When a great man dies it is fitting for the rest of us to stand in his honor.
So I do.
But it is even more worth noting that Mr. Mandela was just an ordinary man who stood when it cost him.
Stood when others ran.
Stood when sitting, hiding, turning, leaving would have been easier.
He paid in minutes, days, hours, years, indignity, and heartbreak for a freedom that should have been his birthright.
What ordinary men do…
A story developing out of Houston is so evil that I have opted to skip links: a man used his connection to in-home daycare for single parents to rape very young girls.
His pornographic model girlfriend may have helped him make videos. So far she has been charged with possessing child pornography.
It is a lurid story with the potential for hundreds of victims, many of whom would have been saved from this predator if he had been properly charged and convicted when he was caught sexually assaulting a young girl a few years ago.
The charges in that case were dropped, leaving him free to rape countless other little girls.
It further disturbs me that the language associated with the young victims is very dehumanizing.
The official legal statement refers to the victims as “young female children.”
Another site refers to the videos of the rapes of little girls as “material with minors.”
When you can’t call unfiltered evil evil, you definitely don’t have the guts to fight it.
The catalyst was an unsolved burglary–a nonviolent crime, and one that some police departments would not even bother to pursue.
Perhaps it was the gold bullion that saved her. You can imagine the home owner’s sense of violation and loss.
But in this case a pedestrian break-in and a bit of decent detective work revealed an unspeakable evil.
To think of the suffering of the little girl and the other children these two hurt is a burden to the psyche.
So the quotes about Mr. Gore are worth pondering–he seemed like a nice guy, went to church and everything.
Went to church and everything. Until we face the monsters in our own hearts we cannot face the monsters that walk among us.
And the scars, terrible scars in the heart of a little girl.
Of course I have wracked my brain about this–has it always been there?
Have there been generations of attachment disorder kids? I don’t think so. I think that RAD is a mostly modern problem, ushered in with the advent of formula for infants, ushered in as quickly as nursing mamas have been ushered out.
Up until the invention of fake breastmilk everyone had assumptions about the survival of infants: for at least the first few months someone with breasts was required.
We see nursing mothers (and surrogates) in great art and ancient sculpture. The baby who survived survived at the breast, able to spend crucial hours close to the face of love.
Attachment disorder is the opposite of that.. At the very most crucial time in a baby’s life, detaching a child from a consistent, nurturing presence is deadly–if not for the body, then absolutely for the soul.
Lots and lots and lots of people have been nurtured and loved and bottle-fed. But make no mistake–the advent of bottle-feeding is at the heart of the change that has robbed our poorest and most vulnerable babies of the love that would grow their souls.
The easiest way to “solve” the problem of attachment disorder is to make nursing a priority in our culture, and start valuing the power of nurture–breast or bottle, babies need snuggle time and a regular source of love.
There is no substitute for love.
This was over a decade ago. A small storefront church, a young mother speaking.
She spoke about a children’s song–
Jesus loves me this I know/for the Bible tells me so/little ones to him belong/they are weak, but he is strong/
The song is so simple, so elemental, but it is only a portion of a longer hymn few of us know or sing.
We like the idea of Jesus being strong until he requires something of us.
We like the idea of Jesus being strong until he requires us to acknowledge our weakness.
We are weak. All of us. There is not a living creature on the planet who can stave off death, yet we cling to the illusion of our self-sufficiency.
The young mother that day was focused on the call of the Gospel–one man able to save us from death forever, and how to bind that good news to her children, all God’s children.
How many times have you heard a person cry out in grief and pain and then seen people answer–
stay strong/you are strong.
No. You are not. None of are. We are weak. That is the point–we are weak. He is strong.
So when sin and grief and pain hit you hard remember this: the song is true.
We are weak
He is strong
Only his strength can save us
From the swirling darkness of this
Dying world
I have a childlike way of seeing the world. There is a story in The Little Prince that I have found very useful over the years.
The narrator tells us that he once drew a picture of a snake swallowing an elephant. When he showed the picture to most people the drawing they exclaimed,
nice hat!
They could not picture the inside of the snake–the hidden elephant, if you will. He determined to talk to the hat people about insubstantial things–golf, the weather.
I find my hat picture is acknowledging great darkness in this world. Who wants to read about child abuse? Who really wants to write about it?
Not me.
I would rather not. I have done it aggressively, unapologetically over the last two years because I realized that it is a too-common story exacerbated and perpetuated by silence.
It has been an ugly cause. Made the more ugly for me personally because I realize how many “good” people do nothing.
I won’t ever be good at talking about golf while the world is burning.
Someone I cared about and once trusted as an elephant-seer had a conversation with me that reminded me how lonely the world of the abuse survivor can be.
The person’s discomfort was palpable and they couched it in terms of my Christianity. I have a feeling a lot of people look at my story of unhappy endings and think,
she must have done something wrong.
Of course I have! I am a sinner. But mental illness and child abuse happen everywhere, not just in my life. We don’t talk because have been taught to be ashamed.
That is not freedom in Christ. Freedom in the love of God involves a central story of pain, humiliation, agony, the death of God.
I cannot see the survivors of the crucifixion singing glib songs of cheap sentiments in the days of the cross.
Beware of people who preach resurrection joy without crucifixion agony.
The story of heaven can only be told if someone is willing to reckon with hell.
Thank God He did.
The mental health professionals who shape the language of the DSM have been toying with the diagnostic language associated with pedophilia.
This matters because the pressure is now (and for some time has been) on legitimizing pedophilia.
Children are already largely the target of exploitation here and abroad. And in many parts of the world the legal protections for children are severely compromised or non-existent.
This waffling over the DSM is one more symptom that the rights of children to safe passage through childhood is eroding precipitously here as well.
I write to stay off a steady diet of chocolate chip cookies and chips.
Notice I said–steady.
Sometimes I write an essay and then shelve it because it is too personal or polemic.
You can imagine how rough these pieces may be.
One such unpublished essay was, on review, well-spoken, passionate, and almost entirely wrong.
I had misjudged a man by a meme.
A man I now deeply respect and a quote taken out of context.
Yes, I still believe that we should not refer to people as “stupid.”
But as a current rabid fan of the Crash Courses on YouTube produced by John and Hank Green, I thoroughly endorse the Green Bros. and their ability to teach. They rock and they make my job as an educator much more fun and engaging.
Nothing stupid about that.
Rain comes down
After the rush
After the game
Someone, always someone has to
Drive home in the dark
Defeated
Whilst the victors go to Walmart.
You bring rain
You always God
You bring rain
And with it midnight lullabies
For an old insomniac like me
I understand the darkness
In his voice
In his shared sense
Of humor
How “finishing the job”
Could seem so reasonable
To a monster-
o-us–
She listens to the darkness
The rain
The lullaby for a child who would not
Ever
Relent
Now become a man
Face your god
Face your God
No wonder you do not believe in
One
When the other is something so unspeakable
John 2:9-10 (NIV)
and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside [10] and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”
Pour the water first
Jesus is coming
Joy.
Carrying Light 