Charlie Kirk

 In 2005, my brother and I traveled chaotically through Europe. We had no plan and very little money.

We were not sure what to expect out of Taize. Taize is a religious community in France. We were advised to stop there, but we didn't really know what it was. It was amazing. People from all over the world came to be together and to pray together. To work together and to sing together. 

Generally, people come for a week. Upon arrival, you are assigned a job. The jobs are just the jobs which need to be done. My job was washing dishes.

Meals are together. There are multiple prayer times through the day. There is time to socialize. 

Everyone sings. Hundreds of people from all over the world. It's hard to explain the emotional impact. The songs are simple. Generally, just one line repeated. Each song was printed in the shared songbooks in a dozen languages. The first time you sing the line through, you're likely to stumble through the words. Even if you know a few languages, chances are good you won't know the language. The translation is in front of you, but pronunciation first. By the fourth or fifth repetition, everyone is getting the words. Everyone knows the melody. Everyone knows what the words mean. Spontaneous harmonies are happening all over the room. The music is big and growing. As it grows, it grows more beautiful. The music reaches up into the air and deep into your soul. Rich and personal meditations twisting into the world to tangle and knot and transform this shared prayer. Ineffably beautiful. 

When Paul and I were there, we were the only Americans. We met a lot of people who just wanted to meet Americans. It was humbling and fascinating and often funny. Where do we keep our helicopters? 

One person introduced himself with a smile and asked for a hug. I don't know what we expected, but not what actually happened. He worked to communicate in English. Sober. Kind. Smiling. One word at a time. He said, 

"I am Kosovo. Your country bombed my country but I love you." 

And he meant it. He saw people. Not representatives of a wealthy country which he had every reason to hate. Just two people. We had worked and prayed and sang together. It didn't undo the harm he'd suffered. Still, he chose love. 

Hate is hungry. The more you feed it, the more it demands. Hate is an insidious blob monster which respects no boundaries. Hate is destructive. 

It isn't powerful in itself. The power of hate is entirely a numbers game. Hate smashes bridges and builds walls, but only with a lot of people hating.

Unfortunately, right now, there is a lot of hate. 

Charlie Kirk. I didn't know him, but what I knew I didn't like. That thing he said about gun violence? Yeah, he really said that. And he said it during a an event which was ostensibly about faith. As a Christian, I'm mortified. Horrified. Livid. 

I'm not homicidal. 

It isn't actually very complicated. I don't think I understand the balancing act. Why do I feel like I have to preface an anti-murder position with an explanation? If being liberal or left wing or Democrat or in the resistance or anti-MAGA or whatever means I can't be anti-murder then I'll turn in all my cards. 

Pain capability: not just for the unborn

The whole Catholic internet wants to talk about abortion again.

This time, you see, the politicians decided to put up a bill which they knew wouldn't pass. Why would they do that? I make a terrible cynic, being hopelessly optimistic and naive, as I'm told. But I don't think this one is confusing. I think the powers that be are perfectly aware that the CLE people, the New Wave Feminists, etc., are moving and shaking. You don't have to be a republican to oppose abortion. You don't have to vote Republican if you are Republican. Decades of lies and impotence. Can you? Will you? Can you? Will you? Can you? Will you? The Republicans have control. They've thrown a few tokens to the anti-abortion base, but they haven't made it a priority. In fact, the Planned Parenthood thing? They have not tried even once to defund. That was such a loud issue in these circles! Where are they now? How many times has it come to vote?

They need to make sure that all these dependable voters stay in the boat. Even seeing that the captain is crazy and there are storms ahead. How do you keep them in? Abortion. A little louder: PAIN CAPABLE LATE TERM ABORTION. Ha. Try to wiggle out now!

Let's talk about what we're talking about, not the politics of it. Late term abortion is easier to despise. People who are uncomfortable pitting female autonomy against that mulberry-looking thing which you can't see at all without a microscope? People who can't bring themselves to value the life of an unidentifiable blob, not yet capable of sentience, never mind pain? Those people might well oppose the unnecessary extraction and death of a fragile but very clearly human child. With reflexes- like the newborn thing where they grab your finger? Flinching? Responding to music. Recognizing voices. Somewhere along the line the mulberry becomes a baby. Everyone thinks so. The difficulty is trying to decide when.

Those of us who oppose all abortion are pretty sure there is no magic line. The beginning is the beginning. Development happens with all kinds of exciting milestones, but we insist that a person's value is not in any of these milestones. Moving? Thinking? Dancing? Being cute? All fascinating. None imbue essential value. The value is in the person, unique and ever changing. Race. Ability. Gender. Age. All important, but the value is in the person. Right from the beginning. And the beginning is conception.

But this other view, it's not hard to grasp, right? Somewhere along the line, a lump of cells with enormous potential is realized in actuality. And while we can't easily point to a precise moment, we can get a pretty good picture. Like calculus? Converging infinity to a limit? Is that a useful image or just a distraction?

The point is this: Late term abortion, though only a very small percentage of abortions, finds vast sympathetic opposition where abortion generally cannot. That makes it very powerful political weaponry.

Who could possibly oppose banning pain-capable abortion? Why wouldn't the thing pass?

Eugenics. That has to be on the list. The simple fact is that some people think that babies who are other than "perfect" (don't get me started) shouldn't be born. I've got nothing to say for them. No defense. I've tried. They should shut up. Or, better, say what they mean and be denounced for their ableism.

Is that it? I read four articles on the subject yesterday. Two from each perspective. I followed the links to what actual people were saying, not just the reporting.

Some very reasonable people were concerned about exemptions. What if the mother's life was on the line? Shouldn't that choice be hers? What if the baby could not survive outside the womb? They said that the bill did not have sufficient exemptions.

Some read stories from women explaining their choice. These are heart-rending, if you've never read them.

Some rejected the basis. Abortion being the hot political topic that it is, there's a good deal of conflicted science. If you're not a scientist or doctor, who do you believe and how to you evaluate? According to pro-choice doctors, the neural network required to experience pain simply doesn't exist yet. That is, this pain capable ban? It's banning abortion far too early for pain capability.

Some pointed to numbers. Did you know, for instance, that restrictions in Texas caused clinics to close and wait times to increase. Your average anti-abortion activist might cheer for that, but wait! There's more! Because of the wait times, late term abortion went up. I'd have to look to know if abortion overall went down, but this harder, scarier, riskier, and less socially acceptable procedure? It went up.

I'm troubled by the primary focus on political solutions here. Abortion opponents, among whom I count myself, stand to do a lot of harm. Right now there are, popularly circulating, lists of senators who voted the ban down. Catholics are calling for Catholic senators named to be refused communion. Bishops who won't issue blanket condemnation are receiving accusations of weakness and much worse.

Worse, every time this comes up, there's this delightful rhetoric. Murderers. Mothers of dead babies- spoken with spite not sympathy. Doctor death. Etc..

We're talking about a very small percentage. I don't recall the numbers, but it isn't huge. That makes anecdote powerful. Did you read the story about the woman who wanted a baby and thrilled when she found she was pregnant? She did everything right. The early testing showed some abnormalities, but she didn't care. She was not going to love her child less for having disabilities. Now, monitored more closely, the doctors got more concerned. When the organs developed they saw: this wasn't something surgery could fix. This child was going to die and the only question was how much pain? Heartbroken, the mother decided that termination was the right thing. She said that carrying the child to term just so she could have a clear conscience would be putting herself ahead of her child. Disagree, if you like, but hear her. She, like every good mother, put her child ahead of herself. Her abortion would have been banned by this law, had it passed. She named her baby. She was devasted. Now, she is called a murderer. Did you hear about her? I guarantee the senators did. And all the pro-choice advocates did.

I think, more than nuance, I'm disgusted by the lack of empathy. Who is having these late term abortions? Why? Let's work harder to see people. Hear them. Empathize and help. More love. Less judgement. Maybe those senators voted down the ban because they secretly love abortion. But maybe it's more likely that they believe what they are saying. That they find the ban to be political gamesmanship which will hurt more than it helps.

I promise, you can oppose abortion without name-calling, demonization, and lies.

Don't pick the red.

I hate response pieces. I wrote this one anyway.

Crisis published Ruse criticizing the NPLM, CLE, and the seamless garment.

First of all let's just get it out of the way, "pick the red, pick the red, pick the red," isn't a liberal refrain that I've ever heard.

Seriously though, the author seems not to understand the seamless garment. People are often afraid of things which they don't understand, and they invent enemies. Let's try to alleviate some fear.

The seamless garment argument is, simply, that even if you prioritize some issues over others (which of course you must) you cannot isolate the issues from their foundation.

I used to go to "pro-life" conferences and talks. They would talk about life: from conception until natural death. Abortion was the top issue, but you were going to learn about euthanasia too. And abortion related issues. Fetal stem cell research? In vitro? And from abortion it isn't too much of a jump to contraception- anyone in the room can explain how increasing contraception increases abortion. And from contraception, well, let's talk about sexual morality. Would you like to read a pornographic description of the unthinkable things gay people do? And while we're on it, pornography is really bad. Really.

As a teen I struggled to wrap my head around these things, each in their place but also tied together. The theme was nominally life. Why were we talking about gay sex? Or from a different perspective: why weren't we talking about war?

Euthanasia struck many as the odd issue. It's harder. If a very sick and dying person doesn't want medical attention which will slow down but not stop death? Who are we to say no? If that person only wants pain relief? That seems fine. If they want pain relief and a blurry brain so they're not afraid of the terrifying fact of impending death? If they want it to be over? It's easy to get there and many people at these conferences did. Euthanasia was a badly fitting puzzle piece. It confused the picture.

When you take away that one confusing piece? All the sudden you have a clear picture! Now we're know what we're talking about! We're talking about SEX. Sex! Sex! Sex! SexxXXXXXxX!! You have no idea how depraved those people are!

It wasn't just conferences. Lobby nights. Protests. The huge annual March for Life. Sex issues were always there and always clumped together in a category called 'life issues.' A category which included euthanasia, but only in a handful of sound bytes every year.

Sex dominates these talks and protests. Salacious topics. You know that thing Christians sometimes do where they gossip with prayer? "Hey. I've got a prayer request. Joe left his wife for the babysitter. The kids. Oh the kids. It's a really bad situation. Can you pray for them?" It sounds like concern. Sometimes it is concern. But polluted with all the juicy details, it stinks of gossip. The movement often felt like that. "Guys. We really have to pray. Have you heard the latest thing they're doing?" It's really hard to tell genuine concern from gossipy finger pointing. They're both definitely there. Regardless of good or bad intentions, the theme of these "life" events was sex.

That's not quite the derail it sounds. Let's get back to the seamless garment.

The idea is that issues are interconnected. Poverty and war. War and starvation. Healthcare and safety nets. Safety nets and abortion. Abortion and torture. It's not patchwork. If you isolate an issue you cannot comprehend it. You cannot fight it effectively. You cannot even see it.

Imagine your favorite sweater. A puppy jumped on you and now have snags in twenty places, some big, some small. Some obvious, some in the armpit. Can you fix it? If you grab one thread and yank it you will not fix the snag no matter how hard you pull. If you pull too hard, you'll get a hole. It might seem impossible to fix, but it isn't. Patience. Attend carefully to how each thread weaves into the others and gently work them back together. It's not a perfect analogy, obviously. Fixing all the problems, or even any of the problems, that we're talking about is going to take miracles. So, maybe the snags are holes and the threads are broken. You can do repairs, but you need the maker's help? You can make things better. You can make things worse. But you can't fix it alone. (Leave the analogy alone! You're killing it!!)

It's easy and common to abuse the seamless garment argument. Ask anyone who opposes it. Ask Austin Ruse. If all these issues are necessarily connected than all these issues are equivalent. None can be prioritized. Take on every single bad thing all at once, or be quiet you hypocrite. The abuse renders the justice fighter impotent. You cannot fight every battle at once. We're going to need it experts. Specialists. And, uh-oh, I feel another analogy coming on.

If you break your leg you go to an orthopedic doctor and get the bone set. If you have asthma you go to a pulmonologist. But who do you see when you have problems which pull against each other? My daughter needs breathing medications. When she was diagnosed with a heart condition which also needed to be treated with medicine, I noticed that her breathing got worse. It turned out that the breathing medicine and the heart medicine worked on the exact same neuroreceptors and they worked to opposite effect. The specialists had to work together even though the problems seemed completely independent. She's got all these complicated problems which need super-specialized doctors, but you can't treat them independently. The doctors have to work together.

Got it? If you treat abortion in isolation, you'll kill people.

The consistent life ethic, another name for the seamless garment, doesn't equate life issues. It insists that the people leading the charges against each assault on life work together. Understand that abortion isn't the end all be all. Life is. Eyes on the prize. The prize isn't an end to legal abortion; the prize is a culture which values the inherent dignity of life.

Misogyny has no place in the fight. Racism has no place. Religious bigotry. GTFO.

The seamless garment links together life issue which are linked. The objectors link together sex issues and umbrellas them under "millions of babies."

The seamless garment argument allows for prioritizing, but not for isolation. You might be called to fight one specific issue and that's ok. You will meet people and/or arguments which explicitly counter your fundamental cause in defending life, though not the immediate cause. That's not ok.

Case and point: a eugenicist and misogynist took the highest elected office in this country, hailed a "pro-life" hero. Eugenics and misogyny have no place in the fight for the dignity of life.

This isn't the red card street scam. This is Lucy telling Charlie Brown that this time she'll hold the ball still.

Face it; it'll always be too soon

Let's talk about guns. Yes, another shooting. Yes, it's painful. Yes, we have to be careful not to politicize pain. But it's time we faced the facts. This is happening so often now that it didn't dominate social media. Was it trending? Sure. But, at least in my feed, it was not a hot topic. A few people made a few comments. But what is there left to say?

Some simply offered prayers. Being if the mind that prayer is powerful, indeed the most powerful action we can take, I approve these posts. But I hear the objections too. Pray? Damn it. We need to act. We need to do something. How much online piety plays out in real life anyway. Do these promises of prayer pan out? Or are they empty promises? Stroking vanity and pulling heartstrings. Keeping up with the whitewash.

Please do pray. And if you feel like praying on social media is praying together with others, by all means. Pray.

But let's talk too.

This thing happened. This shameful and terrifying thing. This horror which has become commonplace. How did it become commonplace? How did it happen that a shooting like that wouldn't grab the attention of the whole country? How did that happen? We all know what happened, kind of, but we're not talking about it. We're moving on. Our minds and hearts are otherwise occupied. Does that shock you? There was a mass shooting and as a country it's a story, but not the story. Are we so complacent?

Fatigue, maybe. Or helplessness. We don't just know the story, we know the aftermath. We know that before anyone has had time to process the horror, the same fight with the same arguments, the same battle lines and the same talking points will begin. We know that some will decry the barely begun fight. It's too soon. Not now. Don't turn these beloved dead into political pawns. Respect them. Respect their grieving families.

We know the argument and counter-argument, objections and responses. We hear them in our heads right alongside the breaking news.

It's familiar. Mass shooting is familiar. Four words I couldn't have imagined strung together sensibly.

It's time to admit how bad it's gotten. It's time to face the fact that it will always be too soon. However we got to this point, we're here and we have to talk about it.

For an ever growing number, it isn't too soon. It's far too late.

Let's talk.

I wrote about birth control. I had enormous reservations about sharing my story. I was worried that my story would read as permission to ignore true doctrine when it's uncomfortable. 

God doesn't promise comfort. All our favorite saints embrace discomfort. Dying for the church started in scripture and it hasn't stopped yet. That a thing is hard does not, in fact, mean that it's wrong. 

So here's the thing: I think that the teaching is, at it's core, true & eternal. But I also think that it shouldn't be an impediment marriage. That's not the heart of the teaching at all! 

The heart of the thing is that your unique and beautiful self joins with your unique and beautiful spouse in matrimony, forming a unique and beautiful union. That relationship is sacred. Two become one. That's not fussy language, it's a reality. The oneness is physically emphasized in a unique physical relationship. 

You give fully. You receive fully. All of you. All of him. You are one in a very real and completely mind-blowing way. 

If you or he hold back, that changes the thing. It undermines the oneness, whether the holding back is physical or emotional or whatever. You get married and you are fully in. When you aren't you undermine the oneness. 

The two become one and the very interaction between them, their love itself, is creative. That's a uniqueness in the marital relationship. If there are no kids, that doesn't change the uniqueness, which is in potential. But what if the couple actively prevents kids? The prevention itself is a fundamental change to the nature of the relationship. 

The teaching is sound. It's rich and in my opinion very beautiful. But the heart of the thing is a selfless, unitive love which becomes creative. 

I want to tread lightly here, but the question is, what if the procreative function is itself an impediment to the unitive, self-giving, surrender? 

That is hard because our culture wants a complete separation. The culture wants sex and procreation to be entirely separate and that is a fundamental challenge. That idea, if we embrace it, doesn't just make chaste living anachronistic prudery. That idea undermines the nature of the sacrament. Love,  selfless and unitive, becomes. Creates. We participate in Creation though an act of love. We become creators. The physical expression of unity communicated between a husband and wife is a participation in God's speaking being. 

If you can set aside the culture which insists that sex is an impotent carnal delight, and you keep the relationship within the doctrinal comprehension, I think the question is legitimate. So again, what if the procreative function is itself an impediment to the unitive, self-giving, surrender? We have to be careful because people are listening for us to say that the Church was wrong all along. I'm not saying that at all. 

I'm saying that prioritizing the sacrament of marriage over children is theologically sound, though perhaps shocking. I'm saying that the teaching about birth control never was supposed to be an impediment. I'm saying that the spirit of the law is oneness in marriage. The spirit is the law is to protect the sanctity of that holy and precious union. Don't hold back. Give your whole self. Receive. Unity and love. 

And to be very clear: I'm not offering an answer. I don't have one. Separating the unitive function from sex reduces it. We are not test tubes. We are participants in God's beautiful plan for Creation. In fact, I'd argue that it reduces sex in a very similar way to the more often discussed separating of sex and procreation. 

My story is my story, but it isn't as uncommon as you might think. Edited to a few sentences, my story is that my health precludes pregnancy. My treatment involves hormones, among other medications and the other medications also preclude pregnancy. NFP is not a real option for me. Am I supposed to be celibate? 

If you are looking for permission to write off the church there are a lot of places to find that, but this isn't one of them. My intent is to look at the teaching with the same regard as scripture and Creation and every other way God communicates his truth. How does this truth apply to me and my life? What is the truth communicated? 

The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath, right? But let's not make excuses. Let's talk. 

P.S. I have gotten all kinds of responses to my last post. All of them, so far, have been really kind and respectful- even and maybe especially those who disagree. I'm enormously grateful.

Oh. Are we talking about nfp?

When I got married I wanted a million kids. I didn't think I'd want to think about nfp unless I couldn't conceive. I wasn't particularly pro or anti. It's just a tool which some people like and some people need.

I've always been irregular, but again, unless I had difficulty conceiving I didn't think it was important beyond a passing mention in regular gyno visits. (Ok, once when I went for a few months with nothing and then had nearly back to back periods. That seemed worth a special trip to the gyno. But nothing came of it except a note in my medical file.)

My first child was born less than two years after I got married. So, not immediately, but no difficulty.

My second was born when my first was three. My third was born when my second was two.

So, to understand where I am now, you have to understand all of that. Because my second was medically complicated. For four years she was in near constant emergency. I could not turn off. Being psychologically in crisis mode for four years changed my brain chemistry. When she became more stable, I couldn't. My brain couldn't handle not being in crisis. Or something. I have caregiver PTSD. So, I was depressed and anxious. I don't mean sad and scared. I mean I have a debilitating disease which made me incapable of getting out of bed for a few weeks. There were prior incidents, but that was the one which made me face this thing medically. It wasn't until I was in treatment that I realized how bad things had gotten.

Medicine made breathing easier. I could breathe. No weight on my chest. I could sleep; no nightmares about every imaginable horrible thing. I could interact with people. I could answer the phone. No more out of body experiences. I could go on, but suffice it to say, it was dramatic.

So, in treatment, I have several different medications. I have one regular med. I have one which I take when my regular med might need a boost. And I have one to take for breakthrough episodes.

I've been telling myself not to feel guilty about any of these, but I still do.

About once a month, but with quite a bit of flexibility, my anxiety gets really bad. It shouldn't have taken me a year to sort it out, but asking someone who is in a state of panic to figure something out is just not fruitful. When I am suffering from PMS my anxiety and my depression come back. They come back swinging. Hormones going crazy makes mommy go crazy. This is useful information. I cope, currently, by taking my booster med every day starting as soon as I notice and stopping when my period begins.

And what does any of this have to do with NFP? Well. This: None of these meds which I need are safe for pregnancy. None. There are meds which are, but changing medication isn't like swapping a lightbulb. It takes weeks for any new med to begin to work and some just don't work. There is not a better medication than the one I have for breakthrough episodes.

So, maybe I can risk pregnancy anyway? Is that what you're thinking? What's two or three awful weeks?

Let me tell you. I went on an antibiotic several months ago. I didn't stop taking my meds, but I didn't know that they wouldn't absorb as well while I was on antibiotics. So, my brain acted like I stopped. It was awful. Terrifying. Unbelievably. After that incident, I faced the fact that I don't think my body can handle pregnancy. Because, among other things, I've been pregnant before. It was wonderful in all the fanciful ways people discuss, but it's a hormonal nightmare.

A hormonal nightmare exactly when my medication wouldn't be an option. Not the regular. Not the booster. And definitely not the breakthrough treatment.

I thought about nfp. I looked into it. Everyone who loves it talked about resources. Resources which cost time or money or both. I had neither. Get a teacher. Get an app. Get an ovulation kit. Get get get. I wasn't going to. So I tried just reading and learning. The bottom line, for me, was that without significant help, I was very likely to get pregnant due to my irregular cycle. I know. I can hear you objecting. But symptoms. Got it. You know symptoms vary, right? It isn't as obvious for everyone. I tried to know and I couldn't. If you want more details I think you're rude.

So, I talked to my psychiatrist. Changing meds? My doctor really didn't want to do that. We could, but it would be hard. Did I want more babies now? (Will I be damned for answering? Honestly?) I don't want more babies. I want to want them. But I'm completely overwhelmed. Life is hard. Babies are a lot of work and they're physically draining. I want to want them. Oh, I love babies so much. And I love being a mom. And I love my kids. But no. No I don't want more, if the choice is mine. Is the choice mine? Is it a choice?

Isn't there a medical exception for birth control, she asked? She was very respectful of my faith and I was very open with her. There is. Kind of. But it isn't cut and dry.

I could talk to someone, but here's the thing: I already knew what any of the people I might ask would say before I asked. I knew who to ask if I wanted to hear yes and who to ask if I wanted a no. But I didn't know myself!

I prayed. I talked about it with my husband. I racked myself spiritually. I went to my good Catholic doctor. (I didn't know what he'd say. I knew he would give me whatever medical advice I needed, but spiritual stuff?) He didn't duck. He said, "God understands." That's all.

I'm using artificial birth control. I hope it's ok, but I'm sure God understands. We talk about it. We go way back and we're not afraid to scold each other.

Kaepernick is a Hero

This article is excellent. One of the best I've read on the subject. But I think that skipping the Nate Boyer interaction does a disservice to the story and to Kaepernick himself.

Nate Boyer, veteran Green Beret, saw a protest before the media uproar. Kaepernick wasn't ashamed but he wasn't aggressive either. He wasn't apologetic or flimsy. It was a clear, strong backed protest. This nation is mistreating her sons. It isn't just a conflicted history, though that is certainly there too. It's happening now. I agree with this author. Do not blunt the message. Do not water it down.

Still, the taking a knee thing? That matters a lot. That is about communication. That is about listening respectfully and adjusting. Kaepernick is a hero for our time. He's the hero we've been looking for and we're missing it.

He was sitting for the anthem. It was a protest but not an in your face protest. Few noticed, but one of the few who noticed was Nathan Boyer. He responded by writing an open letter. And I don't think we should underplay that either. The letter was a criticism before conversation.

Kapernick, citing his Christian values, responded gently. He didn't get angry. That would be merited, right? Another white guy who doesn't get it is trying to tell him that he should respect the flag of a country which does not respect him. But it isn't what he did. He didn't get angry; he invited Boyer to talk.

That is such a big deal. I don't understand why it isn't at the heart of all the coverage. Protest, criticism, dialogue? It's stunning. It's rare. It's exactly what we need.

Green Beret veteran Boyer also had a right to anger. The protest was literally saying that the country he'd risked death to defend is not worthy of even a moment's respect. The values he defended are shadows. False promises. But he didn't respond to the request for dialogue with anger either. He agreed. Let's do this thing.

And they did. The men met and talked. Each explained their position and each tried to understand the other. Can we take a minute to focus on how awesome that was?

During that conversation, Boyer suggested kneeling. Kneeling is how veterans respect their fallen brothers. I don't know if he had it in mind, but in the context of what was being protested, that seems singularly appropriate. Kaepernick is honoring his fallen brothers.

Kaepernick agreed and asked if Boyer would kneel with him. Boyer said he couldn't, but he'd stand next to him. And he did.

The men walked away in mutual respect and the protest, now getting notice, was changed. Kaepernick heard Boyer and adjusted. Boyer respected it and stood by him.

The story is about race and violence and protest. It is about patriotism and the flag. But it's also about progress with dialogue. Skipping that is foolish and disrespectful. Kaepernick is the hero we need.

Jesus in the shadows

"Is that Jesus?"

She whispered softly. She was pointing up generally in the direction of the crucifix and the altar.

My initial impulse was to just say yes. Yes. The priest represents our Lord and it's ok to see him as Jesus when he's lifting the chalice. Yes. The statue represents Jesus. Yes. The Eucharist is, really and truly, our blessed Lord. Whatever you're pointing at, the answer is almost certainly yes.

But you hear stories about confused kids thinking the priest is Jesus or that Jesus is a statue. I probably worry too much. Three year olds are very literal people. We should probably take the time, even now in the middle of Mass, to understand where she's pointing.

"Do you mean the priest?"
"No, silly. That's Father K."
"Right. Do you mean on the cross?"
"Up there? Mom. That's just a statue."
"Ok. Well. Do you mean the cross?"
"?!" No words. Mom is clearly not very clever.

"Mom. No. Behind the statues. Is Jesus there?"

What on Earth? Is she imagining a man behind the curtains. The great and powerful Oz-christ?

"I don't know what you mean, sweetheart. There is not a person behind the statues."
"Mom. I know. There's shadows. See? Is Jesus there?"
"In the shadows?"
"Yeah."
"?"
"He's everywhere, right? But I can't see very well in the shadows. I think he's there. I think that's Jesus in the shadows."

I think she might be on to something.

When you are struggling, He's there. When you can't see, him or anything else, He's there.

Faith means believing when it isn't obvious. When good things happen we call them blessings. We see God in the good. Ah-ha! The medication kicked in! Praise God! Oh! We had a snow day when I needed sleep! TBTG! It's easy to see God when things are working out. We don't always thank God for our blessings. We don't even always notice our blessings. But when good things happen, it is easy to see God if you care to look.

But what about when things are not good?

The hardest part for me about having anxiety isn't the fear. The debilitating, painful, unfounded and unfocused fear. That's awful, but worse is that I can't control my mind. It's running off in a million directions.

For me, the hardest part of the anxiety attacks is that I don't know how to pray. I don't know how to attend.

So while my mind is running in a million terrible directions and I can't help but recall every awful thing I know, I don't know how to ask Jesus to calm the storm.

Doubt doubles down. Doubt grabs the swirling fears. What if it is all meaningless. What if I'm wrong. What if God isn't real.

Dear Lord, help. Quiet the storm. "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me."

And there, in the terrifying darkness, with my unfocused pleading. In the shadows. God is there.

It isn't a magic trick. I'm still scared. I'm still lost. I'm still confused. I'm still unfocused. But he's there.

"No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to this rock I'm clinging!"

I love the song, but that line in particular. What is calm clinging? It doesn't make sense. Not just holding on. Not just standing firm. Clinging. When the storm is knocking everything about, this rock is firm. Unmoving.

Cold. Scared. Clinging.

Close your eyes and hang on tight.

When you can't see your hand in front of your face, cling. Hang on with everything you've got. He's there. In the darkness. In the shadows. In the fear. When you need Him most. He's there.

The inmost calm is quieter than the noise of the storm. But it doesn't shake.

Becca is probably right. In some ways, Jesus in the shadows is more real than the statues.

To my Trump supporting friends

This is my hope. 

I hope I am wrong. I hope you get to laugh at me and say I told you so. I'll take it gladly. I'll laugh too. I'd rather be an idiot than right. 

I hope that I'm overreacting and seeing things that just aren't there. 

I hope you're right. That I'm confused by a grand media distortion. 

I hope my family remains protected by the protections in the ACA. 

I hope my Muslim friends aren't more marginalized and endangered. I hope that my friend's mosque burning was an isolated event. 

I hope that the racism I see is getting better, not worse. 

I hope that when you yearn for yesterday, you mean you miss your ignorance of violence against homosexuals, and not that you miss the violence. 

I hope first amendment rights are not sacrificed at the altar of the second amendment. 

I hope first amendment rights aren't quietly crushed under the weight of fear. 

I hope that that intended list of criminal immigrants is not, as it seems to me, a tactic to create a scapegoat. Using fear as a tool of hate.

I hope you're right. 

Dear God, I really hope I am wrong. 

I hope that replace is as important to you as repeal. I'm not unsympathetic to the current problems. I hope you don't try to solve them by going back to the old problems. 

I hope that freedom of religion is as important to you as you say it is. 

More than any of that, I dearly hope that if I'm right you're ready to stand with me. 

You will not watch mosques burn. You will not watch bullies and bigots. 

You will not be shaped by fear. 

You will not watch a eugenicist agenda roll back decades of tiny progresses for people with disabilities. You will stand up. 

I hope that since you believed it when you said, "but he'll never," if he does you'll flip on him as fast as he flipped on you. 

I hope you're ready to scream, "Black Lives Matter," because they do. And you know it. And the only reason you're not screaming now is that you don't see what I see. 

I hope you're ready to register Muslim if they want to register Muslims. Allahu Akbar. 

I hope you'll let yourself see, if I'm right. 

I won't say I told you so. If I'm right we're going to need you. We're going to need each other. 

If we have to stand in the way of a steamroller, better to do it locked arms and many. And, I hope I'm wrong, but I see a damn steamroller. 

March for Women

This weekend was a hell of a weekend. Obama is out. Trump is in. Women marched all over the world. Crowd sizes are in dispute, but not really.

And the world suddenly knows that pro-life feminists exist. We are here! We are here! We are here! We are here! YOP! 

I have been sorting through my thoughts and emotions with respect to the march with a tinge of regret. This was a great moment in history unfolding relatively close to me, geographically. I did not go. 

I was considering attendance, but waffling about feasibility when all the sudden this crazy thing happened: an openly pro-life organization was granted partnership. The New Wave Feminists are an adorably quirky bunch. I would feel like the class nerd hanging out with them. And besides, our politics do not match up very well. They are Texas libertarians who are apparently also anti-abortion and feminist. But the fact that they were included officially was exciting! This march was all set to be show real unity across a slew of diverse opinions on diverse issues. Whatever you believe politically, we can agree that women deserve better. 

But the media go wind of this interesting alliance. Then Twitter. A twittering mob decried the inclusion. Pro-lifers do not belong. Pro-lifers are not us. And to my chagrin, the leadership caved to pressure and disinvited the New Wave Feminists. 

To be honest, at that point I still didn't see any good reason not to go. I mean, so what if the leadership is pro-choice? That shocks exactly no one. But it got worse. The leaders of the march pandered to their largest partners. Of course the pro-lifers shouldn't be here. Pro-lifers aren't real feminists. If they decide to march they should march with the knowledge that they are marching for a woman's right to choose. They're so stupid they might just do that. “If you want to come to the march you are coming with the understanding that you respect a woman’s right to choose,” said parade organizer Linda Sarsour.

The media was watching. This was a huge progressive event. It was international. And now the story includes me, explicitly. Pro-life feminists were interviewed by many major media. The New York Times cited a statistic that one in six of the women who voted for Hillary oppose abortion. People were talking about us. The pro-life right was angry. They think they own the issue. They know that without a perception of ownership they will lose elections. The pro-choice left, I think, was mostly confused. Some were angry, to be sure. But most just seemed surprised. 

If I went to the march, I'd feel dishonest. I could go with a sign which made my anti-abortion views clear, but that would feel like a counter-protest. I didn't think I could find the right balance. I do not want to be perceived as protesting a protest which I support. I do not want to be counted as pro-choice America. I was so angry. Pro-life women belong at that rally! But no in opposition. We should stand shoulder to shoulder opposing misogyny and bigotry. We are watching, Mr. President. We will not be quiet. 

In the lead up, a friend asked me if I would let Planned Parenthood march in the March for Life. My initial reaction was of course. Of course they should be allowed to march in opposition to abortion if they want to. They wouldn't want to, but if they did I wouldn't just allow it, I'd cheer! 

I still think that. But I would worry. What is their motivation? Is it an alliance or an infiltration? Would they be joining to join or to change the agenda? Liz lead me by the nose to the realization that the exclusion wasn't crazy, even though it stung. Even though by the numbers it is inarguable that democrats would do better if they didn't shut us out. Even though I wanted to be there. The pro-life movement has a nice long history of secret videos, infiltration, spying, and to our great shame even violence. 

Pro-lifers did go. They grouped in several contingents. Life Matters Journal showed up with a few dozen signs which, to my mind, tried to balance support for the march with opposition to abortion. And to the surprise of no one except the pro-life right, they were received kindly. People were glad they came. Building bridges, one incredible feminist to another. 

Students for Life did not aim for balance. They chose to rally in what can only be described as a counter-protest. They positioned themselves at the front of the march for maximum exposure and unfurled a huge sign which read, "Abortion Betrays Women." That is exactly what I did not want. They were absolutely not marching with the rest of the women. They did not join the march; they attempted to hijack it. Which is exactly what the people calling for their exclusion said they would do. Which is why they were excluded. And incredibly, they were not well received. People were angry. People even yelled at them, if you can imagine. Burn them bridges! They took to social media to tell the world how awful the feminists were. Awful. Just hateful. I mean, we picked a fight and they fought back! Jerks. Burn those bridges!

Real talk: I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. I hate crowds. I hate the metro. I was afraid I would have a panic attack and no where to go to calm down. Everywhere was going to be packed. I was afraid. Was the hullabaloo it a reason not to go? Was it only an excuse? Excuse or reason, I decided to stay home. And though I am sure I will have pangs of regret for years, I think it was the right choice for me. 

Musical preaching

I love music. There are a few genres I do not understand or appreciate and pretty much everything out of the 80's has some negative association and so I cannot judge it fairly. But my music taste are pretty diverse.

I like the greats. Palestrina and Josquin. Mozart. I like folk. I like some pop and some country. I like some metal. I like to unwind with loud music turned up (and the curtains closed,) singing and dancing and cooking alone in my kitchen.

One of my pet peeves is when people tell me they like to listen to classical music because it is relaxing. Some of it is, of course. But some of it is wild and chaotic. Some of it is angry or dark. Some of it is sweetly romantic. Some of it is seductive. If I can listen to it while I am going to sleep, it is not good music. Or anyway, it is not to my taste.

I am very emotional about music. I let it affect me. What I want in music is to be taken in. I want to feel. I want to be engaged. Music reaches emotions which are hard to express. Sicut Cervus was not the first piece of music I loved, but it was the first time I gave thought to why I loved it so much. "As the deer longs for water, so my soul longs for you, my God." You can hear all of it. The deer and the water. And the longing. Such a longing. Especially in those opening tenor notes. It is stunning. Palestrina is a genius.

But all my favorites are affective. Bach can make piety exciting. Some pieces, like The Trout by Schubert, give me the same sense of calm as enjoying alone time in nature. Pete Seeger and his proteges stroke my inner social justice warrior. Irish music is fun; rollicking along, but with glimpses of a painful story and an incredible storyteller.

"When you sing, you pray twice."

When it comes to Church music, I have very strong opinions. Liturgical Music can be risky. If we agree that music inspires and elicits something real but hard to grab, we open it up to criticism. Is it emotional? Is the emotion appropriate? What should we be feeling during Mass? Or is it simply enough that the words be theologically sound?

Mass is a sacrifice, but it is a celebration! You are in the presence of the Lord and King, who taught you to pray by calling him Father. It is sacred, but it is also home. What should you be feeling? Awe? Comfort? Sorrow? Joy? Wonder? Liturgical music has the tall task of inspiring what is appropriate even when what is appropriate is paradoxical.

Music shouldn't just carry words, it should inform them. Elevate them. Give them a story or a perspective. Chant, echoing down the halls of history but endlessly present and always appropriate, preaches about inerrant theology. The swinging lilt of a traditional Irish hymn setting is warm and welcoming and very real. An early American march with a rigid building block time signature focuses fellowship and structure; this is who we are and this is what we are doing. The words and the sound echo and reinforce each other.

I am not a snob. I like it all. I like the organ at the shrine and the guitars at the teen mass. So long as the music brings something to the table, I like it. I think that most criticism of contemporary music are strange. What makes a three hundred year old song better than a thirty year old song? In the context of a two thousand year history, the three hundred year old song can't even claim age.

There is a lot of criticism of contemporary Christian music. Critics hear emotionalism or protestantism or happyhappyjoyjoy saccharine. They hear a bounce, empty of theology and covered with syrupy prosperity creed. It is more than an aesthetic preference. It is an aesthetic judgment. Mass is not a pop concert. It is not a sentimental appeal. If you are moved to tap your foot, is the music inappropriate? I hear the frustration, but I don't know where to draw lines.

One of the deepest musical experiences I've had was when an African American choir visited our parish. It was incredible. The layered rhythms and harmonies pushed back against overt and lingering dissonances. It preached pain, but joy too. That music explained joy in sacrificial suffering in a way no words possibly could. I was moved. If you are ever struggling with the concept of celebrating a sacrifice, I cannot recommend this experience highly enough.

Toe tapping is not the problem. Maybe entertainment is. That criticism can apply to any type of music. The job of the cantor is to lead a prayer, not to amuse you during the boring bits, which is good since we cannot all be amused by the same things. Does that mean that if you are entertained the cantor has done something terrible? That seems silly and also makes a hard task impossible.

If sentimental music is not the problem, maybe sentimentality is. The Mass is divine, but it is also human. We are the body. The Church. The people. Through the sacraments, our Lord comes to us, truly, physically and spiritually. We need that. The humanness. He designed us that way. Feelings are part of who we are and not a bad part. We shouldn't shut out out feelings, but we shouldn't let them lead either. They are unreliable and moveable. Appeals to feelings primarily can be misleading. A good artist can make you feel all kinds of emotions. Emotions can wrap untruth in the most delightful packaging.

What we need in liturgical music is pretty straightforward.

Music should be is interesting, but singable. It should be either very old or very new or possibly somewhere in between, but it must not be antiquated or voguish. It should be beautiful, but not entertaining. Well lead, but not performed. Appropriate to the mood of the Mass which is conflicting. It has to be culturally appropriate to a universal church. It should be theologically sound, even the moody bits which can't easily be parsed. We want it to sound good whether or not there is participation from the congregation, but we don't want the congregation drowned out by a blaring sound system. It should elevate, not overshadow. Why can't the music leaders get it right? It seems easy enough.

Mary, my mother, pray for me

My youngest daughter is three. She is a clever thing. You know the game that kids play when they don't want to go to bed? "Mommy! I need a drink! Mommy! I forgot to brush my teeth! Mommy, can you tuck me in? Mommy! I am scared! Mommy..."

Of course you do.  Everyone knows that game. My Becca is particularly good at the game. She usually wins. She climbs into my bed and looks into my eyes, with a three year old's piety and barely whispers, "Mommy, can we just say the rosary please?"

What can I say? I have mixed feeling because I do not love that she is clearly just using the rosary as a particularly effective excuse to stay up late. It that prayer? Can it be?

But I think of my heavenly mother. I think she would indulge the request joyfully, even in the knowledge of imperfect motives. Prayer does not have to be perfect. It rarely is. That is one of the things I love about the rosary. It helps my imperfect prayer life.

I didn't think I had any particular devotion to the rosary until about five years ago. Five years ago, my daughter was in the NICU. Because of her genetic condition, her fingers were fused together. The rosary was a detail of a very difficult time. We had an army of people praying for us and we truly felt God's presence. I cannot describe the calmness or the goodness that we knew, but it was nothing short of miraculous. God was with us in a powerful and peaceful way. People sent prayer cards and Mass cards and relics. We pinned the relics to her pillow. She was intubated, so she was sedated and not moving around a lot. We had those CDs you can find in the backs of Churches, theologians teaching on so many subjects. We used the Magnificat for daily meditation and prayer.

But the rosary was special. My mom gave me her mother's rosary while we were in the NICU. It had smooth beads and it was light. It felt easy in easy in my hands. The beads were small and oblong. The beads fit in Sarah's tiny rosebud hands.

Rosebud. That is the term the doctors used. If you put the tips of all your fingers together your hand forms the shape which can be imagined as a rosebud. That is how her fingers were fused.

I worried about her hands. Children learn by touch. One of the hardest things (there were many) during that time was well-intentioned people demanding that I think about her hands. I knew it was important. I didn't need extra layers of guilt. It plagued my mind even without their concerned advice. People want to help. I guess they thought that this important thing might fall through the cracks in the face of other major concerns. The doctors were concerned about her heart, her brain, her kidneys, her liver, and her lungs. I was worried about those things too, but I am her mom. I was worried about everything. I did not want her earliest sense memories to be sterile and cold. I played music. I sang. I learned infant massage. Touch matters. I fretted about her hands. Her touch. She needed sensory input which would normally just happen. I had to put things in her hands. Nothing fit. I had to be careful not to poke or pinch. Grandmom's rosary beads fit. It was almost a perfect fit, as though that rosary had been made for just that purpose. The small brown beads tucked easily into her hand and she could squeeze. She could feel.

I imagined that she was holding my grandmother's hand.

That rosary gave me comfort. Maybe I was using it as something of a talisman. I wondered, is that bad? I think my Mother in Heaven wouldn't think so. I think she dotes on us and loves us. I think that she was there loving me as I reached out to her imperfectly. Poorly, even. But she heard.

That experience made me feel a certain way toward the rosary as a devotion which I had not felt before. But it wasn't the first time the rosary affected me in a long acting way. When I was a teenager I wasn't sure what I believed. I challenged God and my parents and my educators to prove or at least carefully defend various truths. Mom handled my pushing with a gentle wisdom which she lived and showed by example. Dad handled my pushing with clear and articulate answers.

Cathy was my youth group leader. She handled my pushing entirely indirectly. Together we went to the abortion clinics every week and we prayed the rosary. I wasn't sure if I was Catholic, but the words weren't empty. They were a unified, meditative plea to God for help. I never questioned that he heard. I never questioned that he acted in ways I couldn't see. It wasn't that she avoided my questions, it was simply that the questions and answers were secondary and we both knew it. What we were doing mattered. I rattled off the words. Rote prayer. What about that? My prayer was a repetition of Catholic belief which I was not sure I held. Was that bad?

I don't think Mary thought so. I think she heard my argumentative teen concerns for what they were and stuck by me. I believe she prayed with us and cried with us. I think God heard my imperfect prayer.

I give Mary a lot of credit, I guess. Mary is a mom. She knows. She is listening. She gets it and she hears our pleas in the best possible way. When she prays with us and for us, part of the grace of the experience is that she closes a gap between our imperfect prayer and the deepest pulls of our heart. She brings us to her son, our Lord who perfects us.

The rosary is her gift. For rosebud fingers and challenging teenagers and impious children, the rosary is a lifeline. It is words, when you don't have words. It is meditative and emotional. Joyful and sorrowful, glorious and luminous. The rosary is a loving gift from a mother to her children who are imperfect people likely to mess up everything. 

Church Militant

Proud she stands with her tearful eye on the battle,
her knee falls on the ground
in humble adoration.

She hears the voice of her beloved
and arms herself.
Girded in Truth!
Clothed with righteousness!
Readiness! Faith! Salvation!

Arm yourselves, but be shattered! Arm yourselves, but be shattered.

Agonized and weary
her soldiers lament and
celebrate martyrs.

Glorious. Victorious. Jubilant.
But they did not understand and they were afraid to ask.

Soldiers serving the King. The servant.
“Master, are you going to wash my feet?”

Lord. Your soldiers are ready. Confident. Empowered.
Lead us in battle.
Lead us to battle.
Lead us
Home.

She hears the voice of her beloved:
Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Clothe the naked. Care for the sick. Visit the prisoner.

She kneels in dust. She is dust.
But formed. Awakened. Loved.

Proud she stands with her tearful eye on triumph,
her knee falls on the ground
in humble adoration:

Take up your cross.

Imaginings

The morning after the debate between Hillary and Trump, I needed to remind myself that a wild imagination can be a wonderful thing. With two kids in school, I spent quality one on one time with my three year old. This is how we spent the morning. 

.............

She skipped down the road, impatiently tugging on her mother's hand. "Faster! Faster! We have to get to the park!"

"What are we going to do at the park today?"

"We're going to have a picnic with the dragons. We might go to the stream. And...and...and...and... maybe just let's go!"

They sat together at a picnic table. While mom sat, she jumped up and collected leaves and nuts and started arranging them into a picture on the bench. 

"This is a butterfly. And then, a sun! He is yellow yellow yellow and he is smiling."

"Uh-oh. Mom. There is a bad dragon. We are going to have to run. No I mean it! Run!!"And off they ran. Glancing backwards to be sure they were staying ahead. 

"He's too fast and there is a bad witch, Mom. We are going to have to fight. Use your powers! Wait! I have your sword. Here!!"

Carefully unsheathing the sword, Mom swung at the sky! She yelled, "It is no good! I have an idea! I will use my power to freeze him and then you can get him with your sword! Help me!"

Hands outstretched, magical power streamed out from both of them. It sounded like a gushing river. "SHHHHHHHHH!"

She ran toward him. Their powers were not enough, even combined. The witch was using some kind of a protective spell. But she was worn enough to turn and flee with the dragon. Off they flew, fear roused and compelling. 

"Phew. Now we have to find the good dragons. Maybe the fairies know where they are. I know where the fairies are. They are at home. Over here! This is where they live. Can you see them? It is hard because they are playing hide and seek. They love hide and seek and tag just like I love hide and seek and tag. But they are there. You can't talk to them though. Only me."

Obediently, mom stays a few steps back while she learns where the dragons can be found. Momentarily, she returns confident in her informants. 

"They say we can find them by the water."

The pair approach the creek, alert to signs of danger. Seeing none, she throws a few magic balls as calling cards into the water and then waits on the bank. 

"I think we are going to have to go on an adventure."

"Aha! I knew it! Another bad dragon! He is so big! I am going to use my powers to make him smaller and smaller and smaller." 

SHHHHHHHHHH!

"I think you need more magic! Hold up your magic!"

The dragon shrank down to the size of a small barn-swallow, which gave her an idea. 

"Let's put him in a nest. Then a mommy can come and teach him so when he gets big again he won't be so bad." 

She gently lifted the tiny foul creature and placed him in a bird's nest.

"They'll come now."

Sure enough, three dragons came flying toward us, just above the creek. One was carrying a baby dragon. She lead them to our picnic area. 

"C'mon! C'mon! Let's go guys! I have a tea party basket!"

We sat on the soft grass and shared pizza and drumsticks and the best cheese you can imagine. She poured tea for everyone except the baby. She fed him a bottle of milk and a cookie. 

A tiny kitten came and tried to drink the baby dragon's milk. The baby dragon got mad and tried to burn up the kitty, but he couldn't. Baby dragons can only do smoke. His mommy had to tell him not to scare kitties. 

She poured a small dish of milk for the kitten and told her mother that the kitten did not have a mommy. Could she please take it home? Seeing as the dragon would not stay a baby forever, and not trusting him to learn to control his temper before he could control his fire, she agreed. 

They said goodbye to their dear friends the dragons, and set off for home carrying a small but well fed baby kitten. 

And they even made it home on time to meet her big sister's bus. 

Sparkles and mud. That's how we roll. 

Laundry and Sisyphus

My phone was dying, so I went upstairs to plug it into the last undamaged phone charger in the house. I found my charger bathing in a nice, cool glass of water. Not floating or toe dipping, but fully submerged.

My logic is not always perfect. I thought to myself that if my phone was going to die, I had better get my important phone calls out of the way quickly! Sarah has gone into SVT three times in the past week. The doctor wants to go ahead with the ablation procedure which we have thus far been successfully postponing with medicine. He also increased her dose of medicine, so it did not feel urgent. Still, I have to schedule it; surgeons are always busy for months so we have to get on the calendar asap.  I called his nurse. 

"Wednesday," she says. 

Wait. What? Wednesday? As in less than a week away Wednesday? I know he wanted it done, but that soon? 

She hopped off the phone to double-check that yes, the surgeon wanted Sarah in that soon and indeed he did. Wednesday. Apparently, this was a drop-everything-and-handle-this moment, not a put-it-on-the-overfull-calendar moment. So, phone battery low, I didn't argue. Heart surgeon wants to do ths procedure now? We will do this procedure now. I am on it. 

Except that I am not, really. This will be the frst time Sarah has had something serious done since my anxiety took its ugly consuming form. Will I be able to handle it? All else being equal, this is a pretty good procedure to jump back in with. (Leave my preposition alone.  I like it there.) It is a common procedure. It is not even called a surgery. They go in through the femoral artery and thread up to the heart. They try to induce the SVT and then they watch and see what is misfiring. Then they fix it. Still, it is uner general anethesia and they are messing with her heart. 

I decided that the task of reclaiming some bit of order in my home would go a long way toward keeping my brain from going haywire. So, I sorted six tons (as measured by my super-woman biceps) of paperwork and admired the sheer volume of medical mail we get. Non-medical stuff often gets lost in the shuffle. For instance, I found the invitation to the wedding we attended last week! Yay! A little late. 

Then I got out the vaccum. I like my vaccuum. It is brand new. About a decade ago we were given a used Hoover when someone else replaced it with something better. That has been our vacuum since then and it has served us well. But for the past several months, it has needed a new belt about once a month. This is an easy fix, so we dealt with it until my husband and I admitted to one another that in our heart of hearts, we both secretly really wanted to replace it. So, we did not replace the belt this time, we replaced the vacuum. We bought a brand new, well-reviewed Shark on Amazon. Oh, I was excited. Why are vacuums denigrated as gifts? What fun! It is all shiny and new and functional! It is light! I can carry it upstairs without breaking our my not-really-real super-woman biceps. Man,  I like ths vacuum. A week in, everthing is awesome. Not Lego awesome, but nearly. As soon as we have established the awesomeness of our new vacuum, I popped the old one on a freecycle-like page with full disclosure about its age and difficultes. It was snapped up in under five minutes. Out with the old!

 Back to yesterday. Yesterday as I am vacumming to save my sanity with my shiny new vacuum when the darn thing turns off. No excuse. No warning. No broken belt. It just turns off. A small voice inside me cries out, "That is what you get for trying to save your sanity with house chores!" But I silence the voice. Appliances are supposed to work. Vacuuming is supposed to be the uninteresting but predictable and easy part of the day.  

By now, Amazon same-day-delivery has delivered a brand new charger. Thank you Amazon, for always being there for me. So my phone is charging again. I can get back to the phone calls. I am a little hesitant because I hate getting on the phone and the last time  I attempted this chore, it grew. Freaking cardiologist. 

Not really. He is awesome. Kind of a rock star, actually, in his way. But the one phone call to schedule the one had thing turned into many phone calls to cancel and reschedule many things. I did it. I called my therapist and rescheduled our first appointment again. (Third time. I bet she thinks I am chickening out.) I called my dentist and rescheduled my appointment and my husbands, since they were back to back. I rescheduled Becca's dentist appointment. I canceled everything on Wednesday. Then, even though it is supposed to be outpatient, I cancelled everything on Thursday too. There is a chance that they will want to monitor Sarah overnight after the procedure, and I know my kid. So, I am kind of planning to spend a night in the hospital. 

The I get back to the order reclamation. Laundry is a good choice. No matter how many times you do it, it still remains to be done. Laundry will save my sanity. 

Fresh, clean, damp clothes pile into my dryer and.... the dryer will not turn on. The appliance gods are toying with me, a mere mortal with a sisyphean task. 

Undeterred by their spite, I decided not to touch any more appliances of any kind. I choose a chore which does not require them. I accomplished a task. A real task. Becca needed a dresser. I had one that was mostly full of clothing I don't wear. I don't mind if things are not always put away, but I cannot stand it when there is no away to put them. Becca and Lily have been sharing a dresser and it is not big enough for two people. I emptied, moved and refilled a dresser. All by myself. 

Now, Bob Marley is happening in my head. Every little thing is gonna be alright. Brains are unpredictable creatures. I guess appliances are too. 

Ideological Bubbles are for Popping

Four years ago I argued with a woman who was absolutely convinced that Obama hated America. It took me several pages of argument to realize that she was not speaking in hyperbole. She really thought that his agenda was to destroy the country. She did not think it was a secondary effect of a well-intended agenda. She saw a hatred and vicious anger which, even with her help, I never could see. I was baffled. To be completely honest, I remain baffled. I also remain in touch. She is still my friend. Now she is saying that and other similar things about Hillary. And I am still listening. It is not that I think she is right, but I think that understanding her perspective is valuable. Partly because she is a friend and I love her. Partly because she is not alone.

This year, I enjoyed the primary season debates under the hospitality of a friend who hosted conversational commentary. He liveblogged his opinions and we joined in. It was great fun, though it may have skewed my sense of normal politics. The people were mostly a mad mix of left leaning pro-life Catholics and refugees from a republican party gone barmy. Discussion was humorous, irreverent, and not strictly partisan. We were a kind of homeless band.

But as the season goes on, partisanship is rearing and roaring. Election years can be hard on relationships and this year is harder than many. It always feels like something huge is at stake. Campaigns are well funded advertisements designed to make us feel that way and they are very effective. This year a lot of people rooting for candidates on either side insist that this election could be the very last election, unless we vote correctly. America as we know it could disappear.

I have seen several posts admonishing friends with disparate beliefs to shape up or ship out. Unfollow me if. Unfriend me if. Disconnect from me. Go away. You are invading my ideological bubble.

I am not doing it. I am not cutting you off. You can unfriend me or unfollow me or stop contact in whatever way we keep contact, but I am not doing it. You have to be the one. There are exceptions, of course. I have friends who have had pictures stolen and turned into memes. I have friends who have had people accuse and abuse them and their families. There are lines that I will draw to protect myself and the people I love, but disagreement is not one of them. You can disagree with me about just about anything and still find yourself welcome. I want you here. I want to hear from you and about you.

One of these posts struck a nerve yesterday, when a priest friend asked that anyone who is a democrat or is voting for a a democrat should unfriend him. A priest! I have enjoyed debating with this man for years, so I knew we were not on the same page politically. Still, I have read what he writes and learned from him many times over the past few years. Now he wants me to close the door.

He did not say, if you are trolling my page looking for a fight, take it somewhere else. (I can respect that.) He did not say he wants to control the message on his page and so he would not allow comments in opposition. (I would disagree, but understand that.) He said go away. If you disagree, you do not need to listen. I do not need to listen. We do not need to communicate.

I think we do need to communicate, and now more than ever. I think that we need to listen with generosity and love, especially where there is disagreement. I think that the truth can survive a good beating, and it suffers without examination. I think that perspectives matter and choosing to try and understand where another person is coming from is a way of choosing love.

I know it is bad. Not everyone likes debate. That is fine. I don't think everyone has to wade waist deep in the big muddy. But please stop slamming doors.

Only one in a hundred will share this

Jesus is watching. Only one in ten people will have the courage to share this. I BELIEVE in AnGeLS and I BeLIevE In GoD. Type "I Believe" in the comments and prepare to be AMAZED by the blessings God will pour out on you.

God wants to cure this CHILD. Help us get to a million likes.

Like=1 prayer
Share=100 prayers
Comment "AMEN"= 1000 prayers
She deserves your best. A minute of your time could be the miracle she needs.

I KNOW it is an unpopular opinion in this PC world, but I love AMERICA and I support AMERICAN TROOPS! Did you know only one person in 1000 will share this? That is real COURAGE!

Cancer WANTS to beat this freespirit. God is Stronger. Type AMEN and SHARE!

Please. Stop.

Stop binding God's will to popularity. Stop pretending that it is somehow courageous to share pictures of kids. Stop reducing God's power. Stop.

Stop trivializing real courage and heroism by giving yourself credit for being proud of courageous heroes.

Stop enabling clickbait monsters who steal children's photos to drive up their traffic.

I am begging you. I know most people who are sharing these things have the very best of intentions. I am not accusing. But please consider, who is benefiting and who is it hurting?

Does it help the kids? It might be argued that spreading these things around increases prayer. It might. But you see, it isn't. Perhaps there are a select few truly pious social media missionaries who pray every time they see a post asking for prayer. But most of us don't. We scroll right by. Do you actually think, as many of these posts claim, that liking or sharing these things is prayer? Or is many prayers? That feels vaguely blasphemous and idolatrous to me.

Does it help the meme makers? Ah-ha! Indeed it does. Often these pages are scammers. It seems innocent enough, but these pages are collecting fans for cash. They grow by using content which will be shared. You share, you like, you comment. All these things promote their visibility. When they have grown nice and big they can either sell the page to a marketer or they can use the page to sell other scams. Money is a motivator.

Who does it hurt? It hurts whoever falls for the scams, and lets not kid ourselves. That is a lot of people and it could be anyone.

It can hurt families. I know of one family whose had a child whose picture was used for this spammy, scammy nonsense. It was a cute kid and a pretty popular meme. The trouble? This child had died. That was painful.

It hurts the subject of the picture. Their image is stolen and pimped for money. Even if they never know, that is not OK.

Does it help God? I am not sure I know what would mean. It certainly doesn't help his cause. It is, at best, a poor attempt by lazy missionaries. Often the wording itself is against scripture, which has a thing or two to say about boasting. Hint: it is not good. "None of my friends will share this, but I am proud of my God..." Puh-lease.

The popularity of posts that promise God's blessings if you like and share them is honestly sickening. Who is that God? That doesn't sound like the God I know.

God does ask us to pray for each other. He doesn't need our help. He already knows who needs what. He loves the person you are praying for and he already heard their need. But he told us to pray for each other and he promises he will hear and answer. It is valid to ask why. Why does an all-knowing, loving, omnipotent God ask me to pray for people?

We invite God. We pray for healing. We pray for conversion. We pray for protection. We pray for peace. When we intercede we are doing two important things: we are talking to God and we are forming our own relationship with the loving Father who is listening. "Father, you are dear to me and I am dear to you. I need you." Recognizing your limits and placing your trust in God is freeing. It is humbling, but it is also empowering to engage with the King of Kings.

Of course, social media can be a missionary field. Any interaction with other people can be. And I think it is a perfectly reasonable place to solicit prayer support. I know I have depended on my online village for support more often than I care to consider. I am not asking anyone to keep their faith or their patriotism or their pictures off the internet.

Use your judgement. Good people don't use God or kids or disabled people as marketing tools. Don't lend your social media presence to people who do.

Dear Anxiety

Dear Anxiety,

You haven't beaten me. You beat me up, again and again and again. You kick me when I am down and you tell me terrible lies. You warn me that I will never win. I can't. I should just stay down. You scream at me and make me feel small and helpless. You are a textbook bully.

But you haven't beaten me. 

I am learning to recognize your lies. Remember when you told me that I would never be better? I am better. Remember when you told me that you weren't real? You are. 

When you first showed up and told me I was dying, I believed you. You didn't even need a cause of death. You just showed up and announced that it was all over. You were taunting me in front of my kids. I put on a face for them, but I was cowering. 

We're old acquaintances, but still when you came charging in an running things I did not recognize you. The old anxiety was small and subservient. The old anxiety was timid. The old anxiety would sometimes spark and fan fear into flames, which leapt about painfully but with minimal destruction. When you charged in like you owned the place I did not recognize you and even now I wonder if you aren't a different player who shares a name.

You screamed at me. "Be afraid. Be afraid of death. Be afraid of pain. Be afraid for your kids. Be afraid for you husband. Be afraid for you parents and your siblings and everyone you have ever loved."

When I confronted each individual fear, you simply invented more and screamed louder.

"Don't you know about...?"

Until I didn't know how to argue. Until you were the only voice I could hear. Until your unhinged taunts outgrew my mind. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't get out of bed. I tried to cover you with mind-numbing TV, but you just laughed. I was shaking and vomiting. Remember that?

You're a mean SOB. But you didn't beat me.

You shamed me. You told me I was weak if I needed help. Surely I was strong enough to send you away on my own.

But it isn't weakness to ask for help. Asking for help isn't admitting defeat. I needed help. I needed control of my mind.

With my doctor, I stood up to you. We didn't chase you off the playground; that's is your bully tactic. We just cornered you. We took your power away.

You can stay, but you are not in charge anymore. You can even have a job. Your job is to help me find problems so I can address them before they grow. But I don't trust you anymore, and so for now we are keeping you under lock and key. Two tiny pills every night before bed.

Anxiety, I am winning. You don't own me. And I am not ashamed of the help I needed and continue to need. I am only ashamed that I ever believed your lies and that I ever allowed you to boss me around.