A Voice For The Voiceless

Ken called a radio program in DC & told his story of being the child of a girl who had been raped at the age of 15. She did not abort her son but gave birth to him & gave him up for adoption. Before he knew the details of his conception, Ken was so grateful that he'd been adopted, as a teenager, he made a vow to God to adopt someday. His story is worth listening to. He is worth listening to. When he says if he met his biological father he'd punch him, I totally agree. I'd punch him too. Rape is horrible! And I know! Personally!

What if my parents had decided that because I'd been raped they would kill me? What if we killed everyone who had been sinned against? That's what aborting the child who is conceived as a result of rape means - killing those who have been sinned against & sinning against their mothers too. I've struggled to live w/ being raped since I was four & it's been hard - it still is. But w/ God's grace, w/ the Body of Christ, w/ help from the right professionals, w/ the love of friends & the love of parents who ultimately sent me to safety & saved my life, I've done it & continue to do it. It's possible to live w/ the results of being sinned against. It's possible to do more than that. Through Christ, we not only gain the strength to live w/ suffering, we gain the gift of resurrection, of triumph over suffering.

As an adopted child, Ken gained a mother, a father & two siblings. He is the father of his own family now, including an adopted daughter. Ken has met his birth mother, her husband & their children - his siblings - they love him & are happy that he is part of their family. The fruit of a courageous 15 year old's decision is three, happy families that seem to be becoming one & the gift, to all of us, of knowing that we can be courageous. We can triumph over the crimes & sins committed against us. We needn't sweep them under the rug as if they didn't happen. In fact, if we do try to make them disappear, we will only create death when we might have such abundant life.

(h/t to Deidre McQuade who wrote of Ken's story at Life Issues Forum on the USCCB's website.)

If That's All There Is

I've been watching Christian movies recently, everything from VeggieTales to movies about saints to films about Our Lady's & Our Lord's apparitions (she seems to make visits with messages for the world or healing springs, etc. & He tends to make personal, individual visits). I've been watching personal stories, fiction & documentaries. My requirements have been, does the film recognize that Jesus Christ is Lord & that Christ was crucified, rose from the dead, ascended into Heaven & is with us through the comforter He promised, the Holy Spirit? They don't all enunciate that particular formula but that is the basic premise; if it is not, the film quickly degenerates into ideology & nice warm feelings.

There are many reasons I've been watching Christian movies. The 1st is that afterwards, I feel clean. My background of abuse leaves me susceptible to flashbacks & even now, I must fight the belief that I deserve to be abused. Christian movies don't trigger those negative experiences, they remind me of God's love & actual intention for me which is certainly not more of the evil things that were done to me in the past. Christian movies are another way to focus on Jesus even when my mind is woozy w/ drugs. And I'm interested in what's out there. Christian rock is the fastest growing segment of the music market. It is my hope that Christian films will soon be in a similar position. I want to live in a world that shows me good things not evil. Of course I still watch cartoons & an occasional episode of Buffy or an action or superhero film. But in general, just as I prefer to read good things, I've come to see that I prefer to watch & listen to good things. And finally, many films are like Psalms, they sing praise to God & that's my very favourite thing to do. Every so often, when a film impresses me for good or ill, I plan to write about it.

Recently I watched, A Greater Yes: The Amy Newhouse Story on Netflix. I am happily impressed at the Christian films I can stream or order on Netflix. A Greater Yes is the depiction of Amy Newhouse's response to cancer. At 16, she is clearly God's child, she belongs to Him & has a strong sense of a mission to touch the lives of others for Christ. The Movieguide review says, in part:

The movie A GREATER YES has its heart in the right place. The message is compelling, the emotion strong, and it’s a story that no parent can watch without being moved. The role of Amy is played well, though most of the supporting cast is a bit weak.

The story is very moving, but the script tells but doesn’t show the plot points. All of the scenes are characters talking with no action. Amy’s character is so perfect that she is always perky, even going through the hardest times.

What Movieguide calls perky is actually an indomitable faith in God. As she says, "God always answers my prayers." After suffering six months of grueling side affects from chemotherapy, she believes she has been healed & is ready to take on the world. Though others want her to take a break, she feels she has lived through six inactive months & can't wait another moment to extend God's love to the world. She voices her desire to have a career as a missionary & begins to do everything she can in her own community to share Christ's love. Then the cancer resurfaces, treatment is not working & she is sent home to die. At 1st she wonders why God has left her & stopped answering her prayers but then she discovers that God has been answering "No" because He has a greater yes in store for her.

My main interest in writing about this film (& others too) isn't the cinematography or any of the usual criticisms one encounters in reviews. I'm interested in the message that's portrayed in the story & I think A Greater Yes is missing something, something very important. Amy is the narrator & we come to understand her experience of God through her eyes. Ultimately, I think Amy comes to the right conclusions but she has no sense that suffering is redemptive. Her six inactive months are spent helping a young girl get through chemo, as if God knew she was strong enough to care for the child who was afraid & in need of Amy's childlike faith. Each day, she has her boyfriend invite the school outcast, Jordan, to join his group at lunch. Jordan eventually joins just to get Amy to stop asking & also joins the 6 a.m. prayer group that is praying for Amy's healing; previously, Jordan was a rebel who would not consider prayer. Amy's suffering sparks a revival of faith in a large part of TX. Even today, her story continues to touch hearts & encourage others to love Christ & to persevere. It would have been nice if the other characters were stronger, particularly her parents - I'd have loved to see them sharing their faith with their children. But even without knowing more about them, Amy is very much like St. Therese of Lisieux: she loves Jesus & when the time comes, she suffers with Him. The film doesn't make that clear, just as it fails to make it clear that Amy suffers for Christ - her suffering is a gift that will bring many to Christ just as Christ's suffering made it possible for us to become children of God. (I think Jesus knew we would forget how powerful His sacrifice was so He sends us reminders through people like Amy; it's another way we can know Christ did not leave us alone.) Finally,  I wish she had understood that suffering was also God's gift to her, that God took His dear child, Amy & conformed her to His Son's image: through suffering: she died with Him & she will reign with Him. (See 2 Timothy 2:12)

If suffering only means revival, it's good but it's not much. Helping others is nice but I want more than nice. I want to love like Christ does. I want to heal like Christ does. I want to be made like Christ because that is what God made me to be & only through accepting His will for me can I fully love others; only then is suffering worth it. A person conformed to Christ's image is the most attractive person there is. He (or she) is the only person who can truly win souls to Christ because Christ has been invited to use him/her exactly as He wills.

I highly recommend A Greater Yes: The Story of Amy Newhouse. And I strongly suggest that it be watched while asking the question, is she being conformed to Christ? Though she seems not to be aware of it, she becomes so much like Him, so on fire with Christ's love, her death, so she will be with Christ face-to-face, makes perfect sense even though it is excruciating for those who love her. And though she has died, she will touch more people than the limited few she mentions. God put her in the right place to help the school outcast, put her in the right place to help another child through chemo, He has put her in the right place to show many souls the love of Christ. The God of the living still holds Amy Newhouse in the palm of His hand. She lives with & in Him & she will reign with Him. I have been graced by her story & look forward to meeting her on someday.

A New Experiment: Hell Loses Again

This is an excruciatingly amazing recount of God's grace; of how He even reaches into the hells that others try to create for us, the hells we are convinced we can never escape & brings us into the freedom & protection of His loving & forgiving embrace. God is so very, very good!

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/abused-bishop-ready-to-forgive/story-e6frg6n6-1226133531732

Sunday Snippets: Lesser Known Catholic Mystics

Physically, my health has been poor for some time (though you'd never know to look at me); I've had difficulty swallowing for months & have been on a mostly liquid diet. Spiritually, I'm experiencing an interesting time. I really don't know how to describe it. It's as if I'm on the verge of something. There's some writing I'm preparing to do that is dredging up memories, experiences, things that I once valued & thought were lost, more than I know how to express. For example, singing has always been a very important part of my life. As a child, when I first came to this country, I sat alone reading books & singing songs to God. I sang in school & church choirs & even studied opera as a young woman in New York. A life on the stage was not at all appealing to me so opera was soon ruled out but music was not; music has always been part of my prayer life. In looking through some of my writing, I was reminded that I had written a number of songs, prayers, psalms - I wanted to sing to God the music in my heart. Illness pushed music to the background but being a parishioner at an Anglican Use parish, where, week after week, we sing the Psalm in Anglican plainchant & where hymns are well-written & thoughtfully chosen has begun to reconnect me to singing as a central way to praise & pray to God. Last week, I bought myself a gift, a piano/keyboard; it arrived Thursday & a friend kindly came over yesterday & helped me set it up. I played a few chords but feel almost afraid of it. There is new music inside me, music born of my return to the Church & my deepening understanding of the gifts God has so generously bestowed upon me. It frightens me: only music or dance could express the longing, the gratitude, the love. Is it possible for a mere human to write of that love?

As a child, I found an old children's missal & hid it under my mattress along w/ a copy of The Song of Bernadette. The missal was definitely pre-Vatican II & out of date when I found it. I've been looking for online for something similar but haven't had much luck yet - all the missals I find in my price range are post-Vatican II. So I continue to look. Then today, my friend, Dawn Eden sent me a link to a post about Nellie Organ, whom I'd never encountered before. Her story touches something very deep inside me; another child who is friends w/ my Friend. I am almost envious because her life was not marred by sin as my life has been. Almost, but not quite. I will accept the life I've been given & trust my Friend to continue to be the Friend He's always been.

I have no idea what is going on or where any of it will lead. I know I will follow though, I must admit, it feels as if it is tearing me apart. I will follow. What else would I do? Where else could I go? I am like a young child riding on her Father's foot, clinging to his leg. This is where I belong, no matter where the trip takes me. This is where I am happy to be. And if I'm not particularly happy every moment, this is the only place that I have hope to become happy. And it's a great foot, big enough for many, many riders. And maybe I could work on uncovering the mysteries of the Holy Foot.

Oh yes, Dawn has a new book, My Peace I Give You, that is expected this spring. I was honoured not only to read it but to give feedback as she was engaged in writing. It promises to be a source of healing for many, many who have been abused or have abused themselves. Plan now to read it whether or not abuse has had any place in your life.

Oh yes two, it seems I'll be undergoing another round of chemo soon. Prayers for that & for everything in my life these days.

A New Experiment: Ezekiel 22

This morning, I first read:

Moreover the word of the LORD came to me, saying, "And you, son of man, will you judge, will you judge the bloody city? Then declare to her all her abominable deeds. You shall say, Thus says the Lord GOD: A city that sheds blood in the midst of her, that her time may come, and that makes idols to defile herself! You have become guilty by the blood which you have shed, and defiled by the idols which you have made; and you have brought your day near, the appointed time of your years has come. Therefore I have made you a reproach to the nations, and a mocking to all the countries. Those who are near and those who are far from you will mock you, you infamous one, full of tumult. "Behold, the princes of Israel in you, every one according to his power, have been bent on shedding blood. Father and mother are treated with contempt in you; the sojourner suffers extortion in your midst; the fatherless and the widow are wronged in you. You have despised my holy things, and profaned my sabbaths. There are men in you who slander to shed blood, and men in you who eat upon the mountains; men commit lewdness in your midst. In you men uncover their fathers' nakedness; in you they humble women who are unclean in their impurity. One commits abomination with his neighbor's wife; another lewdly defiles his daughter-in-law; another in you defiles his sister, his father's daughter. In you men take bribes to shed blood; you take interest and increase and make gain of your neighbors by extortion; and you have forgotten me, says the Lord GOD. "Behold, therefore, I strike my hands together at the dishonest gain which you have made, and at the blood which has been in the midst of you. Can your courage endure, or can your hands be strong, in the days that I shall deal with you? I the LORD have spoken, and I will do it. I will scatter you among the nations and disperse you through the countries, and I will consume your filthiness out of you. And I shall be profaned through you in the sight of the nations; and you shall know that I am the LORD."

My eyes focused on the words, "bloody city," and I thought, 'abortion'! Then I read the New Jerome Biblical Commentary: "sheds blood: This accents the violence committed against others by the powerful, which will lead to all the other offenses listed in the following verses."

Ezekiel 22 continues at verse 23:

And the word of the LORD came to me: "Son of man, say to her, You are a land that is not cleansed, or rained upon in the day of indignation. Her princes in the midst of her are like a roaring lion tearing the prey; they have devoured human lives; they have taken treasure and precious things; they have made many widows in the midst of her. Her priests have done violence to my law and have profaned my holy things; they have made no distinction between the holy and the common, neither have they taught the difference between the unclean and the clean, and they have disregarded my sabbaths, so that I am profaned among them. Her princes in the midst of her are like wolves tearing the prey, shedding blood, destroying lives to get dishonest gain. And her prophets have daubed for them with whitewash, seeing false visions and divining lies for them, saying, `Thus says the Lord GOD,' when the LORD has not spoken. The people of the land have practiced extortion and committed robbery; they have oppressed the poor and needy, and have extorted from the sojourner without redress. And I sought for a man among them who should build up the wall and stand in the breach before me for the land, that I should not destroy it; but I found none. Therefore I have poured out my indignation upon them; I have consumed them with the fire of my wrath; their way have I requited upon their heads, says the Lord GOD."

In our time, we tend to focus on one or two issues often because we can't take in all the information that comes our way. It's important to remember that the five Catholic non-negotiables: abortion, euthanasia, embryonic stem cell research, cloning & any attempts to redefine marriage, are the minimum from the Church's social teaching to which we must assent in order to be in communion w/ the Church. But, they are not the limit of those crimes that cry out to God for vengeance. In fact, another crime that cries out to God is violence on the part of those in power against those being governed, those over whom one has power: it's as if Ezekiel 22 is a foreshadowing of the servant role that government is supposed to exercise.

At least 500 longshoremen stormed the Port of Longview about 4:30 a.m., broke out windows in the guard shack and — as longshoremen wielding baseball bats and crowbars held six guards hostage — others cut brakelines on box cars and dumped grain, according to Longview Police Chief Jim Duscha.

"We're not surprised," Duscha said. "A lot of the protesters were telling us this in only the start."

We live in a time when there have been calls for violence against members of the tea party & against those who don't agree w/ the people in power. Not long ago, the tea party was accused of using violent rhetoric. Now, those in power & those who feel they have the protection of the powerful (such as some union leaders) are calling out for violence against those who disagree w/ them.* And, some are responding to those calls (the article cited is only one instance; there are others).

Perhaps they don't know that their sins cry out to God. Natural law precludes taking a few men hostage while vandalizing & destroying the property of those with whom one disagrees. Perhaps they don't have any understanding of natural law. Perhaps they don't know the difference between right & wrong. We ought not be surprised, if one can kill a baby in his mother's womb, then it's easy to rationalize engaging in violence against adults & private property. We must pray for those who call others to violence & for those who engage in acts of violence. We must engage in acts of penance on their behalf because they are sorely in need of a change of heart.

Things changed with Christ. We became empowered to suffer on behalf of others, just as He did. We can "stand in the breach." There are many in our country who desperately need Christ's love & peace. Please, please, please, offer up prayers & sacrifices on behalf of all who use violence against the weak: on behalf of those who have & provide abortions & on behalf of those who call out for violence & lawlessness.

* I must be honest, a fringe group of persons involved w/ the Tea Party speaks of violence. Once in awhile, I visit their blogs & remind them that violence is not to be countenanced. Others make regular visits & engage such foolish people in long debates. I salute them but haven't the energy to wage such battles regularly.

Experiment #2: The Act of Love

For various reasons, many I've written of here, as a child, I never learned many of the prayers Catholic children do. So recently, as part of my morning prayers, I've been memorizing some of them from a little booklet, My Catholic Prayer Book, which I got in the bookshop at the National Cathedral in DC. Learning them is slow, painstaking & actually physically painful so I go phrase by phrase for weeks at a time & eventually another prayer is learned. Part of the difficulty is because I find it hard to remain focused. I am easily distracted & can't stop my mind wondering off in all sorts of places. Once memorized, my mind still wanders but the distractions have come together & it seems that all the wandering while memorizing the Acts of Faith, Hope & Love was about the same thing.

Along w/ not learning most of the prayers other Catholic children did, I also didn't learn to pray as they did. I'm not sure I learned to pray as anyone learns because no human being taught me any prayers except the Our Father; I did learn a few prayers from the catechism I kept under my bed but I did that on my own. The prayers I had learned never seemed to be enough & the extemporaneous prayers my foster-father & other ministers prayed just seemed odd. So I just learned to converse w/ God or, sometimes, just to think of nothing & lie back in my Friend's arms & hang out. That basic mode of praying has never changed & my mind automatically wanders to it much of the time & especially when I am learning new prayers. So I thought I'd try to put some of those wanderings into intelligible form & share them with you.

O my God, I love You above all things, and with my whole heart and soul, because You are all good and worthy of all my love. I love my neighbour as myself for love of You. I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon of all whom I have injured. Amen.

I've learned the Acts of Faith, Hope & Love. My mind wanders during all of them but it is the Act of Love I would almost totally rewrite. The 1st place my mind wanders off is because You are all good and worthy of all my love. I find myself telling God, that the truth is I love Him because He loves me 1st & how can I not love Him when He has loved me so much & so well. Then I usually find myself thinking about those who ought to have loved me & how badly they failed, of how badly I have failed to love & that makes me realize all the more how much God loves me & that I am only loving Him in response. I can remain for a long time just thinking of God's love for me even though I don't deserve it but I try to move on; usually I do.

The 2nd place of wandering is I love my neighbour as myself for love of You. Here I admit that I do not love my neighbour as myself (and usually remember to thank God for that) for love of Him. Instead, I tell God that I try to love my neighbour as Christ has loved me because He has commanded me to do so & I want to do His will. The emphasis is on try. I fail, a lot, & can only keep trying because He loves me so much & I want to love Him any way I can. Sometimes I think how much more I would fail if I was trying to love as I love myself. There is brokenness within me that makes loving myself, even for love of God, very difficult indeed: my self love is not a template for loving others. But God is brilliant. He has given even me the opportunity to learn to love my neighbours, & learn to love myself in the process, if I seek to love as He loves me. And the glorious bonus is that because I know He loved me 1st & my love for Him is in response to His love, my love for my neighbours is also because of His love for me & them. How can I not love what my Beloved loves?

Finally, my mind wanders at I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon of all whom I have injured. That sentence becomes: I try to forgive all who have injured me because You have told me to do so & I try to ask pardon of all whom I have injured because I know that's what You want. I think the Act of Love ends on a wimpy note because it doesn't end w/ acknowledging God's love but this is actually a perfect place to address that omission: I can only forgive because He works forgiveness within me. That's something I learned a while back, when I felt called to forgive those who killed my family but couldn't even express the words. Finally, after several days struggling & crying, the realization lit up my heart, the ability to forgive is as much a gift as anything else & if that's what God wanted of me, He could make it happen. So I asked Him to work forgiveness within me & was granted peace & found myself praying for people I had hated just a few minutes earlier. God continues to make it possible for me to forgive even if I must, at times, wait to express forgiveness. And the same is true about asking pardon. I put all my occasions of forgiving & being forgiven in God's hands & He handles it. Ultimately, I realize I must move onto something else so I end the Act of Love by telling God I am so grateful He makes it possible for me to love Him & His creation.

And now it's time for me to move onto something else. The Act of Love has been around for a long time & I'm glad I've learned it. I do think it might be more dynamic & when I am praying it alone, I amend it to my heart's content. But when I'm praying it w/ others, I keep to the original because that's part of what love does, gives way to others over those things that are not essential. After all, anyone making an Act of Love is doing so because he loves God & that's the essential thing.

God is good. But what is man?

It's been several months since my last entry. Houston & being ill require a great deal of work & are exhausting. When I originally began blogging, I thought it would take the place of my personal journal. But my posts became so infrequent, I began keeping my personal journal again: God doesn't mind if I become distracted & head off in another direction & between being ill & extremely medicated, focusing is actually painful. But today I'm trying an experiment. I want my mind to be restored to health as well as my body so perhaps an occasional post will force me to focus & will help heal my mind. (I'm also considering Tai Chi & I've found a dance partner to teach. Dance will help me regain the strength, form & balance I once had. Working with someone will help me push myself.) I must ask one favour of all of you, if I ramble or make no sense or am inconsistent, please let me know. Please help me get well. (Don't worry about my feelings, just tell me the truth.)

In my last post, I left off asking whether God can exist and not be good. There were excellent responses. Kathleen Lundquist's comment comes closest to stating my belief:

If that's the case [that God can be malevolent], then we're all in hell. The choice is between being and nothingness. If God is our Father/the ground of our being, and being is not good, then we may as well just walk off the cliff into insanity.

Even though my life has had & continues to have quite a lot of suffering, I, like many Christians, have always believed & experienced God's goodness: from an early age, I knew there was a huge difference between God & man. By that I don't mean to say that I haven't had struggles w/ God because of the suffering in my life but that ultimately, God has always used suffering to bring me closer to Himself. So how answer such a question? I could share some of my personal experience (& have been willing to do so privately) but then it hit me, if we're accepting God's existence then we must accept His goodness - God & goodness are not two separate things but one & the same thing. So I must ask those who posit God as Creator & evil, when you say you believe in God, just whom, exactly, do you believe in? If god is Moloch, then no, he is not good. Ditto all the demons & idols ever created by human beings. But if God is YHWH, then we're facing a totally different proposition because YHWH is good.

We know the story or can easily learn it by reading the Bible: YHWH, who transcends space & time, creates this world, this reality & chooses to enter into it. He creates Man & is in relationship with them. Man rebels against YHWH but YHWH doesn't leave us as a god would do. Rather, He lets us know there are serious consequences for our rebellious actions & He remains in relationship w/ those who choose to be in relationship w/ Him. Man suffers, creation groans because our rebellion has caused it to be subjected to the chaos from which we were protected. None of us is exempt, no matter how old or young, how weak or strong, no matter how much money we have nor how high our position nor how great our intelligence. We chose rebellion & only God's mercy keeps us from being utterly destroyed. But God uses suffering to prepare a people to receive Him so that YHWH can show us who He is. He finally arrives, a human baby who is also God: God literally places Himself in our hands. And we kill Him. But, though it ought to be, God's death isn't the end of the story. YHWH who has become Man returns from the dead, ascends back to be with His Father, sends us the Holy Spirit who will teach & guide us & promises to come back once we have told the entire world about Him. When that time comes, He will give those who choose to accept it something more glorious than we can imagine: we will be like God Himself (which is what we wanted when we rebelled). Those who reject Him will also receive what they desire, life without Him which, naturally, is suffering. But those who those who choose to become like Him, will no longer suffer. Creation will be perfected, it will be set free from suffering as we have been. In a nutshell (fashioned Drusilla-style) that's the story.

So how can we accept YHWH & not accept the answer we've already been given? We have an enormous amount of power but not so much ability. We are like children who break their toys but don't know how to fix them. Much of our science is dedicated towards trying to fix a broken world. Our social sciences have almost no other purpose. The same is true for much of the work we do these days - most NFPs, NGOs, the United Nations, charities - all mainly exist to fix what is broken but w/o acknowledging that we are the ones who broke it. Too many of us want to accept YHWH (or at least say we do) but don't want to believe that original sin is real. But, if we claim to believe in YHWH then we know we are the ones who broke our world & that we continue to break it. If we claim to believe in YHWH, we must accept the entire story or else we are not believing in God, but rather in some demon or idol. It is not that God is not good, it is that we are not good.

The acquaintance I mentioned earlier once asked me why I follow God. I replied, "Because He is faithful." My acquaintance responded, if a scientist had developed a particularly vicious strain of mice that kept tearing one another apart would I say that scientist was good just because he was faithful? Because of the move & my health, I never had an opportunity to reply. Now I will: if the scientist had given the mice the ability to choose whether or not they would be vicious & even when they chose viciousness he continued to work with them, preparing them for the day when he himself would become a mouse because by doing so & by allowing them to kill Him, he would destroy viciousness & make them able to become scientists like him then, yes, I would say that scientist was good. Having the ability to choose is what makes all the difference. To be able to choose is to have power. God gave us choice. We chose to to rebel against Him, to try to be gods. And we continue to make that same choice. So, in reality, it's not His goodness that is at question but our rebelliousness & our refusal to accept that our actions have consequences - sometimes extremely far reaching consequences. We might ask, why would He give us such power? But once again, we have the answer - choice is the means by which we can become like God: we have to want to become like Him, to choose to become like Him. We might be angry w/ God or think He is loopy for giving us such power but then we must ask ourselves, why do we choose to rebel against the One who is giving us what we want anyway? Why do we rebel against the One who is trying to make us gods?

PS: I undergo my 3rd round of chemo beginning Wednesday. Please pray for me.

Omnipotent, Omniscient, Loving & Good - Pt. 1

I 've made it to Houston, TX; my move actually occurred on Sunday the 26th of July so I've been here several weeks now. Unpacking has been slow and interspersed with a marathon of medical tests and visits to doctors as I set up a cadre of professionals to replace those I left in NYC. Thus far, I am rather impressed. The doctors here are thorough and work together. Even the hospitals all seem to be together. I've seen branches of certain hospitals in other locations but the main facilities are right next door to each other in a two-three mile strip. My doctors are all super specialists! The fellows, who are MDs but have chosen (and been chosen) to train under my doctors, are at the level of most of the doctors I saw in NYC. The fellows see me first and give me the same answers I received in NYC then the specialists come in and show the fellows how to do their jobs better -- that there are other treatment alternatives, or tests (often simple tests) that might give important information, even that the test results before their eyes are providing information that has been overlooked or underestimated. It's an education and also hard work just being a patient. I realize more and more that my job is to be ill and if I refuse to do it, I won't get better.

What I mean by that is if I don't take this seriously, I won't do what is necessary to get healthier. I won't get the rest I need or the exercise. I won't take my meds on time or eat properly or do the 101 odd things I ought to do; this will only matter to me if I accept the reality of being ill. For example, I've been diagnosed with mild sleep apnea (I stop breathing about seven times each hour) and must use a retainer-like device to keep my airway open while I sleep. It's not as intrusive as the machine many use, it's not surgery, but it is easy to forget to put the device in my mouth - which is a no no - breathing is extremely, fundamentally even, important. So I'll have to work it into my already crowded bedtime prep. But since the alternative is, at least, being sicker and, at worst, death, making certain I insert my breathing retainer is effort well spent.

This morning, I read in Vol. 3 Charity of Luigi Giussani's Is It Possible to Live This Way?:

"If ...the circumstances of life ...make us ...participants in the death of Christ, then sacrifice becomes the keystone of all life -- life's value is in the sacrifice that one lives -- but also the keystone for understanding the history of man. The entire history of man depends on that man dead on the cross, and I can influence the history of man ...if I accept the sacrifice that this moment imposes."

I was originally drawn to Giussani's work because he was the first real intellectual I encountered who got it, who understood that Christ, and Him crucified, must be the foundation of our lives if who we are and what we do is to be reality. This past summer, I became acquainted with a man who asked me for a rational argument for my belief that God is loving and good particularly with all the suffering and pain in the world. After a lengthy correspondence, I told him I was not only ill but in the midst of moving cross country and that I could not continue our conversations until I had settled into my new home. Since arriving in Houston, I've encountered others, some Catholics, who are struggling with God's goodness, who are ratcheting up emphasis on God's love and mercy and downplaying God's power: Omnipotence could not see children suffering and not interfere.

Though I've got some work left to get settled, beginning with this post, I plan to respond to my acquaintance as well as to those others who are struggling with God's loving and good omniscience and omnipotence. It has to begin with reality, like the reality of my illness. This illness is real. That I stop breathing seven times per hour is real. All those I've encountered accept that God is real. They do not accept that God is good. Is that possible? Can God be real and yet not be good? Before my next post (which hopefully will be sooner than the time since my previous one) I'm interested in your responses.

Catholic Witness & Those Who Bear The Imprint of Hell

”…my body flesh is learning Christ's mercy.”

Fallen Sparrow and I often discuss that people don't know how bad it is out there. Most people don't. And with the exception of two with whom I’m particularly close, most of my friends don't know how bad it was for me. If they have read this blog, they know some of it - just as all my readers do. Conversations with me reveal more. But there are things I share with no one. And then a time comes when they must be shared. This is one of those times.

For long, my first memory was of standing with my mouth pressed against a rusty, dusty screen door looking at adults reclining and children playing beside a creek. In the distance there was a thicket of trees. I did not know who the people were. I did not know where I was. I did not even know my name. But I knew I wasn't alone. A Presence was with me, it was almost tangible. A woman shouted at me: "go and finish your nap!" I ran back into a bedroom, climbed into the lower bunk, stared up at the rungs of the bed above and shrugged to the Presence. That Presence has been with me ever since. I came to know Him as my Friend. Through everything else that has ever happened to me, that Presence has been with me. It is important to remember that. It helps.

I've written much about the man who "raised" me and many of the horrible things he did. But there were some horrors that neither he nor his wife directly visited on me. He had children and foster-children. In particular there was his eldest daughter who used her seniority to arrange our lives as if we were in a brothel. She assumed that we all ought to be having sex with at least one of the other children in the house. It did not matter that I was not quite five and had no ability to give any sort of consent. She simply assigned boys to have sex with me and that was that. Except it wasn't. When she wanted satisfaction and none of the boys was available, or later when her boyfriend wasn't available, she used me. Imagine being eight years old and having a sixteen year old thrust her fist into your body? Imagine lying there and waiting for it to be over or hoping it hurt because that's what you deserved? That was my life. Not every day but on many occasions, whenever I was desired.

For me, it all ended one night when I was about thirteen. I had begun to worry about getting pregnant and I just didn't like it: I had a Catechism under my mattress that told me such activities were wrong. I heard sermons in my foster-father’s Church that said the same. I didn't want to be that way and I didn't want it in my life. But I didn't know what to do. When I was desired, I was supposed to remove my clothes and let it happen. But that night my foster-father came home late and the lights were out in my room and when I heard him coming up the stairs I pushed my foster-brother away, put on my nightie and turned on my television. My foster-father pounded on my door and we opened it; by then my foster-brother was dressed. We asked what he wanted, told him we were just watching TV. He gave us an odd look. I bought a lock, put it on my door and when I heard a knock and a voice asking for entry, I said, "No." And when that voice insisted, I said, "No." And I kept saying, "No" until they stopped knocking. And through it all I asked God to please help me to continue saying “No.”

I paid for saying it. They were seriously confused that I would refuse to have sex. I was beaten up, my secrets betrayed, one of my foster-brother's threatened to kill me. Even after I learned my foster-father was dead, I knew I could never return. Though I have often longed for a family and there have been those who suggested I might seek out some of my foster-siblings because they are the closest thing to family I have, I've never returned. There is much I've come to understand about the people who lived in that house and why they behaved as they did and much I will never know this side of heaven. Many children went through that house. As far as I know, they were all sexually abused – if not before then certainly while they lived there. Some introduced new experiences of abuse. One thing I do know, that was not family. That was not even a whacked out, crazy family. When you put it all together, when you realize that the children were as vindictive and destructive as the adults*, when you accept that each person's purpose was to dominate and enslave those below them, then you realize that was an image of hell "and I alone have escaped to tell you"** because of my Friend.

But He didn't exempt me from the horrors of hell. He allowed me to live there for 11 years. And when I tried to leave, tried to enter the foster-care system and get a new set of foster-parents and a new home, I learned that there was even worse out there. My foster-father wasn't poor. Add poverty and you get a whole new level of horror. So back I went to hell. And hell left an imprint in my flesh. From a very young age, I was repeatedly dehumanized. I was at the service of others rage and hatred and sexual desire and just plain boredom. I have spent many years since working to become human. It’s not an easy job. Therapy helped. More knock down, drag out fights with God than I can remember worked wonders. Coming to see that God really loves me and is the Friend who has always been with me made a huge difference. Human friends have helped enormously. And then I returned to the Church and being made human took on a whole new meaning.

I've always been a helpful, outwardly cheerful (inwardly too for a number of years now), caring person and that has helped me make friends. But in returning to the Church I found the kind of friends I never imagined. Not only do they not make it their mission not to hurt me, they make it their mission to love me. There are times when I'm like a burn victim having all the charred flesh scrubbed away, that's just how much they love me. I've awakened in a hospital bed to find a woman I hardly know has come to visit me. I've needed an escort home from the hospital and that same woman has been there - even if given just an hour or two of notice. I've needed help paying my rent these past few months and she helped me. And others have helped me. They've remembered my birthday and bought me toys and fruitcake and listened to me speak and responded as if what I was saying made sense and come to my home to feed me when I'm undergoing chemo and looked sternly at me for doing too much. I even had breakfast prepared for me in my own kitchen by a Jesuit Seminarian in his "SWAT gear" uniform and another friend even brought an upside-down doughnut cake.

Many of my friends will recount what I have done for them but they don't know what they are doing for me: they help me become human! Not fully human but just human. They help me become free to choose for myself so I needn't just remove my clothes and let it happen. This is what Christian witness does for those of us who bear hell’s imprint. It binds us back together. It gives us life. This is why Catholics need to get off their duffs and become active in the public forum because I am not unique. God how I wish I were. I am one of many, many imprinted souls. And I've known that for years. Some of the girls I knew at university, all from homes at least as "privileged" as mine, spoke of "fooling around" with their brothers. Brothers pimp their preteen sisters. Older cousins rape their younger cousins. Mothers and fathers sexually abuse their children. Sex parties are the norm for too many 13 year old kids. And all that sexual abuse, even when it's not considered abuse, does something to a child. It makes them hard. It leaves a deep imprint that poisons the rest of life unless it is healed and only Christ and we Christians letting Him use us in Christian friendship can really do the job.

You don't know how important extending an invitation to brunch is. It doesn't matter if you're shy, it's an easy thing to do. Do it. You don't know how important having a few people over for tea or a movie or a chat is. Do it. So many of us never learned to make a home, never learned to invite people, can't imagine why you'd invite us. Do it. It isn't help from the government we need. It's an invitation to lunch or dinner. Those of us who bear the imprint of hell need the friendship of those who had normal, healthy childhoods. And we need the friendship of those who are having their humanity restored too because we need to know it’s possible. We need to know that Christ comes to save us from the damnation others try to visit upon us. He comes through us. He comes through you.

Our country is in grave peril. We know that. Many traditional Catholics believe impurity is a root cause of that peril and that novenas to Our Blessed Mother are the response. Well perhaps some of those novenas got me to finally write this piece and I hope I’ve opened the can of worms that shows you don’t know what impurity is. Prayers of all sorts are certainly necessary to heal our land but they won’t replace Christian friendship. After the Annunciation, Mary visits Elizabeth. After Mass and holy hours and novenas, we need to visit one another and include those outside our regular group. Ultimately, the imprint of hell is a lie. It burns. It scars. But it needn’t destroy. If we are willing to be friends to others as Christ is to us, our people and our land would flourish.

* My foster-father was investigated for rape. His eldest daughter made the charge. The results were inconclusive.
** Job 1:15

Catholic Witness and the Healthcare Bill

Fallen Sparrow sent me the link to this First Things article. It is well worth a read as are many of the comments both to enhance our catechesis and to learn the dismal state of many in the Church today. We need to do some work cleaning our own house.

I strongly ecommend Grace McLoughlin's comments at 3.20.2010/12.00 p.m. and Matt Beck's at 3.20.2010/10.19 p.m. My comment, which hadn't appeared as of the time of this post, is below:

Obebedience to the teaching Magisterium is central to what it means to be a faithful Catholic. We may like it or hate it but that's the choice.

In most of the world, people are subject to the state. In the United States, the state is subject to the people. And that puts American Catholics in an odd position. Whereas we are accustomed to being subject to the Church and to the state, here we are subject to the Church and we are each sovereign. We owe obedience to the Church, the government is our servant. We must get that through our head. This is what it means to be an American Catholic.

I am so grateful that Bishop Chaput has made it clear that the nuns who have come out in support of the health care bill are causing confusion amongst the faithful. I am also grateful to God that abortion, conscience protection or any other issues cause the bishops to oppose this bill because whereas abortion is an absolute deal breaker (the blood of 50 million babies is already on our hands) I don't think the bishops have gone far enough.

As Grace commented, subsidiarity is also central to Church teaching. In simple terms, we are to govern our own selves and love our neighbours as locally as possible. We cannot get away with sending a cheque to DC in the form of taxes and have DC love our neighbour for us. We must do it ourselves because the goal of this whole thing is holiness and we only get that by loving one another as Christ loves us.

Charity is a good thing. Church charity, local charity, personal charity are all good things. The Church teaches that health care is a right but how we provide it is left to us. The Church (both Catholics and other Christian denominations) provides an enormous amount of charity health care. We need to support them with our money. We need to provide for our brothers and sisters who are in need, which many do. It's our job. The state can't do it.

Accepting charity is tough. I know this personally. As I write this, I am disabled and in pain (in 15 min I can take my pain meds). I am in one of the many doughnut holes waiting for my disability insurance company to begin making payments to me. Disability has always been part of my salary package and I have paid for it for many years. I never intended to get sick and am hoping to either get better or figure out something I can do to earn a living while being sick. But right now, I'm too sick to work and don't have any savings left and I must wait. But in my wallet are a number of cheques from friends and friends of friends that will pay for meds and utility bills and food. Friends have paid my bills over the past three months. Of course, I can't buy clothes but then I don't need any clothes. I've been fine. I've had what I need. I've had to give up my pride. It hurts. Being homeless and without food and medicine would hurt more. My pride isn't worth keeping. I've been afraid and then I've asked for help and the community in which I live my life has helped me and I am beginning to be less afraid of being in need, in general - my body flesh is learning Christ's mercy.

Charity is a good thing. And it is available to those who want it. It's easier if one is part of a community but it is available to those who want it. We need to do a better job of letting that be known. And we need the Church to stop making negative statements about picking up the pieces of a flawed healthcare system. That is the Church's job and it's a good thing. (It would be even better if we could get rid of the flawed healthcare system but that's another post.)

We have a nation of people who are badly catechised, have poorly formed consciences and are poorly educated as citizens. The Church must do a better job of catechising us. We need the bishops and our parish priests, to remind us regularly of Church teaching on the sanctity of life AND of social teaching including subsidiarity (which many have never heard of before). We need homilies and teaching on pride and all the other deadly sins. We need modern references for humility and love. We need the Church to be more specific and proclaim Church teaching rather than the general homilies about how special we are and how much God loves us.

I pray this bill doesn't pass because I am sick and though I have private health insurance, I will be one of the many who are given pain meds and sent off to die because it is too expensive to pay for my healthcare. I pray it doesn't pass because I know babies will continue to be slaughtered on the altar of convenience. I pray it doesn't pass because the elderly will die of treatable illnesses because some central bureaucracy decides it's too expensive. I pray it doesn't pass because suicide will be recommended. If this bill is passed and actually enacted, death and misery will spread throughout the country but we will have paid our taxes so it won't be our fault.

Stretching My Heels

For me, giving up would be easy, just taking to my bed and not getting out of it unless absolutely necessary. I'd quickly become weaker and weaker and then I'd never leave my bed. And it would be understandable: I am on so much medication for so many different parts of this illness and now, with this second round of chemo, am so additionally knocked out and in so much more pain, getting out of bed is a chore. My chore.

Entering my bathroom requires a small step up - about two to two and one-half inches, it's an old apartment and the small strip of flooring at the doorway is the original marble so there must have always been a step up. It's the perfect place to stretch my heels.

I stand facing into the bathroom, my toes at the edge of the marble riser, my instep and heels hanging over the hallway flooring and, balancing myself by gently laying my palms on either side of the door frame, I lower my heels until they brush the floor, hold it for eight slow counts and then rise into relevé which I also hold for eight slow counts. Then I repeat the entire sequence another four times, take a break to take my Advair, and do a second set. My first trip to the bathroom becomes an opportunity to keep my heels and calves stretched and my feet strong.

Thus far, it doesn't ease the pain but it prevents the pain tight muscles and tendons would cause. And, it prevents me walking on my toes like a chicken - the chicken walk is most unattractive. It also breaks the pattern of getting out of bed only when absolutely necessary; it even seems to help me make my bed and treat the day as something I must live, in which I act, rather than something I must get through until it's time to take my night meds. It's a little piece of building a new life even when I don't have the strength or energy to think of what that life might be.

Thank God for all that dancing. It's now time for breakfast and I have not only said my prayers (just an Our Father and my usual talking to God but I'll writie about that later), I've stretched my heels and written a post. Not bad for an early morning's work.

Nothing More Than I Can Imagine

When I was just a bit older than four and one-half my nanny abandoned me. She drove to a garage, took me inside, set me upon an old chair, removed the crucifix I wore around my neck, patted me on the head, told me to be ‘a brave little poppet’ and then left me there. I sat there letting my feet swing, the strong smell of gasoline in the air. Finally a man asked whose child I was. Another man answered that I belonged to the red-haired woman. But the red-haired woman was gone. I sat there letting my feet swing. The men talked. Finally, a man spoke to me, probably asked me something, I don’t know. All I recall are hot, salty tears and begging to go home. The man took me to his home; I lived there for just over eleven years.

Recently, a friend of mine mentioned to me his struggle with wild fantasies, told me that such are often feelings of self-loathing. I responded, “I know” in a non-committal, I hear what you are saying sort of way. I wanted to shout: “I know!” Because I do. Extremely well. I know wild, self-destructive fantasies that ooze self-loathing except in them, I’m perfectly happy to be hurt, to be abused. I even participate in my own abuse until my abuser loves me and abuses me happily ever after. The smell of gasoline haunts me these days.

Right now, I cannot see much of anything except what I can imagine for myself and that is ugly and full of self-loathing. It is a story that might have happened, has parts which came very close to happening, contains elements that actually have happened but is, in total, simply not reality. Regardless of how I have felt about myself, I know God has never abandoned me to the horrors of my imagination. This is a dark time for me. Most of my friends know it is a difficult time but very few understand that I simply want to give up. It isn’t one thing. It’s everything. It’s being ill. It’s chemo. It’s being entangled in the insane bureaucracy of a firm and an insurance company that stand between me and my own money. It’s the excruciating pain of having to ask friends to help. It’s a roommate who became a friend and then revealed herself to be a monster and left me responsible for over $3000 of her unpaid rent. It’s being unable to read for more than a few minutes. It’s being alone so much. It’s also being overwhelmed by the love and care my very dear friends shower upon me. I thought I would be stronger but I’m absolutely exhausted. I simply want to escape. But where would I go? To a place where there are no horrible fantasies? Where the whiff of gasoline doesn’t haunt me?

When I started this piece I thought I’d come to some great conclusion. But I also can’t write for very long these days. And I’ve spent some time scanning through some of my earlier posts on suffering so I know, whatever I feel about it, God has placed me here too weak even to wish I were stronger. I desperately want Him to come and get me. I have no idea what that means. So I’ll just stay here being a not so brave little poppet, just letting my feet swing. He has always come for me in the past. He won’t be stopped by even the most horrible fantasies of my limited imagination.

Dawn Eden Pens a Lovely Piece On Suffering and Joy

Fulton J. Sheen observed in Calvary and the Mass:

This does not mean our Lord on the Cross did not suffer all He could. It means rather that the physical, historical Christ suffered all He could in His own human nature, but that the Mystical Christ, which is Christ and us, has not suffered to our fullness. All the other good thieves in the history of the world have not yet admitted their wrong and pleaded for remembrances. Our Lord is now in heaven. He therefore can suffer no more in His human nature but He can suffer more in our human natures.

So He reaches out to other human natures, to yours and mine, and asks us to do as the thief did, namely, to incorporate ourselves to Him on the Cross, that sharing in His Crucifixion we might also share in His Resurrection, and that made partakers of His Cross we might also be made partakers of His glory in heaven.

Read the entire piece at Headline Bistro

As I've Said Before, I Like This Woman

Sarah Palin: my life with a Down's syndrome child
In her memoir, US vice-presidential candidate tells of the problems and the joy of living with her special needs son

Sarah Palin

A couple of years ago I began to notice some peculiar yet familiar physical symptoms, like the smell of cigarettes making me feel more nauseated than usual. For a few weeks, I brushed these aside. Then I began to suspect something.

There was no way I could buy a home pregnancy test in Alaska. I was the state governor. The supermarket cashiers would know, the people in the queue would know, and the next thing I’d see would be a headline. There were still a few things that I thought were not for public consumption, at least not at first.

My chance came when I flew to New Orleans to speak at an oil and gas conference. I asked my security guy to drop me off at a pharmacy. Back at the hotel, before my speech, I followed the instructions on the pregnancy test box. Slowly a pink image materialised on the stick. Holy geez!

Todd and I had always dreamt of a big family, and he, especially, dreamt of having another boy — bookends for his three daughters.

I quickly prayed about this surreal situation. First, that I’d even be able to fathom it. I was happy but I could hear the critics:

“She’ll be distracted from state business.”

“She won’t be physically up to the job.”

“That’s what we get for electing the first woman governor.”

I sighed and stared at the ceiling. These are really less-than-ideal circumstances. And for a split second it hit me: I’m out of town. No one knows I’m pregnant. No one would ever have to know.

It was a fleeting thought, a sudden understanding of why many women feel pressured to make the “problem” go away. Sad, I thought, that our society has elevated things like education and career above the gift of bringing new life into the world. Yes, the timing of this pregnancy wasn’t ideal. But that wasn’t the baby’s fault. I knew, though, what goes through a woman’s mind when she finds herself in a difficult situation. At that moment, I was thankful for right-to-life groups that affirm the value of the child.

I didn’t want to tell Todd on the phone, and when I arrived home after the conference he was away. Between my job and his we kept missing each other, so it was a few weeks before we were in the same room and I told him about the baby. He was ecstatic. For him, it’s always been: the more, the merrier.

We kept our news to ourselves. We had always been private about our pregnancies. Our lives were an open book in virtually every other way, so for us this was just a special, sacred time, the one thing it seemed that just we two could know and enjoy together.

At 12 weeks, I saw my doctor, Cathy Baldwin-Johnson, or CBJ, as we called her. She looked at me kindly.

“Well, you’re 43, so there’s a higher chance of certain abnormalities.”

Then she showed me some statistics, one of which said I had about a one in 80 chance of having a child with Down’s syndrome.

I wasn’t worried. I was healthy as a horse, with four perfectly healthy children. Besides, my sister Heather already had a special-needs son, Karcher, who had autism. He was our family’s angel boy. In our family, we always said God knew what he was doing when he gave Heather the child with special needs. She was the one with the tender spirit who could not only handle but even thrive with a child with “challenges”.

CBJ said she’d like me to have an ultrasound scan, so I walked into the office across the hall. The technician was a sweet, funny older lady who’d been doing the procedure for decades. She prepped me, and we joked about a lot of things while she pressed the wand across my belly.

Then she got a little quieter. Suddenly I flashed back to a grim ultrasound I’d had years before, when a stoic doctor had said: “There’s nothing alive in there” — a miscarriage.

Then the technician smiled. “I see boy parts ... would that be good?”

“Yes, that would be perfect!” God is so good, I thought. He knows what’s best.

She kept passing the transducer across my abdomen, more slowly now. It seemed to be taking a long time. “Oops, sorry. Not sure on the boy parts after all. Your baby might be a girl.”

By then she was taking so long that I didn’t care whether it was a boy or a girl. A healthy fourth daughter would be great. Yep, just fine. Please tell me all is fine.

Then the technician said: “The baby’s neck is a little bit thicker than what we would normally see . . .”

My first thought was, 12 weeks along and you can already measure the baby’s neck? Amazing! Then, a bit more sombrely, I remembered that somewhere along the line I had heard that that was a sign of Down’s syndrome. A whisper of fear tugged at my heart, but I brushed it away with a thought: God would never give me anything I can’t handle. And I don’t think I could handle that.

God knew me: I was busy. Got to go-go-go. I’d always yapped about how lucky I was that my kids were all healthy over-achievers, self-sufficient. Now, I thought, I’ve got a tough job and other kids who need me. I just couldn’t imagine how I could add a baby with special needs and make it all work.

Unless He knows me better than I know myself, I thought a bit dismissively, God won’t give me a special-needs child.

CBJ called the next day. Combined with my age, she said, the ultrasound pictures meant there was now a one in 12 chance the baby had Down’s syndrome. “So?” I thought. That still means about a 90% chance everything’s fine.

“There’s a doctor in Anchorage I want you to go see, a geneticist,” she added. “I’m also offering you an amniocentesis” — the common prenatal test for genetic abnormalities.

I had always flippantly declined the amnios before, thinking they didn’t matter, since I confidently asserted I would never abort anyway. But this time I said yes. This time I wanted information. If there was something wrong, I wanted to be prepared.

Todd was out of town on the day of the appointment, so I visited the geneticist alone — through a back door, under my maiden name. I felt a bit of fear. Three days later, I was in my Anchorage office when CBJ called from her office in Wasilla, my home town. I still remember what time it was: 2:22pm.

“I have the amnio results,” she said. “I think you should come to my office ... Can you come now?”

“No, no, just give me the results over the phone,” I said, indulging in a little denial. If I just steeled myself, I thought on some wishful level, if I just took the medicine straight, maybe God would reward my guts with good news.

CBJ hesitated, then said, “No ... I really think you need to come out here.”

“Cathy, I’ve got so much to do here today. It’s okay ... whatever it is, it’s fine, just go ahead and tell me now.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “This child will be born with Down’s syndrome — ” “I’m coming to Wasilla,” I interrupted and hung up the phone.

I was shocked beyond words. Shocked that this was happening. How could God have done this? Obviously He knew Heather had a special-needs child. Didn’t He think that was enough challenge for one family? I drove the 45 minutes to Wasilla gritting my teeth. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

My stoicism in difficult times had always bugged and puzzled my friends and family. Bristol, my eldest daughter, once asked: “Mom, why don’t you ever cry? The rest of us are watching some movie, crying our eyes out, and you’re just sitting there.”

Though I didn’t tell Bristol this, I choke up all the time — at The Star-Spangled Banner, at any military event, seeing newborn babies — but secretly, where no one can see. Maybe it was because I’d grown up hunting and fishing with the guys, throwing elbows on the basketball court. Even when my heart was breaking on the inside, I just never wanted to seem weak. Now, as I pressed the accelerator past the speed limit towards Wasilla, my eyes stayed dry and my mind raced.

Maybe the test is wrong. Maybe my results are switched with somebody else. Maybe it’s a mistake. God ... are you listening?

But when I got to CBJ’s office, she showed me the pictures. There was an extra copy of chromosome 21.

“It’s a boy,” she said.

“A boy? You’re sure? Thank you, God.” For me, that was a glimmer of light, and I let it warm me as CBJ walked out of her office and returned with a book for expecting parents of babies with Down’s syndrome. I thanked her and laid it in my lap, unopened.

I just wasn’t ready; my sisters were the ones who could handle this, not me. Did I have enough love and compassion in me to do this? Don’t you have to be wired a little differently to be gifted with the ability to raise a special-needs child, a child who isn’t “perfect” in the eyes of society? I didn’t know if I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking these things.

I read that almost 90% of Down’s syndrome babies are aborted — so wasn’t that a message that this is not only a less-than-ideal circumstance but also one that it is virtually impossible to deal with? Now, just a couple of hours into this new world, I could not get my arms or heart around it. That fleeting thought descended on me again, not a consideration so much as a sudden understanding of why people would grasp at a quick “solution”, a way to make the “problem” just go away. But again, I had to hold on to that seed of faith.

Todd finally returned a few days later. He plopped down on the bed, still in his winter coat. I handed him the ultrasound pictures, and that’s when the dam broke. I could let my guard down.

“It’s a boy,” I said between the tears. “It’s definitely a boy.”

He looked up at me, and his eyes filled with tears. “See, Sarah? God knows what He’s doing! This is great.”

I stood beside the bed. I didn’t know how to say it any other way but straight. “The baby has Down’s syndrome.”

Todd didn’t speak. I remember him lying back on the bed, holding the ultrasound pictures and flipping through them. He’d look at one, put it in the back of the stack, look at the next. Over and over, silently, as though looking for answers.

Finally I sat down next to him. In his subdued way, he did not offer a reaction. So I had to ask. “Well ... what do you think?”

“How can they tell?” he asked quietly. “Are they sure?”

“Yes. There’s an extra chromosome.”

He set the pictures aside and turned his face towards mine. “I’m happy, and I’m sad,” he said.

I thought it was pretty perfect the way he said that, because that’s the way it was. That’s the way I felt, too.

Todd said, “It’s going to be okay.”

I asked if he had the same question I had: “Why us?”

He looked genuinely surprised by my question and responded calmly: “Why not us?”

From that moment, Todd never seemed to worry about it. Instead, he’d think out loud, wondering what the baby’s gifts would be. “What will he want to do?” he wondered. “Will he want to tinker with me in the garage? Will he want to ride on the four-wheeler and drive the skiff? I bet he’ll love to fly with me.”

He started asking other people with special-needs children a lot of questions: what does your kid do? Does he play any sports? From the start, my husband was much more accepting and optimistic than I was. His attitude was kind of like, “Well, okay ... here we go!” But I was still having a hard time wrapping my head and heart around it. So we didn’t share the pregnancy with anyone else, even our children, Track, Bristol, Willow and Piper.

It was such a tough thing to explain, and I just wasn’t ready to grapple with it yet or answer any questions. I had always faced life head-on, but here was something that had humbled me into silence.

I began writing a letter about the baby to our family and closest friends. In my research on Down’s syndrome, I learnt that these special kids most often bring joy into their family’s lives. While they had developmental challenges, they were also affectionate, generous and cheerful. Rather than focus on what could be perceived as negative, I wanted our loved ones to focus on the fact that this baby, every baby, has purpose, and that not only would he learn from us, but we would learn from him.

I decided to write the letter as though it were from his Creator, the same Creator in whom I had put my trust more than 30 years before. I hoped that even though this new baby would present challenges, we’d trust that God knew best.

Among other things, I wrote that “every child is created special, with awesome purpose and amazing potential. Children are the most precious and promising ingredient in this mixed-up world you live in down there on earth. Trig is no different, except he has one extra chromosome. Doctors call it Down’s syndrome, and Down’s kids have challenges but can bring you much delight and more love than you can ever imagine . . .”

Writing that letter was the best and most loving way I could find to share our news with the people we loved. I had no idea that a year later during the vicepresidential campaign a hostile journalist would use it to mock my family and the Christian faith, saying I was so selfabsorbed that I even wrote a letter “in the voice of God”.

Before we knew it, I was seven months along. I hadn’t put on a lot of weight and with winter clothes and a few cleverly draped scarves, no one saw my girth or suspected I was pregnant. But a blazer was getting tight enough that Willow looked at me one day and said, tactfully: “Geez, Mom, you’re porking up!”

“Oh, hush,” I said. “Now pass me the Häagen-Dazs. Chocolate, with peanut butter.”

I hadn’t quite finished writing my letter about Trig. But we shared the news with family and a few close friends that I was pregnant. The kids, of course, were overjoyed.

Shortly after that, we decided to go public, so I invited over three reporters, whom I knew well. I knew I could have just spoken candidly and said, “Hey, I’m going to have a baby . . .” Instead, I decided to have a little fun.

“Hey, guys,” I said with a grin, “I wanted to let you know that the first family is expanding.”

They all just looked at me. Dead silence.

Okay . . . let me try something else.

“Remember when I promised to ‘deliver’ for Alaska?”

Nothing. But now they took out their notepads and pens. Big scoop coming, they could feel it.

Finally, I gave up on the jokes and went direct: “Guys, I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby in two months!”

Three mouths fell open, and three pairs of eyes dropped straight to my stomach. I laughed out loud. The guys whipped out their phones as I waved goodbye. Within 10 minutes, the news was all over.

The next month, Todd and I checked into a hotel in Dallas. The following day I was scheduled to address another oil and gas conference. My pregnancy was going fine, and with five weeks to go, I felt great. But at 4am a strange sensation low in my belly woke me and I sat up straight in bed.

It can’t be, I thought. It’s way too early. Moments later, I shook Todd awake. “Something’s going on.”

He sat up in bed, instantly alert. “I’m calling CBJ.”

“No, don’t do that. It’s 1am in Alaska.”

I didn’t want to call anyone yet. I just wanted to take stock and see whether this baby was really coming. I also wanted time to pray and asked God silently but fervently to let everything be okay. Desperation for this baby overwhelmed me. Please don’t let anything happen to this baby. It occurred to me, once and for all: I’m so in love with this child, please, God, protect him! After all my doubts and fears, I had fallen in love with this precious child. The worst thing in the world would be that I would lose him. God knew what He was doing.

Over my protests, Todd called CBJ. I told her that I felt fine and absolutely did not want to cancel my speech and disappoint the folks at the conference. We agreed that I would take it easy, give my speech, then catch an earlier flight back to Alaska. I still had plenty of time.

Later that afternoon I spoke on the urgent need to tap conventional supplies and innovate on stabilising renewable sources. The audience graciously gave me a standing ovation. Then I handed the mic back to Governor Rick Perry of Texas, my co-host, and walked off the stage.

“Hey,” Rick drawled over the sound system with a chuckle, “we’re not finished with the programme!”

I turned around, smiled, waved and kept moving.

“I know you’re pregnant,” Rick said, joking into the mic. “But don’t tell me you’re going off to have the baby right now!”

The audience laughed. I smiled and waved goodbye. I thought, if you only knew!

I reached Todd at the exit, and he eyed me with a grin. “Love this state, but we can’t have a fish picker born in Texas.” It was a calm, relatively restful flight home.

Many hours and two flights later, with Todd and our daughters nearby, I delivered Trig Paxson Van Palin into the world at Mat-Su regional medical centre. When the nurse placed him in my arms, I was overwhelmed with love and with wonder. I knew God had answered my prayer so completely. He just nestled softly into me as if to say, “Aaaah ... I’m here, Mom.”

I was glad God brought him to us early. We were so anxious to meet him. I hadn’t known what to expect. I didn’t know what he would look like or how I would feel. But when I saw him, my heart was flooded with unspeakable joy. I knew that not only had God made Trig different but He had made him perfect.

The girls gently cooed and cuddled and quietly helped swaddle their new baby brother. Todd beamed. I heard him whisper to CBJ: “Hmmm, he doesn’t look Down’s.” CBJ looked up at Todd and gave him a kind, knowing smile.

When I look at my beautiful son today, I know what her smile meant. She sees it in the eyes of other parents who have a child that perhaps our world doesn’t consider precious or prized. I see photos of Trig and can recognise the physical traits that let all Down’s children look like brothers and sisters, the characteristics that may puzzle some who, just like me a few months prior, don’t yet understand. But looking at these children in real life, we see only perfection.

During the presidential election campaign in 2008 I visited Cedar Rapids, Iowa, a slice of Americana, with its quaint town square with mom-and-pop stores; red, white and blue bunting; moms and dads; kids in strollers; seniors; and people of every colour.

I was moving through the crowd, shaking hands and signing posters and hats and shirts, when I suddenly came to a stop. Standing on the other side of the rope were a woman and two teenagers whom I could not miss. The kids had Down’s syndrome. A boy and a girl.

“Hi, what’s your name?” I said to the girl, smiling.

The girl stammered for a minute and finally managed to say, “Sarah.”

“Sarah!” I said. “That’s my name, too! It’s so great to meet you, and we have the same name. Isn’t that amazing?”

Then I turned to the boy, and my heart just melted. Trig’s face flashed into my mind, and I thought: this could be my son 15 years from now.

By then, Trig was going on five months old and we were still learning the ropes of having a child with Down’s syndrome. We were so enjoying this little guy with his just-happy-to-be-here demeanour and his silly smiles, and watching him get stronger, chubbier and more fun every day, just like any other baby. Still, we were curious about what was ahead. We were managing well with him as a baby, but what about a toddler? As a teenager?

I reached over the rope and laid my hand against the boy’s face. “Let me look at you,” I said. “I want to get a good look at how beautiful my Trig is going to grow up to be.”

That was a turning point for me. At that moment, I realised in awe that these precious ones are all brothers and sisters. Before Trig was born, I didn’t know what to expect and we had a natural uncertainty about perceived “imperfection”. There, on the rope line in Cedar Rapids, I realised that my Trig is part of a large and very special community.

Look how their mother was making it work with these two precious teenagers. She cared so much to bring them out to a crowded, hectic but fun rally and give them what might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a presidential campaign event in their own hometown. I just knew there was no need to fear any more. At this rowdy rally in Iowa my world became a more peaceful place. Todd was right: everything was going to be all right.

As it turned out, the number of special-needs kids and adults who began showing up at events along the trail was spectacular. It was one of the absolute best parts of the campaign. I heard from experienced staffers that organisers would typically need maybe a sign-language interpreter and a handicapped area large enough to accommodate a few dozen wheelchairs. But it seemed that at all our stops, the number of wheelchairs multiplied, as did the number of kids and adults with various challenges.

On rope lines across the country, I remember making eye contact with special-needs families and carers. This connection was a kind of mutual acknowledgment that said, yes, their lives are precious. They’re worthy. And now we’re going to let America know that there’s no need to be afraid or hesitant. Instead, let’s work together to make this world a more welcoming place for everyone with special needs.

I remember another rally down in Pensacola, Florida. Up in the stands, I spotted a group of 15 kids with Down’s syndrome wearing shirts that said, “We love Trig!” and, “Trig in the White House!”

It was after meeting all these amazing people that Todd and I proudly displayed the bumper sticker a very cool group from Arizona sent us. It read, “My kid has more chromosomes than your kid!”

© Sarah Palin 2009 Extracted from Going Rogue: An American Life, by Sarah Palin, HarperCollins; 1st edition (November 17, 2009). Extract taken from The Sunday Times of London BooksFirst on 0845 271 2135

"I Don't Want Friends"

I have just been through one of the most difficult times of my life. That’s not really true – there were no guns involved and no one died and I was not left hungry and alone. So perhaps it wasn’t one of the most difficult times but it was a very, very hard time. A time of facing fear. A time when I found myself in a place I had been before and wanted to run except my running days are in the past, and perhaps in the future (certainly, I shall run and dance in heaven – but for now, I’m only talking about earth) – running in the present isn’t an option. I can’t breathe well enough and haven’t the energy – and it would hurt, a lot. So instead of running, I remained still and did what I knew I must do, I asked for help. And my friends came. And they helped. They lifted me up and carried me to a place where I could rest my head (and that’s very important because I am recovering from a nasty bout of the flu).

Help came from friends I’ve known for years and from those I’ve only known through the internet but have not yet met face to face. People came to my home and refused to let me work, made me sit in my comfy leather chair and rest while they danced about me and made my annual Epiphany party a joy, an occasion of laughter and fun. And when I was too tired to sit up any longer, they sent me to bed and cleaned and left a huge amount of cake in my refrigerator and even took out the garbage. Friends ensured that I would be able to pay my rent and utility bills and buy medicine and eat and have a cushion while I wait for my long term disability cheques to begin. Friends did not leave me alone but came to be with me and my suffering wasn’t worth a moment’s attention because I was too busy being grateful and delighted and having my stony heart broken into a million glittering pieces; I think they made it a more the kind of heart that pumps love into the Body of Christ because friends have been pumping so much love into me. I have no family but I am very, very fortunate because I have such dear, dear friends.

My roommate is moving out at the end of this month. I’ve only known her since November but in that time she too has become very, very dear to me. She has been my friend, become part of the dance that has woven it’s way around and through my life and cared for me when I was unable to care for myself. She has laughed at me and my love of butter, laughed when I knew she was giving me a mushroom sautéed in margarine, laughed at the funny expressions on my face and the childish delight I have been unable to hide. We’ve shared secrets and discoveries and she bakes a mean apple pie. Already I miss her and I will miss her more than any other roommate I’ve ever had. She is a younger sister I never knew I needed or wanted. She is like my friends’ two month old baby son, they can’t imagine life without him. She has come into my life and my home, into the lives of my friends, and I and they are richer because of her. We all desire to welcome her into our lives, to create space for her and her friends, to throw our arms around her and love her.

But she does not want friends. She has actually told me that. She is very young and her youth is evidenced by that one fact: she does not want friends. She tells me I have wonderful friends, amazing friends, she has befriended me herself, but she does not want friends. She desires to make a separate place for herself where she will be alone with the painful secrets of her life and no one will know her. So while telling herself that we will still be friends, she engages in a headlong rush to double her rent and deprive herself of friendship at a time when she cannot afford to spend so much money, to lose any love.

And all I can do is weep for her, let my heart ache because friendship is more valuable than she knows and I haven’t the words to convince her of that. My loss is immense, made larger by knowing how huge a loss she is imposing upon herself. I have not always valued friendship as I should, though I have been granted the grace, thus far, of not walking away from what I knew at the time to be the gift of friendship. I want more for her. My friends want more for her. We know she was made for more. She wants less. Please keep her in your prayers. Lord, please heal her.

* Please keep me in your prayers too. I will be undergoing another round of chemo once I recover from the flu. And though I had planned to move to TX at the end of February, I will have to delay the move until this summer. Oh, and of course I’m searching for a new roommate. But it's still a glorious time and God is so good.

I've Removed The Ads

I'm at home in bed a lot, worrying about money too much, trying to do everything I've been given to do to care for myself and it's just not enough. Two people have helped me: one gift through this site and a loan from a friend and I am very grateful. But there's a big difference between a reguar paycheck and waiting for disability payments to begin or to be given permission to use money that belongs to you but isn't yet available due to some technical rules that make absolutely no sense and boil down to, we must be certain to cover our derrieres. It's rather maddening particularly when one is sick. But advertisements aren't the way to go.

I do ask your prayers, particularly for my financial situation. And I wish all the silly people making rules and more rules and more rules would just sit down and talk to people like me so that they'd know, what we need and how horrid it is to make things so much more difficult for people already facing so much.

If you have any say in the matter, don't get sick. Of course if that's what God brings, then I pray for the love and care, including practical care, you need to make it through. Sometimes I wish I was a sister or a nun in an infimary - it would be good to rest.

It's Time for Sanity

I haven't time to wrte my Green post at the moment (I've been sick quite a lot and otherwise occupied these past two weeks). One or two things must be said though.

First, there are poor, developing nations that have neither the funds nor the infrastructure to care for their citizens. I would love to research nations one-by-one and write about those that are developing and those that are like Brazil:

"Speaking as the voice of the developing world," Brazilian President Lula da Silva gave a passionate speech where he scolded the developed world for not negotiating on climate change in good faith with poorer nations. He also said this conference is not about climate change, but about economic opportunities for the developing world."

Brazil is not a developing nation. It is, and for long has been, a corrupt nation. A nation that denies 98% of it's citizens the opportunity to rise above a level of poverty that no one in this country can imagine, even those who live in the Appalachians. In this country, we can choose to change our lives. Hard work, patience, creativity, faith, hope and often a hand up are all necessary. But in the United States of America, we can create lives for ourselves and our families.

In Brazil, particularly in the cities, many, many children live on trash heaps. Those who have families are fortunate as are those who live in favellas. Many children are left on their own, sometimes while they are just toddlers. They band together and survive but without the socializing influence of family and community, they become feral and very, very dangerous. There is a small middle class that is happy not to live as the poor do; mostly they are silent; the favellas are given a nice bright coat of paint just in time for Carnivale. And then there are the fabulously wealthy who have been known to hire death squads to kill homeless children as they sleep in shop doorways; one doesn't want to frighten the tourists away. Without the Church* and other charitable organizations, many, many Brazilians would be consigned to utter hopelessness.

Brazil is a beautiful country with abundant resources. But those who govern Brazil desire only their own wealth, their own comfort. Brazil and Mexico and Argentina and so many other developing nations need to look to their own misdeeds, to their own failure to acknowledge the dignity of the human beings who also just happen to be the citizens of their countries. Instead, Brazil is demanding handouts. And Europe and North America are planning to donate $100 billion to line the pockets of corrupt officials who go by many names but never provide a framework which will foster "domestic tranquillity and the common good"?! It's indecent! It's evil.

In the last paragraph of the article UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown sums it up beautifully:

"Without common action," extreme temperatures will create a new generation of poor with climate change refugees driven from their homes by drought, climate change evacuees fleeing the threat of drowning, the climate change hungry desperate for lack of food," Brown said. "Hurricanes, floods, typhoons and droughts that were once all regarded as the acts of an invisible god are now revealed to be also the visible acts of man.

That's their story and they're sticking to it. So nations have no responsibility for themselves. Instead, breathing causes all the problems that exist from warts to typhoons. CO2 makes up 4% of what we exhale with each breath. It's not a poison nor is it a pollutant. It's what causes plants to grow and actually helps filter harmful radiation. The world's climate changes because God created it to change: this is part of "the whole creation ...groaning in travail together." (Romans 8:22)

Evil men are perpetrating monstrous evil on the world. The truth is being revealed but most people I encounter are so steeped in the belief that simply living in a prosperous country is destroying the earth and that an apocalypse is just around the corner. God is no longer in charge. We are alone. Redemption is a lie. There are even those who trumpet: "It's too late to change! We're all doomed."

Yesterday I finally finished reading Sarah Palin's autobiography, Going Rogue: An American Life. I may have mentioned before that I like this woman. I will admit that I tend to like anyone who believes in baking cakes - cake may be my second favourite food, after butter. But when I learned her favourite verse of Scripture, I saw more clearly why I like her so much. Fallen Sparrow's often reminds me of this:

...God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.** (2 Timothy 1:7)

Our job is to be witnesses to the truth. God is in charge. We are not. It's as simple as that. We can wreck havoc with bombs but not with breathing. We must be good stewards of our world, we must not foul it with garbage and real poisons and pollutants (like hormones from birth control pills which actually harm fish), but we can exhale, without fear. Anything else is monstrous madness and we have been given the soundness of mind to know it. God has not created a zero sum game wherein my good prevents yours. Instead, he has given us a world full of abundance, of minds with the ability to care for the gift of this world and provide for our needs - both, at the same time. We must rouse ourselves and each from this silly dream and do our jobs as witnesses to the Truth.

* As in much of Latin America and most poor countries, many different Christian denominations minister to the needs of the poor. The Catholic Church is in the forefront (and everywhere else too) but my use of the term "Church" here includes all denominations.


** [for Nerds only] Translation from the King James Version. The RSV has "self-control" rather than "of a sound mind." Other translations use self-discipline, good judgement, sobriety, etc. Had I more time I'd conduct further research but for now, I'll depend on Liddell and Scott which includes them all but offers "soundness of mind" first. That translation is appropriate to this particular piece.


*** I can documentat the statements I've made in this post.