'Bearing' Repetition

It was intended to begin a new blog, on a new theme.  This is the first non monthly post since last year.

I was a 13 year old churchgoing virgin grandpa's granddaughter when Roe v. Wade was passed.  If it was ever mentioned by a then pastor, I wasn't listening, didn't know what the word 'abortion' meant, or both.  I'd actually been permitted to the pulpit earlier, quoting scripture about how men should treat their wives, at about age ten.

The laughter was with me more than against me, and I wasn't much off the mark.  If only I could have remembered, or taken my own advice later in life.  That wasn't the Plan.

Below is an essay sent to The New York Times for Op-Ed consideration.  As I know how what does and doesn't make press works, I'm not offended.  Experiences that took place between the above innocent time and now facilitated the following:


Too often lately, I'm confronted with a confounding question to which my answer either isn't heard, or I'm cut off before being able to answer at all.  

We have become so divided we are only one side or the other, and 'the other side' is also certain I represent 'the enemy', before I can even finish a sentence.  

So certain of 'who they are', many who pose the qualifying question seem as certain of who I am, before a single concept can be explained.  It's draining, yet I can't stop.  The stakes are too high.  It feels like trying to stop sheep being led off a cliff.

PRO LIFE & PRO CHOICE are not 'either or'.  

Pro life is respect for all life, that includes minor to elderly females having a choice to say 'no', to coercion of any kind, forced or unprotected sex, and ultimatums to abort a child, without premature death or losing a place to live.  

Reproductive rights includes being able to have or keep a child.  It does not necessarily mean 'abortion now, reproduce later' (or not), and those who exercise this view are few in contrast to when abortion is not the female's decision: the decision was made for her, before she went forward, alone, blamed, afraid for her life otherwise. 

What so many face post abortion is the same captivity, compounded by depression, potential substance abuse, and suicide.  We are failing to connect the dots, hacking at branches without acknowledging the roots.

As an aside, I happen to be vegan.  I could call anyone who eats meat a hypocrite for saying they're 'pro-life'.  As concepts that are connected must be 'spoon fed' it seems, I don't attempt to present overlapping issues if solid basic ones aren't being grasped.  

There are good people whose worlds have not collided with the realities of living in fear long term, when tunnel vision is a result of complex trauma and panic, and getting through the day is an accomplishment of itself.  This also happens behind the closed doors of the wealthy. Those who label don't realize how lucky they are, or maybe they wouldn't be so quick to point fingers.

Having a choice means being able to have a baby, with a place to go (& medical care), without fear of being killed, raped again, starving in the street, or actually being able to keep a baby with community supports.

Having a choice means a fair wage and enough to support a child alone without having to depend on another male, who makes more for the exact same job.  

Having a choice means your baby will not be snatched from the hospital nursery by CPS and trafficked for profit. 

Having a choice means having a baby might be an option if a loving adoptive home was waiting via means other than unregulated agencies that abuse tax dollars.  

Having a choice means knowing a rapist can be held accountable and not get custody or kill your child during court ordered unsupervised visits funded by taxpayer allocated untracked "fatherhood initiatives".

Having a choice means knowing where to go where protection actually exists, when going to authorities can or likely will result in your baby being taken by the very person you sought protection for your baby from, now with a small army of 'assistants' using unregulated tax dollars at your family's expense: you and your family paying for an abuser's defense, via tax proceeds. 

Having a choice means being able to have a baby safely, without additional fear, struggle, victimization, blame, shame, depression, misunderstanding, or lack. 

Having a choice means hope that's real, not desperation with no solution in sight. 

In the practice of law, constitutionally, there are no individual rights. The E.R.A. was introduced decades before Eisenhower, a Republican, took office.  That he supported it obviously wasn't enough.  

In 1848, the lesser known Declaration of Sentiments, written in a style to reflect the Declaration of Independence, was signed in addition to its female creators by over 30 male notables of the day, including Frederick Douglass.  Decades before women could vote, it illustrated how women were 'politely a notch above slaves'.  It's chilling how much hasn't changed from when it was created.

The legal definition of 'person' in the Constitution, presently, is 'household', meaning anyone other than 'head of household' is property in the application and practice of law.  I would find this difficult to fathom as reality, had I not witnessed first hand how this plays out with children and women systemically for nearly two decades after becoming a paralegal (2003). 

The E.R.A. becoming law would indicate women could say 'no', with protection rights, to forced abortion or sex, get an equal wage to support themselves and their families, be able to protect their children, pregnancies, and elderly in the home.  'Stranger crimes' and "domestic crimes" would require being prosecuted equally, unlike now.  

Laws 'on the books', passed by legislation, can have little or no meaning in political courts: 'mere' workplaces that see the same attorneys and judges daily, where new or 'good' laws are ignored, if known at all, and 'precedent', especially bad precedent, seems to be preferred to favor the defendant with the most resources, personally, or via state funds, such as those tapped into as "fatherhood initiatives".  

Many have referred to 'legal' environments as 'marketplaces' or "auctions", where children go to 'the higher bidder', and decisions or orders are spun to fit 'funding criteria'.   "It's not about the truth", as an attorney, who became a judge, related.

Passing of the E.R.A. will mean fewer abortions and murders of children and women (not more).  It's not a female or child's choice to be captive, told to 'have an abortion or don't come back', with death, homelessness, and being trafficked very real possibilities if they refuse.  

The E.R.A. could also mandate community supports so that anyone who can escape or wants to have their baby or keep their children actually has somewhere to go. Some of the most vulnerable would be provided means of access to help that could mean actual safety, not further compounded systemic victimization, or death. 

Reaching out for 'legal help' as a final resort, if possible at all, might no longer serve to make things times worse, in unthinkable unforeseen ways, with individual rights, as opposed to 'household rights', upheld, in this country.

With the E.R.A. in place, 'Roe v Wade' could become insignificant or moot.  This is good news for those who want it overturned, with a perplexing twist: 'it's the Equal Rights Amendment.  Doesn't that mean women will have even more choices?' The benefits far outweigh where we are now: women are largely the protectors of children, babies, and the elderly.  Their numbers far exceed the 'killers'.  Simply put, women having individual rights means less death.  

Those who wish to continue in many forms of veiled legal genocide don't want the privileges they have rampantly exercised reined in, and are adept at countless smoke & mirror tactics developed over decades.  Their favorite sympathizers are the well meaning, who haven't witnessed the dark realities that careers are built upon, a trail of dead children in their wake, with far too few held accountable.

What most don't realize is the disparity of data, now in scattered compilation, of how not having individual rights has served to decimate the unborn, babies, children, women, seniors, and families in a household, none of whom have separate personhood, which the ERA would provide.  It's well past time to lift the veil.  The bride has left the building.  She's not coming back.

Wings

Anything is possible in Heaven, especially across the Rainbow Bridge, where animals are reunited with their housemates or families that have gone before them. 

Patches passing was unexpected.  Whatever took her had been building over a day or two, though with rabbits it's nearly impossible to know until it's almost or in fact too late.

A sound I never want to hear again came from somewhere in the room I just happened to be present and standing in.  At first I had no idea where the sound was coming from.  I looked down to see her roll over convulsing.  I couldn't revive her.  CPR had worked on a kitten before.  Not this time. 

Sunday.  Places nearby, though no vet present, or even a stethoscope.  By the time an open office was reached it was confirmed she was gone.  She was taken quickly in the towel I had cradled her in the entire way searching for someone with a stethoscope that could possibly resuscitate her.  I had apologized and spoken to her in my lap the entire drive to now four places.  I couldn't bear to go back into where they couldn't get her back to say 'goodbye'.  I asked the assistant who was so kind to promise to give her a last hug for me.  She promised. 

I buried Charlie at the beach, with markers the locals added to over time, unaware they were to honor a beloved pet who had saved a child's life.  Patches would be in a smaller box: her ashes, for her original owner, the same child, now a legal adult.

I was in between obligations that day.  The window of time between allowed for getting her to a place that could only confirm she was gone.

The first pet that saved my son's life passed two years ago in the same month.  She tried to 'say goodbye' when I was in denial as well, even though her illness was known and couldn't be treated.  An hour and a half later she was gone.  I didn't take it well: why I changed majors from vet school to fine arts.  I don't do well with death.

Patches leaves her mate, a year older and not as energetic as earlier days.  The cats lounge closer as if to comfort him.  At least one was doing the same near Patches lately though I'd no clue anything was wrong.  She wasn't picked up daily, or maybe I would have noticed the hardness in her midsection.  Or maybe it happened the same day she screamed.  It keeps running like a reel repeatedly in my head.

Not unlike the death of the first and second small mammals we've had, mourning is only slightly less time than losing a human family member.

She had an actual perfectly mirrored wing pattern on her back exactly where wings would be, if rabbits had them. 

I attended church last night, and the tears came back.  When two or more are gathered, the presence of Spirit is felt.  I saw Patches in His lap; He was welcoming her.  After He hugged her, He stroked her back and her 'wings' became elevated and three dimensional.  She left his lap to join her friends that had gone before her by flying down to them. 

'Binky' is the word for a rabbit jumping up in joy and contentment, which hadn't been seen here with Patches or her 'husbun' for awhile, due to their present ages.  'Popcorn' means the same thing, for a guinea pig.  All were respectively 'binkying' and 'popcorning'.  Charlie could jump three times her height standing up when she was young.  Patches and Charlie took turns to see who could go highest, with Smandie looking on, smiling and 'popcorning' herself.  Patches can go higher now, though there was no reason in the joy of the moment, being with her friends. 

1 Corinthians 2:9 : God can put wings on any animal he chooses.  When Patches crossed the rainbow bridge and met Him after her 'family' reunification, her wings became real.  Lots to do here, though am looking forward to seeing them, very much.  Grateful for the comfort of Spirit...

Revelations

Not that bad a parent, not that bad an artist, not that bad a writer, not that bad a comedian.  Bad at self esteem, self worth, and faith.  As much as I preach, can't take my own advice, or unaware I wasn't, until out in the world, paying attention to what's going on with an ear to the ground. 


It wasn't me; it was the culture.  A culture that will point the finger at anyone who isn't sure where their place is.




I've been here before, at a different stage in life, looking through different eyes: young, ignorant eyes.  Thinking the world is as we wish it to be.  It isn't.  There will be things we will never understand. First Corinthians 2:9.




I understand that I've charged too little, asserted too little, insisted too little, and followed through too little.  I do finish what I start, there's just to many irons in the fire, which slows down all of them.  It could be the general family curse: jack of all trades and master of none.  The truth is I'm master of a few, and been distracted from narrowing the plan.




I'm told there is a plan I'm not aware of, from a Higher Power.  I get it.  I'm more patient over time, and more grateful.  It doesn't stop the anxiety and fear, or the trauma that's ingrained that kicks in like an involuntary reflex at the worst possible times.  I'm paralyzed and frozen, conscious of my surroundings and unable to move, except I can move, only in very slow motion.




Keep up appearances.  The look of being poised, collected, and perhaps a little too calm, or even aloof isn't what it looks like.  It's paralysis, an inability to act quickly, it's less indecisiveness than being stuck in slow motion.



I've been depressed, which comes back randomly, when events seem to negate all efforts or progress: the reason for so many irons in the fire.  If one gets shut down, there's another in the pipeline. 




So the revelation is I was interrupted, which I knew.  What I didn't know was the fog I walk through that's almost a dreamlike state as often as not.  It's a survival mechanism that no longer serves me.  Can I shake it by will alone?  No.  That's what Higher Power is for, when I remember to ask.

Goodbye, Charlie

When the last post was written, it wasn't really known Charlie wouldn't last the month.  During her last evening I was fortunate to have the privilege to be able to provide water, food, vitamin C, and what love I could.  I didn't know she was trying to say goodbye when she turned her whole body around just to catch my eye.  She could only move with her front paws, so the effort was significant. 

I praised her for turning around on a towel she was resting on in a chair; she couldn't really move much from the size of the tumors that had take over her body.  While administering her vitamins I didn't realize what her clicks as opposed to her unique sounds and the color of her teeth meant: she was in fact dying. 

Upon checking her after dinner I found her limp.  I don't know if her heart was still beating when I picked her up and began to cry; she was still warm, at the center of her body, though 'gone' by all appearances.  I immediately texted her original owner and other family.  The plan was to be together at the summer place and euthanize her there.  Two other pets were buried there on the mountain from an earlier year: a tropical bird who caught a chill and couldn't recover, and another who became too weak after losing a toe to another aggressive bird.

My son didn't want Charlie kept cold until we could make the trip, and asked that she be buried near the home where we were.  The next morning she still wasn't fully cold and remained limp in the exact same position I'd left her in her cage, wrapped in a towel with her face showing.

She was gently placed in the same towel in a box that had held some very expensive shoes.  I took her in a shopping bag to where my son asked she be buried.  It was an effort in the morning hours, though it felt as though we were protected from onlookers wondering what might be in the box.  Once I'd actually succeeded in getting her final resting place covered I remained on my knees, in tears.

She had her own unique sounds and personality.  She was our first, with lots of memories, and pictures.  We know she's crossed 'the rainbow bridge' with two little birds saying hello again where time doesn't exist, waiting for when we can all play together again.

Charlie the Lifesaver

She saved my son's life at a critical time, and taught him another form of love.  For a long time, they were regular friends.  A boy religiously took care of her, changing her bedding, food, and water daily.  She got time out of her cage almost daily, too, and a regular memory is a short video of her jumping what looked like two feet into the opening of her 'home' that had her nameplate on the outside of it.

She continued to jump onto the platform of her cage, without the ramp, most of the time with its door open, to the food dish, and down again for the hay and water.  She would also jump when happy, and take short, happy sprints when let out on the floor to cover more ground.

Time changes things.  She has her own personality, and was always loved.  A boy grew into a young man, and trips to and from became too much.  So Charlie's cage remained at Mom's house, and the sound of a young boy's voice became unrecognizable to her, as it went from that of a child to that of a young man.

Mom and the family continued to give love, and not as much time out of the cage as we would have wished, had things been different.  There were other guinea pigs, one or two, that had their own personalities and ways of wanting to be active, or not.  None of them got whatever overtook Charlie.

The vet said surgery would likely not be successful.  Guinea pigs don't do well with anesthesia.  Her belly is swollen as if there's a large litter of pups in there, though Charlie never mated.  She was acquired from the pet store as a pup herself.  She had fit in a small child's hands: the best friend whose life she made different and even more valuable at a critical time.

Tumors, cancer or not, have inexplicably overtaken Charlie's body.  She can no longer jump onto her platform.  Her food dish must be nearby.  She has difficulty moving across the cage from the size of her body.  The vet said to keep her comfortable, so she gets the softest bedding, changed daily.  It's not really enough; Charlie can't move much, though does the best she can...

The vet said so long as she acts like a guinea pig.  She was sick a time or two before she started to get bigger.  She still has an appetite and sounds like her old self, though she doesn't look happy.  Soon we will likely have to decide when to allow her to cross the rainbow bridge.  She may not lose her appetite again, or become so big her unhappiness makes the decision inevitable.  It's sad to see her every day; her body can't be free from the ground, her back legs struggle to move her lower half.  She must be picked up gently to give her vitamin C, and her underside washed to keep her cleaner. 

When one loves an animal or a person, we don't see what they've become; we see what we loved first.  Holding Charlie as she makes her signature sounds only reminds us of when she was little.  We are saddened that her days appear shorter than others like her, and that we may have to decide what her last day is to be.  Miracles do happen.  I pray that something lets go in her body and that she just starts to get smaller again.  If the loved ones on the other side of the rainbow bridge need her more, she will go there to be happy and jump high again.  Maybe before that she can give comfort to someone else who's sick.  Only time will tell.  We love you, Charlie.

The God Thing

I'm understanding more, and reading the bible, taking classes to improve what I already knew.  I'm understanding what others like to communicate, though I'm not sure it works for everyone.  Equating Jesus with God works in some circles, not in others.

Using the Son of God first with everyone doesn't always work.  Recognizing God is universal.  He and his son don't really mind how we get it across, for the most part.  Seeking a higher power and acknowledging it is what's most important.  Encouraging others to read the bible as opposed to our interpretations is better whenever possible.  It's the most read book, by very successful people, for a reason. 

I could say more, in a better place spiritually than I have been.  When Jesus is 'denied' from lack of information, God isn't.  He understands the shortcomings of ignorance, and doesn't ignore the prayers of those who seek him in earnest who don't ask for his son first, or at all.

Denying God altogether is another matter, yet we are not to get caught up in that either.  We are to be instruments for the 'open', by example.  Running against walls defeats the purpose.  Yet some insist on doing it anyway.  Sometimes silence is simply the best option, except when others are suffering who have no voice.

Baptism

I was baptized in a river. The water was clean and clear; the stones that made the riverbed were round, so when my new plastic-flowered flipflop acquired for the occasion fell off as I waded out from deep to shallow, it didn’t hurt.

I don’t remember who the minister was, only that he preceded my favorite pastor where I attended as a third generation with my legendary grandfather, whom I now represent here. They sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ on the shore as the candidates prepared to enter the water. It was a warm day; towels were in the car.

I wanted my favorite pastor, who passed away before I could think of marriage, to reside over my wedding. His laughter I can still hear as he quoted scripture during his messages; he enjoyed a lot of the irony in the bible, and because of him and my grandfather, so did I. Pat Ruble, I hope as you hear your earthly name being uttered or written again here from Heaven your ears perk up. As you probably know now, your legacy to your congregants was a lasting one as well.

My baptismal experience would be a hard act to follow once that small church finally had its own baptismal. I was secretly grateful I’d had the ‘real river’ experience, complete with a current. The baptismal allowed the church to baptize year round.

I don’t remember if the river in West Virginia became an option after that, though I’m sure my mother would know. She came with me and my sister to our first visit to this church; the energy around her as always attracted people, and by the time she returned to Florida, was as if everyone knew her even though she had only been here two weekends. She is her father’s daughter, after all.

My mother returned to Florida with her daughter alive and recovering from spine reconstruction surgery. I didn’t know when she arrived over two weeks earlier if I would see her again once leaving the operating room.  The surgery was risky and terrifying; I’d written a will. I would be ‘re-built’ from the inside out, losing enough units of blood in the process to require transfusion and be in ICU for two days afterward. But I was alive, and walking. They made me get out of bed heavily medicated with numerous tubes attached the very next day after I became conscious again, to see if I could stand, and take a step. I did.

There was no guarantee I would be able to walk soon, or ever, though further deterioration had been stabilized that would allow for my internal organs to continue functioning, which they needed time to get back to, once lots of nerves were cut during a nine hour procedure followed by a weeklong hospital stay.

Before I was made unconscious (I would not be privy to see the operating room, or the powertools set up for use), the surgeon had said we would be finished by lunchtime; it was then about 6:30 a.m. He was wrong, though proud of his work once the task had been completed. He smiled with my sister for a photo. Another doctor who had also been in the operating room later said the surgery could have been successful though there could also have been serious complications or risk if functions did not return. I was glad I was informed of this after my organs did function again…

I’ve been scared and survived potential death before, though not like this. I couldn’t watch any videos about the upcoming surgery, read about it, or seek out ‘successful’ patients. I didn’t want to know, or I would have been even more frightened, if that were possible. This time I was also fully aware and had made a choice to take this step, mainly for my son, so that he could continue to have a mother that might be able to play with grandchildren, someday. It may be double the years old he is now, though at least by this miracle of prayer by my former home community, when that time comes I may just be there.

I made a joke to the surgeon the worst I was to expect would be to have to wear a one-piece bathing suit to cover the resulting scar; even that wasn’t true. All the stitches were inside, and the top layer that was my skin was ‘glued’ with the exception of a few stitches at the lower part where the drain tube had been in the hospital. The scar was only a ‘line’; I could wear a two piece swimsuit, if I wanted…

My mother and I had a small bit of quality time the first time in many years once my sister, who had been irreplaceably invaluable as well, returned to her home a day earlier than my mother.  Our apartment would not feel the same after our family left.

In the hospital, once I woke up and walked, it was surreal. I had been half expecting not to return to the planet. Being alive made everything look new. Small things that might have been annoying in the past meant nothing; I was only spared, blessed, and still here for my son, and whatever it was determined I was here to accomplish, as my grandfather had said while I was in high school before he passed. I even saw people differently. I was even slower than before to jump to conclusions about anyone; the other word for that is ‘judge’.

The truth his I’m obviously here for more than just my son, though before the procedure he was all I could think about. I didn’t tell him about it until knowing he would not be here either before or during the recovery with our family on his maternal side.  More irony.

My second trip to this church was with my mother, three weeks after our first being here together, when I looked it up as an option when she and my sister had arrived that first weekend. I took the initiative to locate a church, mostly because our family apart from me always went to church on Sunday, and because of what I was about to undergo.

I wanted to offer church options before anyone could bring up the subject. I didn’t know whether my mother and sister would bring it up at all, because I’d drifted on my own journey in New York from being a regular ‘churchgoer’, and this was a time they would want to respect my wishes. I think they may have been pleasantly surprised of my bringing it up before either of them may have inquired about going. Though unspoken, we all knew it wouldn’t have been right to not attend church together for what could have been a last time for one of us.

My mother chose this church; I simply provided the nearest options. At the time, with no basis for comparison, all potential choices were ‘equal’. I still don’t know what any of the others would have been, and it doesn’t matter now.

I’m here, for the first time as a ‘grown-up’, by myself, going to church on Sunday and as a member of the community. Had you told me this before going into that operating room, I may not have believed it.  Later it would be something that simply couldn’t be left out. I am, after all, my grandfather’s granddaughter.

That said, the time between ‘leaving’ that former church and being here remained a very spiritual journey. I would explore a number of other faiths, as an ‘adopted Jew', Catholic via a ‘short’ marriage, and even acquiring an interfaith minister certification, where I never really wished to practice what ministers do, other than serving those seeking counsel in life choices. I also lived in a largely Muslim community at the time of 9/11, which only served to increase a compassion for others.

At the six week post op visit with the surgeon, I saw what my back looked like in the x-ray. My first response would be ‘Where’s the remote?’ My back on the inside no longer looked like that of a human. There were rods and screws that looked like small train tracks marked with ‘ties’ that were screws in each vertebrae from behind the middle of my lungs or ribcage to additional metal connectors extended into the pelvis to stabilize its connection to the lower spine. The scar ran to the base of my tailbone.

It took me too long to realize why the front of my hips had been so sore for weeks: the surgical team had been bearing down very hard (power tools and all) from the back with my unconscious body face down on a flat steel table. Duh! I couldn’t and can’t imagine how so much had been done during that nine-hour procedure with the entire back of my body opened, leaving only a narrow pink line as its final mark on the outside.

I had come to New York in the theatre and media businesses. It was successful, though I realized when the doors of opportunity began to swing open I didn’t want to be media fodder; I could barely handle the attention I was getting in my youth then. The truth was I hadn’t come to grips with whomever I was at the time; I hadn’t identified her. I was afraid of becoming lost as others in the business had without a strong sense of self and purpose I hadn’t yet formed.  I wanted only the love of one person, one man not yet identified, as opposed to any adoration or attention from the public. I hadn’t entertained (no pun intended) that the one man I really needed above all else was the one whose speculated image (as we didn’t live in Christ’s time to see him) had hung on the wall in that little church where the bell had been rung every Sunday morning in West Virginia. The man who rang that bell was my grandfather’s best friend until his passing, who kept his promise of watching over us after Grandpa passed on before him, our ‘Uncle Lafferty’.  Of course, The Right Man was always there, keeping me safe, eventually sitting next to my grandfather from their Other World vantage point, who did the same.

My sister and I had every opportunity to get in trouble when we were growing up, and there is no doubt in my mind that being in church every time the door was open as my mother exercised her exceptional musician’s gift as a pianist and organist kept us from making any more unsafe choices than those it would seem we could not prevent.

Apart from all the reasons stated above and those yet not understood, I reluctantly, human and therefore not sinless as I am, willingly and joyfully, with as much sarcasm and laughter as possible, take up the yoke of why I’m ‘directed' to be here.  By the same token and in this journey I’ve seen and witnessed things in the world that do not disprove anything in the life of Jesus or the bible that contradicts experiences up to now. They are also things not every body in Christ as humans can comprehend either.

I won’t claim to have any concrete answers. As a human, I can’t. Apart from being ‘mercy dominant’, I’ve recognized another gift is hearing what isn’t said, feeling what isn’t written in the story, like a lot of court decisions where ‘facts’ just because they are written and recorded, are not what happened, just what was written down in the form of an opinion, by a human who didn’t have the full story. I’ve been commended in public forums for asking questions in a diplomatic and on point way that address what didn’t make it into the conversation that has been directly relevant to the issue at hand. I’ve been the resident representative of the elephant or 800 pound gorilla in the room.

No one is immune from anything, regardless of location or a country’s alleged ‘freedom’. I’ve learned every day is a gift, and nothing is taken for granted. Sometimes it’s hour by hour, not day by day. We must go on as if life as we know it will stay the same or continue to improve, though we are not promised this. Only in striving for the example we’ve been provided with in the life of Christ can we get a glimpse of what may be possible, transposing it as best we can through a Word that is divinely designed to open our eyes in a different way at different moments in time.

We are designed to anticipate peace, not conflict or violence; that feeling is to bolster us when the unexpected happens, so that we may continue to thrive and live out our respective purposes. This is where I tread a fine line between earth and ‘the church’ as many of us do. I don’t really know what a ‘comfort zone’ is for many years now: the equivalent of most of my child’s life. I was given the tools, however, before coming to New York. Empathy isn’t something everyone has. Humans hurt each other, sometimes deliberately. This is beyond comprehension for many of us, though we see it almost every day. We cannot judge at the expense of the big things: what saves lives, literally or through the Example we’ve been provided. I don’t claim or care to be accepted by those who don’t understand, I wasn’t prepared to this point to be so easily distracted.

Daily, somewhere in the world, someone puts their life at risk to save the life of a stranger, child, or animal, or on behalf of their country or their city. Right or wrong, they don’t think about the ‘deserve’ factor of who they’re saving when they choose to take action either by personal choice or as a designated soldier. I struggled at times in the past about why so many unsung heroes have not been recognized or how the significance of their lives and deaths was any less than the life of Christ. In God’s eyes, they’re not. It’s us. Our eyes had to be opened in the life, death, and only resurrection, uncommon with any other human. One human couldn’t sin; one human couldn’t stay dead in their earthly body. It can take a full human lifetime to fully comprehend what that really means. I’m only here to raise the questions, as assigned. They may not be easy to answer or very well received at times. I only have the questions, not the answers. I will try my earthly best to deliver those questions in a loving way, so that no one is insulted or offended. I also hope to create more laughter than contempt.

Winston Churchill was coined in saying that it is good to have ‘enemies’ because it means you stood up for something.  Having a child has brought the greatest joys, and deepest sorrows. And only in trying to save another life, that life, was I given courage not to back down. I’m certainly not here to create more enemies, though I may not always say or feel what others wish to hear, though it’s also why I’m here, whether I like it or not. I must joyfully accept this assignment, not least of all because my son still has a mother this side of Heaven. The reward for the price of asking the hard questions where it may not always be comfortable or welcome is remaining my son’s mother in this existence for now. By comparison it’s a small price. Tact is another facet of that capacity.  Trauma has a way of teaching how to say things with the least friction, so as to survive. It can be useful with regular people, and those that willingly or otherwise may hurt others, to keep damages to a minimum.

I hope to grow here in being able to ask those questions in a way that is compelling, and most of all in a way that my tears lessen over time, because tears can be confusing. At a glance, we don’t know if they’re from pain or joy, and either way they’re not becoming or make someone want to continue listening. It’s human nature. Yes, I have an ironic sense of humor, and I want very much to make others laugh more, not excluding me.

I commit to staying within the tenets that have built this church. My other foot in the world, also by assignment, will not permit any tampering with basic foundations others have spent lifetimes creating; that would not be pleasing to ‘the Great Spirit’ (Grandpa was a lot Native American). None of us are intended for the world or the church to become most dominant in our lives at all times, because we are to be a witness to both, we must understand both, and embrace what saves us all in life, and Spirit.

When someone saves a life outside of the church, are they any less in the eyes of God? Maybe it’s not for us to say.  Those souls are not ‘other’ than us, they were also created by God; they are simply in a different point in a journey it is not for us to define. It would appear it is all we can do to manage our own souls. We are bound to remain available to all, to guide and offer only in Spirit, embracing and celebrating together whenever life is affirmed and elevated, as that is what brings us all closer as humans on the whole to what we were intended, with what we have been provided. I can’t lose sight of that; it was hard won.

I’ve been nudged by something or Someone not of this world to not remain quiet, whether it’ comfortable or not. I hope to continue to grow in this path here, if that is the will of the Spirit we all share in a sanctuary known as ‘the church’, this church. Only time will tell. I remain grateful. Every day is a gift; thank you for being here.

This testimony is unabridged because it’s the one I didn’t get to say in a river in about 1969; maybe because it was meant for now. I wouldn’t want to listen to it perhaps from water with no current or sun shining above, so poetic license is being exercised during this milestone, so that it is recorded with others whose place in time we have in common. By the way, when I’m here, nothing hurts, and I can stand taller…

In sincerest gratitude to this community and All from whom I continue to learn.

Memory

This exchange with my son has stuck since before the last entry, when he wanted me to share his paper airplane skills. Prior to that weekend, we were in our home; he was going through a 'jewelry box', and the subject of old boyfriends came up when I told him what might have been in the box that wasn't anymore.

He asked why I didn't stay with someone who I thought I would be with 'forever', before I'd met his father. I said 'If I'd stayed with that person, I'd not have had you.', partially in an effort to avoid telling any more. What he said next left me silent, as I looked at him just as he was looking back at me. 'You might have had me anyway.' had just come out with little or no hesitation.

It's the deepest thing I recall his ever having said, and there have been plenty. It was if he was coming from another consciousness, direct and certain. Had it been someone else, he was saying perhaps that the gift that he is and always has been would have come into existence no matter what. The same spirit. The same soul. The same incredibly special boy would have come into being as who he is, my son, only a different way.

'You know,' I muttered to him when I could speak again. 'you just might be right about that.' He looked back at me in the same way as the moment before: something that reflected or I had noticed maybe for the first time, something deep within that was separate from just a little boy in a human experience talking to his mom. We were almost completely across the room from each other, though his eyes were both penetrating and infinitely wise, for lack of a better description, as if we were face to face, suspended in time. I hesitate to say or describe where his words came from, only that in a way I knew he was right. It was a transforming moment that was unforgettable, and if it were possible to have regrets on what we were discussing, they may have crept in then and there. It was in part an awakening, and it was shared, over as quickly as it began, yet unchangeable.