterday morning, nine were killed at the airport tonight. They're all gone."

What more could you say or do after hearing those chilling words?

First, Olympic competition was suspended for the first time in modern Olympic history. Then, on September 6th, the Olympic Stadium, which was supposed to be the scenes of joyous victories and celebrations, became the site of a memorial service for the slain athletes.  The President of the International Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage, spoke, praising the strength of the Olympic movement. But when he compared the attack on the Israelis with the arguments on professionalism creeping into the Games and the ban of Rhodesia (after protests by black African athletes), and barely mentioned the murdered athletes, many listeners were outraged. 

Later that day, the IOC decided, the Games would go on. The Israeli government and their team manager agreed. For the Israeli athletes, though, the Games were over. They withdrew and left Munich on September 6th, right after the memorial service. Jewish athletes were placed under guard, and Mark Spitz, who'd just won his seventh gold medal in swimming, left Munich during the crisis because of fear that, as a prominent Jew, he might become a target. While many athletes did remain, several chose to leave, their desire to compete destroyed. 

The 1972 Olympic Games had as their motto, Die Heiteren Spiele, "the cheerful Games". They desperately wanted to erase the image of the last games held on German soil: in Berlin, in 1936, under the reign of Adolf Hitler. 

Those "cheerful Games", unfortunately, turned tragic.

September 5th and 6th, 1972, 50 years ago, still remain the darkest days in Olympic history.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

  

A 50-year love affair

On a day in the summer of 1972, a disk jockey at St. Petersburg, Florida's WLCY-AM (138 on your radio dial!) checked his playlist, selected a 45, and then watched as the record dropped onto the turntable and a plastic arm moved to the proper spot in order to drop the needle onto the proper groove.  (Any millennials and Gen Zer's who are confused at that above paragraph can ask their parents for a translation.)

The music that played caught the attention of an eight-year-old girl listening to the radio at home. She heard the song, she liked it, and every other time it played on WLCY, she liked it more. 

I was that eight-year-old girl in 1972. The song was "Saturday In the Park",  and it began a 50-year love affair with the rock group Chicago.

Why Chicago? Why that song? I don't know. What reason can an eight-year-old give for liking a particular song or a particular group? All I know is that it was an upbeat, happy, peppy song, the perfect song to introduce me to a new group.

The band's official website tells the story of "Saturday In the Park" as Robert Lamm coming back from New York's Central Park after seeing the steel drum players, dancers, singers and jugglers, and insisting, we have to write a song about this!

Lamm's account, recorded in Billboard magazine, tells the story this way:  "It was written as I was looking at footage from a film I shot in Central Park, over a couple of year, back in the early '70's.  I shot this film and somewhere down the line I edited it into some kind of a narrative, and as I watched the film I jotted down some ideas based on what I was seeing and had experienced.  And it was really kind of that peace and love thing that happened in Central Park and in many parks all over the world, perhaps on a Saturday, where people just relax and enjoy each other's presence, and the activities we observe and the feelings we get from feeling a part of a day like that."

Gradually, through TV appearances and my own library research, I got to know the band: Terry Kath on guitar, Peter Cetera on bass, Walter Parazaider on saxophone (and occasionally flute), Lee Loughnane on trumpet, James Pankow on trombone, and Robert Lamm on keyboard. 

When I was 13, one of my Christmas presents was Chicago IX - Chicago's Greatest Hits. Like any teenager obsessed with a band, I played it over and over until I had it memorized. And then I still kept playing it. 

I kept my eyes and ears open for any mention of Chicago on the news, on the radio, anywhere I could find them. 

So on the morning of January 24, 1978, while lying in bed and listening to the radio, I heard the words, "One of the members of the group Chicago . . ." and I smiled to myself. 

Then the next four words, " . . . has accidentally killed himself," gut-punched me. 

And that was how I learned that guitarist Terry Kath had accidentally shot himself in the head. His last words?  "Don't worry, it's not loaded."

I was devastated, much like fans are when their favorite entertainer unexpectedly dies. Robin Williams, Kurt Cobain, and Whitney Houston come to mind. 

But Chicago bounced back, with the album "Hot Streets". The band, however, was never the same after Terry Kath died. 

After a dip in popularity in the late '70's/early '80's, Chicago enjoyed a resurgence in popularity. It was then, in 1984, that a dream of mine came true:  I got to see Chicago in concert, in Tallahassee, Florida, during our homecoming week. Our tickets were in the nosebleed zone, something like row XXX. I didn't care. It was Chicago. I screamed the whole time. Now, I barely remember any of the songs they played, except the first one, "We Can Stop The Hurting," from their then-newest album, Chicago XVII; and also "Hard To Say I'm Sorry/Get Away." 

They've gone through personnel changes, musical changes, adjusted to the new world of streaming. 

In 2016, the original six members were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, an honor long overdue. 

As of this writing, they are still touring and still performing; in fact, they recently did a concert here in Atlanta with the Beach Boys. While on the one hand, I'm sorry I missed seeing them; on the other hand, there are only three original members left -- Lee Loughnane, James Pankow, and Robert Lamm. They are not the Chicago I knew as a child.

More recently, fans of the show "This Is Us" were exposed to "Saturday In the Park" when it was used in an episode called . . . "Saturday in the Park." The character of Kate Pearson used the tune of the song to help her blind child remember how to get to the park they went to on Saturdays.

They began as a group of six, 55 years ago, and today, they are still going. 

So, from a now 58-year-old woman, thank you.

Thank you, Robert Lamm, for your trip to Central Park which inspired the song you wrote.

Thank you, DJ at WLCY, 138 AM, for choosing to play "Saturday In the Park" in the summer of 1972.

And thank you, Chicago, for being a part of the soundtrack of my childhood, and for bringing an eight-year-old girl pleasure with a song about a simple but magical day in Central Park. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

 

Is this what forgiveness means?

"Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." Or, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

No matter which way you translate it in the Lord's Prayer, forgiveness is a core doctrine of Christianity.

We're told to "forgive as the Lord forgave you" (Colossians 3:13), and even Jesus himself, on the cross, prayed, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

When the Apostle Peter asked, "How many times should I forgive my brother? Up to seven times?" Jesus' answer -- depending on your translation -- was either "seventy-seven times" or "seventy times seven." 

In other words, if I am to call myself a follower of Christ, I cannot withhold forgiveness.  I cannot refuse to forgive someone who has hurt me or harmed me.  I admit, I often ask God, "Do I have to?" (like a six-year-old would sound) and the answer is always, "Yes." 

"Forgive," and "Do not worry," are the two commands I probably struggle with the most as a Christian. I have dealt with my share of wrongdoing, and while I do believe there are people I have forgiven, I'm not sure if the forgiveness process is complete in other areas. I don't think I have yet forgiven everyone who bullied me in school or the leaders who were spiritually abusive in college. And I'm not sure if I've forgiven mistakes my parents have made in raising me. Although now that I have a child, I find myself remembering a quote from Ray Romano: "The older I get, the more I feel the need to apologize to my mother."  My parents were human, as I am, and I believe they tried their best. There were areas I did not make that easy for them.

Here's what bugs me about the subject of forgiveness, though; or rather, the way some teachers of the Bible handle it. 

This is a version of a Facebook comment I made today. It is snarky, sarcastic, and somewhat facetious, and I admit it is extreme. I made it in response to this link to an article by preacher and abuse advocate Jimmy Hinton. His father, a Church of Christ preacher, is currently serving a lifetime prison sentence for the sexual abuse of children.  

When we Christians talk about "forgiveness", I sometimes think that what we mean is that we want the offended party to instantly forgive. Instant forgiveness means that if they say they're sorry, you say, "I've already forgiven you," and you go on as if nothing happened. That's what Jesus did with our sins, didn't He? He forgave us and he's forgotten our sins. Shouldn't we do the same?

If it's a crime against a victim who happens to be a Christian, again, I think what certain Christians want is for the victim to, again, instantly forgive the offender, stand up for them in court and support them, offer to serve the offender's sentence in his place, "because Jesus did that for me when He died on the cross.  He took my punishment so I wouldn't have to serve it." The victim should write to the offender regularly, telling them about how much God loves them. Perhaps the victim should even visit the offender regularly in prison, to show how much they have forgiven and to show how much God loves them. "If God can give me forgiveness for you, just think how much He loves you and wants to forgive you!"

When the offender gets out of prison, the victim should offer to let them live in their own home; because aren't we supposed to go the extra mile? Aren't we supposed to offer hospitality? 

If the offender is not a Christian, the victim will be the one to convert them.

If the offender is a Christian, the victim will be the one to bring the lost sheep home. 

Then they will both go before the church with the wonderful testimony about how God worked through all of that to enable the two of them to become best friends, and the victim will say, "If I had the choice, I'd go through it all again, because look at what God brought out of it!  Isn't God good?" 

Who knows? They might even team up with a famous author, get their story written and made into a Christian movie!

Okay, my snarkiness is over. 

There are cases where a Christian is sinned against, grieviously, and God has given them the strength to forgive the person who hurt them. I have heard of at least one case where -- if I remember the details correctly -- a drunk driver killed a Christian's child. That Christian was eventually able to forgive the driver and develop a relationship with them. 

Like I said before, if I am going to be a follower of Christ, forgiveness is mandatory. I cannot claim to follow Christ and hold grudges or animosity towards people who have hurt me. 

But letting go of those grudges, or the pain of a wrongdoing done against them, is not immediate. It can take years, sometimes decades. It took me two decades to forgive someone from high school who hurt me. No, it should not have taken that long, but it did. And there are hurts and grudges from childhood that yes, I admit, I still struggle to turn over to God and to let His justice work.

And in some cases of abuse, such as what Jimmy Hinton describes, it is absolutely not healthy for the victim to be around the offender. In cases of sexual abuse, it takes years of therapy with a competent therapist to get past the hurt and the damage that was done. 

It seems that in cases of abuse, nearly all of the expectation is placed on the victim to forgive. Sometimes the victim is even asked, how did you contribute to the situation? The victim is expected to quickly forgive because Jesus quickly forgave. There's one difference, though:  Jesus is the Son of God, He is perfect, and He had that ability to quickly forgive. Victims are not the Son of God. Yes, I believe in forgiveness; I believe people who have been wronged need to forgive . . . but true forgiveness has to be on the victim's timetable and not on the timetable we think it ought to be.

And where is the equal expectation for the offender to repent? Where is the equal expectation for the offender to say, "I'm sorry I hurt you," name the specific ways in which he/she harmed the victim, make restitution if possible, and show the fruits of true repentance?  Maybe one of those fruits is to honor the victim's wish to have no contact with them. 

I write this as an imperfect Christian who struggles to forgive and who prays often, "God, help me forgive.  Sometimes I don't want to but I know You command it of me. Help me." 

But does forgiveness mean that you immediately say "I forgive you," that you never, ever think about it again, and that you treat the offender as if the offense never happened? 

Maybe, in some cases, that above statement is exactly what you should do.

Maybe, in some cases, that above statement is exactly what you should not do.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The flood that made me?

While Eastern Kentucky is known for coal, rugged and beautiful scenery, and a heritage of independent people, it is also notorious for dangerous flooding.

As I write this, 37 people have died in floodwaters pounding Eastern Kentucky counties such as Knott, Perry (with the aptly named county seat of Hazard), and Letcher. 

Harlan County, my birthplace, has largely been spared the devastation of other areas of Eastern Kentucky. That was not always true. They've dealt with many a flood in the past when the Cumberland River and its feeder forks overflowed their banks. (I wonder if the river was thinking, hey, when you have more rain than you can hold, what do you expect us to do with it?)

After a 100-year flood in 1977, Harlan County had had enough. And over the next years, they built a flood control system that involved, among other things, the rerouting of certain areas of the Cumberland River. So far, in this 2022 flood, it seems to be working.

But before that 100-year flood, Harlan County struggled through its battle with floodwaters. 

Mid-March, 1963, was one of those battles.  It was a week where it rained, and the riverbanks overflowed, and people either had to evacuate due to rising floodwaters or stay in the house because they couldn't go anywhere unless it was by boat. One of my Facebook friends, writer Karen Nolan, remembers getting typhoid shots during that time. 

I've seen pictures of Harlan County floods, of cars that were washed downstream and wound up on Main Street stacked next to each other, of water that reached roof level, of people who have lost everything. 

There was one benefit to that flood, though.

I didn't know until a few years ago that there had been a flood in Harlan in March of 1963.  I'd seen a photo of a flood in Hazard from that time but didn't know it had hit Harlan as well. 

Exactly seven months from that week of rain, water, mud, and destruction . . . I was born.

And I was a preemie.

When I learned that a flood had hit Harlan in March of 1963, and I did the math, I thought, this flood was possibly responsible for my conception. After all, if you can't go anywhere due to water . . . 

(I will say this:  Although my parents' house was not too far from the Cumberland River, it was on a hilltop and, to the best of my knowledge, the water did not come high enough to do major damage. My family was lucky. They did not suffer the losses that so many other families did.)

Right now, so many Eastern Kentuckians have lost so much. It's possible that the death toll will rise from this 2022 flood. Coming back from this flood will take time and energy, and I wonder if some Kentuckians think that rebuilding their lives will take more energy than they have right now. 

Right now is a time to reach a hand out, donate, pray, check on any family in the area. 

But maybe, just maybe, in about nine months -- or maybe a little sooner -- this flood might yield a tiny crop of blessings. 

After all, at least one blessing came from a 1963 flood!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

When Queen (no, not Elizabeth!) ruled the world

Freddie Mercury's doctor advised him not to perform that day. Mercury had a sore throat and he would likely do damage to his vocal cords. 

Instead, on Saturday, July 13, 1985, Freddie Mercury defied the doctor's orders, strutted on stage with his band, Queen, and delivered the performance of a lifetime.

It's since been said that for those 20 minutes, a different Queen ruled England.

***

I did not watch the Live Aid concert in July 1985.  I remember passing by the TV room in my college dorm and seeing that it was on TV, but all I knew about it was that it was a benefit concert for famine relief and that Phil Collins was going to perform in London and then hop the Concorde so he could also play the Live Aid concert in Philadelphia.

So when the movie Bohemian Rhapsody came out, which focused on Queen's performance at London's Live Aid concert, and also purported to tell Freddie Mercury's life story, I thought, "What's the big deal?" I have not seen Bohemian Rhapsody, but I have read 1) the movie is rife with inaccuracies about Mercury's life, and 2) Rami Malek delivered a fantastic performance worthy of the Oscar he won. 

Then I stumbled across this reaction video from the YouTube channel Jamel AKA Jamal. Reaction videos are videos where a person, or more than one person, listens and reacts to a piece of music they've never heard before. Most reaction videos are from millennials listening to '60's and '70's music for the first time. (I love Jamal. Here's his channel.) 

He did a reaction video of Queen's Live Aid concert .  . . and I watched . . . and I was fascinated. 

I got even more fascinated when watching this video about why Queen were so good that day.

What I took away from both videos were:

• They were a tight, professional band that had performed together for years.
• Since they'd performed together for years, they knew each other's ins and out. They'd know what to do if Brian May hit a wrong note on his guitar or if Freddie Mercury forgot a lyric.
• They'd rehearsed knowing that they'd only have 20 minutes to perform, and that there'd be a tight turnaround time. So when it was their time to go, they had to be ready to go. 

By the mid-1980's, Queen supposedly had seen their heyday. They'd ruled the charts in the '70's with "Bohemian Rhapsody," "Another One Bites the Dust," and who hasn't done a stomp-stomp-clap to "We Will Rock You"? But in 1985? They were still touring and still recording, but the shine from the '70's was gone.

And then Bob Geldof issued the invitation:  Will you perform at Live Aid? 

They said yes.

Unlike what the movie Bohemian Rhapsody says, Freddie Mercury may or may not have been ill with HIV/AIDS on the day of Live Aid. His diagnosis was not announced until the day before his death. 

Maybe the sore throat he had was because of HIV. Maybe it was just a regular sore throat.

But when the doctor said, "Don't sing," Freddie said, "No way," (or maybe he told the doctor something similar in more colorful language), and went on stage at 6:41 p.m. London time.

When he hit the first notes of "Bohemian Rhapsody" on the piano and sang the first, "Mama . . ." he had the crowd immediately in the palm of his hand. The crowd became a sea of humanity, waving their arms and singing along with the familiar lyrics. 

From there, Mercury and the band launched into "Radio Ga Ga," "Hammer to Fall," "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions."  

Between "Radio Ga Ga" and "Hammer to Fall", Mercury had some fun with the crowd, leading them in a singalong of "Ay-oh!" Back and forth Mercury went with his audience, and his final note has since become known as "The Note Heard Round The World"

For those 20 minutes, although guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor, and bassist John Deacon provided the music -- including blistering solos by Brian May -- Freddie Mercury, his body drenched in sweat, held the stage and held the audience. 

By the end, even if you had wanted to, if you had been in that 72,000 Wembley Stadium crowd, you could not have resisted doing a stomp-stomp-clap, singing back at the stage, "We will, we will rock you!" and joining in with the chorus of "We Are the Champions". 

The camera caught a mesmerized audience swaying back and forth under an hypnotic spell. 

Their 22-minute reign ended around 7 p.m. London time, with Mercury's final "We are the champions . . . of the worrrrlllllddd!" 

Champions of the world, indeed!

And as if weren't that enough, he and Brian May came back with an encore, not a hard-rock, high-energy set like they'd just performed, but a ballad asking "Is This the World We Created?" which brought the audience back to the reason for the whole Live Aid concert in the first place: the hungry mouths that needed to be fed. 

When Freddie Mercury died on November 24, 1991, the world lost a consummate showman and talented musician. 

I'm just sorry it took me 37 years to figure it out.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

A hero's death, a heroine's life

Today will be the funeral of a hero.

It should also be a salute to a heroine.

On June 24, I opened my Facebook feed and braced myself for the posts both celebrating and decrying the overturning of Roe v. Wade.

Instead, I found at the top of my feed a post from Hayley Waldron, saying that her husband Harrison had died. Harrison's parents attended my church for several years. They've been missionaries both in Mexico and now in Honduras.

Harrison was 30. Hayley is 29.

They were married in 2014, right out of college, and at the time, I thought, "Isn't Harrison a little young to be getting married?"  (Bear in mind, I was a week shy of 30 when I got married. :-) )

Fourteen months after their marriage, on August 14, 2015, Harrison and Hayley took a trip for a friend's wedding.  While there, Harrison was involved in an ATV accident that left him with a devastating brain injury. At the time, Harrison's parents posted that they needed a miracle from God.

I'm sure the miracle everyone would have liked would have been for Harrison to be totally, physically healed. 

God, in His sovereignty, did not grant that miracle.

Instead, He gave us two people that showed the world around them, this is how you faithfully follow Christ in the midst of severe trial and hardship. 

Harrison would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair and would communicate with an iPad. Through that iPad, he would tell Hayley that he loved her. 

Hayley would spend the rest of Harrison's life loving him well. 

She also went back to school and became a nurse. 

I don't know if Harrison and Hayley would refer to themselves as "heroes". 

But there are those who, in their circumstances, would retreat into themselves and build up a wall of self-pity and resentment. (I know myself well enough to know that I'd be tempted to do just that.) 

From what I read of Harrison and Hayley, they did not do that. 

Yes, they had their struggles. They had struggles that many young couples do not have: health struggles, financial struggles, a struggle to find a niche when their lives turned upside down. 

They also had a God who did not leave them and whom they would not leave. 

Harrison endured to the end. I believe that when God saw him, he told him, "Well done, good and faithful servant." That's why I call him a hero.

Hayley, his partner in life, held true to her vow to be faithful "till death us do part". She exercised her faithfulness in her doing for Harrison and in her love for him. That's why I call her a heroine.

Today, Harrison will be laid to rest. His family and his friends will speak of him, tell memories of his life, and say goodbye. 

Today, Hayley begins her journey without her husband. She will cry at times and maybe she will even be angry at God and shake her fist at Him. 

And I also believe that she will remember the faithfulness of God.

So as we remember a hero today, let's also remember the heroine. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The power of memory through buildings

Robb Elementary School, the Uvalde, Texas school that was the site of a horrific shooting, will meet the wrecking ball. 

Uvalde’s mayor, Don McLaughlin, said, “You can never ask a child to go back or a teacher to go back in that school ever.” 

Years earlier, Sandy Hook Elementary, the scene of another horrific massacre, was also demolished.

I can understand why. Who can walk into a building where you witnessed wholesale slaughter and act like everything is back to normal? 

You can’t.

I’ve never been a victim of a shooting, nor have I witnessed one. 

I can, however, tell you of my experience with a building where I experienced abuse.

It was a church building in Tallahassee, Florida. I was baptized in their baptistry on November 11, 1981, at age 18. For five years, from the ages of 18 to 23, I attended church in that building at least three to four times a week, excluding vacations from school.

To this day, I can still visualize the place as it looked in the 1980’s: the front door, which I didn’t use very often because it faced the street but not a parking lot, the side door that did lead to the sanctuary; the back door that led to the fellowship hall and to a staircase that would take you to the sanctuary. I can wander through that building in my mind and picture events that went on there, times we sang, the folding chairs we sat on in the fellowship hall — or the times we sat on the floor during our Friday night devotionals. 

I can remember the downstairs hallway where the nursery was on one side and the classrooms for the older kids were on the other. I’ve been in those classrooms, holding babies or trying to corral kids during children’s church.

Upstairs, I sat through sermon after sermon; Sunday School lesson after Sunday School lesson; special speakers, retreats, weddings, and other events. 

I was never raped in that building, nor did anyone physically assault me there. 

But I was subject to spiritual abuse there: listened to sermons and classes where we were pushed to do more, where “the spiritual” were defined as those who converted the most people, those who worked full-time for the church, and/or those that chose to give up everything for missions. If you did not have the numbers, you were second-class. 

We took away lessons from that building that said, go invite total strangers to church; go knock on people’s doors and invite them to a church service or a Bible study; submit to your leaders, do not question why they are doing what they are doing and do not argue with them. You must have a discipleship partner and confess everything to them. You must have a “quiet time” daily where you study the Bible and pray and you need to be ready to tell your discipleship partner what you were studying. If you’re not doing it every day, the partner is allowed to “speak the truth in love” with a loud, harsh voice asking you if you really love God, because if you did, you would be inviting people and having your daily “quiet times”. 

I left Tallahassee for good in 1986, and I went back to that building at least once. 

The last time I visited that building was 1994. I was 30 years old. 

I didn’t enter the building; it was during a weekday and I’m sure the doors were locked. But I walked around the building, in the back parking lot where I climbed out of the car of whoever was giving me a ride that day, past the windows that let light into the sanctuary, past the back door that led to the fellowship all, past the parking area near the Red Cross building next door.

And then I got to the front of the building . . . and my legs started to shake. I could not move them. I was close to the church office, and part of my fear was wondering, is there anyone there that knew me when I was a member here? And if there is, would they recognize me? 

I tried to make myself walk in front of the building.

I could not.

In order to walk in front of that church building, I had to cross the street. And even then, my legs still shook. My body remembered what had happened to me as the result of attending that church — the demands to share your faith, to attend every event, including baby and bridal showers and weddings of people you didn’t know, being rebuked for not being “out of yourself”, the constant probing for sin, the dating rules which included mandatory double dating and, I suspect, being told who you should and shouldn’t date. And if you were a woman, you were “encouraged” to accept a date, even if you weren’t too crazy about the guy who was asking you out.

All of this was done in the name of God. 

Spiritual abuse is very hard to describe. Everything I listed above — quiet times, dating, relationships, sharing your faith — are good things. Pursuing a relationship with God is a good thing. Getting to know Jesus is a very good thing. 

But infuse it with the demands to perform in a certain way, with the expectation to become someone’s idea of what a Christian should be, and these very good things then become weaponized. 

I finally walked in front of the church, even though I had to cross the street to do it, said my good-byes to it, and caught a city bus back to the hotel I was staying at. 

I had this reaction to a building where I was never physically assaulted, never raped, never shot or shot at, and never saw anyone assaulted or shot. 

Can you imagine the reaction that the people present at Robb Elementary on May 24, 2022 would have if they went back to the building where their classmates and their teachers were shot and killed? Where a student smeared herself with blood and played dead to keep from being shot? Where police waited for nearly an hour before going in? 

If I had to cross a street with shaking legs to pass a building where I was not physically assaulted but only subject to spiritual abuse, I can only imagine the reaction that anyone present at Robb Elementary on that horrible day would have. 

The power of a building to evoke memory is palpable.

I don’t blame Uvalde for wanting to get rid of Robb Elementary.

Just my. 04, adjusted for inflation.

When is it going to stop?

 I had hoped and planned to write a blog entry about the final episode of This Is Us, and I may do that at some other point.

Today, my heart is too heavy to share those thoughts.

Instead, I find myself with a heart broken for 21 families in Uvalde, Texas, a place that until yesterday I only knew as the birthplace of entertainer Dale Evans and hometown of US Vice President John Nance Garner (who famously described the office of Vice President as “a bowl of warm spit”.)

As I understand the story, the 18-year-old shooter crashed his car in the parking lot of Uvalde’s Ross Elementary School, and then — dressed in body armor, like the shooter in Buffalo 10 days (?!) ago — ran into the school, barricaded himself into a fourth grade classroom, and started shooting. 

Nineteen children in that classroom died. So did both of their teachers. 

It took an off-duty Border Patrol agent to stop the killing.  At the risk of his own life, he ran into the school and shot the shooter. The agent was wounded.

In order to identify the bodies, parents had to be swabbed for DNA because the bodies were so riddled with bullets that it was possible the parents would not recognize them. 

Last night, Joe Biden, angry and heartbroken, demanded to know, when are we going to put a stop to all this carnage?

I have two simple words, Mr. President:

We aren’t. 

My son was two months old when Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold ran into Columbine High school and murdered 12 students and a teacher before killing themselves in the school library. 

He turned 23 in February. 

Nothing has changed. 

We “lather, rinse, repeat” with our “thoughts and prayers”, give ideas about what we should do, yell at each other on social media (and sadly, I have seen Christians do this to each other) . . . and then it all dies down until the next mass shooting.

According to an article at newsnationnow.com, the US has had more than 200 mass shootings so far this year. Their statistics come from the Gun Violence Archive.  The Gun Violence Archive (at gunviolencearchive.org) defines “mass shooting” as “four or more people shot or killed, not including the shooter.” There is no one accepted definition of  “mass shooting”, and the GVA website mentions that even the FBI does not define “mass shooting”. 

I don’t have the energy right now to figure out how many mass shootings have happened between Columbine and now, how many hundreds of people killed, wounded, traumatized for life.  I’m selfishly glad that my son is no longer in school. But he works in a supermarket. The Buffalo shooter shot up a supermarket. My family attends church weekly. One of the most recent mass shootings happened in a church in California. And I can think of at least two or three more that happened in churches. 

Last night, Joe Biden demanded to know when we were going to stand up to the gun lobby. 

In 1968, when Robert Kennedy lay on an operating table after being shot in the head, ABC broadcaster Howard K. Smith made editorial comments about gun control and about how powerful the gun lobby was. 

That was 54 years ago.

Nothing has changed. 

The gun lobby remains as powerful as ever. 

British columnist Dan Hodges commented on Twitter in 2015 that Sandy Hook marked the end of the gun control debate. “Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over.” 

I am at the end of my rope. Like a counselor friend of mine has said, I’m exhausted. I do not want to be fearful when I go to church or to a grocery store. 

But as long as “my freedom,” “my liberty”, and “my rights” are trumpeted over our responsibility to society at large — especially its most vulnerable members, the children, elderly, and disabled — we will see this happen over and over again. 

This morning, I listened to a Christian radio station waiting for the top of the hour news update. The song playing asked, did God move every mountain? Yes, he did. So he can. 

And all I could think of was how hollow that must ring in the ears of the 21 families whose children and loved ones will not come home, ever again; whose resting place will be underneath a gravestone or in a columbarium, or in scattered ashes. 

When, dear God, does it stop? 

When will Rachel stop weeping for her children? 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Twenty years

Twenty years. 

 

Two decades. 

 

240 months. 

 

1,043 weeks. 

 

7304 days.  

 

175,312 hours. 

 

10, 518, 723 minutes. 

 

631,123,380 seconds. 

 

That is how long my husband, son, and I have lived since I sat in a doctor’s examining room at about 4:30 p.m. on May 20, 2002, and heard the words, “Your son has pervasive developmental disorder, which is on the autism spectrum.” (The hours, minutes, and seconds are timed from 4:30 p.m. on May 20 to 8:30 a.m today, which is the time I began this entry.) 

 

We’d known for a while that something was up with Matthew. We’d been asked too many questions at his three-year-old checkup that we’d answered “no” to.  I’d been asked if Matthew had had his hearing checked. I’d been warned about his behavior in Sunday School. I’d been told by a close friend that I might want to ask his doctor about his speech because he was behind other nearly three-year-olds.  

 

I’d even suspected autism; I don’t know when that word crawled into my brain. 

 

I only remember a few things after that: the PA checking Matthew’s reflexes, the doc saying that we needed to get him set up for speech therapy and needed to figure out if insurance covered it; my snappish remark, “You know what? I don’t care.”  

 

I remember a dinner at McDonald’s, asking my husband, “You know what this means, don’t you?” while Matthew played in the PlayPlace. 

 

I remember a phone call from a friend advising me to take some Tylenol PM so I could sleep that night. 

 

And I remember lying in bed, wanting to cry. 

 

What did it all mean?  

 

Well, for one thing, it meant starting school at three years old, it meant speech therapy, and it meant that the plans and dream I had for Matthew would be changed.  

 

I write this with a mixture of emotions.  When a parent hears a diagnosis such as “autism”, it’s a titanic shift in the way you think about your child. Most of us imagine our kids going to school, to college, getting married, having kids, getting a halfway decent job (although in this day and age, that seems harder) . . . and outside of school, none of that was going to be happening for my son.  

 

I’ve dealt with a mixture of grief and pride, of sorrow and joy, of anxiety mixed with a struggling faith in these last twenty years, however you break it down.  

 

I remember IEP meetings, speech therapy sessions, occupational therapy appointments, talks with teachers, doctors, bursts of frustration in my own therapy sessions and with friends. I remember frustration over lack of child care so that my husband and I could get to therapy sessions. I remember fear of the future, battling with the state over the Katie Beckett waiver, applying for guardianship. Currently, I’m in the waiting period for Matthew’s SSI and suspect it will be another fight there, as well.  

 

And I still wonder about the future.  

 

I feel sorrow over loss of “regular” school, over loss of college, the loss of a possible marriage and the loss of potential grandchildren.  

 

But I would be lying if I said that autism came and stole and destroyed.  

 

The week of Matthew’s diagnosis, I got three phone calls in a row – all on the same day -  scheduling speech therapy, testing for special education, and making an appointment for a brain stem test.  

 

Friends came out of the woodwork with support.  

 

We learned that Matthew could be left alone in the waiting room of our therapist’s office, as long as he had something to play with. 

 

A friend gave us a Game Boy to keep Matthew busy.  

 

Teachers cared about him and cheered his progress.  

 

A dear woman volunteered to help Matthew in Sunday School, and other Sunday School teachers pitched in.  

 

A wonderful youth minister and his staff gave their time and energy to making sure that Matthew would be part of their youth group. That youth group pitched in and surrounded him.  

 

A teacher nominated him for an award, calling him “a joy to teach”. 

 

He learned to do his own laundry and to cook because his high school teachers emphasized learning skills.  

 

He walked in a graduation ceremony.  

 

Four years of college were replaced by four years of a special program to teach him work skills.  

 

And as of today, he’s been in a job for nearly ten months.  

 

Autism, a supposed thief, unleashed a kind, caring little boy who his parents loved and who was loved by those around him. It shaped and formed a man whose tastes range from fast-food chicken nuggets, to meat loaf, to “birthday donuts”.  

 
As I write this, he’s humming the “Law and Order” theme while catching up on “Law and Order” in his room. He watches the Law and Order franchise along with the Chicago franchise, New Amsterdam, and The Good Doctor. The Good Doctor opened many conversations with Matthew about autism; in fact, it was this show that caused Matthew to ask the question, “Do I have autism?” My answer was a (hopefully!) matter-of-fact, “You do.” 

 

He loves Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, and mourned the death of Alex Trebek.  

 

And he still holds a soft spot in his heart for Blue’s Clues and Bubble Guppies.  

 

In an hour and a half, I will send him off to work.  

 

In these twenty years, 240 months, etc. I’ve had plenty of tears and anger and worry and anxiety . . . and many more of happiness, pride, elation, and laughter. I’ve often said that life at our house is many things, but one thing it is not, is boring.  

 

There are still questions about his future, mainly, what happens when his dad and I are gone? We are looking into arrangements to answer that question. We deal with the day to day challenges of autism, of understanding his behavior, of understanding his language, of trying to explain the world to him in ways he can grasp.  

 

But, when all is said and done, Matthew remains what his first name means:  gift of God, given to us in answer to a mother’s prayer for a child.  

 

We don’t know what the future holds for Matthew. But we do know that God holds his future. 

 

Just my.04, adjusted for inflation.