When we see the pictures of childhood, we are all haunted by what charles did to our babies. Babies.
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The bubble nebula courtesy of APOD
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Survivor.
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The artist was sexually abused by her adopted brother until she was 5.
He will not have to register as a sex offender.
John 21
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A free speech issue
A woman on a plane objects to forced proximity to pornography and is told she has no support. She must endure another person’s objectional material. Which is, btw, degrading and offensive to women.
No one comes to her aid, and the NYTimes walks on egg shells when they report it.
A respectable American businessman who practices fair, nondiscriminatory hiring and follows his conscience in his business is vilified because he has the temerity to exercise his first amendment right to say he supports a traditional view of marriage.
Guy has a right to talk
But…
The truth is that one of the major reasons the marriage argument is huge and important is that millions of Americans live in fear because of hate. Hate kills, maims, tortures, intimidates, and dehumanizes people. Just because of their sexual identity.
No person in this country should have to hide who they are because they are afraid of violence.
No person should be the target of violence because they are gay or transgendered.
We have to start with that.
We have to build from the ground up.
Love requires it.
Night prayer
The girl tires
But I am
Wide awake
No longer because of fear
More habit, really
The veil I draw
Shrouds
my face each night
Pushing through darkness
For a glimpse of
You.
For years
I have
Had dreams of swimming
Miragy things
Slippery
The pool will be closed
Or inexplicably elusive
Sometimes I resort to paddling through
The shallows
I interpret these dreams
As desire
Need
To know
That I can find
The girl who like me
Slips through
Both shallows and deeps
The silence and the call
From lacrimal waters
It is strange
to sit in a room
meant for song
and watch the women in the room
grieve so
quietly
for lost
and missing
fathers
The canopy
Of leaves
Does not belong
To me
I gaze at it
For hours
Through the quiet
Window
Vigil
In their outspread
Splendor
Poised to clap
Or bend
A child’s delight
As God comes near
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I would like to lie and tell people I am and have always been an immaculate, no competent housekeeper. I can’t. I am a mess. We live in a big, sprawling old house with lots of old wood and lovely fixtures. It, like me, is a mess.
It, unlike me, is getting a makeover.
We have spent the last few weeks painting like mad. I do not need tattoos, I have a permanent patina of paint splatter. I miss writing and going to the pool, but the house has never looked this lovely. It’s walls have been transformed from early childhood scrawl to a warm cream color. Old carpet has been pulled up and is gradually being replaced with the miracle of click flooring. Our back room is a riot of sawdust. I cringe at the cleaning jobs ahead. But I like the transformation.
The day we cleared out the old master bedroom it was a war zone of random objects, now it is clean, painted and airy. We call it the beautiful room.
Last night I drove at dusk to the recycling bins. Not usually a romantic journey. But last night the sky was awash with splendor. I looked up at the picture that Titian would have envied and I wanted to exclaim aloud, how can you not see Him? His skies are so purposefully beautiful.
I would have been very happy to pay someone to paint my house. I am very grateful for those who have helped us with the work, especially the kids. But ultimately I have to acknowledge that God has called me to this–a lot of time to meditate on what it means for a baby to be born to a carpenter and even though he could have been an emperor, a scientist or a king, he spent his days building ordinary things with his hands, each strike of the iron nail into the wide beam a reminder of His real job, the cost of love.
The beautiful room.
Carrying Light 