my neighbor tells me a story about her attempts to help one of her students.  the girl shows noticeable signs of abuse and neglect.  when people at her school report the abuse, nothing happens and it happens for so long that state social worker tells them to shut up and stop calling.

all i can think of is one little girl’s loneliness and pain.

i thank God for my friends’ tenacity.

as usual, edmund burke is right

One of my favorite stories from the gospels is when Jesus goes to the feast of tents (secretly) and then stands up at the end of it and publicly proclaims that He is the source of living water (John 7).

I admire strict sabbatarians, I am a liberal sabbatarian–shameless about eating out on Sunday, but beguiled by the idea of abiding in God on Sunday and making each Sunday a reminder of Heaven. 

Sea was caught on Sunday.

He used each sabbath freedom for unthinkable evil.

God remembers

Sea or his friend calls every Sunday morning.  I wonder at this, like the time I told them we would be traveling and there were still 26 messages on our machine when we got back.  Sunday morning should belong to God, but it seems that their schedule and the shape of their lives is off-kilter, like ours.

When everything came out I bought a book about the desert fathers, a group of Christians who left the dying embers of a corrupt christianized Roman empire to live in caves in the desert.

The accounts of these men are strangely mystical and I am a bit sceptical about how good they were.  I naturally distrust people and their biographers now.

But I figured that if we were going to wander in the desert of social stigma, I should at least learn about others who had lived there before me.

Now when I see the starkness of our life, I remind myself that it may be the desert, but I am here with my favorite people.

i was too young when i read in cold blood. i did not finish it.  too scary.  too real.  more than just hating the inevitability of the violent deaths at the heart of the book, the seeming randomness of their deaths chilled me.  the idea that you could be the recipient of violence without cause haunted me, as did the terror and pain of an ordinary family in the hands of evil.

i only read it at all because i loved truman capote.  i loved truman because i loved dill, scout, jem, atticus, and of course, Harper Lee.  i understood truman’s loneliness and his uneven life, but i did not understand how the book affected him.

there is a terrble price for violence. a price i do not like, much as i do not like nabokov for profitting over a story of egregious abuse.

i like instead the iconic picture of atticus taking aim at the rabid dog, finishing it off with one perfectly aimed shot.

i read lolita when i was a teenager. 

but…i remember when a college friend told me it was supposed to be funny.  i didn’t see it.  i understand why it is supposed to be funny, it just wasn’t to me.

now it reeeaaaallly isn’t.

Okay, I admit it, I love Groundhog Day.  I love the movie, Bill Murray, and the friend of mine from a long, long time ago whose birthday is today.  I plan to really celebrate, although I am still unclear how.

I have always thought the idea was ridiculous, but I do remember when I longed for shorter winters.  Now I revel in winter swimming.

But last Thursday was tough.  I was pulled over by a police officer because my running lights were on, not full headlights. He badgered me about my insurance card, the origin of my numerous children, my origin and destination, and my job.  He had the audacity to ask me if I am a foster parent.  He could not have understood how painful that question was.

After all of that he gave me a ticket for an unrestrained child who was in fact in his seat belt the whole time.

I protested, but to no avail.  Alas…

Today at the park Mel and her older brother were directing traffic among the preschool set, who were tooling about on motorized jeeps.  Melanie engineered a fake police stop for two boys–friends age 5 and 4.

She chastised the older boy, saying, “you don’t have your seatbelt on and neither does your four year old!!”

but these three remain–faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is Love

the lady in the milk section at walmart looked almost frantic.  she may have touched my arm.  this was more than a year ago. 

she told me,

“there is a sex offender in town!  the police won’t release his name!  he drives a van!”

i could tell she was upset.  i listened quietly.  deeply, sympathetically.  but i did not tell her everything.

i did not tell her i had a guess about who the man was

he had been a family friend

his children had been like my own–i loved them so much

i also did not tell her that my adopted son is a sex offender

when i talk to him i try to sort out the tangle of his thoughts.  i know i would be shocked if i could see inside his head.  i have no answers for his disease.

No answers but Jesus.

Luke 4

I was standing in trampoline gym asking Melanie what she wanted to do next for her birthday.  Some sort of shopping? I went down the usual list which for us is more treasure hunting, less mall cruising.  A girl about Melanie’s age started whispering theatrically in our direction.  I thought about the five to ten visible/audible reasons she could be pointing at us.  Then I figured our real story was even worse than what she could see.  Then I thanked God for Oscar Wilde.

And Jesus of course…

Praying for KP

Melanie writes a story.  It is a simply constructed “fairy tale” about a family fighting abuse.  I am again impressed with the power of writing to help us to process evil as well as good and how important it is that she be allowed to express her voice and gain power over what has happened to her