R E S P E C T
Dave and I are celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and Barack Obama has just completed his first visit to Warsaw.
Tell me, how am I going to weave those two topics together?
Respect. Laughter. Intense interest. Listening. Kindness. Humility.
How do you sustain a relationship for 35 years that begins when two young adults, one of them barely 21 and a day away from her college graduation, take a big gulp and jump half-blind, mostly-blind, into a lifelong commitment?
How do you sustain a geopolitical partnership over long years when two parties, one with presumption and comfort with power and the other with a terminal inferiority complex that is masked by the pride of occasional churlish grandiosity, are thrown together to make common cause of causes that are only vaguely understood and agreed upon?
What in the heck did that mean? United States, still the superpower. Poland, still struggling to find its voice and its place in the modern configuration of power. Polish history has caused Poles to call themselves, without a shred of irony, "the suffering Christ" of Europe, devastated again and again, scapegoated and wiped so far off the map that we forget all about their brave and noble history.
Once more this week a significant step was taken, only coincidental with Obama's visit. Once again, the point was made emphatic: there were no Polish death camps. No Polish Concentration Camps. They were Nazi camps. They were established, controlled and determined by Nazi policies, personnel and ideology. Poles suffered along with Jews in those camps and were killed in almost equal numbers during World War II. Poles carry an inferiority complex from this and other misunderstandings and humiliations over long years of European history.
At the same time, Poles are rightly proud of their early establishment of universities and their wide access to education for all, their Constitution, the first democratic Constitution in Europe, following the U.S. Constitution by only a few years. They are rightly proud of their resilience and cunning and heroics. And, as you've read here before, they are justly proud of their Solidarity Trade Union Movement and their Pope, John Paul II, who together were as responsible for the withering away of communism than any other factor and far more than the last dramatic act that gets all the attention, in Berlin. They brought down the Berlin wall.
Now Obama shows up. And this noxious mix of traits within the Polish personna pops up. For the most part, it wsa productive meeting. Obama had no big toys to drop in their lap. He came to 'make nice,' if you will, to confirm the intentions for future collaboration. He was courting. He was respectful, he was kind: The ingrediants required for any long-term relationship. He made some concrete offers, meaningful offers and promises. But he did not tell the Poles they were the center of the universe. And one often gets the impression that that is exactly where they believe they deserve to be.
How to sustain a long relationship? Respect. Kindness. Humility. Intense interest and earnest listening. On both sides. And laughter.
I'm not sure the Poles could relax quite enough to engage Obama at that level. And, given the history of recent times, I'm sure the President was walking on egg shells. And then, of course, there was the ever churlish and, frankly, tiresome, Lech Walesa. Walesa snubbed Obama. Went to Italy and declined their meeting. The speculation runs that he was angry that it was not to be a private -- messiah to messiah -- meeting but only one that would include other leading Polish anti-communist activists and leaders.
So of course the big world headline, no, there is no big world headline --- you were hard-pressed to even find mention in the Times, the Post, of Obama's visit to Wawsaw --- but such as it was reported, it was reported that the big news was Walesa's churlish (my word) behavior. Too bad.
Because, there was a spirit of respect and kindness, there was as much good feeling as one could hope for between President Obama and the Polish leadership. There is a promise of future collaboration and growing respect. If Obama was there you know there was laughter, and he is a good listener.
Respect. Humility. Kindness. Listening, Intense interest. Laughter.
I am blessed to have enjoyed 35 years of partnership with a man who took me as I was -- talk about your leap of faith! -- a naive, raw twenty-one year old child bride, and has given me the gifts that enabled me to continue to grow, to thrive, to venture and fail and venture and fail better and accomplish, succeed, and keep on going. It is an alchemy of unknown ingrediants, as well as the common ones. We've created something, two wonderful daughters, and a life that just keeps pushing us to be better than we are. And yet with grace enough to accept us as we are.
One can only hope that, in some miraculous way, the geopolitical partnership of Poland and its presumptious partner, the U.S., can find their way to such a productive and fulfilling, and maybe even fun long-term run.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
POLAND! A Post About Poland Finally, and Obama
Talk about your boring state visit.
Barack Obama will not be drilling for shale oil on his visit to Poland this weekend. Talk about your bummer of a trip.
Presidents have such boring jobs. Meeting this, meeting that, speaking here, greeting there, policy speeches to joint sessions of Parliament. You can only hope the food and wine are worth the trip. And you be sure that in Warsaw it will be. Exceptional cuisine. Why am I not invited?
The thing is, all Presidents do is meet and talk and meet and talk and figure stuff out. Most of it is figured out already by their aides (or minions as we like to call them). So President Obama will tell the Poles that there are still no missile shields coming their way. But F-16's, perhaps. The news is already in print, the outcomes predetermined.
The Poles desperately want missile shields aimed at Russia. The Russians desperately don't want the Poles to have them. Guess who wins that tussle.
The Poles also want U.S. assistance with extracting oil shale. And the thought was, President Obama could do a bit of the work himself. But no, it's all meetings all the time. Why?
I don't know. If I were the President, I'd want one of those giant sized Tonka trucks with a steam shovel on the front end. And I would like to move some dirt around. Can't we give the guy a break?
Because I don't believe in shale mining, I'd prefer to give the whole group of Central and Eastern European Presidents meeting together with Obama this weekend a shot at a playground I have in mind, a very big one up in the Zoliborz District. They talk enough. I say let's let them do some digging for a change.
Barack Obama will not be drilling for shale oil on his visit to Poland this weekend. Talk about your bummer of a trip.
Presidents have such boring jobs. Meeting this, meeting that, speaking here, greeting there, policy speeches to joint sessions of Parliament. You can only hope the food and wine are worth the trip. And you be sure that in Warsaw it will be. Exceptional cuisine. Why am I not invited?
The thing is, all Presidents do is meet and talk and meet and talk and figure stuff out. Most of it is figured out already by their aides (or minions as we like to call them). So President Obama will tell the Poles that there are still no missile shields coming their way. But F-16's, perhaps. The news is already in print, the outcomes predetermined.
The Poles desperately want missile shields aimed at Russia. The Russians desperately don't want the Poles to have them. Guess who wins that tussle.
The Poles also want U.S. assistance with extracting oil shale. And the thought was, President Obama could do a bit of the work himself. But no, it's all meetings all the time. Why?
I don't know. If I were the President, I'd want one of those giant sized Tonka trucks with a steam shovel on the front end. And I would like to move some dirt around. Can't we give the guy a break?
Because I don't believe in shale mining, I'd prefer to give the whole group of Central and Eastern European Presidents meeting together with Obama this weekend a shot at a playground I have in mind, a very big one up in the Zoliborz District. They talk enough. I say let's let them do some digging for a change.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
"Dream On"
Dream on!
It is so quiet around here. Something is missing. What's gone?
Oh, that would be the 173 family and friends who came to Kaia and Annika's graduation parties a year ago. The watermelon fruit bowl. The five-foot long submarine sandwich. Bowls and bowls of chips. Paper plates and napkins that blew from kingdom come in a record windy afternoon. And confetti that filled the park and lodged in such odd spots that I'm guessing some soccer goalie chasing a ball found some yet this spring.
What a wonderful, noisy and loving celebration! A whole year ago.
And in that year, dreams have come true. Dreams have been deferred. Dreams have been dished, dumped, and alterred.
And some dreams have been dashed. I have nothing at all specific in mind but it is always inevitable. It happens to all of us. We don't see all of our dreams, large or small, exotic or common, profound or banal come true.
While I was whooping it up yesterday, poking back at the nightmares that had kept me up nights as a kid, the Rapture and that not all would be ready, others were feeling the devastating deflation that accompanies a dream that is dashed. Truth be told, a part of me wants to say, duh. Or, what fools you mortals be; presuming to predict a plan that is far beyond our designs.
And a small, compassionate corner of my heart has been claimed by a surprising sense of compassion. What do you do the day after you've been dumped? Defeated? Deflated? After you sold all you had to print pamphlets and put up billboards. There will be recalculations, the math was off, and recriminations -- we liquidated our kids' college funds for what? But somehow for all those whose hopes are turned to ash, life will go on. They will figure out a way. A way to go on. Rationalizations. New passions. Denial and numbness. Nose to grind stone.
We all know something about having our dreams dashed.
And that is yet another reason to be tender of one another, to be kind, gentle, patient, and, still again, hopeful.
What do we do when dreams die? We go on.
The dream has died. Long live the dream.
It is so quiet around here. Something is missing. What's gone?
Oh, that would be the 173 family and friends who came to Kaia and Annika's graduation parties a year ago. The watermelon fruit bowl. The five-foot long submarine sandwich. Bowls and bowls of chips. Paper plates and napkins that blew from kingdom come in a record windy afternoon. And confetti that filled the park and lodged in such odd spots that I'm guessing some soccer goalie chasing a ball found some yet this spring.
What a wonderful, noisy and loving celebration! A whole year ago.
And in that year, dreams have come true. Dreams have been deferred. Dreams have been dished, dumped, and alterred.
And some dreams have been dashed. I have nothing at all specific in mind but it is always inevitable. It happens to all of us. We don't see all of our dreams, large or small, exotic or common, profound or banal come true.
While I was whooping it up yesterday, poking back at the nightmares that had kept me up nights as a kid, the Rapture and that not all would be ready, others were feeling the devastating deflation that accompanies a dream that is dashed. Truth be told, a part of me wants to say, duh. Or, what fools you mortals be; presuming to predict a plan that is far beyond our designs.
And a small, compassionate corner of my heart has been claimed by a surprising sense of compassion. What do you do the day after you've been dumped? Defeated? Deflated? After you sold all you had to print pamphlets and put up billboards. There will be recalculations, the math was off, and recriminations -- we liquidated our kids' college funds for what? But somehow for all those whose hopes are turned to ash, life will go on. They will figure out a way. A way to go on. Rationalizations. New passions. Denial and numbness. Nose to grind stone.
We all know something about having our dreams dashed.
And that is yet another reason to be tender of one another, to be kind, gentle, patient, and, still again, hopeful.
What do we do when dreams die? We go on.
The dream has died. Long live the dream.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Carried Away
I have been carried away.
Not to heaven, heavens no. But I've been carried away about this craziness of the Rapture occuring today. A strict scientific study concluded that of all the users of social media, especially facebook, I have made a bigger to-do of this goofiness than anyone else with the possible exception of my friend who-shall-not-be-named Stuart. He posted the "Blondie" video; I passed.
One might wonder, reasonably wonder I would add, why I am so obsessed with this nonsense. I have a clue. Two of them, in fact.
First of all, from as early as I can remember, my mother told me about her love of hellfire and brimstone sermons. Seriously. She ate them up. I think they must have been the 1935 equivalent of Nightmare on Elm Street, The Omen, or Friday the 13th. She lived for that crap. She said she sat in the front row of the balcony at the Evangelical Free Church and was thrilled to her toes at the fright of burning and steaming and pokers with fiery embers.
My primary memory of hearing her tell these stories was thinking, 'what the hell is wrong with my mother?'
2) The Rapture was not a really big topic in my church but it sure was at camp. Before "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" (the song) and its accompanying movie came out in 1972, I saw another movie at a junior high retreat weekend with the same basic theme. Kid is left behind. Alone. Scared the living shit out of me. Didn't scare me straight, just scared me out of the church. I was smart enough to know manipulation when I got mowed down by it. It made me mad.
Then I went with friends to see the Late Great Hal Lindsay of the Late Great Planet Earth speak. And a host of other cool surfer dudes who made the Christian Youth group circuit in the 60's and 70's and to use their humor, virility, and implied sexuality to attract/terrify all God's children into the peculiar corral they were tending in the great Kingdom of God. What a pile. We sang some song in Sunday School about "one will be ready and the other left behind," and that always merited a sermonette to go along with it. We made a joke of it and someone always stepped behind the rest and made a sad dog face.
Anyone out there on the same page?
And of course, we sang, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" a million times around the campfire and watched that movie too. I loved camp because I got to spend my days there cleaning toilets and sweeping out the dining hall; I didn't love camp because of the mush-brained swarmy Jesus theology we heard.
I was SO ready for the reasonable study of theology and philosophy when I finally got to college. No more God the Puerto Rican laundry attendant indiscriminately, capriciously moving us around like toys. But God, a gracious giver of life, of love, of mercy.
No Rapture. No Tribulation. No manipulation. No more scare the shit out of 'em. I'd figured that out already; it was just good to be free from the crazy-making influences that tried to cram that stuff in my head.
So. This mock-the-Rapture obsession of mine. Maybe it's payback. Catharsis. Maybe it feels good to make fun of the devil -- because these scare tactics are devilish. Maybe I have a really warped sense of humor after all these years. Maybe it's yet another form of rebellion against my mother (added to, 1) be happy; and 2) make the most of life.)
At any rate, I apologize to anyone I've offended but I also stand by everything. I won't be played with. I will play with the plotter of the panic theories.
So, in case you notice my empty shoes on your front porch tonight around 6 MDT, dry ice steaming out of them, or a pile of my clothes left behind by the mailbox, I'm not making fun of God. I'm making fun of the mockery of God.
And just in case I am totally wrong about all this, and my mom was right, and Freddy Kruger is actually in charge, I don't know where I stand. If God is gracious, as I expect, then it's not to worry. I'll be hoovered up with the rest of y'all. Pie in the sky for dessert.
If all of the rules in Leviticus really count, God will need only a very small bus. Very small. A micro-mini. Just for Herself.
If I don't make the cut, I get your car. That's you, I mean, you with the sweet gold Jaguar convertible. But I won't take care of your pets. Sorry. Oh, wait, I want a horse.
Meanwhile, depending upon how this goes, I would like to thank all of you for being such great earthmates. It's been fun sharing the planet with (some/most of) you. Thanks so much for all your support and friendship and maybe we'll get assigned to the same dorm or whatever it is up there. At least I hope we can go out (well, not way out) for coffee sometime.
For those of you in earlier time zones, you're in big trouble if you don't save some chocolate mousse for us latecomers.
Dave mowed the lawn so it will look nice left behind for the (pagan) neighbors. And I'm getting highlights so I look good for eternity.
The other good tip I got was to wear loose-fitting clothes. You really don't want your pants to pinch for all eternity.
And Jennifer, just in case, since we'll miss your bridal shower, I got you a
__________THIS TRANSMISSION HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED____________________
Not to heaven, heavens no. But I've been carried away about this craziness of the Rapture occuring today. A strict scientific study concluded that of all the users of social media, especially facebook, I have made a bigger to-do of this goofiness than anyone else with the possible exception of my friend who-shall-not-be-named Stuart. He posted the "Blondie" video; I passed.
One might wonder, reasonably wonder I would add, why I am so obsessed with this nonsense. I have a clue. Two of them, in fact.
First of all, from as early as I can remember, my mother told me about her love of hellfire and brimstone sermons. Seriously. She ate them up. I think they must have been the 1935 equivalent of Nightmare on Elm Street, The Omen, or Friday the 13th. She lived for that crap. She said she sat in the front row of the balcony at the Evangelical Free Church and was thrilled to her toes at the fright of burning and steaming and pokers with fiery embers.
My primary memory of hearing her tell these stories was thinking, 'what the hell is wrong with my mother?'
2) The Rapture was not a really big topic in my church but it sure was at camp. Before "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" (the song) and its accompanying movie came out in 1972, I saw another movie at a junior high retreat weekend with the same basic theme. Kid is left behind. Alone. Scared the living shit out of me. Didn't scare me straight, just scared me out of the church. I was smart enough to know manipulation when I got mowed down by it. It made me mad.
Then I went with friends to see the Late Great Hal Lindsay of the Late Great Planet Earth speak. And a host of other cool surfer dudes who made the Christian Youth group circuit in the 60's and 70's and to use their humor, virility, and implied sexuality to attract/terrify all God's children into the peculiar corral they were tending in the great Kingdom of God. What a pile. We sang some song in Sunday School about "one will be ready and the other left behind," and that always merited a sermonette to go along with it. We made a joke of it and someone always stepped behind the rest and made a sad dog face.
Anyone out there on the same page?
And of course, we sang, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" a million times around the campfire and watched that movie too. I loved camp because I got to spend my days there cleaning toilets and sweeping out the dining hall; I didn't love camp because of the mush-brained swarmy Jesus theology we heard.
I was SO ready for the reasonable study of theology and philosophy when I finally got to college. No more God the Puerto Rican laundry attendant indiscriminately, capriciously moving us around like toys. But God, a gracious giver of life, of love, of mercy.
No Rapture. No Tribulation. No manipulation. No more scare the shit out of 'em. I'd figured that out already; it was just good to be free from the crazy-making influences that tried to cram that stuff in my head.
So. This mock-the-Rapture obsession of mine. Maybe it's payback. Catharsis. Maybe it feels good to make fun of the devil -- because these scare tactics are devilish. Maybe I have a really warped sense of humor after all these years. Maybe it's yet another form of rebellion against my mother (added to, 1) be happy; and 2) make the most of life.)
At any rate, I apologize to anyone I've offended but I also stand by everything. I won't be played with. I will play with the plotter of the panic theories.
So, in case you notice my empty shoes on your front porch tonight around 6 MDT, dry ice steaming out of them, or a pile of my clothes left behind by the mailbox, I'm not making fun of God. I'm making fun of the mockery of God.
And just in case I am totally wrong about all this, and my mom was right, and Freddy Kruger is actually in charge, I don't know where I stand. If God is gracious, as I expect, then it's not to worry. I'll be hoovered up with the rest of y'all. Pie in the sky for dessert.
If all of the rules in Leviticus really count, God will need only a very small bus. Very small. A micro-mini. Just for Herself.
If I don't make the cut, I get your car. That's you, I mean, you with the sweet gold Jaguar convertible. But I won't take care of your pets. Sorry. Oh, wait, I want a horse.
Meanwhile, depending upon how this goes, I would like to thank all of you for being such great earthmates. It's been fun sharing the planet with (some/most of) you. Thanks so much for all your support and friendship and maybe we'll get assigned to the same dorm or whatever it is up there. At least I hope we can go out (well, not way out) for coffee sometime.
For those of you in earlier time zones, you're in big trouble if you don't save some chocolate mousse for us latecomers.
Dave mowed the lawn so it will look nice left behind for the (pagan) neighbors. And I'm getting highlights so I look good for eternity.
The other good tip I got was to wear loose-fitting clothes. You really don't want your pants to pinch for all eternity.
And Jennifer, just in case, since we'll miss your bridal shower, I got you a
__________THIS TRANSMISSION HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED____________________
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Stories of the spotted brain
Take my word for it. Getting highlights are easier. Brain spots are more useful but a whole lot harder to come by.
I do not in anyway mean to make light of this process. It is life-giving, probably life-saving, and certainly a change-maker. Brain spotting. (See yesterday's blog.) A treatment for PTSD. Nobody knows quite why it works, or how, but it does. It clears out a safe spot in the brain for when the inevitable traumatic memories return.
I have one simple, disturbing and sad word from my work today.
Some violence is so intractible there is virtually no way to get free from it. I will be honest. It isn't good. Trying to visualize a resolution to a violent encounter I let my mind range over a variety of peaceful responses. Tried to be reasonable. Talk facts. Talk sense. Didn't matter. I visualized being in a blue dress and being told it was red. It was very frustrating. Exactly the situation itself back when it happened.
Finally, my therapist suggested I visualize bringing in a friend to help. That didn't sit well with me at first. I'm supposed to do this on my own, right? Back at the time of the actual events, I was terribly awfully alone. My therapist assured me that's one of the good things about life. We get to ask for help. And we can get help. So I called in a friend. Two of them in fact. Visualized them standing on either side of me.
They didn't waste time being nice. They just hauled off and yelled, swore, let their tempers fly and finally, after that had no impact to stop the violence, one of the guys socked her in the face.
That's terrible. To feel like it had to go that far. Violence. For violence. I don't believe in it.
So I'm going to say this was symbolic. The basic, sad, disturbing fact of the matter is sometimes violence has to be stopped. Just stopped. Stopped cold. No reasoning. No nice rationalizing. No explanations, facts are irrevelent. No trying to make sense. Just stop it. Bam. Bam. Not a punch in the face I hope. But something strong and compelling. And then go.
When I hear about pastors being bullied and mistreated, the only advice I can offer is to get the hell out. There is no point trying anything else. If it goes on and on and a critical mass of folk are involved, and you don't have support from the higher-ups, and you won't because they never have the balls to kick butt and take names, you are toast. Sad to say it. But it is true. Just get out. You won't win.
I don't want you to have to sit in a therapists' office in three years and visualize a woman getting knocked in the face in order to exorcise the demons. Just leave her behind and get out now.
I do not in anyway mean to make light of this process. It is life-giving, probably life-saving, and certainly a change-maker. Brain spotting. (See yesterday's blog.) A treatment for PTSD. Nobody knows quite why it works, or how, but it does. It clears out a safe spot in the brain for when the inevitable traumatic memories return.
I have one simple, disturbing and sad word from my work today.
Some violence is so intractible there is virtually no way to get free from it. I will be honest. It isn't good. Trying to visualize a resolution to a violent encounter I let my mind range over a variety of peaceful responses. Tried to be reasonable. Talk facts. Talk sense. Didn't matter. I visualized being in a blue dress and being told it was red. It was very frustrating. Exactly the situation itself back when it happened.
Finally, my therapist suggested I visualize bringing in a friend to help. That didn't sit well with me at first. I'm supposed to do this on my own, right? Back at the time of the actual events, I was terribly awfully alone. My therapist assured me that's one of the good things about life. We get to ask for help. And we can get help. So I called in a friend. Two of them in fact. Visualized them standing on either side of me.
They didn't waste time being nice. They just hauled off and yelled, swore, let their tempers fly and finally, after that had no impact to stop the violence, one of the guys socked her in the face.
That's terrible. To feel like it had to go that far. Violence. For violence. I don't believe in it.
So I'm going to say this was symbolic. The basic, sad, disturbing fact of the matter is sometimes violence has to be stopped. Just stopped. Stopped cold. No reasoning. No nice rationalizing. No explanations, facts are irrevelent. No trying to make sense. Just stop it. Bam. Bam. Not a punch in the face I hope. But something strong and compelling. And then go.
When I hear about pastors being bullied and mistreated, the only advice I can offer is to get the hell out. There is no point trying anything else. If it goes on and on and a critical mass of folk are involved, and you don't have support from the higher-ups, and you won't because they never have the balls to kick butt and take names, you are toast. Sad to say it. But it is true. Just get out. You won't win.
I don't want you to have to sit in a therapists' office in three years and visualize a woman getting knocked in the face in order to exorcise the demons. Just leave her behind and get out now.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Snow leopard? Dalmatian? Spotted giraffe? Lady bugs? Appaloosa?
What sort of spots should I get for my brain?
The next time you see me I will have a spotted brain!
It is hard, though, to decide what sort of spots to get. There are more spotted animals than you would imagine. Pigs, sheep, frogs, owls, horses, even giraffes. Cats and my new favorite, moiled cows.
I do believe I've written a bit about this before. It involves a wand, remember? Actually, it's just a long pointer and my therapist will not be wearing a pointy hat.
This is an ongoing aspect of my therapy for PTSD, a new means of neutralising the impact of traumatics incidents. I will visualize the event or experience, allow myself to feel its awfulness for a brief moment or two. And then we will look for a spot in my range of vision where the impact of the traumatic event is not so intense.
Like so much of the treatment for PTSD, nobody is exactly certain how, or why, it works but it beats the heck out of walking around the planet in a state of shell shock as the WWI veterans did for decades.
I really hope these new modalities of treatment (see, I can use big words, just not emotionally stand to be near anyone at the time) are helpful not so much for me but especially for all of the Iraqi and Afghani war veterans returning home. And I hope it is helpful for the victims of rape and abuse and other kinds of domestic violence.
We have to take these afflictions more seriously. Mental health issues must come out of the closet and be treated with the same respect we give to diabetes, leukemia, heart attacks. They are just that deadly.
Life is hard. And we make it harder on others when we're just shitty people and treat others like crap. It is normal to respond the way many of us do. The brain is resilient and clever but it wants to work. It doesn't want to be screwed up and blown up and completely mixed up.
I am so grateful for the patience and creativity of medical folks who are trying new means of helping to get our neural pathways moving along their natural courses again. If you know someone who is struggling, don't judge. Encourage. Be kind. Be gracious, generous, compassionate. Not patronizing. But friendly. And try, if you can, to encourage them to find help.
Help helps. It really does.
I'm partial to spotted snow leopards, so that is what I'm going for. But a spotted giraffe? That sounds way cool. I guess we'll find out which it is around this time tomorrow.
Next time I'm asking for some neon.
The next time you see me I will have a spotted brain!
It is hard, though, to decide what sort of spots to get. There are more spotted animals than you would imagine. Pigs, sheep, frogs, owls, horses, even giraffes. Cats and my new favorite, moiled cows.
I do believe I've written a bit about this before. It involves a wand, remember? Actually, it's just a long pointer and my therapist will not be wearing a pointy hat.
This is an ongoing aspect of my therapy for PTSD, a new means of neutralising the impact of traumatics incidents. I will visualize the event or experience, allow myself to feel its awfulness for a brief moment or two. And then we will look for a spot in my range of vision where the impact of the traumatic event is not so intense.
Like so much of the treatment for PTSD, nobody is exactly certain how, or why, it works but it beats the heck out of walking around the planet in a state of shell shock as the WWI veterans did for decades.
I really hope these new modalities of treatment (see, I can use big words, just not emotionally stand to be near anyone at the time) are helpful not so much for me but especially for all of the Iraqi and Afghani war veterans returning home. And I hope it is helpful for the victims of rape and abuse and other kinds of domestic violence.
We have to take these afflictions more seriously. Mental health issues must come out of the closet and be treated with the same respect we give to diabetes, leukemia, heart attacks. They are just that deadly.
Life is hard. And we make it harder on others when we're just shitty people and treat others like crap. It is normal to respond the way many of us do. The brain is resilient and clever but it wants to work. It doesn't want to be screwed up and blown up and completely mixed up.
I am so grateful for the patience and creativity of medical folks who are trying new means of helping to get our neural pathways moving along their natural courses again. If you know someone who is struggling, don't judge. Encourage. Be kind. Be gracious, generous, compassionate. Not patronizing. But friendly. And try, if you can, to encourage them to find help.
Help helps. It really does.
I'm partial to spotted snow leopards, so that is what I'm going for. But a spotted giraffe? That sounds way cool. I guess we'll find out which it is around this time tomorrow.
Next time I'm asking for some neon.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
"To the rescue: Kamchatka!"
"To the rescue, Kamchatka!"
What an amazing world we live in! I love it.
I'm reading Ian Frazier's wonderful "Travels in Siberia," and enjoy his wry humor and his very basic introduction for us to the basic concept of Siberia. Describing the goings on in a Russian grade school, the very back of the room was deemed, "Kamchatka," the back bench where the slowest learners sat.
When all else failed and none of the brighter children in the front of the classroom could come up with the right answer, the teacher would point to the back bench and, vainly, say, "To the rescue, Kamchatka." Even in Siberia, Siberia is Siberia.
To travel through Siberia has always been one of my life's goals. And I'm not giving it up yet. The whole sanitation/hygiene thing worries me -- to say it's not a pretty sight is to fail to even yet begin to describe the, well, disgusting yuck out there. So that will be a challenge. But, Siberia. My whole life, even before I knew about geopolitics, I wanted to travel in Siberia. Maybe it's the effect of growing up out here in the empty plains, steppes, of northern Colorado, no mountains yet, just vast space, like empty pages to be written on. What is out there?
So far I've been as close as a town several kilometers east of Moscow. I've got a ways to go.
This fascination with Siberia and the great unknown, new cultures and different people seems to connect with what I just noticed on my Facebook wall. Several people "like" a link I just posted. And these several people live in Japan, Germany, Finland, Estonia and Madision Wisconsin. And that's only so far. The woman from Japan is Japanese but she grew up in Beirut and studied at Harvard. The friend in Finland is from Rockford, IL but married and living in Finland for over a decade. Bill, in Berlin, is also an American but Heino is really from Estonia, a native Estonian who was pastor in the smallest village in the entire USSR and whose entire population was deported to Siberia during WWII. Heino studied at Princeton. Is this a great world or what?
What a mixed up mass of migrants we all are. Before it's done I expect friends from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, maybe Mexico and Milwaukee to also "Like" my link. A BBC headline tonight reads, "Obama Calls for Migrant Overhaul." I guess that means I'm going to get work done! And you too. Because we're all on the move.
And the link itself is grand news. The Presbyterians have (finally?) joined the ELCA in removing the barrier to gay clergy serving in active ministy. That is gay clergy who are in relationships, not celibate as was required before. So, from the front of the room, Finland, Berlin, Madison, Tokyo, Tartu, the globalized room that doesn't even consider Kamchatka remote anymore, friends are popping up to celebrate together this good news.
What a privilege. To be connected. Even to Siberia. I'll hear from Novosibirsk, I bet. Nobody is beyond the pale anymore. Nobody is in Siberia. Except of course the people actually in Siberia and that's not quite Siberia anymore, not like it used to be.
Amazing.
Who's up for the Trans-Siberian Railway with lots of side trips thrown in? Kamchatka is on the agenda.
What an amazing world we live in! I love it.
I'm reading Ian Frazier's wonderful "Travels in Siberia," and enjoy his wry humor and his very basic introduction for us to the basic concept of Siberia. Describing the goings on in a Russian grade school, the very back of the room was deemed, "Kamchatka," the back bench where the slowest learners sat.
When all else failed and none of the brighter children in the front of the classroom could come up with the right answer, the teacher would point to the back bench and, vainly, say, "To the rescue, Kamchatka." Even in Siberia, Siberia is Siberia.
To travel through Siberia has always been one of my life's goals. And I'm not giving it up yet. The whole sanitation/hygiene thing worries me -- to say it's not a pretty sight is to fail to even yet begin to describe the, well, disgusting yuck out there. So that will be a challenge. But, Siberia. My whole life, even before I knew about geopolitics, I wanted to travel in Siberia. Maybe it's the effect of growing up out here in the empty plains, steppes, of northern Colorado, no mountains yet, just vast space, like empty pages to be written on. What is out there?
So far I've been as close as a town several kilometers east of Moscow. I've got a ways to go.
This fascination with Siberia and the great unknown, new cultures and different people seems to connect with what I just noticed on my Facebook wall. Several people "like" a link I just posted. And these several people live in Japan, Germany, Finland, Estonia and Madision Wisconsin. And that's only so far. The woman from Japan is Japanese but she grew up in Beirut and studied at Harvard. The friend in Finland is from Rockford, IL but married and living in Finland for over a decade. Bill, in Berlin, is also an American but Heino is really from Estonia, a native Estonian who was pastor in the smallest village in the entire USSR and whose entire population was deported to Siberia during WWII. Heino studied at Princeton. Is this a great world or what?
What a mixed up mass of migrants we all are. Before it's done I expect friends from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, maybe Mexico and Milwaukee to also "Like" my link. A BBC headline tonight reads, "Obama Calls for Migrant Overhaul." I guess that means I'm going to get work done! And you too. Because we're all on the move.
And the link itself is grand news. The Presbyterians have (finally?) joined the ELCA in removing the barrier to gay clergy serving in active ministy. That is gay clergy who are in relationships, not celibate as was required before. So, from the front of the room, Finland, Berlin, Madison, Tokyo, Tartu, the globalized room that doesn't even consider Kamchatka remote anymore, friends are popping up to celebrate together this good news.
What a privilege. To be connected. Even to Siberia. I'll hear from Novosibirsk, I bet. Nobody is beyond the pale anymore. Nobody is in Siberia. Except of course the people actually in Siberia and that's not quite Siberia anymore, not like it used to be.
Amazing.
Who's up for the Trans-Siberian Railway with lots of side trips thrown in? Kamchatka is on the agenda.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Homage, tribute, bravo, viva! to my daughters
"There is pedagogy in our practice.
A fancy way of saying, we teach by example, we learn by watching the behavior of others. How we are is what we pass on. To our children, to a whole host of people, strangers and neighbors, family and friends.
Mother's Day. My first without having either of the girls at home. But they're here. They are here in heart and spirit, in laughter and looniness. I will know their presence. And it will be good.
I just made the mistake of reading the bishops's reflection in The Lutheran. "There is pedagogy in our practice." He is right. We've known this for years, those of us who read John Westerhoff, Fran Anderson, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer with our mother's milk. But it really struck me, reading this article.
Our daughters', Dave's and mine, did indeed learn from the behavior of others. There was pedagogy in their practice. When Annika was barely in 3rd grade, and Kaia in 7th, the girls began to learn about the life and witness of the church. And from this bishop's example they learned more than they could take in, more than they could believe and process of the duplicity, deceit, betrayal and indifference of the church. They learned about the power of evil to twist hearts and minds. They learned by watching this bishop and others around him of the faithless and ungracious behavior that tore down, broke apart, ruined communities and individuals. Pedagogy in their practice, all right.
"There is pedagogy in our practice." The girls saw and learned during those few years how NOT to be, how NOT to behave, how NOT to think about God and Jesus and church community, and how NOT to worship. They learned about hypocrisy and hardheartedness. They learned about faithlessness most of all. They too were used, manipulated, hurt, and betrayed. Lied to, mistreated, and broken. There was indeed pedagogy in the bishop's meanspirited practice and they learned so much about the dark side of the life and witness of the church that we despaired of their ever finding any use for it again. And even of their knowing a life of faith.
However, there is pedagogy in our practice too. HA! On this Mother's Day I am over the moon about my girls. Because of the pedagogy we practiced, the behavior and example of saints and strangers, neighbors, friends, and family, these two young adult women are gracious and generous of spirit. They are tender of heart. They are loving and compassionate, longsuffering, wise, honest, and have the will and intention to live lives of service.
It could have been different. I just need to say that. They could have learned and grown up to be bitter and indifferent, to be reclusive and rebellious. They could have grown up feeling angry and lacking in charity, kindness, and grace. But they didn't! Not even close.
"How we are, together, is a witness to what we believe to be the core of our life and faith," writes the bishop. So true. Pathetic witness, that.
But thanks to the pedagogy of our practice, and yours, my friends, our daughters saw an alternative vision to the one that surrounded them.
They have learned to be forgiving and merciful. They have learned to be honest and patient and true. They have become strong, bold examples of what the Creator intends for all of us, to live authentically, with integrity, and lovingkindness. They know about reverence, largesse, faithfulness and service. And they've even learned about vitality from two parents who were often weary and distressed. They learned that from you.
And of course, they learned to laugh. There was no getting around that. They learned that looniness is next to godliness and humility involves regular laughter at one's own (or anyway, mom's) expense. They have learned from us. By God, they have learned from us. Holy shit, can you believe it! They have learned from us! And from you. And you, and you, and all the you's out there that won't be reading this blog. Friends, family, teachers, roommates, those they admire from afar and those they have watched up close. Because, "how we are together is a witness" to life itself and how best to engage it.
And all this in spite of having a wounded healer for a mother, a woman who is herself unserious enough to have a magnet on the refrigerator that says,
"Somebody has to set the bad example."
Oh yeah, we're good. Even when we're good at being 'bad.'
Oh yeah, I am SO celebrating Mother's Day this year.
Thank you, Kaia, thank you, Annika. You are the best!
A fancy way of saying, we teach by example, we learn by watching the behavior of others. How we are is what we pass on. To our children, to a whole host of people, strangers and neighbors, family and friends.
Mother's Day. My first without having either of the girls at home. But they're here. They are here in heart and spirit, in laughter and looniness. I will know their presence. And it will be good.
I just made the mistake of reading the bishops's reflection in The Lutheran. "There is pedagogy in our practice." He is right. We've known this for years, those of us who read John Westerhoff, Fran Anderson, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer with our mother's milk. But it really struck me, reading this article.
Our daughters', Dave's and mine, did indeed learn from the behavior of others. There was pedagogy in their practice. When Annika was barely in 3rd grade, and Kaia in 7th, the girls began to learn about the life and witness of the church. And from this bishop's example they learned more than they could take in, more than they could believe and process of the duplicity, deceit, betrayal and indifference of the church. They learned about the power of evil to twist hearts and minds. They learned by watching this bishop and others around him of the faithless and ungracious behavior that tore down, broke apart, ruined communities and individuals. Pedagogy in their practice, all right.
"There is pedagogy in our practice." The girls saw and learned during those few years how NOT to be, how NOT to behave, how NOT to think about God and Jesus and church community, and how NOT to worship. They learned about hypocrisy and hardheartedness. They learned about faithlessness most of all. They too were used, manipulated, hurt, and betrayed. Lied to, mistreated, and broken. There was indeed pedagogy in the bishop's meanspirited practice and they learned so much about the dark side of the life and witness of the church that we despaired of their ever finding any use for it again. And even of their knowing a life of faith.
However, there is pedagogy in our practice too. HA! On this Mother's Day I am over the moon about my girls. Because of the pedagogy we practiced, the behavior and example of saints and strangers, neighbors, friends, and family, these two young adult women are gracious and generous of spirit. They are tender of heart. They are loving and compassionate, longsuffering, wise, honest, and have the will and intention to live lives of service.
It could have been different. I just need to say that. They could have learned and grown up to be bitter and indifferent, to be reclusive and rebellious. They could have grown up feeling angry and lacking in charity, kindness, and grace. But they didn't! Not even close.
"How we are, together, is a witness to what we believe to be the core of our life and faith," writes the bishop. So true. Pathetic witness, that.
But thanks to the pedagogy of our practice, and yours, my friends, our daughters saw an alternative vision to the one that surrounded them.
They have learned to be forgiving and merciful. They have learned to be honest and patient and true. They have become strong, bold examples of what the Creator intends for all of us, to live authentically, with integrity, and lovingkindness. They know about reverence, largesse, faithfulness and service. And they've even learned about vitality from two parents who were often weary and distressed. They learned that from you.
And of course, they learned to laugh. There was no getting around that. They learned that looniness is next to godliness and humility involves regular laughter at one's own (or anyway, mom's) expense. They have learned from us. By God, they have learned from us. Holy shit, can you believe it! They have learned from us! And from you. And you, and you, and all the you's out there that won't be reading this blog. Friends, family, teachers, roommates, those they admire from afar and those they have watched up close. Because, "how we are together is a witness" to life itself and how best to engage it.
And all this in spite of having a wounded healer for a mother, a woman who is herself unserious enough to have a magnet on the refrigerator that says,
"Somebody has to set the bad example."
Oh yeah, we're good. Even when we're good at being 'bad.'
Oh yeah, I am SO celebrating Mother's Day this year.
Thank you, Kaia, thank you, Annika. You are the best!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Guest blog at my invitation from Rick D. Bailey
The capture or killing of Bin Laden was a necessary and rational military response to 9/11 and the many other atrocities that he and al Qaeda have committed. But we let the chance slip in 2001 and it has taken 10 long years to finish that job.
In the meantime, Bin Laden achieved his objective of sowing the seeds of hatred, mass psychosis and endless war.
Pinpoint military action to break up the terrorist network was the rational response.
Instead, we invaded and occupied Iraq and thousands of innocents died in the process.
Quiet, persistent intelligence, interrogation, police work and prosecution was the rational response.
Instead, we resorted to torture and the suspension of civil liberties.
Our children, who are now young adults, watched their illusions of safety disintegrate with the towers of the World Trade Center. Then they watched their country go crazy with "shock and awe". They have watched a radical right-wing arise that is foaming at the mouth to persecute all Muslims for the evil fomented by this man and his jihadist friends.
Can we blame Americans for celebrating that the United States at long last prevented Bin Laden from doing more harm? Can we blame Americans for celebrating that finally we gave a rational mission to our intelligence and military professionals, a mission that was possible for them to fulfill with honor? Can we blame Americans for taking pride in the spectacular professionalism, diligence and bravery shown by those who found Bin Laden and carried out the mission and the strong leadership provided by President Obama?
We took the long overdue pinpoint military action, with no innocent casualties, rather than carpet-bombing Abbottabad. I say hurrah -- and I hope this is the beginning of the end of our mass-psychosis.
Like Bonhoeffer could not live in a world with Hitler, we could not live in a world with Bin Laden.God forgive me.
Rick D. Bailey
Radio Open Source on Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Martin Marty
www.brown.edu
Share
(This was a comment Rick posted after my blog from the other evening. I found it to be a compelling perspective and worthy of wider consideration. Given that we often don't see the comments, I asked his permission to reprint it here as a "guest blog." Thanks, very much, Rick. And for the Bonhoeffer link (assuming I get it to link).
In the meantime, Bin Laden achieved his objective of sowing the seeds of hatred, mass psychosis and endless war.
Pinpoint military action to break up the terrorist network was the rational response.
Instead, we invaded and occupied Iraq and thousands of innocents died in the process.
Quiet, persistent intelligence, interrogation, police work and prosecution was the rational response.
Instead, we resorted to torture and the suspension of civil liberties.
Our children, who are now young adults, watched their illusions of safety disintegrate with the towers of the World Trade Center. Then they watched their country go crazy with "shock and awe". They have watched a radical right-wing arise that is foaming at the mouth to persecute all Muslims for the evil fomented by this man and his jihadist friends.
Can we blame Americans for celebrating that the United States at long last prevented Bin Laden from doing more harm? Can we blame Americans for celebrating that finally we gave a rational mission to our intelligence and military professionals, a mission that was possible for them to fulfill with honor? Can we blame Americans for taking pride in the spectacular professionalism, diligence and bravery shown by those who found Bin Laden and carried out the mission and the strong leadership provided by President Obama?
We took the long overdue pinpoint military action, with no innocent casualties, rather than carpet-bombing Abbottabad. I say hurrah -- and I hope this is the beginning of the end of our mass-psychosis.
Like Bonhoeffer could not live in a world with Hitler, we could not live in a world with Bin Laden.God forgive me.
Rick D. Bailey
Radio Open Source on Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Martin Marty
www.brown.edu
Share
(This was a comment Rick posted after my blog from the other evening. I found it to be a compelling perspective and worthy of wider consideration. Given that we often don't see the comments, I asked his permission to reprint it here as a "guest blog." Thanks, very much, Rick. And for the Bonhoeffer link (assuming I get it to link).
Monday, May 2, 2011
Transference
The first I heard of Osama bin Laden was from a fourteen year old boy.
bin Laden had just murdered his father. Not directly but by directing, funding, inspiring and organizing the action of others.
As I took in the flood of news last night I was myself flooded with the memories. A dark room on a bright morning, a television quietly slipping details into our midst but no one paying attention. People coming and going, airline officials, neighbors, friends, phone calls, sheriff's deputies. I remember late in the afternoon answering the front door to a deputy who shyly asked if he might come in and use the restroom.
Osama bin Laden. An overwhelming flood of data that could barely be attended to. I remember a young teen saying, "we'd better not go to war over this! Find another way."
Darkness. A darkened house. To a darkened house. By the time I got home late at night, my house was dark too. It went on this way for days, weeks. I went from darkness to darkness. My own fault. I got sucked in. Pastors sometimes do. I have no regrets. It's just the way it was.
I commend to you the logical, compelling, lucid comment to my previous blog post. Of course this day had to come. And it should have come 9 and a half years ago, before and without the "national psychosis" stirred up resulting in two wars and mass craziness. I agree with the comment.
This is where my own thinking went off the rails: terrorists are domestic as well as international, familiar as well as strangers, right under our noses and in caves half a world away.
At the time of 9/11 when I became immersed in the pastoral care of two families who lost father, brother, former spouse, I was already dealing with terrorists close at hand. In our church. Someone even commented at the time. "Wow, this is just like...." Crawling out from under a rock to lob their bombshells, to crash their planes, to wreak devastation and then scurry back under into the murky darkness where they regrouped and emerged only to attack again. I already knew more about terrorism on 9/11 than I ever expected, or certainly wanted. And it went on and on and on.
It was MY story I was writing last night. Not America's. It was not my privilege to exercise vengeance on the terrorists who created a catastrophic situation under which I collapsed. But I can't transfer that situation automatically to this national/macro one.
The weeping, I have realized, was my natural regression back to the beginning of that 9/11 experience. Pastors can relate easily to this: I didn't cry for two weeks. I saw the experience almost exclusively through the eyes of people for whom I cared deeply. I saw 9/11 entirely through the experience -- empathy -- of a 14 year old boy. A 40-something mother. A 60-something sister. Especially the boy. Who is now a man! It took the easing of the first phase of the pastoral care process for me to step back and feel for myself. And finally to cry.
Every night I would come home late and sit in a dark family room, the family having gone to bed. Sit. But not think. I was too tired to think. I was, in fact, numb.
Finally, two weeks later, after the funeral - or memorial service, the TV news cameras gone away, a quiet evening, when Saturday Night Live returned to the screen, Paul Simon began to sing "The Boxer." And I began sobbing and didn't stop.
That's my story. Not everybody's. Transference. In the passing years I have railed against the waste of the wars, the terrible injuries to our military, the losses upon losses that have screwed with the hopes and minds and money that is now our legacy to our children.
Discernment. Discretion. Perhaps as we move through this new period in our history, we can teach those lessons to our children. Oh, I hope so.
bin Laden had just murdered his father. Not directly but by directing, funding, inspiring and organizing the action of others.
As I took in the flood of news last night I was myself flooded with the memories. A dark room on a bright morning, a television quietly slipping details into our midst but no one paying attention. People coming and going, airline officials, neighbors, friends, phone calls, sheriff's deputies. I remember late in the afternoon answering the front door to a deputy who shyly asked if he might come in and use the restroom.
Osama bin Laden. An overwhelming flood of data that could barely be attended to. I remember a young teen saying, "we'd better not go to war over this! Find another way."
Darkness. A darkened house. To a darkened house. By the time I got home late at night, my house was dark too. It went on this way for days, weeks. I went from darkness to darkness. My own fault. I got sucked in. Pastors sometimes do. I have no regrets. It's just the way it was.
I commend to you the logical, compelling, lucid comment to my previous blog post. Of course this day had to come. And it should have come 9 and a half years ago, before and without the "national psychosis" stirred up resulting in two wars and mass craziness. I agree with the comment.
This is where my own thinking went off the rails: terrorists are domestic as well as international, familiar as well as strangers, right under our noses and in caves half a world away.
At the time of 9/11 when I became immersed in the pastoral care of two families who lost father, brother, former spouse, I was already dealing with terrorists close at hand. In our church. Someone even commented at the time. "Wow, this is just like...." Crawling out from under a rock to lob their bombshells, to crash their planes, to wreak devastation and then scurry back under into the murky darkness where they regrouped and emerged only to attack again. I already knew more about terrorism on 9/11 than I ever expected, or certainly wanted. And it went on and on and on.
It was MY story I was writing last night. Not America's. It was not my privilege to exercise vengeance on the terrorists who created a catastrophic situation under which I collapsed. But I can't transfer that situation automatically to this national/macro one.
The weeping, I have realized, was my natural regression back to the beginning of that 9/11 experience. Pastors can relate easily to this: I didn't cry for two weeks. I saw the experience almost exclusively through the eyes of people for whom I cared deeply. I saw 9/11 entirely through the experience -- empathy -- of a 14 year old boy. A 40-something mother. A 60-something sister. Especially the boy. Who is now a man! It took the easing of the first phase of the pastoral care process for me to step back and feel for myself. And finally to cry.
Every night I would come home late and sit in a dark family room, the family having gone to bed. Sit. But not think. I was too tired to think. I was, in fact, numb.
Finally, two weeks later, after the funeral - or memorial service, the TV news cameras gone away, a quiet evening, when Saturday Night Live returned to the screen, Paul Simon began to sing "The Boxer." And I began sobbing and didn't stop.
That's my story. Not everybody's. Transference. In the passing years I have railed against the waste of the wars, the terrible injuries to our military, the losses upon losses that have screwed with the hopes and minds and money that is now our legacy to our children.
Discernment. Discretion. Perhaps as we move through this new period in our history, we can teach those lessons to our children. Oh, I hope so.
"Here am I. Send me."
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. I will repay.
In the days after 9/11, as we ramped up for war, I was haunted by these words from Scripture. Stopping evil, one thing. But revenge? No deal. Not our prerogative. But this led to a slippery slope of questions and dilemmas. How to discern what is what?
Then, of course, the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who did not condone violence or vengeance but did participate in a plot to assassinate Hitler - and was hung for it. He said he could not justify his actions morally but was obliged to stop a madman from killing others. Moral purity was a luxury he determined he could not afford.
That is a far reach, however, from the blood lust and hatred and gloating over the death of an enemy. Reading the wide range of reactions on the social media last night, and watching the celebrations, "We are the champions!" on television, I was troubled by the spirit of "Nah na na nah, hey, hey, good bye." This wasn't a game that ended, as one sign said, "Obama 1, Osama 0."
I can't even begin to tell you how powerful is the urge for revenge. In the days after I was violently attacked and left broken, and there was no recompense, no justice, not even a word of acknowledgement or regret --- from the bishop of the church, for god's sake, I was furious. The furies ruled.
And I kept these two Scripture texts together in my mind, "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay." (Romans 12: 19-20) along with a second one, that I put right after, "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?' 'And I said, 'Here I am, send me!'"
I'll do it! I'll do it! Vengeance, you need help with that, Lord? I'm your girl. Let me at 'em. I'll take care of it. Like you've never seen. It will be done.
That was my joke, but I wasn't being entirely funny. I'd have done it. Well, the bravado said I'd do it.
Not an admission I'm particularly proud of. But there you are.
Taking matters into our own hands when they are best entrusted to wiser ones. I'm glad I've taken that route.
And now here we are with mucho mongo blood on our hands. Repaying evil for evil. One government analyst/official admitted as much this morning, "there was never any plan to take Osama alive. It was, from day one, to bring his head home in a box."
And we are the Christian nation.
When it suits us.
My daughter Annika went to Ground Zero last night, just a short distance from her dorm room at NYU. She went to pray, to reflect. She took the photo of all the kids flashing the peace signs. And she posted this,
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble do not let your heart rejoice" Proverbs 24:17 BUT there is much respect to be paid for those that unfairly lost their lives. It's a hard position to judge. Myself? I didn't go to ground zero to celebrate the death of one, but to observe perhaps what could be the beginning of peace.
11 hours ago · Like · 5 people
Vengeance is not safe in human hands. Ever. Ever.
Grief is, though. And so I'm sticking with that. Like many with personal connections to 9/11, who were too numb to cry for days and weeks after the actual loss, last night began and ended with weeping. And it goes on.
Grieving and comforting. I can do that. We can all do that.
http://nyulocal.com/city/2011/05/02/
we-were-there-photos-from-the-celebration-at-ground-zero/
We Were There: Photos from the Celebration at Ground Zero
nyulocal.com
For many, as students and Americans and New Yorkers, there was only one appropriate response to the news of Bin Laden's death-- a return to where it began
In the days after 9/11, as we ramped up for war, I was haunted by these words from Scripture. Stopping evil, one thing. But revenge? No deal. Not our prerogative. But this led to a slippery slope of questions and dilemmas. How to discern what is what?
Then, of course, the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who did not condone violence or vengeance but did participate in a plot to assassinate Hitler - and was hung for it. He said he could not justify his actions morally but was obliged to stop a madman from killing others. Moral purity was a luxury he determined he could not afford.
That is a far reach, however, from the blood lust and hatred and gloating over the death of an enemy. Reading the wide range of reactions on the social media last night, and watching the celebrations, "We are the champions!" on television, I was troubled by the spirit of "Nah na na nah, hey, hey, good bye." This wasn't a game that ended, as one sign said, "Obama 1, Osama 0."
I can't even begin to tell you how powerful is the urge for revenge. In the days after I was violently attacked and left broken, and there was no recompense, no justice, not even a word of acknowledgement or regret --- from the bishop of the church, for god's sake, I was furious. The furies ruled.
And I kept these two Scripture texts together in my mind, "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay." (Romans 12: 19-20) along with a second one, that I put right after, "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?' 'And I said, 'Here I am, send me!'"
I'll do it! I'll do it! Vengeance, you need help with that, Lord? I'm your girl. Let me at 'em. I'll take care of it. Like you've never seen. It will be done.
That was my joke, but I wasn't being entirely funny. I'd have done it. Well, the bravado said I'd do it.
Not an admission I'm particularly proud of. But there you are.
Taking matters into our own hands when they are best entrusted to wiser ones. I'm glad I've taken that route.
And now here we are with mucho mongo blood on our hands. Repaying evil for evil. One government analyst/official admitted as much this morning, "there was never any plan to take Osama alive. It was, from day one, to bring his head home in a box."
And we are the Christian nation.
When it suits us.
My daughter Annika went to Ground Zero last night, just a short distance from her dorm room at NYU. She went to pray, to reflect. She took the photo of all the kids flashing the peace signs. And she posted this,
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble do not let your heart rejoice" Proverbs 24:17 BUT there is much respect to be paid for those that unfairly lost their lives. It's a hard position to judge. Myself? I didn't go to ground zero to celebrate the death of one, but to observe perhaps what could be the beginning of peace.
11 hours ago · Like · 5 people
Vengeance is not safe in human hands. Ever. Ever.
Grief is, though. And so I'm sticking with that. Like many with personal connections to 9/11, who were too numb to cry for days and weeks after the actual loss, last night began and ended with weeping. And it goes on.
Grieving and comforting. I can do that. We can all do that.
http://nyulocal.com/city/2011/05/02/
we-were-there-photos-from-the-celebration-at-ground-zero/
We Were There: Photos from the Celebration at Ground Zero
nyulocal.com
For many, as students and Americans and New Yorkers, there was only one appropriate response to the news of Bin Laden's death-- a return to where it began
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