These are the headlines as published on the Drudge Report yesterday (May 19).
Anyone care to comment?
Sexting scandal rocks middle school (this involved distribution of a photo of a 13 yo girl nude)
Student commits suicide day after principal hypnotized him
Teacher discovers 18 lbs of heroin in 7 year-old's backpack
Mom: 12-year-old son duct taped to chair and beaten while teacher ignored attack
School wants to allow bus drivers to search students
CHEATERS: DC teachers help students beat standardized tests
Child pornography, cheating, physical abuse, drugs, body searches, hypnotism . . .
Something tells me the American public has been hypnotized with the result that too many of us still believe the government schools are really the best place for our children to receive an education.
I'm just saying . . .
Wordly discourse on everything from the sad state of public education, politics and world peace to vegetarianism, breast vs. bottle, religious persecution, bad media, and all manner of life's vagaries.
May 20, 2011
May 2, 2011
I'm glad bin Laden is gone. Does that make me a bad Christian?
Just 24 hours after the disposal of Osama bin Laden's earthly remains, a new debate has emerged.
Should Christians be rejoicing over the death of a human being, even if that man is the modern-day epitomy of evil?
Clergy writing for websites such as Huffington Post lament the celebrations taking place across our country saying such vulgar displays of jubilation debase us as a people, certainly if we call ourselves Christians.
No word on whether atheists or religious non-Christians are free to whoop and holler without the charge of hypocrisy being heaped upon them.
As a Christian, albeit an imperfect one, I decided to explore my own feelings about the long overdue demise of OBL. To what extent am I merely relieved? To what extent am I actually gleeful?
Frankly, it's hard to tell.
Am I sorry OBL was so deranged and deluded by visions of grandeur and a thorough perversion of his religion that he masterminded the death of nearly 3,000 people on 9/11? Sure am.
Am I sorry OBL was killed? No.
As we say in Texas, "he needed killin'." Besides, if we'd taken him alive, some bleeding-heart liberals would have whined that his constitutional rights had been violated and we'd have had to let him off on a legal technicality. Killing him removed that risk altogether.
It's a fact that once a murderer is himself killed, he can never murder again.
Is being not sorry equal to feeling joy?
In my case, it might be, and I'm willing to admit it.
I rejoice because our military men were brave and successful in their effort to track and nail OBL. I rejoice because none of our men were hurt. I rejoice because OBL will never commit another atrocity -- because we killed him. I rejoice because now OBL has the chance to meet face to face with the One Who made him and to begin his atonement for the many sins committed while on earth. I rejoice because the principle of the universe that says no one goes unpunished either here or hereafter for violating God's laws proved itself true once again.
So, yeah, I guess I do rejoice in the death of OBL.
I know what Jesus says about forgiving seven times seventy. I know what he said about turning the other cheek. I know that if he'd been here in the intervening years after 9/11 he'd have probably driven out the evil spirit that dwelt in OBL and changed the man's life for the better.
But Jesus hasn't been here all these years -- at least not in a bodily form able to meet and talk with OBL -- and I am just flawed enough in my walk with God to struggle mightily with forgiveness, especially when neither my country nor my fellow Americans asked to be attacked.
May God forgive me since I cannot find it in my heart to forgive OBL. And may God work a mighty work in OBL so that he finally sees the error of his ways.
Should Christians be rejoicing over the death of a human being, even if that man is the modern-day epitomy of evil?
Clergy writing for websites such as Huffington Post lament the celebrations taking place across our country saying such vulgar displays of jubilation debase us as a people, certainly if we call ourselves Christians.
No word on whether atheists or religious non-Christians are free to whoop and holler without the charge of hypocrisy being heaped upon them.
As a Christian, albeit an imperfect one, I decided to explore my own feelings about the long overdue demise of OBL. To what extent am I merely relieved? To what extent am I actually gleeful?
Frankly, it's hard to tell.
Am I sorry OBL was so deranged and deluded by visions of grandeur and a thorough perversion of his religion that he masterminded the death of nearly 3,000 people on 9/11? Sure am.
Am I sorry OBL was killed? No.
As we say in Texas, "he needed killin'." Besides, if we'd taken him alive, some bleeding-heart liberals would have whined that his constitutional rights had been violated and we'd have had to let him off on a legal technicality. Killing him removed that risk altogether.
It's a fact that once a murderer is himself killed, he can never murder again.
Is being not sorry equal to feeling joy?
In my case, it might be, and I'm willing to admit it.
I rejoice because our military men were brave and successful in their effort to track and nail OBL. I rejoice because none of our men were hurt. I rejoice because OBL will never commit another atrocity -- because we killed him. I rejoice because now OBL has the chance to meet face to face with the One Who made him and to begin his atonement for the many sins committed while on earth. I rejoice because the principle of the universe that says no one goes unpunished either here or hereafter for violating God's laws proved itself true once again.
So, yeah, I guess I do rejoice in the death of OBL.
I know what Jesus says about forgiving seven times seventy. I know what he said about turning the other cheek. I know that if he'd been here in the intervening years after 9/11 he'd have probably driven out the evil spirit that dwelt in OBL and changed the man's life for the better.
But Jesus hasn't been here all these years -- at least not in a bodily form able to meet and talk with OBL -- and I am just flawed enough in my walk with God to struggle mightily with forgiveness, especially when neither my country nor my fellow Americans asked to be attacked.
May God forgive me since I cannot find it in my heart to forgive OBL. And may God work a mighty work in OBL so that he finally sees the error of his ways.
The small pink shoe
My daughter turned nine today. And our country killed Osama bin Laden.
The coincidence is rich with meaning for me.
The first appointment with the midwife -- who would go on to deliver my child in a planned homebirth -- was scheduled for an otherwise unremarkable morning, September 11, 2001.
The midwife was late. Riveted to her computer as I was to our television, the horrific news of that morning hung over our visit. Neither of us could really discuss the details of childbirth at home, our hearts were so heavy and our minds racing to fully grasp what had just happened a hour or so before.
My daughter was born the following May in a country still grieving the more than 3,000 innocents killed some seven months before. I gave her the middle name of America.
Fast forward nine years to a routine rummage through my nightstand and the discovery of a small pink shoe. . .
Little pink shoe in the palm of my hand
Worn by the tiniest dancer of all.
At barely three years old, I still see her stand
At the barre where she seems so brave and so small.
Move through the positions, stepping once and again,
She knows how to bend and then how to begin,
Didn't want to take lessons, just wanted the clothes,
Tiny pink soft shoes to wear on her toes.
What happened to time?
Supposed to go slow
And my little dancer?
Where did she go?
When I found the little shoe, the realization that my daughter was once so small hit me hard and I started to cry. It all moves much too fast.
The coincidence is rich with meaning for me.
The first appointment with the midwife -- who would go on to deliver my child in a planned homebirth -- was scheduled for an otherwise unremarkable morning, September 11, 2001.
The midwife was late. Riveted to her computer as I was to our television, the horrific news of that morning hung over our visit. Neither of us could really discuss the details of childbirth at home, our hearts were so heavy and our minds racing to fully grasp what had just happened a hour or so before.
My daughter was born the following May in a country still grieving the more than 3,000 innocents killed some seven months before. I gave her the middle name of America.
Fast forward nine years to a routine rummage through my nightstand and the discovery of a small pink shoe. . .
Little pink shoe in the palm of my hand
Worn by the tiniest dancer of all.
At barely three years old, I still see her stand
At the barre where she seems so brave and so small.
Move through the positions, stepping once and again,
She knows how to bend and then how to begin,
Didn't want to take lessons, just wanted the clothes,
Tiny pink soft shoes to wear on her toes.
What happened to time?
Supposed to go slow
And my little dancer?
Where did she go?
When I found the little shoe, the realization that my daughter was once so small hit me hard and I started to cry. It all moves much too fast.
May 1, 2011
Justice delayed is justice nonetheless
Socrates: "And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many - is that just or not?"
Crito: "Not just."
Socrates: 'For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
Crito: "Very true."
Socrates: "Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him.... This opinion has never been held, and never will be held by any considerable number of persons."
The head of the snake has been cut off. How much longer until the rest of the body dies?
In memory of all who were killed September 11, 2001.
Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.
We got him!
Crito: "Not just."
Socrates: 'For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
Crito: "Very true."
Socrates: "Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him.... This opinion has never been held, and never will be held by any considerable number of persons."
The head of the snake has been cut off. How much longer until the rest of the body dies?
In memory of all who were killed September 11, 2001.
Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.
We got him!
April 23, 2011
Easter when I was a child
It hit me from out of nowhere this morning as I began to unload the dishwasher.
Tomorrow is Easter, and I am missing my childhood.
Growing up, I never wanted to grow up. My grandparents all lived in Arkansas, so my parents and I would pack up the car and drive the seven hours to see them. We went at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
Packing for the Easter trip was special because I had to bring my new Easter dress, spring coat, white shoes, and my Easter basket.
The egg hunt was always held on the big front lawn of my grandparent's home, a house built by my great-grandfather in 1900. In the cool, misty morning I'd run out with my cousins to search for the eggs among the jonquils and tall grass around the trees and along the front of the house.
We always dyed eggs the night before. My grandmother would put on a big pot of boiling water to boil them and then we'd all gather around the table to use those messy little wire egg holders to dunk our eggs. The older cousins were more patient, and they let their eggs sit long enough to take on deep jewel-toned hues. The younger ones, including me, were so anxious to be done with the dyeing that we ended up with pastel colors. We always tried to put on those egg tattoos so we'd have cute pictures on the eggs, but they always smeared.
Sometimes I spent Easter with my mother's parents at the big house. Sometimes I spent it at my dad's mother's house.
There, it was just my parents, my grandmother, and me so my mom would hide eggs in Grandma's living room for me to find. I always got an Easter basket full of wonderful things -- little toys, a new stuffed bunny or duck, sometimes a book or art supplies.
My grandmother was a lay reader in the town's Christian Science church so we'd get dressed up and go with her. Seems like we always sang the Martin Luther hymn, "All Power is Given Unto Our God" at some point in the service.
To this day, when I hear that hymn I see my little Dutch grandmother standing up at the front of the church singing.
It's been nearly 20 years since she passed, and I still miss her.
My other grandparents are gone now, too. So's my dad.
And I find myself in the role of grownup, preparing my own four children to celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.
We've got the baskets, we'll dye the eggs, we'll go to church and we'll sing of Easter gladness.
I'll fight back the tears for a childhood long gone, and focus instead on the hope my own children represent, and on the great hope of which Easter reminds us -- that life IS eternal for those who follow Christ Jesus and that some day I'll see my dad and my grandparents again.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." (John 16:22)
Tomorrow is Easter, and I am missing my childhood.
Growing up, I never wanted to grow up. My grandparents all lived in Arkansas, so my parents and I would pack up the car and drive the seven hours to see them. We went at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
Packing for the Easter trip was special because I had to bring my new Easter dress, spring coat, white shoes, and my Easter basket.
The egg hunt was always held on the big front lawn of my grandparent's home, a house built by my great-grandfather in 1900. In the cool, misty morning I'd run out with my cousins to search for the eggs among the jonquils and tall grass around the trees and along the front of the house.
We always dyed eggs the night before. My grandmother would put on a big pot of boiling water to boil them and then we'd all gather around the table to use those messy little wire egg holders to dunk our eggs. The older cousins were more patient, and they let their eggs sit long enough to take on deep jewel-toned hues. The younger ones, including me, were so anxious to be done with the dyeing that we ended up with pastel colors. We always tried to put on those egg tattoos so we'd have cute pictures on the eggs, but they always smeared.
Sometimes I spent Easter with my mother's parents at the big house. Sometimes I spent it at my dad's mother's house.
There, it was just my parents, my grandmother, and me so my mom would hide eggs in Grandma's living room for me to find. I always got an Easter basket full of wonderful things -- little toys, a new stuffed bunny or duck, sometimes a book or art supplies.
My grandmother was a lay reader in the town's Christian Science church so we'd get dressed up and go with her. Seems like we always sang the Martin Luther hymn, "All Power is Given Unto Our God" at some point in the service.
To this day, when I hear that hymn I see my little Dutch grandmother standing up at the front of the church singing.
It's been nearly 20 years since she passed, and I still miss her.
My other grandparents are gone now, too. So's my dad.
And I find myself in the role of grownup, preparing my own four children to celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.
We've got the baskets, we'll dye the eggs, we'll go to church and we'll sing of Easter gladness.
I'll fight back the tears for a childhood long gone, and focus instead on the hope my own children represent, and on the great hope of which Easter reminds us -- that life IS eternal for those who follow Christ Jesus and that some day I'll see my dad and my grandparents again.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." (John 16:22)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)