Truth Is

In pondering life, as I was led to do this weekend, I reflected upon this: Truth is truth. Truth remains immovable, unaltered, and unaffected by the elaborate individual and cultural dances we perform around it.

Track with me on this one a bit:

Regardless of our varied, individual perceptions on any given matter, truth remains unaltered.

Truth simply is. While we grapple around, trying to wrap our minds around it and ground ourselves into a position surrounding it, it simply IS. Truth is steady, unchangeable, and radically unaffected by our flawed, finite lack of complete comprehensionor just plain denial of it.

I especially ponder this considering the state of the world and our nation of late. My heart is led toward two especially tender topics for me upon which this musing is particularly evident.

God IS.

Our responses to that reality as human beings span the gamut, from denial to indifference, from cynical reluctant acknowledgement to open welcoming hearts. We, as people, however varied our responds to God are, DO NOT CHANGE the fact that God IS. Yes, I realize there are such positions as atheism and agnosticism which would, on their surface, appear to either deny the existence of or simply not take into account the existence of God. However, to achieve intellectual honesty, one must first acknowledge a concept in order to develop a position surrounding it. This is among the reasons I am convinced that atheism and agnosticism are less than tenable stances, as they lack integrity in their very structural genesis.

None of our rantings, opinions, beliefs, religions, rebellions, and worship styles alter the person, perfection, or presence of God. Christians, Jews, Muslims invested in generational bickering over ecclesiastical or ecumenical differences does not alter God. We shine a rather pale reflection of Him by our behavior, but we do hot change the TRUTH that God is by our flawed pursuit of Him amidst warring egos.

The other tender topic that stirred my mind and heart in this deeper exploration of truth is that of abortion. Those who know me personally know that abortion is perhaps the single greatest human cause that defines my heart as a person. In 1973, I was born unto the first American generation of babies to have thousands upon thousands of us lost to abortion legally. I hurt because of the souls lost to abortion - both mothers and children. I feel as though my insides are being raked with sandpaper each time I hear the word "choice" used to describe the ending of another tiny human being's life at the will and hand of his or her mother. Abortion is not about statistics, reasons, social trends, the so-called women's movement, empowerment, or the ghastly vague concept of "choice". It is about truth.

And the truth is that abortion kills another human being.

As an elective procedure, it is the deliberate undertaking to kill an innocent person before he or she has the opportunity to complete the development process and achieve birth. Assuming healthy mental capacity, none of us champions the killing of innocent human beings at will, do we? Though I have heard it argued, I believe most of us reject the proposal that abortion is a fantastic, terrific, peachy phenomenon ~ a necessary and laudable tool for societal reformation and insurance against overpopulation. Nowhere do we see cheerleaders chanting rah-rah-rah outside the clinics as tiny body parts of developing babies are scraped from pregnant wombs and disposed of, do we? I am not aware of a single human being other than Hitler who believes/ed that abortion is a wonderful tool for achieving a noble purpose. And Hitler is not included in my analysis ~ as he is certainly not the poster child for mental health.

Abortion is NOT wonderful. It is not necessary in the vast majority (read: almost every single one) of cases in which is is 'opted for'. Even those of us who support our guaranteed "right" to abortion on demand most ardently are quick to claim personal denunciation of it. But without admitting the truth of what it does (kill someone) we are free to let ourselves off the hook for any degree of accountability for our actions.

Why is it acceptable for anyone to kill an innocent developing child?

The prevailing arguments in support of abortion in this nation seem to rely on a vague concept of reproductive choice as being a guaranteed right even AFTER it has already been exercised via the sexual act which resulted in a conception (assuming cosent). We repoduce sexually. Sex can result in a pregnancy. That is a risk we assume when we engage in sex and it is OUR responsibility, not our unborn child's. However, the argument persists that if a woman does not want to give birth to the baby she is carrying, she should have the RIGHT to choose not to at any time prior to the baby's birth.

I gotta tell you, there is such rampant, indulgent, ego-centrism in that notion it is almost unbelievable that it is subscribed to by so many.

We do not have the RIGHT to kill innocent lives, born or preborn, based on our perception of those innocent lives as they relate to ourselves. Simply because we do not want our baby does not alter the fact that the baby IS already alive, a wholly separate individual from us, already his or her own person, with his or her own fingerprints, DNA, body, mind, spirit, and soul. Just because it is not convenient for us to be pregnant does not change in any way that we ARE PREGNANT - life has already begun. The circumstances surrounding a pregnancy do not change or alter the truth that there is now another living human being to consider alongside our own selves. As much as we dance around it, make excuses, offer cryptic analyzations, empathize with the mother's situation, or downplay the loss of life at the end of every abortion procedure, the TRUTH remains intact. Elective abortion kills innocent human beings because they are an inconvenient byproduct of sexual choices. In other words, when we do not like the results of our choices, we can erase them. Even when the result is the creation of a human being - we can just erase them because they are less important than we are - less valuable because we cannot hear their voices or caress their faces. Because we cannot tangibly experience the reality that is our babies, it becomes easier to dispose of them at will.

To make the meekest of all beings, a developing baby, pay with its own life for our choice, is an unimaginable act of selfishness and evil. It causes me such deep anguish that we so easily outsource our reproductive responsibility to the most innocent of all scapegoats, who then bear the burden for OUR CHOICE.

With her life.

Our rights become our babies' responsibility.

How sick we've become when innocent life is valued on the sliding scale of worthiness based on OUR lives, not the life of the innocent. That the truth of life ALREADY EXISTING is so easily trumped by our convenience and whiny "well, I don't waaaaaant it." Sounds like the familiar whine of an insolent child.. And yet, that is all that is required to kill a baby these days - that we do not waaaaaaant the baby already alive within us and will therefore exercise our right to kill it. While it is honorable and so necessary that we assist and support and love ALL women who become unexpectedly pregnant through their journey to birth, it is unthinkable to me that we legally codify and have made more socially acceptable the self-indulgent choice to end a child's life because it is inconvenient or "unwanted". Truly disheartening.

Thousands of the most innocent and helpless among us, our babies, perish every day by the reasoned CHOICE of the very vessels designed to harbor and protect them: their mothers. At least one tiny developing baby/fetus/human being is dead at the end of every abortion. The truth is that abortion is the legalized killing of an innocent person at the option of another. Unlike the justification required in order to end the life of anyone who has already completed their development process and has been born, abortion requires no reason, no defense, no justification. There is no requirement to prove the necessity to end the life of an innocent baby, beyond simply, "it is my right" or even worse, "it's my body, it's my choice."

What a boldface denial of truth.

Abortion is not a benign choice. It is the killing of a developing baby. Not some random amorphic appendage of a mother's body - but a separate individual being. Temporarily dependent, but wholly unique. What was alive is now dead because we did not WAAAAAAAANT it.

TRUTH hurts, stings, and angers at times. But but it remains intact and steadfast despite any analytical or intellectual reasonings or foot stamping we throw at it. And sooner or later, it must be reconciled to our hearts lest our hearts become hard to it.

Blessed Memorial Day Thanks

from an email I received this morning...

It is the VETERAN, not the preacher,
who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the VETERAN, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the VETERAN, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the VETERAN, not the campus organizer,
who has given us freedom to assemble.

It is the VETERAN, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the VETERAN, not the politician,
Who has given us the right to vote.

May God Bless our veterans and active servicemen and women in this time of war. May our prayers for peace and safe return be heard and answered. And may our gratitude for their sacrifice and devotion to OUR freedoms never falter. And may we relentlessly continue to honor our fallen heroes.

BLESSED MEMORIAL DAY

I extend a special, personal THANK YOU to...

My father in law ~ highly decorated retired Air Force Colonel and pilot who served in WW2, Korea, and three tours in Vietnam as part of the Greatest Generation.

My brother in law and sister, deployed to Sicily and actively serving as a Navy helicopter pilot in the Kuwait/Iraq/Saudi/Afghanistan theater.

My dear friend Patricia and her husband, actively serving in the Navy here at home and on long maritime away-from-home deployments.

My dear friend Vanessa and her husband, currently deployed in Iraq with the Army National Guard, actively standing in the gap for not only our country, but those who are just beginning to savor the sweet taste of freedom.

BLESSED MEMORIAL DAY

thirty-two

32 Years Ago today, my 21-year old mother was enormous and uncomfortably pregnant with a 2 week overdue me. By evening's end the follwing day, her firstborn child came into the world. All chubby, halo blonde, 9 pounds 3 ounces of me.

I love birthdays. Always have.

Mine, other people's, our family's pets' ~ all birthdays. I don't bother to pretend, like some I know, to despise aging. It just does not occur to me to be negatively distracted by the passing of time and the treachery it inevitably does to our minds and bodies. Age spots, stretch marks, crows feet, pudges and pooches ~ ah, so what? 32 years romping around this planet, being in love with and being loved by my best friend, witnessing miracles and even participating in a few, giving birth twice, waking up to deep hugs from my daughter and sloppy overjoyed kisses from my son, snuggling on the couch, scuba diving, poker nights, singing praise songs in chapel, Christmas mornings, really funny jokes, rainstorms... all of it compares rather favorably to the fact that my rear end seems to be developing a rather disturbing relationship to gravity against my will these days. There is just so much I'd rather focus on, rather be thankful for, rather celebrate (even while I do Pilates try to hoist my behind back to where it once belonged)...

LIFE.

I love that we all get to re-open and celebrate the gift of our lives over again each year. I enjoy this process of growing older, richer, deeper, wiser, and more funny looking with each passing annual cycle. I am grateful for my 32 years here and know in my heart that my life matters and has made a difference in the lives of others and that I have striven to make God proud. I stand refreshed at this threshold of beginning my 33rd year. I genuinely feel butterfly-type excitement and contentedness volleying for place in my spirit. I wonder what this next year will bring. I hope for abundance, for firsts in my children's lives, for joy, for solace in my husband's work environment, and for a slower pace overall.

I hope to bask in purpose and light. I hope for the tears I shed to be far outweighed by the laughter and songs I sing. I hope the lessons I can teach my children are as meaningful to them as those I learn from them. I hope the love I offer to others is received in the spirit of my intentions. I hope Copper and I get to enjoy one another this much to the end of our days. I hope the God I love is glorified in my life and heart. I hope I bring joy to others and share myself more. I hope I never compromise truth. I hope my heart will always be open to the hearts of others. I hope my sister and brother in law finally are able to come back home from service overseas. I hope my brother's new marriage eclipses their dreams. I hope to learn. I hope for peace. I hope my sweet family remains safe, thriving, and blessed.

I hope.

Happy Birthday to me! Since I plan to be nowhere near the computer tomorrow ~ engrossed in jolly birthday frolicking ~ please forgive me as I blow out he candles here tonight. I am jazzed up to be 32, and ever grateful for my life. No elegantly wrapped present I have ever received has brought me the degree of satisfying joy and abundance that I get to taste at the dawn (well, ideally a bit AFTER dawn) of a brand new fresh, never-lived-in-before day. What an unparalleled blessing it is just to be able to live.

32 years old tomorrow. I look forward with almost giddy expectation to filling the unwritten pages with yet untaken journeys, meeting yet unknown friends along the way, and having my life refined in yet unfathomed ways.

I think I need to begin sending my Mom a card on my birthday rather than the other way around. 9 pounds, 3 ounces is no delicate flower.

Bruised Ambitions

I knew this was an almost certainly not a smart move before I did it. I was reminded of exactly how unwise it was as I was in the process of attempting it. And I knew exactly how moronic it was with new emphasis afterwards, while dealing with the painful ramifications of my unhindered stupidity.

I fell off a stool in my closet tonight while trying to hoist a 700 bazillion pound set of stacking luggage up to the top shelf so I could store it. Up high. Out of the way. And poised to fall on hapless heads of people who routinely visit the closet. This fatally flawed concept (storing enormously heavy, bulky objects on a narrow top shelf) undertaken with utter disregard to safety (me using a feeble, rickety stool - which is older than I am - while trying to lift something much heavier than me well above my head, by myself) led to me getting hurt. And it is my own doggone fault.

Thank God nothing was broken in the resounding crash and fall that followed my stroke of sheer genius.

I became the filling in the stool/luggage sandwich last night with my legs sadly bearing most of the brunt of it. The stool and the gargantuan 4-piece luggage set both came smashing down onto my calves in rapid succession, rendering them temporarily fairly useless. I cried. Copper came sprinting to the rescue with ice, heat, compresses and kisses. My hero. God bless him. If only I was the true damsel in distress instead of the unwise woman attempting ridiculous luggage lofting manuevers in her closet. I would have felt more deserving if I hadn't brought this on myself.

Brilliant from the get-go, this plan.

My souvenir reminder of this lovely event is still making itself fully manifest, but has managed quite an impressive start thus far. That would be the charming deep wine, grape, black, blue, and yellow hued pattern of bruising that now clearly marks a large portion of my legs ~ particularly my right one ~ from the back of my knee to well below my calf. It bangs like a drum with every step, but my limp is improving already. Every time I remove the heat wrap, I see that the bruise has grown and deepened. It's like the national debt.

But there is a potential bright side. If the brusing pattern morphs into anything remotely resembling the Virgin Mary, perhaps I can light candles and charge admission to my leg?

For my dear Catholic friends, please forgive my jest. I would never charge you. For you, my leg shrine will always be free.

An officer and a funnyman

I am so proud of my effervescent, amazing Copper. In addition to being an outstanding, decorated police officer and Sergeant for now over 15 years, he is an accomplished writer and effective, funny communicater. God so adeptly uses my awesome husband in his unique position as a cop working within the usually-under the-influence-of-something residents in our famous-for-it's-over-the-top-party-atmosphere university town.

He has been authoring a Question & Answer column in the local collegiate newspaper for over a year. Started on a whim to reach out to the student body who universally views all authority figures (particularly those carrying guns) as Nazi-esque fun-squashers, this column and Copper have received HUGE raves and avid participation from students, faculty, and administration alike. I am forever impressed with my beloved's ability to reach out and relate with honest humor, those whom he has been charged with serving and protecting. The content of his latest installment springs from the rise of expensive bicycle tickets the college town police are issuing to drunk, disorderly, and downright dangerous bicyclists in the campus community. Nothing ticks a college student off more than having to pay almost $125 for a BICYCLE ticket. But the sheer volume of pedestrian injuries and ambulance rides to the hospital at the hands of bicycle mavericks was alarming. So, off we go into bike ticket land...

I thought I'd share his latest column here with you. Our writing styles differ, but I think it is evident why he is indescrbiably effective at reaching and relating to college age students. And perhaps just the slightest hint at some of the invaluble qualities that cause me to love him so.

My cup of pride runneth over, babe. You rock.

*******
Question Authority: Watch Where You Tread, Biker Laws Have a Purpose — Friday May 27, 2005

Lately it seems that one of the more common topics I have been asked about is the increase in bicycle enforcement. Some people are happy about us being out there enforcing the rules and encouraging bicyclists to obey the traffic laws. Others feel that this is an attempt by the over-zealous government to instill fear among the peace-loving and environmentally conscious by crushing their hopes and dreams and creating a mind-numbing Orwellian society that replaces freedom with the awesome demagoguery of the State, whose silent black unmarked helicopters circle in a never-ending search of a free spirit to crush.

I don’t know. I just think you should stop at a stop sign to avoid getting hit by a car. And anyway, everyone knows that the black helicopters are flown by the aliens that killed JFK and are searching for the Loch Ness monster that escaped from Area 51 with the help of Bigfoot and the chupacabra. Come on, everyone knows that.

So what are the rules for riding a bike on campus? First and foremost, bikes must obey all signs and signals. Even if you think a stop sign is in a dumb place, you still need to obey the sign. It’s totally OK to disagree with the sign being there, or to feel that it should be for the other traffic or even that the color red clashes and should be more of a pleasing chartreuse. No problem. Our society relies on people disagreeing with the “norm.” However, you still need to follow the rules until you can get them changed.

Next, bike riding and sidewalks are not meant to mix. Unlike the smooth mix of chocolate and peanut butter, whose real danger is the bloated feeling you get after going through an entire Costco bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups while watching a marathon of the first-season DVD of “Scrubs,” bike riding on the sidewalk places the pedestrians at risk. It’s much safer to keep the walkways clear for pedestrians. And speaking of pedestrians and sidewalks, skateboarders are also considered pedestrians and are supposed to stay on the sidewalks. They are not allowed on the bike paths. That would be like mixing chocolate and mayonnaise. Move over M&M’s, here comes America’s next super taste sensation…

or not…

Now what about speeding? Although there’s no set speed limit on the bike paths, the rules do state that you have to ride at a reasonable speed for the conditions (weather, path condition or traffic). Now, before you get visions of cops on motorcycles hiding behind bushes with radar guns, that’s not the purpose of this rule. Its purpose is to prevent both bicyclists who are zipping around cutting people off and those who are going so slow that they are blocking the rest of the traffic on the bike path. For an officer to give a ticket for this, we would be looking for the biker who was nearly causing an accident.

Now I realize that many bikers are frustrated with the idea that the police are out there writing tickets, but this is being done with the goal of trying to reduce the number of accidents we have been responding to over the years. I’ve held too many towels on people’s wounds to stop bleeding while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Many times, these injuries would not have happened if the bicyclist had stopped at the stop sign, or had been riding on the right side of the road, or just been paying attention to traffic. If writing a few tickets can help prevent that from happening, it is definitely worth it.

Also, the police are helping to mitigate the $124 fine by offering a one-hour safety class that reduces the cost of the ticket to $35. The goal of writing tickets is not to punish people, but to help educate people on the importance of biking safety.

So, in closing, I just want to encourage everyone to share the bike paths. If there is one thing that can help improve bike safety, it’s just being courteous to your fellow bikers. Watch out for each other and share the limited space we all need to ride and it will go a long way in making biking in our community a greater experience for everyone. Gotta go now. The black helicopter seems to be following me...

Return of the ichtyhs

A friend asked me the other day why my car does not have a Jesus fish on it.

You know the ones.

Those little rounded Christian fish symbols - the same ones that some rather snide but brilliant marketing minds borrowed and then added the word "Darwin" in the middle or little feet on the bottom. And sold them by the millions. Lovely little joke, isn't it? Ha ha ha hilarious. I roll my eyes in the general direction of the Darwin fishes. The Star Trek version is much more inventive.

The REAL fish is called the ichtyhs. These days though, and perhaps it is my southern California locale, but I do see more more of the parodied versions than the original ichtyhs. One of the most recent version of the Darwinian take on the Christian symbol gracing more than a few cars in this neck of the woods seems to show the Darwin fish ingesting the ichtyhs. A never-ending cycle, the latest evolution of this self-perpetuating parody is a bigger ichtyhs with the word "TRUTH" in it, eating the fomer-top-of-the-food-chain Darwin fish.

Not surprisingly, I like this latest version.

I remember the first time I saw this ichtyhs fish of TRUTH eating the Darwin fish bumper decoration. It was on the most ancient, rattly, held-together-with-prayer-and-duct tape pick-up truck specimen I have seen in a long while. Primer seemed to be it's most dominant color and the back bumper was actually tied to the body of the truck on with yellow nylon cord in several places. The original gas cap had been replaced with a ramshackle replacement, and the handle for the pick up bed had long since rusted out. It had a Jack-N-The-Box antenna ball (deeply cool) and an In-And-Out-Burger sticker on the other side of the precariously attached rear bumper (even more cool).

I was so jazzed to see this new bumper sticker that I waved furiously, grinning from ear to ear at the driver as I approached his car from the left side. When his face came into view, I recall vividly flashing back to Grizzly Adams memories from my childhood. I also saw the big green sparkling cross dangling from his rear view mirror. He waved and smiled back at me, giving me the thumbs up - the universal symbol for "you rock".

So Grizzly Adams is evidently a blazing Christian and though his choice of vehicles is uniquely suspect, he has fantastic taste in bumper decor. Let's just hope his bumper lasts in place awhile longer, because it'd be a shame to lose that element of cool which was eloquently redeeming his otherwise pretty dodgy mode of transportation. I take heart that there are rugged manly-men who LOVE GOD with such overt abandon.

As for me, my friend was correct to notice that I don't have an ichtyhs fish on my car. In fact, there is nothing on my car but a sad lot of dust and salty ocean residue, lots of tragic insect remains smattered across my grill and windshield, and the words "FORD" and "ESCAPE" that were there when we bought the car brand new and drove it off the lot. I have a good reason for not including a Jesus fish, but I am ashamed to admit it.

The reason, you see, is two fold. Both are legitimate, but the second one plays a far heavier role in my decision to forgo the ichtyhs.

First, it kept getting stolen. I tried several times in high school and college to keep an ichtyhs intact on my bumper, but my sweet little fishies kept getting pinched by random, anonymous thieves. So there is that.

That, and...

I am not the best driver. This is the real reason. Please don't mishear me - I am a courteous, kind driver, and love to share the road and enjoy the whole driving experience. But this is not always a good thing. Though I try everyday to show kindness and generosity to other drivers, I still cannot seem to drive with a confident degree of consistency. And I do not want Jesus to be associated (via the ichtyhs fish) with a driving mistake I may make. I am not overtly dangerous, but let us just politely say that driving is not my strong point.

Some days I am Speed Racer. Other days, I am Driving Miss Daisy. Some days I feel like a space cadet behind the wheel - one or two beats off the rhythm of life - strangely not seeing Stop signs until they are behind me as I accidentally blow through them, and wondering why everyone else seems to be mad that I inadvertently slowed down because I was watching the sunset. I have been known to drive while talking on my cell phone (much to Copper's alarm - so this trend is curbing gradually). I have also been known to drive while painting my toenails (my feet were up on the dashboard, not that this betters my case any) or while unwrapping and attemping to ingest a Freebirds monster veggie burrito.

Copper says I have driving-induced ADHD. Even though I have only been involved in three accidents since I was seventeen, and none of them were caused by me, (they all involved my car being smashed into by another car - once when I was not even present inside my car) I am just not the best driver in the world. I know this. I am at home with this reality. But, as driving seems to evidentally not be my best ministry, I have thus concluded that my CAR is not the most ideal place to display my love for Christ.

I would never want anyone to see my ichtyhs fish and associate Jesus with bad driving. I'd essentially never want to hear, "the lady in that 'Jesus fish car' cut me off". Oh my. Ichthys-fish-meets-road-rage is not a pleasant scenario to imagine. I would feel horridly guilty for weeks. Not only for what I had done, but for representing Christianity so poorly for whomever I inadvertently committed a driving sin upon.

So until my driving skills become a bit more consistent (it's only been 14 years since I got my license - and I AM improving, so there is reason to hope), my ichtyhs fish will remain written on my heart and displayed in my life, but not on my car.

But I have a tremendous deal of respect for my dear fellow driver, Grizzly Adams, who wears his heart on his sleeve (or rather, his bumper) no matter how he drives or what his truck looks like. THIS is the kind of person I endeavor to be. Open, unafraid, exuberant, unapologetically being who I am without compromise and loving God fiercely enough to display crosses and ichtyhs on my car. No matter what it looked like or who was driving it.

Because on both counts, the real message and truest value lies within. And even if his driving is less than flawless, is that not the point? That God loves us despite our imperfections, and in fact, that revealing our flaws to others is one of the most real ways to understand that Christianity is not something to be attained or earned by the perpetually perfect, but offered as a gift to everyone, even those who paint their toenails while driving? My heart is so immature in Christ sometimes. There is more than one lesson I can learn from this man's glowing heart for God contained in his ruddy, salt of the earth truck.

It is my hope that I eventually earn back my right to proudly showcase my ichtyhs on my car once again. But it is my more potent hope that God works on my heart until I develop courage and wisdom to be able to display my ichtyhs symbol despite my driving skills, not because of them. And when I reach that point, I do plan to get the Darwin-fish-chomping TRUTH version, and it is my hope that it stays put this time and is not summarily removed by the little Darwin versions on nearby vehicles, who use their little feet to walk over to my car and abscond with my Jesus fish because the parking lot became an unwelcome parking environment with my ichtyhs in plain view.

Little thieves.

Survival of the fittest, my foot.

Little Laundry Lesson

I will remember to check the washing machine for errant purple crayons...
I will remember to check the washing machine for errant purple crayons...
I will remember to check the washing machine for errant purple crayons...
I will remember to check the washing machine for errant purple crayons...
I will remember to check the washing machine for errant purple crayons...

Ah, well. Lavender is an underused color for my familys' formerly white underwear, T-shirts, socks and bras. And it is actually quite lovely, really. Kind of a mixture between lilac and lavender, with randomly spaced dark purple wax streaks. Very classy. Maybe this is Gods' way of reminding me that the notion that I am in control is a destructive illusion. Maye it is Gods' way of illustrating that unexpected blessings can come from seemingly not-so-great happenings. Purple unmentionables might just be more becoming on every member of our family than white was. It might start a trend.

Then again, maybe it is Gods' way of reminding me to just check the doggone washing machine for LaLa's crayons before adding clothes, water, and detergent.

This will be a funny memory one day. In about eight years.

May also be used as a paint thinner...

Since so many of us are evidently past or present Taco Bell devotees, I thought I'd announce that Taco Bell is again sponsoring the "Share Your Sauce Wisdom" contest, offering a chance to have your little tidbit of tongue-in-cheek "wisdom" printed on Taco Bell sauce packets.

Some of the winning entries from last year were:

•Bike tires scare me

•I’m in good hands now

•It’s okay, you can say it. I love you too.

•Mmmmmmm….Sauce

•My sauce is an honor student at Taco Middle School

•Not to be used as a flotation device

•Pick me! Pick me!

•When I grow up I want to be a waterbed

•Where are you taking me?

•You had me at taco.

Got a Saucy Idea? Head on over to the Taco Bell website and throw in in the ring. But PLEASE, post it here too - I bet we have a closet sauce wiseacre among us somewhere.

Sunday, blessed Sunday

Some weeks are like traveling rapids upstream against the frigid current in the howling wind, with bitter rain pelting your face. Naked. Without oars or paddles.

Such has been this week, though by the grace of God, there were wonderful welcome respites peppering the stoney path ~ enough to keep my spirit afloat and ablaze with joy.

Even so, anticipating singing praise music in the chapel tomorrow morning is making me so jazzed up that sleep eludes, even at almost 1:00 am. Singing is the single most powerful method God uses to impact and nourish me. The thought of "filling up my tank" tomorrow amidst a chorus of other jubilantly singing voices is welcomingly satiating. I am running on fumes.

Sometimes the week between Sundays is a bit too long for me...

Reason three hundred and seventy-two

...why my children will NEVER be educated in the public school system. Particularly here in California, home to increasingly moldy batches of fruit and nuts.

"LA CANADA FLINTRIDGE, Calif. (AP) - Parents are already giving bad reviews to La Canada High School's spring production "Bat Boy: The Musical."

Opposition is building because of themes of incest, rape and murder in the original stage production_ and the play doesn't even debut until June.

During a packed meeting of the La Canada Unified School District board last week, concerned parents asked that the production be canceled. Supporters of the musical decried the effort as censorship.

The satirical comedy is about a half-human, half-bat creature who faces alienation and bigotry. The off-Broadway production includes scenes depicting several dark themes, including incest, rape, bestiality and murder.

No action was taken by the school board, but several members said they supported the production as long as it is made more appropriate for high school students."

(Look it up - Google BAT BOY and LA CANADA. Wanting to know what the ruckus was about, I read the libretto. It is every bit as bad as it is reported to be. It was actually sickening for me to READ, much less imagine watching teenage children acting out live on a high school stage)

So, saying a prayer in school is illegal.

But bestiality, forcible rape, murder, and copulation scenes performed live on the stage of a public high school by 14-18 year old students is apparently hunky dory?

The depraved, ugly, sexually perverse content of this musical has no place in a public school system which is meant to foster the character development of and "educate" our American children. Is this what we want our children to 'learn' and be influenced by?

Really?

When 'Bat Boy' satisfies the criteria to be considered appropriate for consummation in a public high school, the words "hell" and "handbasket" spring readily to my mind. When our loftiest aspiration is to achieve the enlightened state of complete tolerarance, we do exactly that: tolerate EVERYTHING. This is amoral and destructive, allowing all sorts of unmitigated trash to stand on equal ground for access to our children's minds, psyches, and souls with Shakespeare, Keats, Socrates, Newton, Sondheim, Einstein, Rogers and Hammerstein, or Mozart. What a criminal disservice we are doing to our children with this kind of "education". The putrid content of the musical 'Bat Bay' is inappropriate for children of any age, period. The fact that it is welcomed openly when any notion of God or morality is legally and forcibly shunned in our public schools makes me literally heartsick and nauseous.

I begin to wonder how we allowed ourselves to get this far lost. Then I remember: when we remove God from the equation, we operate without benefit of any universally established moral compass whatsoever. Therefore, we are never lost - because there is no basis for that assessment. There is no north or south, no good or evil, no applied litmus tests for anything. Everything simply becomes part of the human experience, tolerated, acceptable, equal, allowable, OK. Nothing is evaluated on its merits because to do so would be judgmental ~ gasp ~ which is apparently the very worst trait attributable, in some circles (evidently including those with decision power over the choice of public high school musicals in southern California).

We are going to reap what we're sowing now for generations to come.

The public school system is never going to get their hands on my innocent, precious, sweet children. Not ever.

Nectar of God, the Recipe

Carbonated Water
High Fructose Corn Syrup And/Or Sugar
Caramel Color
Phosphoric Acid
Artificial and Natural Flavors
Sodium Benzoate (Preservative)
Caffeine

Otherwise known as my fuel a la mode, Dr. Pepper. (If you listen long enough, you can hear my audibly deep, contented sigh) Nothing like it. I wonder if this delightful soft drink was around when Jesus walked the earth, if it would have been truly His drink of choice - the actual, historical nectar of God? I think a substantial argument can be made for that. At least by me.

I can't believe caffeine is last on the list of ingredients. Clearly a typo there.

Right Up There with Midget Tossing

Lest anyone think I am becoming paranoid to the point of losing my marbles altogether with respect to this topic, I offer newly penned support of my continued notation of this ugly, virulent trend in modern America, particularly within the realms of the press and politics: AVID CHRISTIAN BASHING. It's almost a sport these days. It is, in fact, becoming so overtly dominant that I would not be too surprised to see it proposed as a potential new Olympic event for the 2008 Games. Right up there with midget tossing, donkey shaving, fire eating, and other ill-conceived and thankfully rejected potential Olympic event ideas.

It seems, at least in the minds and evidenced in the writings of an increasing number of mainstream journalists and politicians, that the loudly lauded concept of "tolerance" clearly does not apply to Christianity, at least when lived publicly and without apology. We are labeled "jihadists", "scary", "frightening reconstructionists", "crackpot theocratics". "the radical right" ~ name your inflammatory, chillingly inaccurate adjective ~ and chances are, you'll find it heralded in black and white and attributed to any number of supposed credible journalists, aimed squarely at me and others who share my faith, morals, Jesus, or ideals.

Nonsense, I say (...have said before and will say again till it satisfyingly reverberates off the hills ~ I hear those deep sighs out there...). America was founded on Godly principles, by Godly people, and by borrowing Godly precepts, our laws and society were crafted and established. The so-called American reconstruction movement is not underway by people of faith. Rather, the exact converse is true: those of us who realize America is straying perilously far from her foundation, backbone, intentions, and historical heart are standing in the gap of the rolling tide of attempted revisionism at the hands of overzealous secularists. Whose response is to call attention away from their efforts by labeling us 'jihadists', grouping faithful Christians with the crazed foreign wackos who rammed planes into American buildings, and hope this buys them enough time to erode enough of our foundation that it crumbles altogether. So that they can re-establish America with THEIR vision, by force: continuing to assert their right to change history and re-shape the nation by imposing the whims of the minority over the will of the majority.

I quote,

"In the long journey from the matchless moment when I became "born again" and encountered the risen and living Christ, I have met hundreds of evangelicals and a good many practicing Catholics and have found them to be of reasonable temperament, often enough of impressive accomplishment, certainly not a menace to the republic, unless, of course, the very fact of faith seriously held is thought to make them just that. It is said, again and again and again, that the evangelical/Catholic right is out of accord with the history of our republic, dangerously so. What we are out of accord with is not that history but a revisionist version of it vigorously promulgated by those who want it to be seen as other than it was.

Evangelicals are concerned about the frequently advanced and historically untenable secularists' view of the intent of our non-establishment/free exercise of religion clause: that everything that has its origin in religion must be swept out of federal, and even civil, domains. That view, if militantly enforced, constitutes what seems dangerous to most evangelicals: the strict and entire separation of God from state. This construct, so desired by some, is radically out of sync with much in American history that shows a true regard for the non-establishment of religion while giving space in nearly all contexts to wide and free expressions of faith.

The fact is that our founders did not give us a nation frightened by the apparition of the Deity lurking about in our most central places. On Sept. 25, 1789, the text of what was later adopted as the First Amendment was passed by both houses of Congress, and subsequently sent to the states for ratification. On that same day , the gentlemen in the House who had acted to give us that invaluable text took another action: They passed a resolution asking President George Washington to declare a national day of thanksgiving to no less a perceived eminence than almighty God.

That's president , that's national, that's official and, alas, my doubting hearties, it's God -- all wrapped up in a federal action by those who knew what they meant by the non-establishment clause and saw their request as standing at not the slightest variance from it. It's a pity our phalanx of columnists cannot crawl into a time machine to go back and reinstruct them."

If our tolerance for this kind of evil Christian bashing is anything above ZERO, we must search our hearts and figure out why this degree of attack on this particular religion is acceptable when it is clearly NOT acceptable when applied to other groups of people. Simply replace "Christians" with "Jews" or "African-Americans" or "homosexuals" as the subject being vilified by these writers, and suddenly what is tolerated so readily about people who love Jesus becomes so clearly deeply offensive, inexcusable, bigoted hatred. Let me ask, then, why not that same sense of clarity and anger when American Christians are being targeted and skewered? Why are we grading discriminatory 'bashing' on a sliding scale? This is wrong. It defies justification or excuse, and it should not be tolerated. By any of us, Christian and non-Christian, Democrat and Republican. If you are a human American citizen, this kind of attack on the freedom of religion of Christians in American should anger, repulse, and alarm you.

And yet, this disgusting nonsense gets a pass, time and time again. Even from even those of us who are apparently now walking around with big black and white targets painted on our backsides because of the cross we willingly carry for the Lord we love above all else.

I guess we could just go with it, perhaps. It would certainly make for innovative combinations of events for the 2008 games. Coming soon to an Olympic stadium near you: the illustrious new sports of Christian Tossing and Midget Bashing? Any takers?

The Wisdom Of The Whos

"A Person's A Person, No Matter How Small."

~ Dr. Seuss' Horton is my hero. If only we all could see life through eyes like his.

Unapologetic Joy

There is no denying that I am a joy-filled person. I have never not been saturated with joy, excited about existing, committed to carpe diem style living ~ sucking the marrow out of life and embracing God's bounty with abandon. As an infant, child, teenager, adult ~ if one defining stable characteristic throughout my life must be identified, it would arguably be JOY. Joy is present within me almost constantly ~ not only by conscious decision, but also as an involuntary manifestation of who I am as a crafted individual. A spirit of joy is my constant companion in life and resides deep within my soul, by God's design and with His purpose.

It is truly one of the fruits of my spirit, as defined Biblically. And I am grateful.

One of the most dear qualities that Copper brings to me is the unique and highly prized ability to amplify joy in our lives. In so doing, he adds depth and trust to our marriage. He never diminishes, incapacitates, or seeks to quells my experience and embrace of joyfulness in everyday life. He is a harmonizing effect, not a dimmer switch. And I love him for this (though by no means, this alone).

That Jesus loves me is obviously the primary source of this abundant joy for me. How could it NOT be, really? Any other source is a distant second to that which I encounter in the daily affirmation of my self-surrender to God's will in gratitude for the gift of Jesus. All else pales by comparison, because without God's design and Jesus' sacrifice, my life itself would simply fail to exist.

I do find indescribable joy in my children, husband, family, friends, talents, gifts, and life - but as an extension of my first and lasting source of joy, without whom nothing I take joy in would be possible. And increasingly, simply because of my raw awe that He just loves me unendingly despite myself and blesses me exponentially ANYWAY. I do not deserve and am unworthy of everything I have, so aware am I of my consistent state of "soul remodel in perpetuity", the construction process having been underway for now almost 32 years. Because I am aware of the GIFT, rather than the ENTITLEMENT that joy is, I am even more grateful, and even more flooded with joy. Like a warm cup of hot chocolate on a crisp subzero morning is the sensation of I am faced with my naked soul ~ still hindered by my own humanity from where I yearn and ache to be ~ and I realize I am loved ANYWAY by the perfect creator of the heavens and the earth.

Pretty humbling. Pretty comforting. Pretty doggone amazing.

Big time joy booster.

But I will say this about joy. It is so often misunderstood in the swirling "world of other importance" around us. Joy is not a highly prized blessing among so many of us, is it? In fact, we often find ourselves involved in continual "my life is harder" matches about whose life is more stressful, more devoid of joy, more difficult, don't we? As if seeking a prize for that accomplishment, we sometimes labor with the delusion that it is somehow more noble, more worthy of respect and appreciation that we are so consistently stressed out, overburdened, and longsuffering. Often this all occurs by own crafting. Yes, life is HARD, inarguably. At moments, it can be to-the-breaking-point overwhelming. While I have deep compassion and a prayerful heart for those whose lives are filled with the kinds of inordinate struggles I can only begin to imagine, I do believe there is a rightful place in each one of us for the kind of rich joy God describes in Galatians and again in John 15 ~ the kind that is so fulfilling that it is complete within us DESPITE changing circumstance. The kind that is not fleeting or determined by our momentary life experiences, but is forever abiding and built around a foundation which is larger than ourselves. I want to celebrate and herald THAT kind of homeostatic joy.

I want to be one whose life demonstrate joy and caring, love, and stewardship DESPITE personal circumstance. A common thread I note in those inpiringly dynamic people who seem to be able to navigate through life with conviction and purpose is their sense of JOY and gratitude for the basic experience of this life in the first place, given to them by God for His purpose. In essence, I endeavor to count myself among those whose joy is in the Lord and whose lives show the fruit of that joy with every breath.

We are not entitled to any of this. This life we take for granted - this daily grind we rail against, the trials and tribulations, ups and downs, moments of pain and crisis, sorrow and healing, ebbs and flows of this whole human experience.. Life ~ all of it ~ is so temporary, so fleeting and can end for any one of us, abruptly, at any time. Why not seek joy along the journey? What do we lose or risk by embracing joy as we travel through the amount of time we have been gifted here? Why not choose joy?

Why not?

The joy of integrity is not based on circumstance, but on faith. It does not waver with situation, but can be appropriately quieted when required. It fills the soul and answers the darkest moments with reverberating truth. It is not superficial, but everlasting and - in my case - a strong root that anchors and defines me. Joy is not an adjective, it is an adverb and is one a powerful God-given character quality.

It needs no apologies. It just is.

Hello, my name is Lachen and I am a proud joy-a-holic. You betcha. And loving every minute of it.

Quiz: How Liberal or Conservative are YOU?

Although aware of the subjective, imperfect nature of quizzes (particularly those administred via the ever-reliable internet), I liked this one for it's simple, basic questions and less-than-one-minute-to-take quality. If only defining our political selves WERE truly this easy...

For the record, my fairly unsurprising results were:

Your Political Profile

Overall: 90% Conservative, 10% Liberal

Social Issues: 100% Conservative, 0% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 100% Conservative, 0% Liberal

Ethics: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 100% Conservative, 0% Liberal

Joe's Buck N' Cut

Please tell me I am not the only one who clearly sees the inherent flaw of this product, the formula for which seems to involve mixing equal parts sharp blades with vibrating motor, adding water to taste, and then inflicting it upon your body? Yikes.

Shades of a Far Side Cartoon I once saw in which a barber is depicted cutting a customer's hair as he rides a coin-op bucking bronco in his barber shop - resulting in an awful choppy hairdo and one unhappy client. The sign on the window reads "Joe's Buck N 'Cut".

Keening

For no particular reason, without benefit of a catalystic trigger, and on a random Thursday night while engaged in my otherwise routine life, I am met with deep keening for my Dad.

He is not dead. He's quite alive. At least I think he is.

My dad, you see, left us long ago. My parents divorced when I was 17. I last saw or spoke with my father shortly after turning 18, a few days before he suddenly departed our lives, abandoning his three children entirely for the greener grass that apparently grows somewhere else.

As with most cases of wanderlust, he never did find the elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, though it did take another failed marriage, several continents, countless jobs, and all of the money from our stolen college savings accounts to realize the futility of his fantasies.

During that decade, we would hear rumors of his being in Mexico, then Guatemala, Jamaica, then Hawaii. Once we thought we saw his car leaving my high school graduation. Another time, my brother encountered him on the street outside his college apartment. Deeply stunned, my brother invited him inside. Shaky and sweating noticably, my father was evidently nervous and anxious. After only a few minutes of benign chat, he asked my brother if he could please use his phone to make a business call. He dialed and entered into an urgent sounding conversation for several moments. But then the dial tone began sounding loudly from the phone receiver, announcing his lie unmistakenly. My Dad had never dialed anyone - the phone was off the hook. He had been pretending to talk to an empty phone line.

Still gives me chills to think about that.

Obviously startled by the realization that my brother knew Dad was not speaking to anyone, he hung up and without further comment, left my brother's apartment. We heard nothing further from him for a long, long time.

Who knows what is truth and what is not about his exact journey after he left us? The heart of the matter is that he left us. When you abandon your children so coldly and without explanation or remorse, anything you do after that is rather peripheral. At least from the perspectives of the children left in your wake, suffering the consequences of the selfish choices of your hollow soul.

For almost eleven years, I did not know where or who my father was. Then, suddenly, we got word through the grapevine that he had evidently resurfaced in California the year of my precious daughter's birth. Newly remarried for the third time to an old family friend, he was living within easy driving distance from all of his children and family. But he never contacted any of us. Ever.

When my dear grandfather passed away a year later, his funeral was the first time I'd seen my father since I was 18. The first time my dear husband, Copper, had EVER met my father.

I prayed for enormous courage to face this man. I resolved to be strong and never to let him see in my eyes, actions, or speech the degree of pain he has caused all three of hischildren by voluntarily abdicating his role as our father and leaving us behind without a backwards glance, note, card, call, or care. In over ten years. How do you just LEAVE your children forever and not show any evidence of caring at all?

But face to face with my Dad that day, my angry resolve crumbled into sobs. Already emotional over the passing of my grandfather, I hugged him with tears coming so fiercely I could not talk. Disappointed at my own internal betrayal, I pulled away abruptly, still unable to speak. Dad said, "It's good to see you." That was it. It's good to see me. Copper managed a handshake through gritted teeth and a stony smile. He abhors my Dad because of the scars he inflicted on my heart and believes him to be a sociopath. We have agreed that my Dad will never see our children, even if he ever indicated a desire to, which he did not. I admit, I dared to hope that seeing his children after so long, especially in the context of his own father's death would rekindle something - anything - that once bound us together as a family.

It was not to be.

I have never seen him again. It's been over three years.

For some reason, a flash flood of Dad-related emotion hit me tonight. It feels like a betrayal of my heart to even allow it audience within me, on some level. I do not mourn the person of my Dad exactly, but the empty place he should have had in my life. I mourn that my Dad threw away his children. I mourn the person I so longed for him to be. I mourn that my father does not love me or want me, and will not ever again nestle me closely to him the way I lovingly watch Copper embrace our children every day. I mourn the painful reality that I have no father by his deliberate choice.

At least not here on earth. Praise God I can cling to Him as my eternal replacement.

I will NEVER comprehend any possible justification for the volunntary abdication of parenthood and the pain it causes the children left behind. I remain convinced that a person who abandons or harms their children has a vacant soul. And I have learned that life experience, maturity, age, and the passing of time does not necessarily heal the lasting wounds inflicted by a parent who so easily casts their child aisde. The "why's" behind such deplorable actions are, at best, anemic and utterly inconsequential.

My own thriving relationship with and deep dependence upon Christ is largely because He is my only father, for all intents and purposes. Which is not a bad consolation prize, actually. I also believe that a large portion of my empathy for children and righteous anger at selfish, destructive, immature, morally corrupt, or ego-driven parenting comes from being the recipient of such cruel indifference at the hands of a parent. I am grateful my children will never know the reality I have lived with respect to my Daddy. Theirs is a true and fine man of God who loves them to the extent of his capacity and even beyond, borrowing both wisdom and love from God when his own reserves are low. Copper is the father we both longed for our own Dad's to be.

Even with the merciful and glorious surrogate father I have in Copper's step-dad, and the comfort of Christ's loving model of the infallibly divine father, there remains a hole in my being carved by my own Dad. It is no longer a gaping open wound, but more of a sensitive ache. Which cannot be removed from the person I am. Though by faith, prayer, and will I have made it into something useful for my own growth, and it fuels my committment as a mother NEVER to cause my children this kind of pain, the scar will mark me forever.

For some reason tonight, I was jarred into remembering my hurt rather suddenly - flooded with memories, emotions, and longing for what might have been. For a Dad that still doesn't want us - doesn't want me. For the Dad I so wish he was - the amazing Dad I knew when I was a little girl - the unfilfilled promise I still moun deeply. I am nearing 32 years old and still I sometimes long for Daddy.

Some things stay with you, no matter how far a distance you travel in life. There is no time limit to the pain a child can continue to experience at the callous rejection by a parent. Even when you are otherwise whole and thriving,the reality hits you anew at odd times, bringing back waves of emotion you thought you'd long since left in the past. Where they belong..

I pray that my Dad one day realizes what he has done and seeks forgiveness. And that my heart continues to be open, receptive, and forgiving in the unlikely event that moment ever comes. For tonight, there is keening and wistfulness. But there are no expectations upon my Dad. I abandoned any thought of those long ago. I place my only hope in God, by whose sheer grace alone this healing may one day be complete.

Power of A Parrot Piggy Bank

LaLa's Luau-themed birthday party was held this weekend. In lieu of gifts, my 4-year old girl decided she would instead ask guests to contribute to her PARROT PIGGY BANK, collecting donations for Bridges of Hope, Intl. in South Africa. The incredibly empowering mission of this non-profit organization, established by our former pastor who now works and lives with his family in South Africa, is to battle the AIDS pandemic by community transformation, providing hope and a sustainable future to those with neither.

One of the aspects of the Bridges of Hope ministry involves caring for AIDS street orphans in the ghetto of Phillipi. One deeply compassionate, powerfully compelling woman, Agnes, took in over 20 orphans into her shack there and just cared for them. She has nothing. No help, no food, no money, no sustainable income - she just cares! And her fuel is her love and prayers that she would be able to keep these children safe and make a home for them in her humble shack. And when I say shack, it was truly that. Delapidated tin roof, cardboard or plasterwood walls, dirt floor. Bridges of Hope was able to rebuild her home this past year with more sturdy materials (concrete, wood, windows!) and LaLa collected donations for new beds and bedding for these most needful children. They now sleep in a home where they are loved and cared for by Agnes and the BOH teams. Even without traditional family, these orphans are tasting LIFE and LOVE and HOPE.

We were awed to be able to play a small role in that transformation.

My little girl, with her deep-welled heart and sensitive soul, was upset when she was told that these children in South Africa have never had a birthday party. She wanted to give them one somehow. First, she suggested that we invite them all to her party. We explained the logistics of that one being unfortunately above our capacity to afford. So she decided that they needed their OWN birthday celebrations.

Her next idea was to send all the toys she would likely receive as gifts at her party to the children "with no Mommies and Daddies in South Africa". I calculated the international shipping on big boxes of heavy toys and gently guided her away from this option.

In a matter of days, she decided to have a parrot piggy bank at her party, collecting money for the orphans' birthday celebration and gifts from our guests INSTEAD of gifts to herself.

So, I sent out the party invitations with that request (please no gifts - in lieu of anything you might have wanted to offer, please consider donating to our PARROT PIGGY BANK to benefit Bridges of Hope Intl. - bringing caring hope to AIDS orphaned children in South Africa).

And guess what?

She raised $500. Five Hundred Dollars. And twenty-five cents.

Little LaLa was thrilled! She scoured the piggy bank for every last dollar, thanked and hugged each guest who contributed, and is so excited to send this money to the children for their party! (and warm blankets and cake and presents and the whole shabang)

This remarkable child of mine moves me with her capacity to give so joyously and selflessly. She brings me to task, challenging me to show my love of others so purely and without hesitation. Her actions brought me to my knees - she is making such a world impact at the tender age of FOUR as I could not imagine and am humbled to witness.

May I never stand in the way of her ability to reach beyond herself and pull a miracle out of a parrot-shaped pinata turned piggy bank. May I stand with her as she reaches out to share from the abundance of her own heart to share generously with children she has never met. May I always encourage her devotion to caring, creating joy for, and positively impacting the lives of others.

Praise God for allowing such a miraculous Happy Birthday to soon bless some of the word's most deserving children. And for my own child, who blesses my life unspeakably, I am forever grateful.

Ducks, Turtles, Flying Pigs & Wolf-Sheep

Can you hear my applause from here?

Hillary Clinton is about as middle of the road as Rush Limbaugh. She is many things (like her or not), but political "moderate" is not among her laurels, however highly desired a label it is by some more ardent supporters, pushing hard (already! crikey) for her seemingly inevitable 2008 Presidential run. Ms. Clintons' potential aspirations in the 2008 Presidential election are a virtual given among some circles, already producing polls about her hypothetical (yet) bid.

Sigh.

If you paint a duck green, it does not make it a turtle. Nor does stapling wings on a pig mean it can now fly. The wolf in sheeps' clothing is still a wolf.

Note to the future candidate: We know you. We've watched and listened to you for years. We know what you stand for. We've drawn our own intelligent conclusions about the content of your character by the political positions you take, the words you speak, and the choices you make. We know what issues you support with all your heart and what you do not. We know when we are being misled and massaged. We know you do not support the right of unborn Americans to live, no matter how gently you phrase your position on abortion or how newly open your dialogue is to those of us who stand for life. I know you do not support many of the issues I hold dear. I know you - your past and present history are the best indicators of your future. Not sound bytes. We are not so easily fooled by the "moderate" cloak. We know you.

You are a liberal. And that is fine. BE a liberal. But don't ask us to call a duck a turtle, whatever color it is painted. Because it will never be. Ducks and Turtles should be proud to be themselves, and pigs should not never pretend to fly. Wolves should throw off their sheepskins and just be HONEST about who they are and what they stand for. That some people will not like or support you is inevitable and unavoidable. Integrity is too important to sacrifice on the road to any goal.

As we do not see eye to eye on much, I will not support your potential Presidential bid, Mrs. Clinton. Under any label, slogan, or moniker.

Even if you run as a Republican.

Bailing Water From My Boat

Pondering today's news headlines stirs me.

I am forever met with stark contrasts between my deliberately carved life, and the happenings of the larger world, which pelt me with relentless percussive insistency. One the one hand, there is this abinding, fulfilling, whole faith I live through God, with my family. The enormous gift of innocent wisdom and profound truth I face every day as I navigate life holding the hands and hearts of my two children and husband. There are absolutes. There is peace. There is love. There is hope. There is life, abundantly.

And then on the other hand, there is this roaring outside world - existing in the same time and space, but vastly apart from that which defines me. The condition of my heart and life contrasts increasingy glaringly with the seemingly endless bombardment of societal chaos that sneaks into my life via news channels and current event information. Because it is my committment to pray and be involved in transforming lives, hearts, communities, and making a lasting mark for God's peace in the world, I find it prudent to know what is happening out there. But for me, often times this committment to staying informed is akin to opening a door leading from a toasty warm house and being tossed into a bitter cold, dark blizzard.

Balance is the key element here to surviving within a poisoned world without becoming infected to the point of inertia. Balance achieved by, I've come to understand, keeping my boat in the water, while never letting the water overtake and sink my boat.

So if I am to be in the world, but not of it - that satisfies. Especially lately, when I want to offer our dismayingly, overtly ill society some serious antibiotics. Or prayer. Or a swift kick in some region of the preverbial body where it might actually cause a bit of a stark wake-up call.

And then pull my covers up to my chin and comfort myself that God is bigger than the size of our world's problems, and I can find my rest and peace in Him. Even amidst the miserable levels of sin and depravity swirling around me.

What am I on about specifically? (this time...?) I am horrified at the news today. Horrified in the same way I remember feeling when it finally sank in that my beloved parents were getting a divorce - throwing my family into years of painful turmult. My heart hurts and I am moved to tears easily, enraged, disgusted, saddened - not overwhelmed, but sickened at our sick, sick world increasingly giving birth to more sickness.
This week began with an urgent emailed message from my dear friend and former pastor (now working to combat the AIDS pandemic in South Africa), soliciting prayers for a precious 4-year old neice of his colleague who was viciously raped by a neighbor over the weekend. My own sweet LaLa is 4 years old. That sends chills - this is a BABY. The kind of eroded soul who would do something like that to an innocent child is beyond my comprehension. To even think about this incident occuring damages me deeply. My prayers have become cries for this child I've never met, mixed with deep boiling anger at her attacker. I so clearly see the sickness permeating the world in events like these. And when I do, the strength of the Lord is made especially manifest to me. Which is good, because some the daily "current events" drilldown is enough to surely sink my boat if I were alone at the helm.

...Here is a sample of exactly what kind of shocking macabre news stories have landed me in this current pondering brood and inspired this entry:

More Violence Against Innocents

And Again

Yet Again

Latest In Iraq

The Increasing Futility of Voting At All, Apparently

Illegal Alien Crime Against Americans

More ACLU Anti-Christian Manuevering

If we are to seek solace within ourselves, I daresy was are coming up short these days. Our political, educational, societal, legal, and moral fibers are stretched mighty thin, aren't they?

I heard a compelling (for it's simplicity) statement from a priest being interviewed about the wretched Illinois slayings. With candor he eloquently stated, "Evidence of a sick society can be seen in the way in which we devalue life and devour innocence."

Whoa. Right on.

How chilling, though, given our current societal trends in which abortion on demand and protection of criminals' rights trump the sanctity of life and protecting the innnocent. The disintegration of family. The growing move to pigeonhole and degrade religious faith. The agendized public education system of indoctrination. Random judges overruling the will of the people at whim. The growing acceptance of moral relativism over moral fortitude and clarity. The devaluation of the cornerstones from which PURPOSE springs, among them: God, truth, love, family, responsibility, stewardship, and the sanctity of life.

Is it any wonder so many souls are lost - floating around out there as the wind wills? Is it any wonder we are peppered with increasingly depraved acts against the most innocent among us? In a morally relative world, defined by an anemic "what's good for you is fine by me" and abiding fear of the mere appearance of being discerning or judgemental, we are letting far too much garbage permeate our broken system of social and moral osmosis...and we have become seriously ill. As individuals, as a community, as a people, as a nation, and as a world at large.

Today is one of those days when I seem to have stepped into the "Bizarro World" episode of Seinfeld. Only much darker and with much deeper consequence. Ours is a sick world, indeed. But God has not left us, and indeed, this was promised. The journey of life is not meant to be an easy one. But witnessing firsthand the beauty and intention of this world marred by the ugliness sin-left-unchecked creates, I feel a sense of profound sadness and longing. I pray there are enough of us who stand against the tide of moral decay to keep the waves from overtaking the beach altogether.

I personally am going to start bailing out my boat in anticipation of launching it out again tomorrow. In hopefully less stormy seas.

Hold the Mayo Please

My darling daughter, who never fails simultaneously delight and endear me, is brilliant beyond measure.

That conclusion is not tinged with even the slightest hint of inobjectivity. I promise.

Today is the 5th of May - Cinco De Mayo! Because we reside in an area of the California Coast dominated by a rich cultural heritage steeped in Spanish, Indian, Mexican, and Latin influences, those holidays which celebrate this heritage are endorsed with rousing amplitude. Cinco De Mayo is heartily embraced here ~ announced and observed with remarkable fanfare, traditional flourishes, and lots of joyful family festivities.

This evening, our local news program ran the words "HAPPY CINCO DE MAYO" in bold scroll across the bottom of the TV screen for much of the broadcast. Nearing the end, LaLa asked me:

"What does 'C.I.N.C.O.' spell? And what does it mean?"

I told her: "CINCO means 'five' in Spanish."

"Thanks Mom. What does D.E. spell?"

"De is another Spanish word. It means 'of', I think."

Silence.

"Well, why does the TV say 'happy five of mayonnaise'?"

My heart took a picture. While the rest of me giggled and hugged my accidentally hilariously literal little girl.

mayday...mayday...

I deliberately stayed awake until after midnight (under the helpful influence of Dr. Pepper) to compose this celebratory post with the sole purpose of welcoming the FIRST DAY OF MAY!

The first day of the year, week, and month so invigorates me. Like a fresh canvas, ready for the watercolor impressionist painting which is our lives (on some days, mine more closely resembles a Picasso knockoff, or worse - one of those awful Mexican-bullfighter-on-velvet numbers). But the fresh, unwritten, first day of a brand new month. And the month that contains my birthday, warmer days, blooming flowers, and promises of summer bliss...May is such a gorgeous month. When I was a little girl, our elementary school celebrated the first day of May by having a giant festive Maypole dance, where children held colorful ribbons attached to the very top of a long Maypole, and weaved in and out to music until a pastel tapestry of ribbons was woven together. It was so sweet, so simple, and so innocent. Such a fitting way to welcome this most delightful of months into being. I feel my heart smiling at the mere recall of this childhood memory...

Let us never forget to celebrate our days like the special gifts they are, and fill each fresh, blank canvas with purposeful, meaningful memories.

Welcome MAY!