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Friday, December 21, 2018

Shutdown

Unless Mighty Mouse swoops in and saves the day, we are 15 and a half hours away from a government shutdown.  Since my husband is a government employee, he will be placed on furlough and he will not get a paycheck until the government reopens.

We have already bought Christmas presents and Christmas dinner, and we have savings, assets, and a full pantry.  I can still proof, and my husband will qualify for unemployment.  And if the situation gets dire, we have good friends.  My husband and I will be fine. 

The whole issue boils down to Donald Trump saying, "I want money to build my wall, and if I don't get it, I'll hold my breath until I turn blue!"

Congress:  "Inhale, Mr. President.  Our favorite shades of blue are azure, turquoise, cobalt, and navy."

There is a reason why I refer to the children -- er, Congress, and why our President should probably be referred to as the toddler-in-chief. 

My disgust for American politics has reached a new high.  Or low, depending on your perception.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.


Sunday, December 2, 2018

German chocolate and the end of innocence

When Roz Fishburn learned that someone wanted a recipe for a layer cake made with German chocolate, she picked up her phone and dialed 527-4188.

By the time the other party answered the phone, she was out of breath . . . but not because she'd raced to the phone in order to make her phone call.

Between the time Roz Fishburn made her phone call and the time her party finally answered, she'd heard the following words:  "President Kennedy is reported to have been wounded by an assassin in Dallas, Texas.  There are no further details at this time."

The number 527-4188 that Roz Fishburn dialed belonged to radio station WTIC in Hartford, Connecticut; and the show she was trying to contact was "Mikeline."  This website, dedicated to Hartford, CT radio history, describes "Mikeline" as "WTIC's 'neighbors-over-the-backyard-fence' call-in program".  For a half-hour, between 1:30 p.m. and 2:00 p.m., people around the state of Connecticut (and some outside of the state) could call either 527-4188 or ask their operator for the number Enterprise-9842.  On the air, callers asked for recipes, cleaning tips, or other household-related questions; other callers would call in and say, I know where you can find such-and-such.  

On the day Roz Fishburn made her phone call--November 22, 1963--announcers Floyd Richards and Bob Ellsworth manned the studio, taking phone calls from people asking about such things as the game of mumblety-peg, how to clean a tent before you put it in storage, and where to get directions for an Italian knitting machine.  The very first phone call answers a question about "how do I keep my garbage cans clean?" with a suggestion about "these new plastic liners".  (We now take plastic trash bags for granted.)

"Mikeline" began at 1:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.  In Dallas, Texas, it was 12:30 Central Standard Time.  At the moment Floyd Richards was greeting his listening audience, President Kennedy's motorcade was making its final turns through downtown Dallas, heading for the Dallas Trade Mart, where Kennedy was due to have lunch and make a speech. 

I've watched/listened to the JFK assassination TV and radio coverage posted on YouTube, and more than any other, this video shows just how ordinary that day was before those three shots that changed history forever.  No other video also shows the horrifying contrast between the chit-chat on the radio and the reality happening in Dallas that no one knew about yet.

The person who posted the video goes by the YouTube handle "Bertelevision".  Over the audio of "Mikeline"'s November 22, 1963 broadcast, he's superimposed pictures of what people were calling in about (for example, a picture of a garbage can shows up during the audio of the woman explaining about the new plastic liners). 

What he's also done is, in captions, post a minute-by-minute account of what was happening in Dallas at the exact same time "Mikeline" was being broadcast.  In fact, while the woman was talking about plastic liners for the garbage cans, the shots were fired at Kennedy's car, hitting JFK and Governor John Connelly.

Approximately 10 minutes into the broadcast, a woman calls in with a request for a layer cake made with German chocolate.  This was the recipe request Roz Fishman heard.  At the same time she was heading for her telephone, Jack Bell, an AP correspondent, finally got his hands on a receiver of his own and filed his account of JFK's shooting.  Unfortunately, Merriman Smith of UPI had already beaten him to the punch by grabbing the phone in the press bus and refusing to let anyone else have it.

At 1:55, after Floyd Richards listened to the question, "When is the best time to trim young maple trees?" Bob Ellsworth broke in with, "Floyd, I have something rather important from the WTIC newsroom in the form of a bulletin."  

He then read the announcement about JFK being wounded.

Floyd Richards and Bob Ellsworth, both blindsided, decided to take the next phone call, from the now-breathless Roz Fishman.  She said that the announcement just "took my breath away."

As she began to give the recipe, Bob Ellsworth interrupted with a second bulletin--announcing that President Kennedy and Governor John Connelly had been "cut down by an assassin's bullets".  

Bob Ellsworth, after saying that "this changes the complexion of many things", said that "we'll continue along." 

Floyd Richards said to Roz, you're in the middle of a terrible thing here; perhaps it's best to keep on going as best we can and for us to give the news as best we can.

Her response:  "I don't feel like it."

The sympathetic Floyd Richards told her, "that's fine.  Give us a call when you can."

By that time, the major networks were either on the air or getting ready to go on the air.  Within moments of Roz Fishman's hanging up, WTIC switched over to the NBC Radio feed, much to the relief of Richards and Ellsworth.

The period from November 22 to November 25, 1963, is often called the death of American innocence.  One can argue whether American innocence really died that day or if it had ever existed in the first place.

But when you listen to the WTIC broadcast of "Mikeline" with its questions about recipes and household hints, and read the captions showing the parallel events in Dallas, it brings home how the world, in less than half an hour, was totally transformed.  

I don't know if Roz Fishman ever called back with her recipe.  Perhaps, by the time the events of that awful weekend in 1963 were over, the world had just changed too much.  

German chocolate cake just doesn't seem that important when three shots in six seconds ended innocence.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.







Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Without a voice

I am without a voice at the moment.

Literally.

I caught a cold last week, got a sore throat, and then it developed into laryngitis.  I can make a low-sounding croak, and that's about it.  Yesterday I strained my voice canceling two appointments and I don't know if one of those people got or understood the message I left. I rescheduled an appointment for Friday (a PT evaluation) and just said I'll be there if I have to write stuff down; meaning, I'll be there if I have to write notes in order to communicate.

I did have errands to run yesterday, and it was interesting.  I did a lot of smiling and nodding; whispered at a couple of points, and worried if I was going to be perceived as being rude because I wouldn't talk to people.

It also made me wonder, how in the world do people cope who can't communicate?

No wonder people throw tantrums or scream or cry when they feel like they aren't making themselves understood.  It's frustrating to not be able to communicate.   I at least can write, and that helps. 

There's a deeper metaphor to all of this, I'm sure.  There are the those who are literally "without a voice", as I am at the moment; those who are physically unable to speak.  There are the deaf, who rely on sign language or texting or written notes.

And you can throw into the mix those without access to people who will listen. 

These are the ones cut off from society, those who plead for redress over and over again and who are not heard.  And although I have serious problems with those who resort to destruction of property, Martin Luther King had a point when he said that a riot was the language of the unheard. 

What do we do?  How do we give that voice to the voiceless? 

Right now, I honestly don't know.  I was going to add, " . . . and teach them how to use their voice," but I wonder if that comes across as paternalistic.  Would I only teach someone "how to use their voice" if I wanted them to only say what I wanted them to say? 

I'm lucky.  My voice will return sometime in the next couple of days.  For those without a voice, they may not be so lucky.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Out of ideas

A friend of mine posted that, in the wake of yesterday’s shooting at a synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA, that telling people to love each other wasn’t working.  He was “out of ideas’.

So am I.

This week, a Gwinnett County police officer was laid to rest after being killed in the line of duty.  (I had knee surgery Wednesday.  One of the nurses who took care of me is the wife of a Gwinnett County police officers.  All I could say to her was that I was sorry all of this had happened.)

This week, a man was arrested for sending pipe bombs to a number of prominent Democrats, including the Clintons and the Obamas.  A photo of his van shows it decorated in anti-Democrat, pro-Trump slogans.

And then yesterday came a shooting that left 11 people dead.

I’m out of ideas.

I’m out of ideas in how to stop this hate, this killing, this absolute anger that’s convulsed our country in ways we haven’t seen since 1968.

I feel like I MUST march in lock step with a certain political agenda, or else I will be shamed and shunned, even by people I know.

We don’t listen.  We’re more interested in screaming at each other.

What is it going to take, people?

Another 9/11?
Another Civil War?
Something worse than that?

I don’t know.

I just now that I will totally helpless.

Like my friend, I am out of ideas.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sunday, September 30, 2018

A prayer for the coming week

It was the summer of 1972, I was eight years old, and I was excited about the song from Godspell, "Day By Day".  I didn't know anything about Godspell except that the song was on the radio and it was a cool song.  I remember finding the Godspell album at the store where my grandmother worked and just almost shouting, "It's Day By Day, Robin and Company!" (the credited singers for the track.)

I now know that Godspell is a musical loosely based on the Gospel of Matthew and containing interpretations of other Biblical stories.  In the '80's, I saw a community production of Godspell in Tallahassee, Florida, where the cast members were costumed '80's style (including one member dressed as Michael Jackson).

This song has been an earworm for me for the last few days.

I've been very disappointed this past week in the behavior of many who claim to wear the name "Christian".  Frankly, we're called to be better than this.  It seems that we are more interested in protecting our political power and influence than we are in carrying out the command of Jesus to "go and preach the gospel to all nations" and in fulfilling the greatest command to "love one another as I have loved you". 

This week, I fear we will face similar turmoil.  I fear we will see truth-tellers branded as liars and people that will posture before the camera and the microphone who claim to want the truth and who claim to care about people and care about this country--when, in fact, they are addicts whose drug of choice is power and prestige. 

Christians are not called to this.  I am not called to this.  The power Jesus had when he was on earth, he exercised to the glory of his Father and to the service of others. 

The song "Day By Day", which is a cool song, is also a prayer.  The song is one chorus, repeated six times. 

I think it's a good prayer for the coming week.

Day by day
Day by day
Oh dear Lord
Three things I pray
To see Thee more clearly
Love Thee more dearly
Follow Thee more nearly
Day by day.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

If you want to hear this cool song, click on the picture above.



Saturday, September 15, 2018

The wrong door . . . or no?

(The following is my own opinion, based on the facts as I am aware of at this moment.  My opinions may change as I learn more of the facts surrounding this case.)

In the summer of 1983, I lived in Dorman Hall at Florida State University.  One day, I came back from class and got into the elevator.  When the elevator door opened, I got off the elevator, turned down the hallway, went down a few feet and stuck my key in the lock of a door . . . and asked myself, why isn't the door unlocking?

That's when I looked up and saw that the number on the door was 206, not 306. 

I hadn't been paying attention and I got off on the wrong floor and went to the wrong door.  

In Dorman Hall, as in many residence halls built in the 1950's and 1960's, the corridors all look alike.  So unless you know what floor you've gotten off on, it's easy to go to the wrong door.

That's why, when I heard of the alleged circumstances surrounding Botham Jean's shooting, I understood how going to "the wrong door" could have been a possibility.  Amber Guyger, the Dallas police officer arrested and charged with his shooting, claims that, after a long shift, she parked on a level she normally didn't park on and ended up going to the wrong apartment.  Her apartment is directly below Botham Jean's.  The apartment complex where they both lived is described as having symmetrical hallways, and other residents, according to this New York Times article, have reported occasionally going to the wrong apartment.  Maybe that's why Botham Jean put his red mat in front of his door.

That doesn't explain, though, the door being ajar.

Although, if I thought it was my apartment, I'd be concerned. 

That also doesn't explain her not noticing the red mat in front of his door.  In the case of me going to the wrong door at Dorman Hall, though, I wasn't paying attention and I might not have seen a mat in front of the door. 

In her version of events, she opened the door to a dark apartment and saw a silhouette of someone, gave "verbal commands" and when he didn't respond, she shot him.  Then she turned on the lights and realized she was in the wrong apartment.

Lawyers for Botham Jean's family say that his door was closed.  Neighbors have said that they heard someone banging on the door shouting, "Let me in!" and "Open up!" before they heard gunshots.  They've also said they heard someone, maybe Botham Jean, saying, "Oh, my God, why did you do that?" 

Jean's family also say that he and Amber Guyger did not know each other.  

On the day of Jean's funeral, the media broadcast the results of a search warrant executed at his apartment.  The police found, according to an inventory:
  • 2 fired cartridge casings
  • a laptop computer
  • a black backpack with police equipment and paperwork
  • an insulated lunch box
  • a black ballistic vest with "police" markings
  • 10.4 grams of marijuana in ziplock bags (less than an ounce)
  • a metal marijuana grinder
  • 2 RFID keys'
  • 2 used packages of medical aid
Of course, what did the media immediately pounce on?  The marijuana.  The lawyer for Botham Jean's family has accused the police of mounting a smear campaign against Botham Jean.  There's even been some speculation that the marijuana was planted in Jean's apartment. (The police had been called earlier to Jean's complex by someone complaining of a strong smell of marijuana on the floor where Jean lived.) 

We have yet to hear the results of any search warrant executed on Amber Guyger's apartment.  

In another account of events, Guyger was allegedly struggling with the lock when Jean opened the door and confronted her.  

Since I wasn't there, I can't tell you what happened.  There are only two people that know the whole truth, and one of them is dead.  In the early stages of any investigation, and especially a high-profile one with loads of media attention, there are going to be conflicting reports and reports that are downright wrong.

But what it all boils down to is this:  An African-American man was killed in his own home by a white off-duty police officer.

This is frightening.  

I'm a white woman.  As much as I may want to "get it", I will never truly "get it".  Just like people who want to will never truly "get" what my husband and I deal with in raising a son with autism. 

I'm a white woman who wants to believe that the Civil Rights movement and the laws that were passed as a result solved the race problem in this country.

I'm a white woman that wants to believe that law enforcement and the legal system is truly "blind" except to facts, and that people can objectively look at facts, piece them together, and come to a correct conclusion. 

But is this true?

There may be laws ending legalized discrimination, but those laws do nothing to change the hearts of people.  Attitudes cannot be legislated.  The attitude of racism and prejudice can't be changed by law.

And I only need to take a quick look at history to see that no, "the system" isn't blind except to facts. 

This particular shooting has resonated with me more than others have because Botham Jean was a member of the Church of Christ, as I am, and he graduated from the same university that many members of my congregation are affiliated with.  People I know are expressing deep anger and deep sorrow. 

Did Amber Guyger go to the wrong apartment by mistake, find the door ajar, go in, and shoot a man, thinking he was a burglar in her apartment?

Did she go to the wrong apartment by mistake, try to open a closed door, get confronted by Botham Jean, and shoot him?

Or did she go to his apartment on purpose to confront him and to shoot him?

Did she go to the wrong door?

Or no?

Right now, I don't know.  Right now, I don't have the answers.  Right now, I don't know all of the facts.  I only know that a lot of people are hurting and angry. 

This particular entry is mostly me, as a white woman, trying to work out my feelings and my observations about yet another white cop-black victim shooting in the United States.  The facts must come out.  Justice must be served for Botham Jean.  Amber Guyger must be treated as any other accused would be. 

I want justice.  I want truth.  And I don't want our anger and our grief to overshadow anyone's search for truth.  
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Me and Mrs. Baxter

One of my all-time favorite books is Celia Garth, a novel written by Gwen Bristow nearly 60 years ago.  It tells the story of a seamstress living in Charleston, South Carolina during the Revolutionary War, how she fell in love, lost her love, found love again . . . and by the way, she became a spy for the Revolutionary cause.

I recently re-read the book and found myself thinking about one of the minor characters, Mrs. Baxter.
When we meet Mrs. Baxter, she's telling a customer in Celia's dress shop about her little boy George, taking pains to explain that he was named for General Washington, not for that "stupid old king," George III. 

Later, we learn that her first name is Charlotte, but that she prefers to be called Patsy, because Charlotte is the name of the queen and Patsy is the nickname of Martha Washington. 

In the course of the book, Celia gets engaged, only to have her fiance and her family murdered by a band of British soldiers who also destroyed their property.  With her future destroyed, Celia, who had been staying with a woman for whom she sewed, decides to go back to work at the dress shop.  It's the low point in Celia's character arc, and it's before she is asked to become a spy for the American cause. 

Back in the dress shop, she muses on how the whole town has gone Tory.  And she thinks about a recent order from Mrs. Baxter, who wanted her handkerchiefs embroidered with the initial of her first name . . . C for Charlotte.  Celia wondered if people forgot that she used to detest being called by the name of the British queen.  Or, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, maybe Mrs. Baxter just didn't care.

This is sometimes how I feel these days.

I feel like the only way to be accepted by anyone is to just not care about my convictions or even to have any.  No matter what I think, do, or say, someone is going to jump all over me and accuse me of being hateful to whatever group they think I'm being hateful to. 

I am so sick of the division in this country.  I'm reminded both of the Bible verse and Abraham Lincoln's speech in which they both said, a house divided among itself cannot stand.  We are divided among ourselves, racially, culturally, and in every other way possible.  People hate each other, and it's getting worse by the day.  I'm afraid to say anything to anyone about anything because I don't want to be accused of being a racist, bigot, or whatever other word they want to call me. 

Maybe I'm like Mrs. Baxter.  Maybe I just want to be "socially accepted" by the winning side. 

I am afraid of losing friends and relationships to the current political and cultural climate.  I want to accept the right of other people to have and express their opinions, but I also fear that if I express mine, I will be attacked and I will lose relationships.  I keep a lot of my politics off of my main Facebook page, but sometimes, I can't always keep my mouth shut or my hands off the keyboard.

African-Americans are hurting.  They deal with generations of racism, and even though the law has mostly outlawed overt signs of racism (e.g. "white only" and "black only" accommodations as one example), the law cannot change the inside of people.  The law can't force you not to be a racist or a bigot.

Hispanics are hurting.  Not every Hispanic in this country is here illegally.    And while I do believe that people in this country should learn to speak English, English is a difficult language to learn and I'm willing to cut people slack while they're learning it.

I believe we are all hurting. And I as a white person am even afraid to say things like, "How can I help?" because I don't want to be accused of being patronizing and/or condescending, like the white person swooping in on a broom to save the day.

I'm extremely discouraged, as I'm sure you can tell.  I feel like nothing I do or nothing I say is going to make one bit of difference, and I fear that I value my acceptance or social standing more than I do my integrity and my convictions on what is right and what is wrong.  I fear that any day now, the literal or figurative Molotov cocktail is going to be thrown that will launch either World War III or the Second Civil War.  I fear that I will have to pick sides, and that no matter what I do, I will lose acceptance.  Sure, it's fine for me to think or believe that I could stand alone if I absolutely had to . . . but I don't know if I could ever be that brave. 

Maybe I'm just as bad as Mrs. Baxter, who wanted social acceptance more than anything else. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.


Monday, September 3, 2018

Should I be a-Mused?

I've been delving into my genealogy using the site FamilySearch.com and have come up with some interesting insights.  For example, my family tree goes all the way back to Adam ben Elohim, son of Elohim and Heavenly Mother.  Eve is listed as having one parent, Adam's Rib. 

While I believe in the Bible and that there was a first couple named Adam and Eve, I'm very skeptical of any family trees giving an unbroken line all the way back to Adam.  I'm also skeptical of family trees containing any royalty unless the lineage is well documented. 

Closer to contemporary times, however, I've found interesting information.  One thing I have learned is that I have several Muses in my ancestry.  There are two jokes you can make about that; one, that I must have many muses for inspiration; two, that I can find things amusing; three, that I can look at people and say, "We are not amused."

Muse is the last name of my great-great grandfather.  His daughter married a Chitwood.  Their son married my grandmother and they, in turn, had my mother.  I don't know very much about my great-great grandfather Muse except names, dates, and locations, but from what I can learn, he seems like he was quite a character. 

For example, he's been known as Christopher C. Muse, C.C. Muse (the name on his marriage record to Nancy Sharp, my great-great grandmother), Christopher Micajah Muse, Micajah Muse, Mack Muse, and Mack C. Muse.  He may also have been known as Cage Muse.

I've discovered two children of his so far; one being my great-grandmother, Mary Etta Muse; the other being her brother, Richard Dow Muse.  According to the information I have, Richard was born in 1876; Etta, in 1881.  Christopher, C.C., whoever he is, and Nancy got married on June 6, 1882, according to the Tennessee State Marriage Index. 

I can't find very much information on Nancy except that she was also married to a man named Blevins and had two other kids with him. 

This branch of my family has roots in Scott County, Tennessee.  Scott County lies just west of I-75, about an hour's drive northwest from Knoxville.  Its name comes from General Winfield Scott, a Mexican War hero (and the county does include a town named Winfield.)  I did a fast Wikipedia search and learned that during the Civil War, Scott County seceded from the state of Tennessee and formed the "Free and Independent State of Scott".  They were a pro-Union enclave during the Civil War.    That proclamation was finally repealed in 1986. 



Reading that story, it makes me think that the people of Scott County had the attitude of, "No one is going to tell US what to do!"  That can be a good thing; it's an attitude that breeds rock-solid convictions and people of integrity who will not be moved no matter what the circumstances. It can also be a bad thing when it breeds stubbornness and sinful pride, and the Bible contains plenty of warnings about sinful pride. 

When Christopher, Micajah, whatever he called himself, decided to refer to himself by various and sundry names, he didn't know that his great-great granddaughter would one day have information at her fingertips that would leave her shaking her head and muttering, "We are not a-Mused." 

On the other hand, it does make me wonder what my great-great grandfather was like and how much the Free State of Scott influenced him! 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation

Saturday, September 1, 2018

Fifty years ago . . .

Fifty years ago this summer, a cream-colored Vista Cruiser station wagon, complete with faux wood panels, containing a husband, wife, and two squabbling children in the back seat, rolled across Tampa Bay and past the sign which announced "Entering Pinellas County."

The Sergent family had arrived, and St. Petersburg, Florida would never be the same. 

I was four going on five.  My sister had just turned eight.  I don't remember anything about the trip.  If we did what we usually did on a road trip back then--started at night so that my sister and I could sleep in the car--then that's probably why I don't remember it. 

I do remember, however, the places we stayed before we finally moved into the house we were renting. 

We stayed, in this order, at the Weary Traveler Motel and the Grey Gull Motel on Madeira Beach and at the Cadillac Motel at the corner of 38th Avenue and 34th Street North in St. Petersburg.  There's a Burger King there now, but the bank next door is still there (although now under different management) and Bert Smith's is still kitty-corner across the street.  When we first moved there, it was Bert Smith Oldsmobile; now, it's Bert Smith BMW. 

And even though I don't remember house-hunting, I do remember an Atlas Van Lines moving truck in front of the house that we moved into.  We rented that house for a few months before we bought it. 

My grandmother had to remind me that she did not make the trip with us.  She did not come to Florida until October (I guess to settle affairs).  I can't remember my grandmother actually arriving and me being glad to see her, but I do remember standing outside the old Tampa International Airport.  Years later, when I was 11 and taking my first commercial plane ride, I was surprised to see how much the airport had changed. 

When I visit St. Petersburg these days, my first thoughts are usually about how much things have changed over the years.  That was especially true on my last visit.  I didn't recognize my old high school, buildings existed along 34th Street that I'd never seen before, and while the public library is still there and hasn't changed on the outside, it's reorganized on the inside. 

I sometimes wonder if life would have been "better" if we'd stayed in Harlan County, Kentucky.  I guess that's normal to wonder when you hit my age, what would it have been like if we had . . . and the only fair answer I can give is, it would have been different. 

When we packed up the Vista Cruiser and drove 16 hours to St. Petersburg, life changed.  It changed us.  We changed St. Petersburg simply by the fact that we showed up. 

Here's a good question for me to ask, though:  Did we change it for the better? 

When we hit town, moved into the new house, started school, started work, whatever it was we did over the last 50 years, did we change things for the better?  Were the schools that my sister and I went to better because we were there?  When our teachers talked about us, did they remember us as decent students?  My father was a teacher at two junior highs and a high school.  Did they remember him as a good teacher?  (At least one of the girls who bullied me in school later told me, when we were both adults, "He was a wonderful teacher."  She also apologized to me for being a bully.)  My mother ended up running a day care; before that, she led my and my sister's Girl Scout troop.  Did they remember her fondly? 

I'd like to think that when that Vista Cruiser rolled into town 50 years ago, we ended up making a difference for the better.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

Thursday, August 9, 2018

This is normal?

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

I read that statement two nights ago while scrolling through Twitter and was astonished at my absolute visceral reaction of rage to it.

That sentence comes from a new forward to Joan Ryan's book Little Girls In Pretty Boxes, which details the toxic environment that gymnasts and figure skaters are too often subjected to.  American gymnast Jamie Dantzscher, who wrote the new forward, describes the verbal and emotional abuse she endured while training for the Olympic Games.  She made the women's gymnastics team for the 2000 Olympic Games, they placed fourth overall . . . and were made to feel like complete failures.  She trained with numerous injuries and when she told her coaches that she was hurt, they didn't believe her. 

She was also one of the over 200 women abused by Dr. Larry Nassar, and one of the first to file a civil lawsuit against him. 

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

I've never been sexually abused.  But I know where my visceral reaction of rage came from. 

It came from the fact that the abuse I suffered--the abuse from being bullied and from being spiritually abused--was absolutely normalized.

The bullied are told, like I was, that they should just "ignore it" or "tell an adult" or "stand up to them" or "it's just part of life, suck it up and get over it" or "they do it because they're jealous of you" or "they just have low self-esteem and this is the way they build themselves up" and, if the victims are Christians, they are told, "forgive them and turn the other cheek".  They are also told that "no one likes a tattletale or a snitch" and "if you fight back, you will be the one punished and the bullies will not be".

In the meantime, the pushes and shoves, the gossip and the embarrassing questions, the blocking in the hallway and the torment in gym class go on and on.

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

The spiritually abused are told, "we are the only ones with the truth" or "if you leave us, you leave God" or "The Bible says to rebuke others when they sin" or "You need to be held accountable" or "The Bible says you need to be bold in sharing your faith" or "They're your leaders and you must submit to them, even if they are ungodly" or "When you get married, you can't leave your husband even if he beats you" or "If you don't show up to every single meeting of 'the body' you are uncommitted and in danger of falling away". 

The spiritually abused are expected to put up with harsh sermons, blasting, yelling, orders to "push through" exhaustion and illness, and questioned as to why they didn't get up early in the morning to have a 'quiet time', why they didn't invite anyone to church that day, why they struggle so much with depression, why can't you just repent of your sin and move on?

Yesterday I asked myself the question, what is normal faith?

I understand that Christianity is counter-culture by its very nature.  I follow a man who claimed to be God and whose followers claim that he died and he was raised from the dead.  His followers taught that we needed to love one another and not repay evil for evil.  In an environment where the emperor was worshiped as God, they were taught to honor the emperor but confess Jesus as Lord and worship him only.  In today's culture of "tolerance" and "there are many ways to get to God", Jesus says that no one comes to the Father except through him.  If you want to be popular with the "in crowd", Christianity is not the way to go. 

But is normal faith being told that you have to walk up to strangers on the street, or go up to every cashier you meet, and invite them to church, otherwise, you are disobeying God's command to be bold? 

Does normal faith involve putting up with the advances of a leader because "he's your leader and you have to submit"? 

Is normal faith attending every single gathering of a body of believers even when you are exhausted down to the bone marrow and can barely put one foot in front of the other? 

In normal faith, is "forgiveness" defined as, "I say I'm sorry, you say I forgive you, and we both pretend it never happened?" in cases of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse?

What is normal faith?  There are times I just don't know. 

When abuse of all kinds is normalized, not just sexual abuse on a grand scale can happen, but any kind of abuse:  bullying, spiritual abuse, emotional/verbal abuse between spouses or between boss/employee or any kind of leader/follower. 

It is time for us to stop normalizing abuse.  Bullying is not to be normalized.  Neither is sexual abuse.  Neither is spiritual abuse. 

It should never be normal for someone to go to school and be afraid that their lunch will be stolen, that they will be gossiped about, that they will be pushed and shoved in the hallways . . . and it should never be normal that when they tell an adult, the adult won't believe them.

It should never be normal for someone to be tense around other Christians because they're afraid of being rebuked for not inviting a large number of people to church or Bible study.  Or, for not living up to the standard that the leader has set. 

Abuse is not normal.  And it never should be.

Not in any environment.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Are we talking about the same person here?

On Mother's Day some years ago, I read a tribute to a mother talking about how the child admired her and how she was such an example to her.

I read that tribute and thought, "Are we talking about the same person here?"

You see, that child was my niece . . . and her mother is my sister.

Don't worry, this is not going to be a "sister dearest" post, where I say, "Oh, everyone thinks my sister is this wonderful, great person, but she has everyone fooled.  Only I know the real story!"  Rather, this is a post about perceptions and how they change over the years.

I think one of the major problems with siblings is that we still tend to see each other as children.  We see each other as we were at age 2, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17.  We remember fighting over the bathroom, fighting over clothes, fighting over who got what side of the bed, ("Mom!  She's hogging all the covers!" "She's kicking me!")  Older sister is still bossy; younger sister is still the brat. 

We don't allow ourselves to see our siblings as the grown-ups they are.  We don't allow ourselves to think that hey, they're people who haven't necessarily had it easy in life.  We immobilize them in concrete, so to speak, and we don't allow them to break out of the mold we've put them in.

Today is my sister's birthday.  She's three years older than I am (and when we were younger, she didn't let me forget it, either.)  We have had our share, and probably more than our share, of arguments, fights, and other conflict. 

But lately, I've been thinking through my sister's life, and I realize that she has not had it all that easy.

My sister was eight when we moved to Florida from Kentucky.  She was the one that had to leave friends behind.  She'd already started school; she had to leave teachers behind and a familiar school.  She left behind a best friend.  I remember my sister's best friend writing her letters after we moved to Florida.  She was the "new student" in third grade, wearing short sleeves when everyone else was wearing sweaters in cold weather.  It just didn't feel that cold to her! 

She started working around the age of 14, not because she "had to" but because she wanted to.  I can't remember if her first job was working with kids or working at the ice cream shop in the mall.  Later, she went to work at a drugstore.  One Saturday, she came charging into the house, not terrified, but furious, and announced, "We got robbed!"  Someone had come in and demanded money.  They cooperated.  No one got hurt.  (Afterwards, she said, "I need a donut, bad!")  Although that had to be frightening, she handled the aftermath with good humor. 

Like most women, she wanted a relationship, and like most women, she had to kiss her share of toads before finding her prince.  She got married in the mid-80's and for the next few years balanced work and marriage.  (I remember visiting her one time and seeing a magnet on her refrigerator, "Never trust a cook under 30.")  She found a successful career working with municipal bonds. 

Her daughter, my niece, was born in the mid-'90s; and soon after, my sister's marriage ended. 

I don't know what it's like to be a single parent.  I can only imagine my sister's thoughts about raising a daughter alone.  She was fortunate in that she was able to live with our mother.  "Nana," (my mother) babysat, and together, they made a family. 

Did my sister imagine that she would find love again?  I don't know.  But she did.  At this writing, she's been married for 18 years.  Her relationship with her second husband can be summed up in this sentence:  My niece asked if her stepfather could adopt her so they could all have the same name . . . and the stepfather agreed.

When her job at the municipal bond firm ended, she partnered with her husband in their business.  (She had a good role model; my parents worked together running a day care center for many years.)  They stay busy, meeting the challenges of satisfying their customers. 

She's been the one that my parents have relied on when they've needed help.  When my father got sick with ALS, she was the one who came and mowed the lawn, who did what needed to be done and what my mother couldn't do. 

When my mother's health began to decline, she was the one that took charge of her care.  I don't think it ever occurred to her not to advocate for our mother.  After all, Mom raised us.  How could my sister not do the same? 

She kept me informed, and she made the difficult decisions that had to be made along the way.  I had no doubt that she would do the right thing where Mom was concerned; and when the time came to carry out Mom's final wishes, she did it. 

The road has not been easy for my sister, and I don't think I appreciate that as much as I should.  It's too easy for me to still see her as "bossy older sister", and to immobilize her in concrete, rather than appreciate that she's an adult with a good head on her shoulders and who knows how to take care of the people and circumstances around her. 

So, if you have a niece or nephew, and one day you see a Mother's Day tribute to them, and you wonder, "are we talking about the same person here?" you have a few choices.

Maybe it's true that your sibling really is the bossy, bratty sibling that you grew up with. 

Or maybe, just maybe -- as in my case -- your niece or nephew just might be right!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Monday, August 6, 2018

Sit, Christian, sit!

Some time back, a Facebook friend of mine, Bobby Valentine, wrote a Facebook post about the concept of "precision obedience".  The concept goes something like this:  God has precise requirements and he expects us to obey them precisely.  Or, God wants us to do exactly what he says exactly the way he says it.

This got my attention.  I'm a Christian, and I want to obey God.  What Christian doesn't?  Wouldn't it be good to "precisely" obey God?

So I did a trusty Google search of the phrase, "precision obedience".

Know what else came up in my search, besides articles on the teaching of "precision obedience"?

Dog training.

Yes, this doctrine, that we are supposed to do "exactly" what God says "exactly" the way he says it, apparently is on the same level as teaching Rover, Fido, and Spot how to sit, stand, heel, lie down, roll over, and play dead!

Does this mean that we have to do "exactly" what God says "exactly" the way he says it and be rewarded with the spiritual equivalent of a doggy treat?

Look, I get that God calls us to obey him.  Jesus himself said, "If you love me, you will obey my commandments."  We are called to obedience and we are called to a particular standard of living, a particular "code of conduct", if you will, as Christians. 

But here's my problem with the whole concept of "precision obedience".

One, it's not possible.  No one can "precisely obey" anything.  I found it interesting that this article about "precision obedience" appealed to the book of Deuteronomy -- the "second giving" of the Jewish law -- to support the argument that yes, we are called to "precisely obey" what God says.  Apparently the writer forgot that the purpose of the law was to lead us to Christ, and now that faith has come, we are no longer under the supervision of the law (Galatians 3:25).

Two, how do you quantify "precision obedience"?  Jesus himself said that the two greatest commandments are to love God and love your neighbor as yourself.  (Matthew 22:36-40, Mark 12:31, Luke 10:27.)  How do you measure love?  How do you "precisely obey" the command to "love your neighbor as yourself"?  Is there a standard that you can point to that says, you "precisely" obeyed the command to love?

Three, and this is my biggest problem with this entire concept:

Who decides?

Who decides what "precision obedience" is?  And do not tell me, "God decides," because there are plenty of places that he doesn't give us precise guidelines of what to do.  He tells us to "love our neighbor".  He doesn't tell us exactly how to do it.  He tells us to "forgive as the Lord forgave you".  He doesn't give us a formula of how to forgive.  (Believe me, I wish he had!)

Are you not "precisely obeying" if you drop off your church contribution at the office on Friday instead of putting it in the offering plate on Sunday?  Or, if you do your contribution by direct deposit instead of putting in the offering plate? 

If you do Sunday School first and then worship service, are you "precisely obeying"?

What about if you use an overhead projector instead of hymnbooks?

What if you use multiple cups for communion instead of one?  Or pass a plate that has BOTH the bread and the grape juice on it, instead of passing a plate with bread and then passing a plate with juice cups?

And don't get me started on instrumental music.  (For those who comment that the early church didn't use instruments, the early church also didn't use four-part harmony.  If we REALLY want to do things the way the first century did, we'd be singing in something similar to Gregorian chant!)

Although the desire to find out what God wants us to do and to do it is right--and we should find out what God wants us to do and then do it!--this whole concept of "precision obedience" is nothing more than salvation by law-keeping.  Paul wrote an entire book, the book of Galatians, on the fallacy of salvation by the law.  And James wrote that anyone who keeps the whole law but stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. (James 2:10)  Peter, in the book of Acts, refers to law-keeping as a yoke that neither they nor their ancestors were able to bear (Acts 15:10). 

"Precision obedience" puts a believer, metaphorically speaking, on a tightrope walking over Niagara Falls.  One slip, and they're doomed!  They will fall into the bubbling waters of Lake Ontario, and the Maid of the Mist will probably not be there to catch them. 

This whole idea of "precision obedience" reminds me of the very end of Family Ties, although I'd probably change it to the following:

"Sit, Christian, sit!"

"Good dog."

Woof!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Monday, July 23, 2018

Ninety years . . . And that's the truth!

I've been off social media for a while, partly to regain my sanity and partly to enjoy a Florida vacation with my family.  One of the events I was honored to attend was my mother in law's 90th birthday party.

My mother in law does not welcome people into her family.

She adopts them.

I am blessed to have a mother in law to whom mother in law jokes do not apply.  I first met her in 1991, along with her husband and one of her sons, and the first thing she did was give me a hug.  She later wrote me a letter telling me that I was a "wonderful girl".

During my visit last week, I noticed that it was the anniversary of when Apollo 11 went into orbit around the moon, preparing for the moon landing.  One of my sisters in law asked, what did we think was the defining moment of the 20th century?

Alice, my mother in law, responded with, the death of my father.

Alice lost her father when she was 15.  He had a heart condition that eventually killed him.  He left behind a wife and four children.  Alice was the oldest.

The death of a parent, no matter how old you are, alters your world forever.  I think in Alice's case, it spurred her to be self-sufficient and to take charge.

Later, she became a military wife.  She married a man who was career Air Force, part of the "greatest generation" who served in the Second World War.  When you're a military wife, you have to be organized and ready to go at a moment's notice, and you learn how to be flexible and work around military orders.

They had six kids.  I'm not sure, but I think each of them may have been born in a different part of the country.  I do know that my husband was born in Massachusetts, one of his brothers was born in South Dakota, and one of his sisters was born in Minnesota.  Among other places, they've lived in Massachusetts, the Philippines, South Dakota, Minnesota, Hawaii, and Montana.  When Alice's husband retired from the Air Force, they moved to Florida.

Alice went to work at a bank, eventually becoming a loan officer.

Currently, she makes coffee at her church, participates in a Bible study, and volunteers at the local hospital's HealthPlex.  Some years ago, she had a seizure and was put in the hospital (she had low magnesium levels) and when I talked to her on the phone, her main complaint was that it was an interruption in a busy week for her.  I am convinced that if she's ever forced to be inactive, that will be what kills her.

Last Sunday was her 90th birthday, and what she wanted was her family.  So she got her family.  She also got a celebration at her church which she called "90 years of God's blessings".

People got a chance to stand up and talk about Alice and what she meant to them.  She was honored as a servant of God and someone who was a good friend and faithful worker.  I told her in private that I was grateful for a mother in law like her.

But here's what I liked the most:

Everything people said about her was the truth.

You've heard the saying, live in such a way that the preacher won't have to lie at your funeral?  Well, I guess you can also say, live in such a way that you can have a 90th birthday and people will tell the truth about how you have lived your life.  

It is refreshing to hear tributes to someone that you know are honest tributes.

So, happy birthday, dear Alice; and I hope there will be many more.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Day 12 of prayer . . .

Dear God,

I Corinthians 13:4 also says that love is kind.

Donald Trump does not come across as a kind person.  Perhaps, as a businessman and later a politician, he has learned, or been taught, that kindness sets you up to be taken advantage of, exploited, and walked on.  Kindness perhaps is equal to weakness, and one cannot afford to be weak in the world he lives in.

God, change his mind and his heart.

Please send him people who will show him what true kindness is, that it is a mark of strength. 

Give him an example of how a president and politician can be kind both in public and private life, how he can be kind to those he interacts with in public--such as Congressmen and heads of state--and how he can be kind to his family in private; to Melania, to Barron, to his children and grandchildren.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Day 11 of prayer

Dear God,

I Corinthians 13:4 tells us that "love is patient".

Donald Trump probably knows "love" as a way to manipulate and to be manipulated.  Please help him to know that true love only comes from you.

True love is patient.  True love knows the value of waiting, and waiting calmly, instead of demanding what they want, right now.  True love knows that people are not perfect, and that they will make mistakes.  True love does not demand that people live up to an image.

Please give Donald Trump the patience that only can come from you.  Please transform his hear with that patience.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Friday, June 29, 2018

Day 10 of prayer

Dear God,

You say in Matthew 5:10 that those who are persecuted because of righteousness are blessed, because theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Donald Trump has claimed persecution because of his beliefs and his actions as President.  I don't know if he has ever been persecuted because of righteousness before.

Please help him to understand that those who disagree with his beliefs or his actions may not be guilty of persecution.

Please help him to understand and perceive what true persecution because of righteousness is.

Help him to find true righteousness.

If he is persecuted, may it be because of true righteousness.

Where he is persecuted due to true righteousness, please be his defender.

If he is simply being disagreed with, give him the wisdom to see that disagreement is not always persecution.

And please help him desire not the kingdom that is on earth, but the one that is in heaven, for those persecuted for the sake of righteousness will inherit it.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Thursday, June 28, 2018

Day 9 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 5:9 says, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God."

In Donald Trump's world, peace is a foreign concept.  Peace is usually achieved by getting the upper hand and using trickery to do so.

Please help Donald Trump to learn what a true peacemaker is.  Help him to learn that peace--true peace--is a fruit of your Holy Spirit.  Help him to search for you and your peace so that he can be a child of yours.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Day 8 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 5:8 says that the pure in heart are blessed, for they will see God.

I don't know how "pure in heart" Donald Trump is.  He may not be pure in heart at all.  The world he grew up in and the circles he's been involved in over his life are not conducive to someone being pure in heart.  In fact, they are more conducive to being deceitful.  Deceit and trickery are much more common in his world and among his cohorts.

Help Donald Trump to desire purity of heart.  Bring people to him that will kindle in him a desire for a pure heart.  Show him that there is another way to live, a way that promises him that he will see you.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Day 7 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 7:7 says that those who are merciful are blessed, because they will be shown mercy.

Please help Donald Trump learn what mercy is.
Please help him to learn to show that mercy to other people.
In the world he is from, and the world he now inhabits, mercy is seen as an act of weakness and of weak people, and it is meant to be exploited and used against people.
You, God, believe in showing mercy and ask us to be merciful.
Please help Donald Trump to do the same.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Monday, June 25, 2018

Day 6 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 5:6 tells us that those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be blessed, because they will be filled.

Please give Donald Trump a hunger and thirst for righteousness--not just for "being right" in the positions he holds, but a hunger and a thirst for being right before God; being humble before God and having a desire to know what God wants him to do. 

Help him to realize that when he does this, God will fill him. 

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Day 5 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 5:5 tells us that it is the meek that are blessed, for they will inherit the earth.

It is not those who have power and wield it who will inherit the earth.  Rather, it is the humble and gentle, those who understand that those who recognize their poverty before God, those that mourn over their sin and shortcomings and who turn to God for their comfort, who realize that they are nothing with God, who will inherit the earth.

Give Donald Trump humility and gentleness.  He is in a position where power is worshiped, where power is wielded like a club.  He knows well how to play the games of power.

Please work in his heart to give him humility and meekness.  Help him to realize that, even though "meek" may rhyme with "weak", meekness is not weakness.  Meekness does not mean being a doormat.  Rather, it is realizing that in and of yourself, you do not have what you need to conquer sin and to live righteously.

Please work in Donald Trump's life to give him meekness.

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

Day 4 of prayer

Dear God,

Matthew 5:4 says that those who mourn are blessed, for they will be comforted.

Help Donald Trump to truly mourn -- over his own sins and over the state the country is in right now.

I don't ask that he merely wail and complain.  I ask that he mourn, that he feel deep grief and sorrow that will motivate him to wise action. 

Help him to realize that as he does this, you will give him the comfort he needs, whether it be from other people or supernaturally from you.

I ask this in the name of Jesus  Amen.

Just my. 04, adjusted for inflation.

Friday, June 22, 2018

Day 3 of prayer

Dear God,

In Matthew 5:3, at the beginning of the Beatitudes, you told your disciples that the one who is poor in spirit is blessed. 

Please help Donald Trump recognize his poverty of spirit apart from you. 

Please help him see that it is those who are poor in spirit, who recognize their need, that are truly blessed.

Help him to desire the kingdom of heaven and not the kingdom of this world.

I ask this in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Day 2 of prayer

Dear God,

In 1 Kings 3, you appeared to King Solomon in a dream and told him, ask me for anything and I will give it to you.

Solomon asked for wisdom.

Please give Donald Trump the heart to ask for wisdom from you.  He desperately needs it because he leads our country and what he decides will have consequences that echo down through generations.

James 1:5 says that if anyone lacks wisdom, they should ask God, who gives freely without finding fault, and it will be given to them.

Please help Donald Trump realize this verse and ask you for wisdom.

In 2 Samuel 12, the prophet Nathan came to King David and confronted him about his sin with Bathsheba.

I don't know, dear God, if Donald Trump has a Nathan in his life, one who will tell him the truth without flinching.  If Trump does not, please send him one.  If Trump has a Nathan, please give that Nathan the courage to tell Trump the truth and please give Donald Trump the heart to listen to him.

If a decision Trump has made is a good decision, and he knows it, help him not to back down in spite of any opposition.

If a decision Trump has made is a poor decision, please give him the wisdom to admit it and to say that he was wrong.

Please also give him not only one Nathan, but many Nathans who will tell him the truth.

I ask this in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Repenting of hate

On Facebook, I have a web page where I post my musings about current events.

Last Friday, I posted that I hated Donald Trump.

I was wrong.

Although it's not a sin to examine his policies and actions and point out where you think he's wrong and where you think he's making serious mistakes  . . . it is a sin to hate the man.  One can critique actions and point out sin without falling into the trap of hate.  Or, like a friend of mine said, going down the road of hate.

I'm very angry and very frustrated about certain current events, and I dislike how some are using those events to divide us further and stir up discord.  The Bible has very harsh words for people who store up discord among people.  (See Proverbs 6:19, among others.).

The Bible is also very clear that we are to love one another (John 13:34-35.). I believe that includes Donald Trump as well.  The parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10 follows Jesus' declaration that all the law and the prophets hang on the commands to love God and love your neighbor as yourself. When Jesus was asked, "Who is my neighbor?" Jesus responded with a story about a man who was of a group despised by the Jews that did good to a Jew.

Paul, in I Timothy 2, tells Timothy that prayers and petitions should be made for those in authority. The main person in authority at that time was the Roman emperor, a man considered Lord and, at the least, not a friend to Christians. 

So for the next 30 days, I am gonig to do just that. 

I'm going to post a prayer a day for Donald Trump. 

Would you like to join me?  If you would, I'd love your company. 

Today's prayer:

Dear God:

I was wrong when I said I hated Donald Trump.  I do not want to go down the road of hate.  I am sorry, and I ask for your forgiveness.

Today I pray for the protection of Donald Trump, his wife Melania, their son Barron, and Donald Trump's other children, Donald Jr., Ivanka, Eric, and Tiffany.  May those who seek to do them harm be stopped.  May those who protect them be alert at all times to keep them safe.  May President Trump and his family cooperate with those who protect them.  Help President Trump and his family to also be alert to those who wish to harm them without being paranoid and overly suspicious. 

I ask this in the name of Jesus.  Amen.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

Friday, June 8, 2018

The illness that may kill

I don't know when I first formulated the thought, "I want to die," but I've had that thought more often than I'd like to admit.

In fact, I had that thought a week ago this past Tuesday, on May 29th.

I felt horrible.  I went about my daily activities, dropped my son off at Bible study, and then drove down to the library down the street and wrote in my journal about how bad I felt and how tempting it was to die.  If someone were to pick up my journal and read that entry, they can be forgiven for believing that I acted on those feelings.

Obviously, I didn't act on it.  I wrote about it, then picked up Matthew and went home. 

I have an illness called depression.  I've had it for many years.  I suspect I may have had it since I was a teenager.  There's many circumstances in my life that I think brought it on; dealing with bullies, dealing with spiritual abuse, dealing with health problems, dealing with autism.  Any one of those would be enough to bring on depression; all of those are enough to overwhelm anyone.  I see a counselor regularly and I told her yesterday that given all I'm dealing with, I'm surprised I'm not more screwed up than I am. :-)  (I also take meds regularly.)

I also suspect that some of my depressive feelings may come from my hormones.  I use a hormone cream and a hormone patch and change them every Tuesday and Saturday.  The Tuesday I felt so horrible, I went home, changed the patch, used the cream, and went to bed.  The next morning, I woke up and felt much better.  I'm due for a meds check soon, and this is a question I plan to ask my GYN, about a link between depression and hormones.

Two of my reasons for living are named Matthew and Frank.  Thinking about them keeps me reasonably sane.  And I have people who would miss me if I were gone. 

I'm thinking about all of this in the wake of two celebrity suicides this week, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain. 

Kate Spade was a famous designer, known for handbags and other things.  Anthony Bourdain was a chef with a show on CNN who traveled the world.  People loved what they produced.  People wanted to be them.  How ironic that, apparently, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain didn't even want to be.
Did they have depressive illness, as I and millions of other Americans do?  And if they did, did they somehow feel that they couldn't say, "I am depressed," "I have depression"?  Did they fear that, if they expressed that feeling, they'd just hear, "Why are you depressed?  You're wealthy.  People love you.  You have everything to live for!" 

Logic and rationality don't always work on someone who has depression.  Sometimes the illness is all-consuming.  It is chronic and debilitating for millions of people.  Meds keep it at bay, coping skills keep it at bay.  But sometimes, sometimes, the meds, the coping skills, the need others have for you . . . it just may not be enough. 

Depression is a fatal illness in some cases.  It is an illness that kills.

I don't necessarily subscribe to the belief that "suicide is a sin" and that people who kill themselves automatically go to hell.  I believe God is gracious enough to understand that at times, people do do it in a moment of weakness.  People often do it when they see no way out, when the circumstances and problems just seem insurmountable.  It looks and sounds easy.  Usually, my thoughts of "I want to die" aren't "I want to die."  They are, "I want out.  Life is hard and I'm tired.  I want out."  Realizing this gives me strength to keep on going.  And writing this, I realize that those signals might also be saying, you're trying to do too much.  Take a break and cut yourself a little slack.

For those of you who are Christians, even faith isn't enough at times to keep suicide or suicidal thoughts at bay.  Nearly nine years ago, a member of our youth group killed herself.  My own preacher has shared in a few sermons about his struggle with depression.  A close friend of mine, who is also a Christian, deals with depression and is on medication for it.

(Some time back, a person on a Facebook group I'm part of asserted that faith in Christ would heal depression.  When I pointed out that I was a Christian, and I still struggled with depression and even took meds for it, I was told, "Then you're not a Christian."  For the love of all things holy, please do not do this to people.  Please.  I believe God can heal and sometimes He does do so miraculously.  But most of the time, He chooses to heal through people with medical skill and with drugs that those people know how to use properly.  People of faith already feel shamed enough by having depression in the first place.  They do not need to be shamed by other people of faith.  To the person that told me I wasn't a Christian, I said, I find it interesting that you can judge my relationship with Christ from one post.)

Today, my Facebook feed is flooded with articles on suicide, how to tell if someone might be suicidal, where to get help if you or someone you love is suicidal. 

One thing to keep in mind is that the depression that can lead to suicide is an illness, an illness that can kill, and that like any illness, it needs to be treated.  Maybe by meds, maybe by some changes in circumstances, maybe by learning some good coping skills, maybe by a combination of things. 

The Kate Spades, the Anthony Bourdains, the Tina Sewards of this world deal with this illness.  For Kate and Anthony, they've left behind the legacy of what happens when this illness kills. 

For the rest of the Kates, the Anthonys, and Tinas, let's leave behind a legacy of what can happen when we seek help. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Rawness, passion, and terror

(This is a somewhat rewritten version of a post I originally wrote back in January.  I'm revisiting this subject because today is the 50th anniversary of Bobby Kennedy's shooting.)

This man is your man

This man is our man
From California
To the New York island

From the redwood forests
To the Gulf Stream waters
This man is Robert Kennedy.

You can hear the raw passion in their voices on this audio, recorded on the night of  June 5, 1968.  (The audio is from the Pacifica Radio Archives and is posted on David Von Pein's YouTube channel.  DVP has hundreds of hours of JFK and RFK-era video and audio posted; I recommend him highly.)

They are exuberant and idealistic.

Their man, Robert Kennedy, is ahead in the California primary, a "winner-take-all" state as far as delegates are concerned.  Later, ABC newscaster Frank Reynolds would comment, there's nothing like an election night when everything is going your way.

The audio goes from singing to the chant of, "Sock it to 'em, Bobby!"

Eight minutes and thirty-one seconds into the audio, their hero enters to an ovation of shouting and the rousing cheers of, "We want Kennedy!  We want Kennedy!"

The first person he mentions is Don Drysdale, the Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher who'd pitched his sixth straight shutout that evening; Kennedy hoped they'd have as good fortune in their campaign.

He ran through a list of people he wanted to thank, including his dog, Freckles . . . and right afterwards -- after explaining that it wasn't in order of important -- his wife, Ethel.

At one point, while thanking the people who worked on the campaign, a young woman's voice yells back, "It was worth it!"

Tapping into the frustration people felt over rising violence and the war in Vietnam, he stressed that people wanted a change.  (Forty years later, another candidate would tap into similar frustration within the United States.)  

He finished his speech declaring that yes, Americans could work together; that we were a great country, an unselfish country, a compassionate country.

The speech ends with the triumphant words, "and now it's on to Chicago and let's win there."  Then, with a thumbs-up to the crowd and a flash of the two-fingered peace sign, he turns away from the podium while the crowd chants, "We want Bobby!"

Less than five minutes later, the screaming starts.

It's not the ovation the crowd gave a victorious candidate.  Rather, it's the screams of terror, panic, and confusion.

A second audio recording, of Andrew West from the Mutual Broadcasting System, also captures the moment:  "Senator Kennedy has been shot, is that possible?" "He still has the gun, the gun is pointed at me right at this moment," "Get the gun, Rafer . . . get his thumb, break it if you have to!"

And of the video coverage from the three major networks, perhaps two clips best illustrate the raw confusion:  1.  A bewildered Terry Drinkwater, CBS reporter, trying to figure out what had just happened (around 15:31 on the clip), and 2. the NBC coverage, about 40 seconds into the tape, showing one of Sirhan Sirhan's shooting victims being carried out of the Ambassador Hotel kitchen.  The NBC reporter speaking insists -- incorrectly -- that Stephen Smith, Robert Kennedy's brother-in-law, had also been shot.

In the first 24 minutes of the CBS video, there were no fewer than 28 pleas for a doctor and no fewer than 36 pleas, requests, and orders to "please clear the room", leave the room, or variations thereof.

These were the moments when panic took over, when terror took over and the raw jubilation of only a few minutes ago turned with fierce suddenness to raw fear.

John Kennedy's assassination also showed how quickly events can turn.  He'd received a warm welcome in Dallas, Texas only to be gunned down by an assassin who took six seconds to fire three shots.  (Oswald acted alone.  Deal with it.)  We saw the panic and terror of the crowds only after the film was developed; we heard the confusion as technicians in master control frantically flipped switches and yelled instructions into headsets offstage.

Five years later, broadcast technology developed to the point where we could see the raw panic, terror and confusion the moment it started happening.

This is life, at it rawest, unedited and unscripted, but captured on film and on audio.

And while the men in the anchor chairs -- Walter Cronkite, Frank Reynolds, Howard K. Smith, Frank McGee, and others -- may have been more polished in their delivery, you can catch their controlled, barely suppressed anger over the event; specifically, the failure of the Congress to pass gun control.

Twenty-six hours later, at 1:44 a.m., Pacific Daylight Time, Robert F. Kennedy died.  About 15 minutes later, his press secretary, Frank Mankiewicz, stepped up to a microphone and made the terse announcement of Kennedy's death.

Perhaps this was the moment that hope in our political system really began to fray, wither, and die. 

Jack Newfield, in his 1969 book Robert Kennedy: A Memoir, ends his book with these words:

Now I realized what makes our generation unique, what defines us apart from those who came before the hopeful winter of 1961, and those who came after the murderous spring of 1968.  We are the first generation that learned from experience, in our innocent twenties, that things were not really getting better, that we shall not overcome.  We felt, by the time we reached thirty, that we had already glimpsed the most compassionate leaders our nation could produce, and they had all been assassinated.  And from this time forward, things would get worse:  our best political leaders were part of memory now, not hope.  

The stone was at the bottom of the hill and we were alone.

Fifty years later, how much has really changed?  Has the raw passion and terror heard and seen that night in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles morphed into a fatalistic depression about the future?

When Henry Jackson, U.S. Senator from Washington (who later ran for President in 1976), learned of Kennedy's shooting, stated, "The world has gone mad."

The world went mad in the early morning of June 5, 1968, there in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel, and fifty years later -- fifty years of violence, of mass shootings, of the murder of school children, fifty years of anger and hate later -- we have yet to regain any semblance of sanity.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The pattern is all too common.

School shooting happens.
We react with shock and horror.
We see the news footage.
We send #thoughtsandprayers.
We debate about the shooter's motives, his (and it is always a he) parents, his friends, was he bullied, was he mentally ill?
We hear the reports of 4chan and InfoWars, "false flag," "crisis actors", "hoax".
And always, always, always, there is the debate about gun control.
And nothing changes.
Until the next shooting.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Max Lucado, pastor and writer, says in this article that "this evil will not last forever".  He means to be comforting and reassuring here, and he is right in that there will be a judgment and that no, evil will not last forever . . . but to be honest, that is not much comfort to the ten families who right now have to decide on a casket or an urn to bury their child in.  Nor is it much comfort to me, because while evil could end in the next 40 seconds, it could also take 40 years or 400 years to end.  In the meantime, I still have to pay the mortgage and put food on the table.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I also despair of finding reliable sources to determine the truth or fiction about anything anymore.  I have been told that I need to "do my own research" which, on the face, is true, but too often, the words "do your own research" means either, "if you do, you'll agree with me; if you don't agree with me, you didn't do your research," or, "I don't have any proof for what I so confidently assert.  Don't confuse me with the facts."

Lather, rinse, repeat.

CNN states that, on average, there has been one school shooting a week so far in 2018.  That all depends on how you define "school shooting".  (For example, a shooting in Seaside, California happened when a gun was accidentally discharged during a safety demonstration and a student was injured.)  But even one is too many, and there has definitely been more than one this year so far.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I had a social media meltdown yesterday after hearing of the shooting at Santa Fe High School.  It wasn't my first meltdown and it probably will not be my last.

It's been 19 years since Columbine, 21 years since Pearl, Mississippi, 20 years since Jonesboro, Arkansas . . . and NOTHING has changed.  NOTHING, except people are angrier.

All of our thoughts, prayers, marches, and advocacy has changed NOTHING.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

How many more people -- how many more children, parents, teachers, law enforcement personnel -- how many more people have to die before we DO SOMETHING???

Or will nothing be done, just like a FB friend expressed last night in despair?

We're three weeks away from the 50th anniversary of the death of Bobby Kennedy, who was also murdered with a gun.  His brother was murdered with a rifle.  In the TV coverage of Bobby Kennedy's murder, both Walter Cronkite and Howard K. Smith commented about the gun control bill that was in Congress at that point. 

What has changed in 50 years?

What has changed in 20 years?

Nothing.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Sunday, May 13, 2018

Mother's Day, twenty years apart

Twenty years ago on Mother's Day, I sat in a church balcony and cried. 

I wanted to be a mother, and I was having problems conceiving.  Earlier that month, I'd taken Clomid in an attempt to help me have a baby.  (One of the side effects was night sweats.)

About three weeks later, I took a pregnancy test and it came up positive.

This Mother's Day, I came to church and found a bouquet of flowers displayed in honor of members' mothers who'd died in the last year.  One of the names mentioned was, "Thelma Sergent, mother of Tina Seward." 

A church member came up to me and said that the first Mother's Day without your mother was always the hardest.  I appreciated her kindness. 

It's interesting how many emotions Mother's Day stirs up.  In the days leading up to Mother's Day, I've seen several reminders about how not everyone remembers their mother fondly.  About how many women want to be mothers but aren't.  About those mothers who have lost children. 

And then, there is the greeting card, gift, and flower industry, ready to shower you with guilt about what you should be doing for your mother on Mother's Day!  I believe Mother's Day is second only to Valentine's Day in terms of flowers delivered, and this week.com article says that in terms of money spent, Mother's Day is third after Christmas and Valentine's Day.

This Mother's Day, I told my husband that all I wanted was chocolate and the day off.  I bought my own chocolate and while I did make lunch for everyone (grilled cheese), I've spent the day relaxing. And my sister and I remembered our own mother.

Twenty years of Mother's Days have run the gamut from crying over what I didn't have to feeling the loss of what I don't have now.  It's part of the circle of life. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.



Monday, April 2, 2018

So, is your toaster listening?

Last night, I got asked if I had a history of schizophrenia or if I'd been hearing voices where I shouldn't be.

After I finished chuckling, I responded with, no, no history there. 

I wrote this blog entry some time back about hearing what I thought was a radio station through my CPAP.  It's just barely loud enough for me to make out something.  I don't know if this is an audio version of a TV test pattern; what I hear is a voice saying/singing "W-A-Y-B, W-C-K-G, W-O-I-C, W-O-I-hear, W-O-I-smell, W-O-I-taste, W-O-I-touch," and then back to, "W-A-Y-B . . ." 

The person who asked me about hearing voices explained that they were in the mental health field and often had to ask that question.  They then said, it's hard to tell people that your toaster isn't listening to you without them getting offended.

I understood. 

It then occurred to me that in this day and age of Alexa and Google Home, there could actually come a day when your toaster could very well BE listening to you!  I can just see it now:  "Alexa, make my toast."  "Unthaw my bread."  "Unthaw my waffle."  (Alexa's response after that last job is done:  "Hey!  Leggo my Eggo!")

(Note:  I don't intend to make fun of people who do have schizophrenia or other mental illness.  Mental illness is no laughing matter.  I deal with depression and OCD, and neither of them are funny.  I do, however, use humor to deal with both conditions.)

So, it's back to doing a little bit of research on how, if at all, a CPAP can pick up voices or radio waves. 

In the meantime, I'll keep an eye--er, ear out for any signs that my toaster is listening.

And if the day the comes when I need to replace the toaster and it says, "I'm sorry, Tina, I can't let you do that," I will know my goose is cooked--er, toasted.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Friday, March 23, 2018

Worth more than our mistakes . . .

I recently heard a story that ties in with a devotional book that I'm reading right now.

Several years ago, a family experienced the death of their husband/father.  Afterwards, while going through the man's belonging, the family found, not just one, but several copies of Francine Rivers' novel Redeeming Love.

The family laughed at first.  Redeeming Love?  Seriously?  That's something a woman would read.  Why in the world would our father/husband have even one copy of Redeeming Love, let alone several?

They stopped laughing when they heard what Paul Harvey would call "the rest of the story".

Many years ago, this husband's wife had an affair.  Several people encouraged the husband to leave her.  After all, isn't adultery grounds for divorce?  

He didn't leave.  Instead, he and his wife reconciled, and they spent many years together before his death. 

During this period of time, the husband discovered Francine Rivers' Redeeming Love.

Redeeming Love is a retelling of the Biblical story of Hosea.  In the Bible, Hosea is a prophet, living around 750 B.C., who is told by God to go and marry an adulterous woman.  So he goes and marries a woman named Gomer.  Some scholars believe that she was a prostitute. 

Why did God tell Hosea to marry a prostitute?  To illustrate the relationship that Israel had with God--that of an adulterous wife who'd left the husband who loved her . . . and to illustrate the God who still loved Israel and who desired a relationship with her, even though she had wandered away from him and was serving other gods.

Instead of Israel in 750 B.C., Redeeming Love is set in 1850's California, and tells the story of Angel, a prostitute, and Michael Hosea, the man told by God to marry her.  The book follows their relationship; Angel, cold and hardened from her time as a prostitute; and Michael, determined to love her no matter what. 

Francine Rivers wrote this book after her conversion to Christianity, calling it her "statement of faith".  She'd been a romance writer before she became a Christian.  After her conversion, she turned her talents towards Christian fiction.  (Side note:  I have read Redeeming Love and another book of hers, The Atonement Child.  I recommend them both highly.)

Why did this husband/father have multiple copies of a romance novel, albeit a Christian romance novel?

His reasoning:   He wanted his wife to know that she was worth more than the mistakes she had made.

Isn't that the message of the Gospel, illustrated by the book of Hosea?  That we are worth more than our mistakes?  That we are worth more than our sin?  That God, in the person of Jesus--just like Hosea the prophet, just like Michael Hosea in Redeeming Love--believes that we are worth more than the mistakes we make, than the sins we have committed? 

This is the same God that cries out, in Hosea 11:8, How can I give you up?  How can I hand you over? to an Israel that has turned away from Him. 

The husband in the story I heard about couldn't turn away his wife.  In the end, his love won her over.  He saw beyond her unfaithfulness, just as God sees beyond our sin.  He saw her worth and value as God's child, just as God sees our worth and value as His children.

Because it is not our mistakes that determine our ultimate value.

That is the message of God, of Hosea, of Redeeming Love, and of this husband to this wife.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.